[P] cinderblock gardens

[Marisol]

the tree corrupt, and so the fruit;

Marisol is bent over a map of Novus when the hoofsteps approach her office, and if she does hear them, she pays them no notice. War is on the forefront of her mind. She has heard too many stories about the Ghost overtaking Solterra and the rebellion already brewing underneath the sand to feel comfortable resting; instead she has been poring over old battle reports and scrawling little markers on the Halcyon map in charcoal, pinning places where their border is not properly watches, drawing thick bars over what needs protection most.

So she is startled to hear her title called from the doorway, and more startled still that she had not expected it.

Theodosia, she responds slowly. (If there was ever a time to be thankful for the darkness of Marisol’s coat it is now, as she feels heat start to coil in her gut, as the blood rushes to her face.) Cadets pass back and forth behind Theodosia, swarming the hallway, and she does not miss the way they peer in and remark on the scene to each other, quiet as they think they are being.

Before she can think to say anything else the cadet is giving her report, and the Commander is civilized enough not to interrupt her, if only barely. She nods absently. I am glad you were successful. Mari opens her mouth, then shuts it again: what is there to say that would not cross a line, either professional or social? For a brief moment, silence stretches over the office. 

The charcoal in her telekinetic grasp starts to crumble. 

Have you recovered? Marisol asks finally, with a stiff nod toward the gash on Theodosia’s flank. The hinge in her jaw tenses a little; even so, the steel of the Commander’s gaze remains blissfully even.

---

<3

aimless | kokovi