[P] it's the thought that counts

[Marisol]

with sword
and salt

For all the world’s pains, for all the ways it bites and burns, there is still good left. Beautiful sunsets and kind-hearted people. So often Marisol forgets that, while she’s in her haze of duty, or distracted by her dedication to the arts of war; so often the only thing on her mind is how to stop what has already started to unravel, and not what beauty might be entangled with the disaster.

Corrdelia is a reminder of that—to slow down, to look with clear eyes. There is no pain, she makes an effort to remind herself, without some pleasure to offset it. Some kindly god-smile. Believe, believe. “Thank you,” Marisol says again, both for the comforting weight of the necklace against her chest and the offer to assist with their vigil.

Then she asks what happened, and all the comfort seeps out of her, replaced by a prickly, nauseating wave of pure cold.

“You might be right. I—well, I hope you’re right. For everyone’s sakes.” Her mouth twists into a trembling line, harden by the effort it takes not to cry. Every inch of her dark skin feels hot enough to melt right off. “But I don’t know. Truly. The last I’d heard they were all on the island, and then something… I don’t know. Destroyed them. Took them.”

The words stick in her throat like a bad sore. They hurt to hear, and even Mari’s ears are flickering as she speaks, as if she’s trying subconsciously not to hear. But there’s no unknowing. Not now, not ever. There is just life and what to do with it, responsibility and how to handle it, and right now the most pressing issue is the one closest in time.

“So.” Mari heavy-clears her throat. “Tell me. What are you thinking, for this vigil? I’ll help however I can.” Corrdelia must know this kind of thing has never been her strong suit; it must be obvious in the harsh, straight way she stands and the clean, unsympathetic crop of her mane. But there’s always things to be done and efforts to be made. And now, more than ever, memories to be honored.

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