[AW] lord, if I make it through tonight; (dusk meeting)

[Marisol]

this time i'll
follow you all
the way down.

I wish I had something good to tell you, thinks Marisol desperately as she looks at her people. They are full of heartache. So is she. Her homeland is one that loves to cry; they are sensitive and beautiful and oh so easily broken. In their eyes there is sorrow, and fear, too, the kind that can’t be shaken with anything but the passage of time. If she weren’t so good at steeling her face, she’s sure she would look the same. And if she were alone, she knows she would be crying. Full sobs flooding from an oft-broken heart. Even now tears are brimming in her eyes—her set jaw and rapid blinks are only just managing to hold back the burning flood.

With each passing second Marisol grows less and less sure of herself. She sees Israfel’s indignant rosy eyes, the distrust in Rhone’s dark gaze. How Samaira cannot even bear to hold herself still in this place that still bears so many of Asterion’s marks. And her heart hurts, and what can she tell them? That they’ll come back? That everything will be okay? Marisol is a woman of logic, and she has no business lying to her people. There is no evidence that they are not dead. There is no evidence, even, that Terrastella will survive without them. 

Marisol bites her lip; a dark trickle of blood blossoms over her tongue, and she swallows without thinking.

When Fiona steps up to her, she is expecting the worst. A question she can’t answer. A frown that says disappointment. A blow. She braces herself, tenses her shoulders, lowers her eyes. There is nothing to say. There is nothing, at least in this moment, to do. Marisol owes everything to her people, and she must give it unquestioningly—her body, her spirit, her words. Whatever Fiona asks she must do.

And yet Fiona doesn’t ask for anything. Instead she reaches out, smelling a little like cinnamon, soft as a butterfly wing, and before the Commander can even flinch she is wrapped in Fiona’s warm embrace, cheek to cheek, tears running a warm track from purple skin to sable. Shock runs through her, then relief, sharp as an arrow. Her eyes squeeze closed and the tension sloughs from her shoulders, warmth courses through her muscles; by the time Fiona pulls away Marisol is sniffling with the effort of holding back her tears, but she manages. 

“A vigil,” she repeats softly, and a kind of smile breaks over her lips. Sorrowful, tired, but a smile nonetheless. “That is a wonderful idea. Thank you, Fiona.” Mari raises her head, and her eyes fall upon Corrdelia, then Rhone: “Thank you,” she tells them too, loud enough to carry, and in her eyes shines relief bright enough to start a fire. Her heart pounds in her chest, and heat flushes her cheeks. Thank you, she wants to say again, thank you thank you thank you, but it would never be enough. Terrastella and Her people have given Marisol everything. Life and love and success and in time, she’s sure, even death. There is no gratitude deep as that.

For a brief moment she feels like, even without evidence, things might be okay. They might be able to pull themselves together. A vigil, a painting—life will go on, with a little more sadness, but it will go on nonetheless, and with time it will go more and more smoothly. They will not forget. They will remember, at least, how to love.

And then the brief moment passes, and a stranger’s voice rings out through the air, and Marisol hardly remembers to breathe when she hears what the buckskin is saying.

Now is not the time to be angry. Now is not the time to be angry—and yet in her chest something is burning and twisting and rising, and she might cry in frustration, if she could cry, at the sheer disrespect in this woman’s tone. But when the Commander steps forward her eyes are cold and calm, and when she speaks it is in a low, pacific voice that does not break or tremble or imply anything but be very, very careful, girl.

“Speak not his name in a time of trouble; Vespera has cursed him, he has caused enough damage already. Furthermore,” she says, and her voice hardens to a brittle sword, “Your beloved Judas Cicero has not been seen in sixty years, and thank Vespera for that. Wherever you think you are, whenever you think this is—you know us not. I was Commander and Regent appointed by Asterion, and now in his untimely death, Vespera bless him, I stand Commander and Sovereign. As you said—“

Her tone softens, just a little. Now is not the time to be angry. The grey of her eyes is less like slate and more like storm, now, swirling against the darkness of her skin. “Certain things simply must be done, even if unorthodoxly.” A sad, sad ghost-smile pulls at her mouth. Or maybe it’s a frown—? God only knows. 

And then her expression steels again, and she says to the buckskin in a voice so calm it could break a stone, “Say what you will, Vespera blessed us all with our own mouth. But do not ever—ever—address me as ‘cadet’ again.”

She watches the stranger for another long moment, cool, her burning frustration buried, then turns her gaze upon Israfel. Though they don’t know each other well, she is pleased (surprised) to see the Warden here; she has been loyal to Terrastella since the beginning, and that is at least one thing they see eye to eye on. “Many thanks, Israfel,” and when she hears that the Warden’s loyalty lies with Terrastella, for now, she smiles truly. “Terrastella remains, Sovereign or not; you are right to recognize it so. Loyalty to Her above all.”

Exhaustion is taking over, and Marisol wishes desperately for her bed—a book—a kiss. Instead she stands unsteadily and watches the crowd with soft, dark eyes. “My first priority is reinstating our council and working with Fiona to conduct the vigil. Anyone who wants to help is welcome. Until then—be safe. You can ask your questions or voice your concerns here or in my office at any time. I am here simply to serve you.”

She raises her voice, clear as a bell—“Blessed be the fight”—and steps into the crowd.

“Speaking.”

credits