THE ARCHIATER.
In the shadow of the doorway Marisol is near-invisible but for those silver eyes, deep and caustic under their layer of dark lashes. They never move from Asterion’s, even as the world around them seems to dim and settle, seems to fade into usual quietness. It’s comforting, the silence, when not accompanied by loneliness.
(This something she had not come to realize before tonight.)
Thank you, Marisol, for your company. As always, it is near-startling to hear her name from someone else’s lips, but in Asterion’s it is at least handled carefully, and for this, she is thankful. Often Mari wonders how she would handle other people’s, if she said them with any frequency at all. Her days training on the cliffs or mucking through the swamp are rarely, if ever, spent in company, and even her trips to the inner Court are usually (like this one) late at night when no one else reasonable could be expected to be awake, so that she might often go a week or so without any conversation at all.
When it does come, it is often more painful than this: stilted, childish, awkward. It is often unrelentingly awkward. But not tonight.
Sleep well, Marisol repeats. A she turns toward the door, one of her wings brushes his side, just barely - a casual goodbye as strange as it is unexpected, coming from her. Warmth glimmers in that dim-dark gaze. May that council meeting remain far, far away.
She grins briefly and disappears.
@asterion
