[P] what i know about forests is they always grow back

[Marisol]

WITH SWORD AND SALT -

Marisol is overcome with the feeling that she is entering a graveyard.

Even under the watchful sun a spectral chill gnaws at her like slick canine teeth. The light that spirals down, dusty and too-white, is not at all a comfort. It singes her instead. She is defenseless here, stripped bare of her usual confidence without the familiar pattern of white on her wings, or the weight of the spear at her side; but they would not have let her in here looking like that, a weapon given godly form, and so she lets her gaze drop and her shoulders rise protectively against the glare of the guards on the streets.

And holds back the part of her that wants to bare her teeth, for the bloodcurdling way they watch her.

Anyway, she knows enough about war not to take it personally. And enough about Solterra, and enough about Raum, to realize she should have expected this from the beginning. The dread that twists up her spine is borne not from surprise, but deep, chilling righteousness, that her preparation for the worst was really as urgent as it felt: there had been parts of her that paused to weigh whether the situation was truly as dire as it sounded, and those parts were as foolish as they were stupid. She realizes it now, as the soft song of the desert fades into horrid dead silence. There are no footsteps, no music, no muted conversations. When she had been told stories about Solterra, it had always been like this:

The desert was bright and the people brighter because there was no other way in which to survive. All heat. And passion. And a desperate love of survival. People shouted in the dusty streets and watched the world from the slits of silk scarves, laced dark over the  unhappy slopes of their mouths. On each corner merchants taunted and teased their wares, fabrics and swords, baklavas, rosewater, so practiced  they could just as easily sell a foreigner sand. Violins and qanuns sang throughout the bustling streets and drowned the sandstone in clever, sultry operas; always there was life, even if it was violent and unstable - 

Oh, it is not like that now. And Marisol, even Marisol, who would not leave her home even in the face of death, feels something in her heart twist and cry as she thinks of all the citizens who have already watched their home turn dark and rot.

Soldiers stand silently in the seams of the streets. They watch her through masks, and hair, and the thin film of dust covering everything in Solterra. Not a sound escapes them. Not even breath. They burn, and stand still in the fire. In each of their expressions is something dark, and truly evil: not because they want for Solterra’s destruction, but because they are totally complacent in the face of it.

Her name, from nowhere, sounds like breaking.

Marisol’s dark ears twist rapidly. It takes every ounce of will not to turn toward the sound - it could just as easily be a foe as a friend, waiting to drag her into the alleys kicking and screaming. She measures her step. She forces the pace to continue evenly. 

Then the voice comes again, and all the training in the world could not convince her to ignore it. 

Isra, she thinks, and with no more than a brief glance around the streets steps sideways into the cool dark, and oh - 

Every bone of her cries in relief. Isra is here, flesh and blood, and all in one piece. Dark-eyed and weary and burning with rage, and there is no better gift Marisol could have asked for in a place so desolate as this, even if it is not quite the same Isra who taught her to dance at that party so long ago. 

Beggars cannot be choosers, and Christ, is Marisol willing to beg.

The only movement of her face is the brief, jerky twitch of a blink holding back tears. Every muscle in her body has wound up; even her hair seems knot itself in confusion. Grief reveals me, she says, stunned. She cannot quite contain the breaking in her voice, or the wonder in her eyes. Her broad wing reaches to wrap around the curve of Isra’s neck, and the Commander pulls her in closer, closer again, until they are pressed together as warm and contiguous as molten glass; her pulse beats deep and quick and dark against the inside of her chest, and she closes her eyes to breathe in the smell of stars that follows Isra like perfume.

Her skin starts to burn. All of her aches to say something more, to say something useful, but she only tips her forehead against Isra's and breathes out a sigh so deep it rattles her bones.

---

@isra <3

aimless | kokovi