[P] head full of fantasies, dying like a martyr

[Marisol]

WITH SWORD AND SALT -

Marisol does not wear a mask, other than the look of complacency always turning down her lips. It is an irreparable wrong, she thinks, to lie like that -  to put one face over the next - never mind that she does it on a daily basis to protect herself, her cadets, her king.

There is a difference in lying for fun and lying for necessity. There has to be. Right?

She tries not to pay too much attention to the part of her that says no, and under that, even smaller, even darker, the part of her that looks for Isra in the sea of tens like a drowning sailor seeks a shore. The look in her eyes is forlorn, almost desperate. The crowd and the lights and the masquerade itself is insufferable to Marisol and yet she stays. 

There is a little voice in her that waits patiently for the Night queen to emerge, a little part that begs to stay just a minute longer, look just a degree closer: she has to be here, she has to, or what is the point?

A soft song plays through the air and Marisol twitches in response. It is the same shudder that hits her when she spends too long alone, when she meets Asterion’s eyes in any kind of darkness, when she stands in the solitude of Dusk’s library and casts her eyes on the glowing spines of hundreds and thousands of books.  It gnaws at her stomach and prickles at the spaces between the vertebrae in her spine. It burns and burns and burns against her skin.

Her wings spread a little and the feathers flutter against her skin in a nervous tic; it would take a keen eye to see it, though, or the way her slate-gray eyes watch the room like she’s looking for a god.

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<3

aimless | kokovi