[P] never told no one but we look so cute

[Marisol]

heaven talks
but not to me

Denocte is unsafe as anywhere can be. She does not trust them - Isra, or Raymond, or even Asterion. (When she looks at the boy-king still she only sees the boy part, the shy, gloaming luminescence of a star that does not quite know how to shine.) And so as her people fall into the trap of gullibility, as they let down their defenses, shed their weapons in the doorway and offer their chests like bleeding-heart doves, Marisol skulks through the streets of Denocte and always keeps her wings half-opened.

There is no room for error, anymore.

Above the sky sparkles with its lace of stars, and in the silver glow Mari winds her way through the streets. She is gaunt now with stress and sickness and in the near-dark her narrow hips, her sloping shoulders, the slats between her ribs catch the moonlight. Her gold-tinged mane is cropped with punishing exactness. On edge, watchful, Marisol’s ears swivel constantly to catch the noise around her, and so she is not surprised when Theodosia appears, knowing the pattern of her hoof steps on stone.

What she is surprised by, though, is the almost-foolish brashness of the cadet, to slip her wing over Marisol’s back and press her head to the Commander’s as if that is a thing they are allowed to do.

Her heart bangs in her chest, sickeningly loud, and her breath starts to hurt, painfully tight in her lungs; for a moment she almost wants to give in, to the light warmth of Theodosia’s skin on her own, and to the way she almost grows dizzy at it - but quickly she steps away, shifting the Cadet’s wing from her spine, raising her head so they don’t touch.

Something like anger burns in her veins. "Theodosia," she responds, and it is almost, almost bitter.

credits