"If we knew everything we would only be disappointed that there was not one more secret to uncover.”
There is nothing else in this place that reminds her of home more than Marisol does.
Isra looks at all the feathers and muscles honed for war and she cannot help be recall all the nights she slept, curled around all the others mares. Their tear-stained cheeks pressed tightly together and their lips trembled with stories and hope and things that they only dared to whisper when the night was at it's darkest. In that place their skin had been only a weakness and it was the hearts beneath that bones that held on their secret souls.
Sometimes she still wonders where she keeps all her secrets in this world, if she even has them anymore. And if there are any left they surely must be blazing like sun-glare in her ocean eyes when she looks are Marisol.
Fable, who can feel the riot of things clamoring in Isra's mind, watches the Commander with a sharp, hot gaze that is friendly for all its intensity. All Isra's dreams of fangs, steel and blood have taught him early on the difference between the fires of fear and the fires of something else. As for what the else is, that he's still too young to understand.
“I'm glad.” she whispers and means it down to the very core of her that misses all the desert nights of her old brutal world. Suddenly she wonders what Marisol would think of her old skin, gold and sunshine and bones made for breaking. She wonders if the Commander would have come for her then.
Isra's smile makes all her silver and golden silk seem pale, it feels as if she has swallowed the sun. Her lips sting and she reaches up to brush them against Marisol's cheek just to ease the ache of them. Tonight if feels wrong to think they are still strangers, knowing nothing more about each other the pattern in which the other breathes.
She could count the spaces between Marisol's inhales and exhales, she could write poetry to beat of them.
“I never asked you what you think of my home.” She turns to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Marisol, close enough that the heat pouring off them feels like something sentient in the tiny gap between them. “Do you think that you'll miss it, even just a little bit?” Isra asks in something almost softer than a whisper. But what she really wants to say is...
Will you miss me?
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