[P] cinderblock gardens

[Marisol]

the tree corrupt, and so the fruit;

The sound of the door closing is the sound of an ending. The hoofsteps and the whispers and the clattering fade away behind the slab of oak, and Marisol almost flinches at the volume as it latches in place. 

She watches Theodosia cross the room with large, dark eyes; the dim light webs the cadet’s pale skin with ribs and circles, so that in some places she is lavender, violet, then pure white. There is no space to run. To hide. Even if she could, it would go against every second of her training. The word run makes her teeth itch, foreign and bizarre as it is to even say.

But it takes immense effort not to lean away when Theo’s shoulder brushes her, even more to keep her breath steady. Every time they touch she is reminded of the night they spent together, and the acid that bubbled up in her throat, and the smell of lavender, and it is nearly impossible, even for her, to ignore that bone-deep memory. 

Marisol forces herself to focus on the map, the dips and grooves and greens and blues. She recognizes everything. Her homeland, her well-being, her own deeply botched sense of duty. And so when Theodosia asks her where would you place me? Marisol wants and wants and wants to say here, right next to me, and clenches her teeth and pushes it down.

It seems likely, now, Mari starts carefully, not moving her eyes from the detail of the map, that Asterion would place you, and not I. Her inhale is measured and steely, but beneath that, deep, deep beneath, something like bitterness reverberates in her voice.

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<3

aimless | kokovi