[P] it's the thought that counts

[Marisol]

with sword
and salt

Marisol’s heart still beats, but it feels… pointless. Empty. 

As if something deep inside of it has gone missing.

She had held in her crying until she made it to the barracks, and thank Vespera for that; what kind of start would that be, bursting into stupid tears in front of the entire court at once? Her head is cloudy with grief. Filled to the ears with cotton. And the day goes on, one lonely hour at a time, and Mari realizes with a start there is not much more time to waste.

With the sun high in the sky, she crawls out of her office. The sky is too-bright outside and the air too-hot. But she rolls the kinks out of her shoulders and blinks the salt-crust from her eyes, and at a determined trot sets off down the street, passed the buildings with their shuttered windows, through the streets that are heavy with sun. People are quiet. The whole city is, really. She can’t blame them. If staying in to sulk were an option for her, she would surely be doing the same.

There is work to be done, though. Forms to be filed. Councilmen (women) to be picked. She pores over Asterion’s writings and the census of the Court, running the names over her head and across her tongue. Trying to think: who goes where? Which ones am I supposed to trust?

There is a sound of clattering, rocks and hooves. Mari looks up with wide eyes, muscles a little tense, but at the sight of Corrdelia she visibly relaxes, a ghost of a smile on her face. Something trying to be happy. “Corrdelia. It’s a pleasure to see you.” Her voice is a little awkward from disuse, but the warmth inside it is genuine. She beckons the mare forward with a nod of her head. “I’m—fine. As well as can be expected.”

Which is to say, not all too well, but she’s sure Corrdelia knows that. “And how are you? Alright enough, I hope.” 

There is no good, she knows, not here, not now. Not for anyone who knows or loves Terrastella. But eventually there will be. Must be.

credits