[P] lie down by the slow river;

[Marisol]

with sword
and salt

She and Israfel have never gotten along particularly well.

They are both sharp-edged, too loud, too brash; it is like slashing two swords together and expecting the sound of flutes. Marisol doesn’t mind her, per se, but they’ve always kept to their separate corners of the world, Commander and Warden, Halcyon and soldier. (Often she had wondered what kept Israfel from joining the unit. She had the most important thing, and experience on top of that; it would have been an easy transition. They could have used someone like her.)

Now avoidance is not an option.

Dawn with rosy fingers starts to claw at the sky, and Marisol slips from the barracks into the warm air. (She hasn’t moved into the citadel yet; she’s not sure she’ll ever feel ready.) Clouds are falling into wisps overhead, and the streetlights haven’t quite been blown out, still casting warm shadows onto the cobblestone.

Two cadets stand in the doorway and nod their dark heads at her as she passes. Their eyes are cast demurely low, their posture stiffer even than usual. Nausea rises in Mari’s stomach, pours acid into the back of her throat. As she passes them she is careful not to do or say anything at all, lest it be too royal, too brash, too… anything. She would never forgive herself for stumbling so early. She only blinks at them as they part ways, calm as she can manage, and slinks off into the streets.

Finally the air is starting to turn frosty. Summer is finally leaching away like so much water into the sewers. Marisol’s joints are stiff with cold, her gaze still bleary from sleep, and she grimaces as each step works a new knot from her muscles and each heavy stride brings her closer to the citadel. Bells are ringing now against the rising of the sun; Marisol’s head feels as clear as it does dark. 

She shakes the kinks gently out of her wings and keeps an eye out for her Warden.

credits