[P] our hearts we have sold, for diamonds and gold

[Marisol]

by sword
by salt

Rhone and I…

Marisol wishes she could cry. Rhone and I—it should have been her. It should have been her—Regent, Commander, more than either of things friend—who had come with him. Guilt throbs in her chest like a second heartbeat. Her eyes are steady, but she has to swallow hard against the grit in her mouth; it stings like sandstone on her skin, it burns bright in her nostrils. Her gaze films with sorrow. Every beat of those dark lashes seems to send tears closer and closer to spilling.

But she watches how they press against one another, and all the guilt in the world can’t cast out the warmth that she feels in being lucky enough to witness their reunion.

How perfect it must be to love someone so much, and how dangerous, too. She had seen Ard in his frothing rage, had seen the coldness in his eyes and the pure, ice-deep fear. She almost cannot believe it is the same boy who stands now so calm, so warm, so.. happy. Highs and lows and highs again. (Marisol is not sure whether this is worse or not feeling at all, both of which she knows like the back of her hand. Always with the punishment. Always with the killing extreme.)

Erd starts to spin his tale, and Mari listens with rapt attention, her ears tilted forward, her lips parted slightly. Every word rings a new bell in her brain; the world narrows to a pinpoint that looks like Ard, or Erd, or maybe both. I don't think I like her very much... Her whole body is stretched tight as a wire in both anger and excitement. “Miss Moira,” she says, and her voice hardens. “Of Denocte.” (Miss Moira, appointed by Miss Isra, pretty little cheat that she is; if Marisol finds the smallest scrap of evidence that either of them did this knowingly, a war will be started that may very well never end.)

She listens and listens and listens, and her heart hurts with every new word. The world around them is so quiet she can hear each breath frosting the air; when he finishes she blinks slowly and takes a carefully measured inhale.  “Don’t be sorry, Erd.” The queen’s voice is calm and soft, but underneath the pretense something rumbles deep as thunder from her throat, black and scythe-sharp. “None of this is your fault. You would not be you without the soft heart; it is something I envy.” A brief pause, and her lips part. “I’m only glad you are home. There is much to discuss. Come, we’ll have dinner—how long have you been back?”

With the flick of a wing she turns away and beckons them after her down the street. Her chest buzzes with surprising lightness. And her eyes turn up to the place where the sun will set and turn the sky foamy purple, and she says—thank you, thank you, thank you.

“Speaking.”

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