[P] claw marks and clouds

[Marisol]

heaven talks
but not to me

Her anger is a terrible thing. She does not like it - the way the heat flickers in her limbs, the way her stomach curls, and how she feels out of control, like a child again. Like she has been stripped of the three white slashes on her wing and is nothing more than an awkward girl waiting to be told what she can and cannot do. This is the first time Marisol has been angry in many months, and it hurts to burn so bright against the dark and the damp and the cold.

Anyway - anyway - she grits her teeth to hold back some embittered retort or another, and mostly it works. But her pulse slams in her shoulder like a wardrum and she can feel it clawing at her from the inside out. Shivering against the cold wet air and the white-hot burn of fire against her ribs, Marisol laments how she feels ripped in half, part duty and part animal, part girl and part growl - 

But what’s new.

There are places where the glamour of Denocte is not enough to cover the blood that simmers underneath it, or the grime coating the stone. Marisol finds those places where reality is patchy and unsettling easily, with a scrutinizing eye, with a watchful suspicion, and really they are all she can see, little bits of darkness and dirt ingrained too deeply to ever be washed away, and Asterion stepping over them as he starts to walk down the silver street away from her.

She steps after him.

Yes, Mari answers in a mutter. As always. For her there is no other choice.

credits