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

[Marisol]

deep calleth unto deep

Marisol is relieved to see the tea being poured. It is the suggestion of a return to normalcy, the thick smell of salted cream and deep-black cinnamon, the soft expression on Asterion’s face. It is a scene she has witnessed nearly every day, drinking the broth in the dusty light of her office, though not often with company; the list of people she would tolerate interrupting her routine like this is small and only growing smaller, but then again Dusk’s king has always had a strange hold on her. She inhales, and the sharp, spicy scent of anise tickles against her nostrils.

A plume of dust rises from the pages of the book as she splays it open against the deck. It has gone untouched for far too long, and it has not helped the weathering of time, the spine of the tome cracked with age, its pages snakeskinned from so many years pressed into the back of the shelf. Even upside down the pattern of ink is recognizable. Marisol has seen it on posters, in dreams, tattooed on the back of her eyelids; she wonders with an aching heart what magic might overcome her if she were to find it in person. It’s not quite imaginable. It might kill her on the spot. It might send her into a trance she can’t quite wake up from. If it is found—when it is found—she might not be able to look at it with anything more than a cornered gaze, for fear of being burned, and what a tragedy that would be, to fall in love without being able to sink your teeth into the thing?

She swallows hard and watches Asterion watch the page. Nervousness rises in her like a little white fire. Her throat is hot and dry as the Mors. When their eyes meet it is not without some measure of urgency; Marisol can feel that her trepidation is obvious, flickering in her dark eyes as obvious as moonshine and lantern-light, but she does not quite have the capacity to be ashamed of it at the moment. “Everything,” she answers, and her voice trembles like a too-taut string. “Prudence has been missing for decades, and the Halcyon records… imply that it bears a blessing from Vespera herself.”

She turns the page. The next sheaf of yellowed paper contains a muddled zebra-print of words written in a woefully antique hand, nearly impossible to read in full coherence. Only a few words stand out in any clearness, and they’re things the Halcyon has gathered already—first warrior, opal, lifelong shield. “Novus has been discordant, recently, to say the least. Though we have withstood it so far, we cannot isolate ourselves from this—drama forever. Recovering the armor would make the Unit stronger than it has been in any of our lifetimes, and I cannot help but think…” she pauses, and her gaze darkens momentarily. “That if there were ever a time Terrastella was in need of an army, it would be now.”

She doesn’t want to say that they’re fucked without it, or that Asterion would be a fool to think that they could not dive into this conflict, whether it is now or next year. Their continent has never been a peaceful one; with a tyrant on the throne of their most volatile nation, violence is nearly a guarantee. She doesn’t want to say it because it is an admission of terror. She doesn’t want to say it because the dark, stony gleam of her eyes has said enough already, and she does not think either of them can bear any more anger today.

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<3

aimless | kokovi