[P] roman holiday

[Marisol]

a dead body the work of my righteous right hand.

It is a beautiful city, whether you love it or not, and oh, Marisol loves it. 

Pride blooms so warm in her chest as she hears the birds, smells the perfect purple flower boxes, watches and smiles at the children on their unsteady legs careening through the streets. Stars winking overhead, breeze sweeping the stones. No matter what happens, she thinks, this will not change. Cannot. Terrastella’s simple, lovely beauty is the only sensible thing left in this world. Marisol will protect it with her last blink, her last breath, her last drop of blood. 

There is no use thinking too hard of Senna’s intentions. All of Novus is in shambles now, and people are hardly on their best behavior—even disregarding that, their citizens (herself and Senna included) are turning into something much closer to beggar than chooser. Options are few and far between. If there is danger not in Senna, then it will be found in Kite—if not in Kite, in Nestor—not a man on earth, in this day and age, can be reasonably counted on to do the right thing, and hardly a woman either.

This is the lesser of two evils. At least like this he is indebted; at least here she can keep an eye on him. A close one. There are eyes in every corner of the barracks, Marisol’s as well as her cadets, at least a pair at all times unblinking, unsleeping. She can only hope he is foolish enough to let down his guard.

“Many thanks.” Over my dead body will I ever be found in Solterra, she thinks, but her expression is smooth. Noise leaks from the barracks closed doorway, and light trickles out to touch their skin. The moon is soft overhead. Her brow quirks at his bow. It is impossible not to notice how smooth it is for him, how royal and practiced. But she says nothing, only dips her head at him, a military mirror of his own genuflection. “Goodnight, Senna. May the Lord open.”

With a cool blink she brushes past him and into her office.

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@Senna <3

aimless | kokovi