[P] roman holiday

[Marisol]

a dead body the work of my righteous right hand.

The sky is mottled in equal measures yellow, green and purple, a bruise ripening to darkness. Dusk streaks over the horizon, sets fire to the very edges of the sun, turning them to liquid white; it should be beautiful—is beautiful—but Marisol cannot (will not) appreciate it. There are more important things to wonder at.

Prudence is back.

Not back, that’s the whole issue—Prudence is alive again, in the hearts of the Halcyon, and everywhere Marisol looks she sees it. 

Smells it.

Hears it, or hears of it.

Begs for clues. 

And everyone knows. Not everyone cares, of course—that’s probably a blessing—but everyone knows. Whoever posted the first clue wasn’t subtle about it. Nor embarrassed—to hang a note in a murdered Commander’s handwriting on the door of the Halcyon barracks is tactless, but it’s proved effective. She hears the whispers on the streets. She sees the bowed heads of the cadets, wrapped in fervent conversation. She does not join in herself (no, the Commander has things to do, a city to protect, a prisoner to catch) but oh, she wishes she could, feels the desire like a burning thing in her chest, wants so badly to drop her duties and take off to look for the blessed armor.

So, so obvious. Bad weather tomorrow but that’s fine.

Bad weather tomorrow but that’s fine.

Marisol’s ears are buzzing. Terrastella’s bell, in its clocktower high against the red-cloudy sky, rings seven loud, clear times.

Focus. Focus. She and two cadets (whose names she would remember at any other time) are walking the narrow streets. It is not an unusual patrol, but of course today it feels…strange. The energy is high, and stretched tight like a violin string. The cobblestones seem unnaturally shifty under Marisol’s neat hooves, but she does not stumble. The cadets whisper behind her, which is far and away against the rules, but she does not have the energy to punish them--if she were like them, still young, enthusiastic and naive, she’d be talking too.

She might be talking now, even, if the teeth in her mouth weren’t so gods-damned sharp. 

The colors of the sky are starting to bleed out to a deeper, purer blue. Clouds fall away against the bright silver of new stars, and one by one the pale lanterns in their iron sconces, bolted to brick walls, flicker into dutiful light. The tiny streets are suddenly, faintly awash in yellow; Marisol and her cadets, despite their dark coats and helmets, almost look gold. (The Commander does not feel gold. She feels evil. She feels blood-thirsty. She feels like she needs a cure, and even more pressingly she feels like if it doesn’t come soon, something terrible will happen.)

The city is quiet tonight, by Vespera’s blessing. Or by Her curse. Either way, Marisol is not glad for it. Her thoughts are running unchecked, running in circles—they nip at her heels like just-trained dogs, contained but not entirely. The city is quiet. Leaves whistle on their vines, wind whistles through the old, brown bricks. Shops are still open, bleeding faint, pale light into the streets. Bad weather tomorrow but that’s fine. Gnawing and gnawing. The city is quiet. Gnawing. Bad weather tomorrow but that’s fine. The city is—

The bell tolls terrible eight. At the end of the darkening street—two figures.

“Stay close,” Marisol murmurs to the cadets. She whips her cropped tail against her flanks, and the two yearlings step forward in perfect unison. They press against each side of her hip with flickering eyes and frown-set mouths. Marisol squares her shoulders.

The silhouettes don’t present a threat—quite yet—but all circumstances considered, it’s better to be safe than sorry. The Halcyon step forward together, and just as Marisol begins to open her mouth to speak, she hears her name.

Commander Marisol.

She blinks in faint surprise, drawing to a stop. The man in front of her is a stranger, or at least that’s what she thinks at first: she looks him over with the eye of an inspector, or a huntress, gauging threat. They are evenly matched in height and build, which soothes the Commander’s nerves slightly, but his eyes—they are a strange blood red, brighter than the rest of the red of him, and they match the faint glow of his dished horn. It is when she finally takes note of the knots in his hair—and the gold-ruby collar laying heavy against his chest—that she recognizes him, and almost smiles.

“By her Hand,” she says mildly. “Welcome to Terrastella.” Her slate-gray eyes glimmer slightly in the light; it could be humor, or suspicion, or a mix, but it is something more than her usual apathy. He is lucky. (If not lucky, at least unique.)The cadets behind her have no reaction; instead they hold perfectly still, statues at her side. I’ll have to remember to praise them later. 

The golden boy at Senna’s side is just that—a boy—and Marisol gives him no more than a glance and a nod before turning her gaze back to Senna with a slight tilt of her head. “Senna,” and her voice is something between calm and wry, “You’re a busy man. What do you need here?”

She cannot tell if the feeling in the pit of her stomach is excitement, fear or defensiveness; it whirls like an ocean, But her stance is strong and she meets Senna’s eyes with ease.

---

@Senna <3

aimless | kokovi