[P] everything's coming up green

[Marisol]

i wish i could say everything i've done and still be loved.

In this court, the air is still and oh-so-quiet. Even in Terrastella’s sleepiest corners there is always the beating of wings, or the sound of movement, or a soft-playing song; here there is only the clack of those marbles moved by kids near the fountain, and the susurrus of old pages being flipped under the closest tree. It is at once both calming and uncomfortable.

What danger is there that must be lurking underneath all that silence? 

Marisol realizes that she has never heard Dawn’s regent (sovereign, she reminds herself) speak. When his voice sounds, she is surprised, just a little, by how easy it sounds, how confident he is. How grown he seems, too, when all she’s heard of him is his ever-after youthfulness. 

She wishes she could sound like that, and is almost sure she doesn’t. 

But there’s little to be done about that now. There are things far more pressing. With effort she pulls on a mask of composure. Smooths out her breaths and the slope of her shoulders—does not flinch away from the touch of his muzzle against her shoulder, surprised though she may be, and gods she is surprised. What different customs they have here! Or maybe the two of them are simply different—down to their bones, the placement of their wings, how they deign to show their respect.

“You can always call me Marisol,” she tells him softly, and tentative, like a foal just learning how to walk, reaches out to brush a touch against the place where his neck meets the slope of his shoulder. Her mouth and nostrils fill with the smell of flowers. Briefly she wonders what aura she gives off—sea salt, or sword-edge, or something like blood.

Now the Commander pulls back, regarding him with a little smile that is surprisingly genuine, and her ears flicker forward in interest. “Thank you, King Ipomoea, but I’m well enough; don’t worry about me. And I’ve brought something, from Terrastella. For you.” Her smile fades just a little, and her eyes cast down, but the illusion is gone for only a moment before she meets his gaze again. “I know you and Asterion were good friends.”

With a sheepish look she pulls it out from underneath a folded wing: a heart-sized paper nautilus shell whose soft edges and ribs are lined with thin bands of green-tinged gold, the color of kelp, of sun on water. It still smells faintly of brine, still holds residual warmth from where it was laying in the light.

Marisol’s heart tightens in anticipation.

"Speaking."

queen marisol

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