[P] I give you my love before preaching or law;

[Marisol]

deep calleth unto deep

The way he flinches puts fear into her every nerve. Her blood runs ice cold, the breath slams out of her lungs; every inch of her body pinpricks with dread, she clenches her jaw until blood coats her tongue; her mercury-dark eyes fix on Asterion’s, and all they do is worry, worry, worry. She cannot know she looks girlish, in this light. The tear-stained lashes. The uncontrollable quiver of her lip. How she cannot quite meet Asterion’s gaze, even as he tries to make her. But for the first time in many years she feels like a child again, and that alone makes her want to howl in rage.

I couldn’t stand it if you hated me, she wants to tell him, but of course he knows. She’s never thought of him as truly foolish—a little too much of a dreamer, far too much an idealist, but not stupid. He would be within his rights as a person to fear her. Within his rights as a king to strip her of her title and throw her to the wolves. Within his rights as a child of God to hate her. And anyway her begging won’t make a difference. If he hates her, he hates her, and what can she do about it?

(I deserve it, thinks Marisol bitterly, and swipes the salt from her gums, and clenches her shoulders. Tenses her chest. Tries to still her heart, even as it threatens to burst. The office suddenly seems far too small for the two of them; she should not be allowed so close to someone not yet sick, sinner that she is.)

The air is so thick she can’t quite breathe. Each inhale grates against her lungs, the tender inside of her mouth. It hurts to feel the silence spread like wings between them; each passing second rings in her ears like a scream, and she blinks furiously as he shakes his head in—it must be disgust. Marisol closes her eyes. She pulls her head to her chest. But even with the world dark, she can feel Asterion’s eyes on her, burning into her forehead. Can feel the weight of his judgement like something holy, pulling on both sides of her neck.

But still he reaches for her. 

Marisol’s lashes flutter; her body stiffens in surprise, as if waiting to receive a blow, but of course it never comes, and as the seconds pass her eyes blink open. Oh. Asterion smells like home. Like sweet grass and upturned earth and old books splitting their spines open. Like a return to normalcy. Gods willing. Breath is sweet in her lungs again, and her heart not so terribly tight—when Marisol breathes it is almost a laugh, so relieved it sounds and feels euphoric. 

The moment passes as soon as it comes. And then she is somber again, eyes meeting his dark and serious. I will find him, she says coolly. No need to waste Terrastella’s army on one wretch of a fish. Although if you’d ever wanted to learn how to hunt—

And she smiles, wolfish, too-sharp and yet all herself.

Now’s the best time, in more ways than one.

The Commander reaches for one of many ancient-spined books on her shelf. This particular volume is so old and well-worn that the letters have come clean off the title, leaving only a T here, a P there; rivulets crack open the dark leather and split them into islands; Marisol wastes no time in cracking it open to a page marked with a splendid strip of blue silk, embroidered in gold. A faded ink drawing of a splendid set of armor coasts over the parchment, shining in places with pockmarked silver.

She pushes it toward him.

---

<3

aimless | kokovi