[P] i bet on losing dogs

[Marisol]

i'm not weeping, i'm not complaining
happiness is not for me.

The girl on the edge of the cliff is beautiful, and strange. She stands strong and dark against the rolling sea and cloudy sky. From where Marisol is walking she is little more than a suggestion of red paint, but still the sovereign is drawn forward, over the rocks, over the dying grass. Her antlers remind Mari of Lysander and her golden hair of Florentine, the way she stands at the edge of the cliff reminds the sovereign of Asterion; then she chides herself for only thinking of the past.

Focus, Mari tells herself. Ahead, not behind, or your people will never prosper.

It rings in her head like a bell, like a song. Your people will never prosper--that is Atlas' weight on her shoulders, pulling down until bone crunches against bone. But no one has to know. Disciplined as ever, Mari manages to push down her heartache, and there is no visible sadness in her eyes or the royal slope of her shoulders as she picks her way over the stone. The wind coming off the sea is salty and frigid; it rustles her short-cropped mane into a frenzy. Fall is already waning. Now winter’s gnawing at her coat, stirring the waves into white-capped foam, brushing stiff bristles onto the trees and turning the leaves from yellow to sick brown.

She does not recognize this Terrastellan, which is unusual: either she’s new or Marisol’s been falling behind on her introductions, which isn’t unlikely, considering the amount of time she’s spent poring over paperwork recently. Still a kind of guilt rises in her chest. What kind of queen is she that cannot keep track of her citizens? She bites her lip, and for a stride her step seems to falter as if uncertain. But it’s only a stride, only a moment, and then with a shake of her head she’s straightened up again and is coming up steadily to the girl’s side.

“By Her hand,” Marisol calls out, voice cut in half by the way the wind seems to thin it. The curiosity that runs through her is audible only as a tone of mild interest (though inside her it echoes much stronger). When she steps up, matching in posture with the girl shoulder-to-shoulder, she dips her head in a greeting that is almost but not quite formal, and meets the girl’s gaze with cool, dark eyes.

“Speaking.”

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