[P] sky high, girls go sky high

[Marisol]

by sword
by salt

For a long time Marisol was nothing but a soldier. Now she is Commander, and queen besides, but more important than that she is a Terrastellan whose love for her people is stronger than bone or blood or iron. Stronger than any other pull of romance or desire, she knows that now. Her chest builds with warmth and a little smile curls her lips as she watches the filly standing over her, and, in the distance, Indy landing easily on the dummy now leaking straw. 

Charlie is precious. The next generation, what will remain when Marisol and her regime have long gone into the ground. Nothing, really nothing, is more important than helping her grow up with room to fly and the support of her people. Mari sits up straighter, brushes a thin cast of dirt off her sweaty shoulder with the touch of her dark muzzle. I came to find you, Charlie exclaims, and the Commander beams.

It looks and feels strange for someone so serious, but she can’t help it. Real, perfect happiness rushes down her spine. She watches with bright gray eyes as Charlie turns, her bluish skin dazzled under the hot, striking sun—watches as her wide, nervous wings stretch unsteadily out and start to beat against the warm air, stunningly strong and new—watches and beams as her nimble little hooves drift on the ground and she catapults into the air like a bird being thrown from its nest.

Mari smiles so hard it starts to bubble in her chest, stunning, intense pride coursing like so much electricity through her body and down her spine. This is what it feels like to be young again, she thinks, and the pride is just a little bittersweet. How old is she that she has begun not to appreciate what it feels like to fly?

She shakes her head.

“Charlie, that’s amazing!” The Commander surges to her feet and rushes to wrap Charlie in a kind of hug with one big, soft wing, pulling her in to her side with a too-bright smile: she bumps her muzzle affectionately against the filly’s neck, not even thinking of how unusual it is for her. “Good job! You’ll be up high in no time. I know a good place to practice more, if you want, and I can even show you to how to throw a spear—“

With a satisfied little snort she pulls away, dancing back toward the edge of the training grounds like an invitation, sprightlier than anyone has seen her perhaps in years. And oh, the world is rough-edged but still good in the middle—the sun is shining, and there is so much to do.

“Speaking.”

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