[P] the violence in the pouring rain

[Theodosia]

let our eyes show the
fire in our hearts tonight

Above them, the sky is painted in the colors of dusk, of the same colors that had swirled within the vial she had dared to drink, and she is still amazed that she is walking. It had not been poison, had not been Vespera’s way of smiting her for her insolence -- and yet she is not sure that she is any different, besides a craving for the sweet mountain grasses that grew amongst the peaks. The smell of salt and sea has surrounded them, digging into the tender spots, aching in the back of her throat where it has rasped sore from questioning those who had been in the markets the day that Erd had disappeared.

Out of respect, she waits until Marisol has taken her head from beneath her wing, pretends not to see the tear tracks that still linger on her dark face, and it burns, just a little, not to be able to reach out and wipe away the tears, to erase the cause of Marisol’s distress. She is made to fix, to fight, to defend: but this is not something that she can mend so easily, nor would a brawl solve anything at this point in time.

She is too late to call herself anything but a failure.

The honesty is unexpected, and it burns at something in her, holds back her tongue even as her chest tightens. She dares to take a step closer, to extend her wing just the smallest bit -- an offer of comfort, should Marisol take it, one that could easily be ignored as just the shifting of positions should the Commander’s pride (or her sense of duty) not allow it.

“Both, I suppose,” she answers, unable to be anything but honest when gifted with the same, and her next glance towards the sea is a miasma of emotions. She is beginning to learn that she has a problem with emotions, however, and so settles for picking apart Marisol’s words until she lands on something that might be suitable for a course of action: Fell because I was dragged.

“Who--” She begins to ask, and is cut off, silent and horrified, as Marisol gapes open her jaw, as rows of needle-sharp teeth are revealed, as she realizes just how not-okay the Commander is; her heart beats in her ears, a heavy thud-thud-thud, a rush of blood in her veins.

She has to fight the urge to bare her tender throat to those teeth, and she has no reason for why she would do so at all -- a test of Marisol’s self-control? To see what sort of monster the commander has become? To see if she might avoid the commander’s wrath, a selfish desire to see if Marisol would fight to avoid biting her?

Instead, she clears her throat and takes yet another step closer, until there are mere inches between them, because she has never known how to run away from danger. “I don’t know what to say,” she confesses, voice low and still quietly shocked, but her gaze doesn’t waver from Marisol’s eyes, doesn’t dart down to catch glimpses at those sharp, deadly, startling teeth. “But I’m -- here, for whatever you might want to say.”

She wishes her dam were here -- Anzhelo had always had a knack for comforting others, for knowing what to say and when to say it, and she’s never entirely sure if she’s said the right thing or not.

credits
@Marisol