THE ARCHIATER.
Cold ruffles Mari’s feathers and inlays them with frost. Head bowed in agitation, an involuntary shiver pricking at her skin every so often, she plows forward against the icy wind and attempts to ignore the subtle promise of rain still wild overhead. Difficult as it is, she has become practiced in concealment. She is not made for this - winter and hoarfrost and rain - but thanks to the constant, steely expression on her face, the careful poise with which she keeps every muscle in her body bound, it would be hard to tell. Commanders are not supposed to be fazed by anything. Much less some fucking weather.
Is there anything we should know?
Mari blows a slow breath out and watches it crystallize in the dry air. Her eyes, that soft, molten silver, flicker over the boys for a moment before returning to the horizon. The only other acknowledgment she gives is a careful slowing in pace: she consciously restricts her long-legged strides so that she can more easily fall into step beside them, walking to match their pace rather than remaining a few steps in front of them. Marisol’s steps are short and clipped, but she manages the awkwardness easily. They walk three in a row now. It is a show of respect, as momentous as it is miniscule.
She’s almost forgotten about the question by the time its answer comes to her. Her response comes tinged with dry humor: The Dusk Court is, perhaps, the luckiest place on this continent for you to have landed. Most Terrastellans are even nicer than I am. If you can imagine. A bare smile washes over her dark lips as she flicks a glance sideways to gauge their reactions. A joke, from the mouth of the Commander, is as rare as it is often unexpected, and about as difficult for her to speak out loud as anything possibly could be. But if it makes them feel any better - well, she’ll try.
A comfortable silence washes over them (comfortable for Mari, at least). Many long seconds have passed before someone speaks again, and a flicker of surprise crosses Marisol’s face as she hears the rough tone, the familiar croak of disuse, and turns her head to catch the silent one speaking in a voice that belies not only his fear but exactly how long he might have gone without talking t all: Will they try to kill us?
Strange as it might be, this is one of the few questions she feels qualified to answer.
No, comes Mari’s reply, absurdly gentle in the howling winds. She meets Ard’s gaze evenly. In the cool late evening, as the two lock eyes, they are slate and turquoise, neither yielding, neither weak, and yet something like warmth glimmers in Mari’s stare, something that speaks volumes to how much of the twins’ lives she might have already lived in her own parallel universe. Terrastella is a land of healers. If anyone were likely to kill you here, it would be me. Yet here we are.
Her voice nearly cracks at the end, unused to so much speaking at once, but her voice rings with controlled confidence, and her gaze remains fixed ahead.
@Ard @Erd
