[AW] take an angel by the wings

[Marisol]

heaven talks
but not to me

When the girl goes down, tumbles like a rock down the edge of a fiery slope, it is not concern that forces Mari to dive toward her but an instinct as strong as her need to breathe: save. Save.

The Commander crashes toward the stranger on bended knee, scraping up the dirt floor, layers of mulch and leaves, splintering twigs in half. Her heart picks up speed in her chest. Easy as blinking, Mari slides a shoulder under the wing rent by the arrow and pushes up so that the girl’s strained tendon is, if not lessened in pain, at least supported by laying its weight across Marisol’s spine. Don’t move, she orders bluntly. It’ll only make it worse. 

With a sigh of discontent she slides to rest her weight against the forest floor. The cold does not matter. Nor does the dirt - Mari has found herself covered in much worse, more than once. So she cannot find it in herself to care, not when there are more pressing issues in the world. Overhead, moonlight filters in like water. It flecks their skin like pearl-white foam, washes over the dark of Samaira’s wing-and-blood.

Where am I? Mari’s narrow shoulder is still pressed against Samaira’s. With an air of casualty she glances upward toward the canopy of trees, watches the leaves sway under the gentle touch of wind, back and forth, up and down. Terrastella, she says, and it is both reverent and unfulfilled. The Dusk Court. Where are you from?

Not that it’s accusatory. Surprisingly soft, even, are the words that escape from Marisol’s mouth. They are here together, in the dirt, and there are some things that just bind people enough to make them easy.

credits