[AW] take an angel by the wings

[Marisol]

heaven talks
but not to me

In the dark of the swamp, they are almost the same - near-black, and splattered in lacy coils of wet mud, winged in shades of brown and white, and Mari wonders what it would be like to be from anywhere but here, where she knows the ins and outs of the creeks, the swamps, the trees as well as she knows the pattern of her feathers. Irindor - she is not stupid enough to miss the bitterness in Samaira’s voice, and cannot blame her for it.

Well, she says, At least you’re not there anymore. And there are a lot of us here. Pegasi. Her wing shudders a little, like it’s shedding something invisible, or trying to, and pearls of mud go flying back into the swamp in a flurry of dark and wet. It's strange to think of a world outside this, where Marisol's wings are the only things that keep her more useful than the average citizen, save for her sharp tongue and the spear at her side. The Commander’s legs stretch out against the wet grass until a comforting burn runs through her muscles, and then she shifts back to sit more comfortably against Samaira’s side, hoisting the damaged wing across the curve of Mari’s spine.

Crickets go singing in the depth of the forest behind them; it is impossible to tell whether their noise is sorrow or celebration, but it makes Marisol’s heart twist in her chest just a little. Don’t thank me, she says, though not unkindly. It is warm enough to match Samaira’s tone and contrasts steeply against the cold and the dark of the night around them, even the silver webbing of moonlight across their skin. With a little sigh she drops her head closer to her chest. It’s my job here. Saving. And if the little flare of her nostrils says anything, it is only that she takes the title seriously. 

With a brief exhale, Marisol raises her head again. We should get to the Hospital, she says, ignoring the brief run of adrenaline through her bloodstream as she re-realizes the feeling of Samaira’s shoulder against hers. You got lucky. Terastella is a land of healers. Tell me when you can get up, she finishes quietly, trying not to let the concern show in the deep timber of her voice, or apply too much pressure to the situation - it only tends to make things worse.

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