WITH SWORD AND SALT -
Marisol is not a kind girl.
Often she wishes she were, but there is no point in kindness, nor in wishing, so: she doesn’t. She stands somewhere near the front of the crowd and watches Asterion with moon-dark eyes, narrowed under a thick flare of black lashes. Her skin is still stained a little from wearing weeks of warpaint. Coiled like a snake, she keeps her wings pinned to her sides, and the only thing that would differentiate from her from one of Vespera’s statues is the continued shifting of her gaze from citizen to citizen and the way her ear flicks when Asterion speaks.
She cannot say anything kind, so she will say nothing else. She should be happy that they are back home - where she knows the winding paths of the earth as well as she knows the shape of the snip stark-white against her lips, as well as the hand of a lover - but instead she is anxious, discomforted. When she watches the scenery, she sees only what it looked like ravaged by flood and fire. The places where trees were snapped at their bases. Spots of barren, dark earth where there should be spirals of green. Sinkholes only now starting to fill up with dirt, the sight of which makes the Commander’s breath tighten in her lungs.
She cannot be the only one to feel some trepidation in stepping back into Terrastella. But stoic as ever, Mari holds it under her tongue like a secret, and only watches as Asterion lays out the future of their court like it is nothing more than a deck of shuffled cards, Theodosia this, Euryale that, and something starts to buzz in her ears: anger or fear or disgust, she does not know, but it only increases in volume as Asterion’s voice continues to sound over the summer-rich fields.
Diplomacy has never been her field of expertise. Even being subject to it makes her teeth itch a little. And whatever it is, anger or fear or disgust, the sound grows louder and louder and louder until it goes absolutely quiet and Marisol realizes Asterion is watching her.
Recruit, she says bluntly. There is no nicety in it. We are too small to put up a fight when Solterra and Denocte inevitably war again over that Night Court idiot attempting to displace Seraphina. Not enough bodies for a battle, she says, trailing off, and even she is not sure whether bodies means soldiers or gravediggers.
Either way she lapses into silence, and the buzzing in her ears picks up speed, again.
<3
Often she wishes she were, but there is no point in kindness, nor in wishing, so: she doesn’t. She stands somewhere near the front of the crowd and watches Asterion with moon-dark eyes, narrowed under a thick flare of black lashes. Her skin is still stained a little from wearing weeks of warpaint. Coiled like a snake, she keeps her wings pinned to her sides, and the only thing that would differentiate from her from one of Vespera’s statues is the continued shifting of her gaze from citizen to citizen and the way her ear flicks when Asterion speaks.
She cannot say anything kind, so she will say nothing else. She should be happy that they are back home - where she knows the winding paths of the earth as well as she knows the shape of the snip stark-white against her lips, as well as the hand of a lover - but instead she is anxious, discomforted. When she watches the scenery, she sees only what it looked like ravaged by flood and fire. The places where trees were snapped at their bases. Spots of barren, dark earth where there should be spirals of green. Sinkholes only now starting to fill up with dirt, the sight of which makes the Commander’s breath tighten in her lungs.
She cannot be the only one to feel some trepidation in stepping back into Terrastella. But stoic as ever, Mari holds it under her tongue like a secret, and only watches as Asterion lays out the future of their court like it is nothing more than a deck of shuffled cards, Theodosia this, Euryale that, and something starts to buzz in her ears: anger or fear or disgust, she does not know, but it only increases in volume as Asterion’s voice continues to sound over the summer-rich fields.
Diplomacy has never been her field of expertise. Even being subject to it makes her teeth itch a little. And whatever it is, anger or fear or disgust, the sound grows louder and louder and louder until it goes absolutely quiet and Marisol realizes Asterion is watching her.
Recruit, she says bluntly. There is no nicety in it. We are too small to put up a fight when Solterra and Denocte inevitably war again over that Night Court idiot attempting to displace Seraphina. Not enough bodies for a battle, she says, trailing off, and even she is not sure whether bodies means soldiers or gravediggers.
Either way she lapses into silence, and the buzzing in her ears picks up speed, again.
<3
![[Image: ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda...jvUop12efQ]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/c175b84a-409b-40aa-8b86-49ed65b989ee/ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda550e.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcL2MxNzViODRhLTQwOWItNDBhYS04Yjg2LTQ5ZWQ2NWI5ODllZVwvZGRnNnF1eS05ZDE1ZGFiNS0zMzljLTRiMDktOGI1Ny0yMGE5OWZkYTU1MGUucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.j-t9RuUsmMyaVL-O1rvZqbyyPYdOvtjHLjvUop12efQ)
