[P] i'll be fine, i'm alright, it's my body

[Marisol]

dying moon
keep me up
keep me waiting

At home, Juniper says, and the Commander has to wonder: what home, besides this?

The question is answered a minute later, but in that minute, Marisol can’t help her heightened suspicion, the soft raise of her brow, the slight quirk of her lips. Yet her expression is warm still, and less untrustworthy than it is curious, a childish kind of need to know more and more and more. She bites her tongue. Wait, wait, wait. Give her a chance.

And when Juniper does elaborate, Marisol finds herself pleased by it. The priestesses of Vespera—oh, there is so much Juniper could teach them about the world, about their goddess, about the makings of a perfect Hierophylakes. The Unit has been lacking in parsons, that’s to be damned sure. And Juniper is the perfect remedy. Well-taught, well-bred, a girl of religious tact and Terrastellan blood through and through. A smile tugs at Marisol’s lips. Warm and maybe a little self-satisfied. 

“Ha!” she says, and her grin widens, bone-white teeth blinking in the sunlight; one eye screws up against the glare. “For me meditation seems a lost cause. But we—I—would be well pleased to welcome you to the Unit. As a Hierophylakes?” 

She waits for the answer with bated breath. For many years, the Halcyon has been scrambling to recover from the scandal of its last leaders, and Marisol feels that responsibility like bricks on her shoulders. Years have passed already in vain attempts to rebuild, and years more it will be until they regain their former splendor. But this is a step forward. A movement toward glory. Better this than nothing. 

credits