[P] it's the thought that counts

[Marisol]

with sword
and salt

Mari looks up when the sound of wings comes to a stop. Hovering against the backdrop of frescoes on the ceiling is a bird she vaguely recognizes but has never realized is more than a visitor. Hasta. Her wings are inky blue-black, and so is the shine of her eyes; Marisol wonders what god might’ve chosen her out of billions of birds, or how anyone is supposed to know which one is which.

I made you this. 

The sovereign’s eyes widen in grateful surprise. The heavy necklace that Corrdelia holds out toward her is studded with glinting pieces of smooth green stone and ridged points of black crystal, and it’s pretty in a way that Marisol has never really appreciate until this moment. The way of the Ilati, or more simply the way of seeing and believing. Mari’s eyes shine as she reaches for it. (She’s never worn a piece of jewelry in her life, but Corrdelia doesn’t have to know that.)

“Thank you, Corrdelia. I love it.” With an uncharacteristically wide beam, she slips the necklace over her head. The weight of it falling against her chest seems to bring her back to earth. Suddenly the tension in her muscles falls a little bit away, and she ducks her head to touch the cool stone with a brush of the soft skin on her muzzle. “And thank you for your help. Unfortunately, I…” 

Her voice fades for a second, and the expression on her face cools from its smile. “I think most of this is my duty. Although—“ Marisol’s eyes brighten as she looks up. “Perhaps you’d like to help organize their vigil? I’m not the most experienced hostess.” Again she flashes a sheepish smile and tries to turn her mind to better things by shuffling the papers out of sight.

Of course she’ll have to come back to them soon, but for now… for now her people are grieving, and their needs always come first. There will be food and drink and flowers, graves dug and candles lit, and they can grieve—should grieve—without bearing the burden that Marisol is supposed be shouldering.

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