[P] lie down by the slow river;

[Marisol]

with sword
and salt

Marisol finds herself relieved as their conversation continues, much less tensely than she expected. No grating words or too-sharp gazes. Israfel is being surprisingly kind; if their positions were switched, Mari can’t imagine she would be so understanding, especially to a woman she hardly knows. As they talk she is careful not to let her surprise show, her expression, as always, neutral, but a slight smile is still pulling at the corners of her eyes.

And perhaps the smile deepens when she sees surprise part Israfel’s rosy lips, but, truly, it’s hard to tell. Marisol’s ear flicks at the quip about pleasure—she can’t help but wonder what, exactly, Israfel is suggesting, pretty Israfel with her own boyfriend and child—her nostrils flare is suppressed amusement, but she doesn’t acknowledge it, at least not explicitly. A coarse laugh escapes her. Instead her tail swishes against her hind legs and, when the Warden starts walking, she follows at an easy pace.

Israfel asks her, without really asking, why Mari would come to her. She doesn’t have the heart to be offended by it. Fair enough—she herself doesn’t quite know why, except that it’s the only thing she could think to do in a time like this. It feels a little stupid to say at loud. Her lips twist; for a moment she glances sideways at Isra, gauging the moment, wondering, wondering, wondering. Finally she forces the words out, sharp in her throat. “If Asterion trusted you, I have no reason to doubt his judgement. Or yours. And,” she admits, with some measure of reluctance, “I have little time to waste seeking out an untested advisor.”

Untested. Ard, End, Theodosia—she loves them, she trusts them, but they don’t have the same experience that Israfel has, the same political weight she and Mari bear on their shoulders alike. (And she bears traces of Asterion. The blessing of his judgement. The heart-soft of his particularly divine brand of friendship. Marisol sees him everywhere she looks—in the sea, on the cliffs, the glitter that binds the cobblestone together in the streets. In the beating of white bird-wings, the high song of an opaline flute. And it hurts. Gods it hurts.)

“I wonder,” she says, more carefully than she bothers to say most things, “What ideas you have for picking a regime. Or who, if you’re feeling generous. And—“ Marisol hides her grin, the briefest flash of white teeth. “I wonder what interest you have in helping me take care of our new stranger, from the meeting.”

The glitter in her eyes speaks of something more than duty. A personal interest, or even mischief. They have enough problems with a new nut job running around who doesn't have the common sense to address the Commander properly. She can't imagine Israfel won't find some joy in solving that.

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