[P] love's a shrine, or else a scar

[Marisol]

THE ARCHIATER.

The world is so silent. So, so silent. Marisol can hear the breath escaping her lips, and the crackle of oil-fire, faint inside the lanterns on the walls. She can hear her heartbeat inside her chest, a low, pulsing wave of blood and salt. She can hear the pretty blue-black of the sky, how the stars are hanging overhead, how the moonlight and the wind twist together to create the sound of cold whistling in her dark ears, sinking into her skin, the whole of Terrastella mute and still as if holding its breath in preparation, or in fear.

She watches through the golden windows. The bakery inside is still lifeless, pretty and inert as a dollhouse. Copper pots and pans hanging from the walls. Rows of rusty-red brick. Warm lemony light in soft circles on the ceiling. Cones of brightly colored spices, twine-bound circlets of cinnamon sticks, pallets packed with dried fruit. It feels like some kind of home, maybe, to someone who works there, or someone who loves it. 

Mari blinks furiously. Her heart squeezes so tight inside her chest it almost makes her dizzy. She exhales, a half-sob, and her warm breath crawls like so much frost over the windowpane. The world is so, so still.

And at first she thinks she’s dreaming, when she hears her name, in That Voice.

The near-black ears swivel back. The shoulder twitches. Her heart trembles in her chest, and her breath shakes when it floods out of her and when it comes back in. Her whole body goes hot and cold and hot. Marisol. This is not real. Light glints off the copper on the brick inside. Marisol’s gut twists, and she closes her eyes. Marisol. 

She turns. 

And Isra is already there, upon her, nose brushing her oil-dark feathers, smelling of rain and all that is right with the world. Clove and smoke. The warmth of her body burning like the brightest candle, the touch of her lips spreading heat like cinders. Marisol lets out a noise of surprise, something next to a gasp or moan—her heart drops deep into her stomach and electricity crackles with every beat of her pulse—the wind is knocked out of her, harsh as a punch with the butt of a spear, and finally she slumps and turns to press her cheek against Isra’s, eyes fluttering closed, blood churning in her head.

And still the world is silent. Just the heartbeats and the broken breathing. And Marisol’s mind begging to say I love you and being held back. She presses her cheek deeper against Isra’s, tucks part of her head under the Night queen’s throat and pushes down all the words she can, words upon words upon words, like her stories.

@isra <3