"i know endings too,
and life-in-death,
and something else
I'd rather not recall
just now."
and life-in-death,
and something else
I'd rather not recall
just now."
There is a little murmur that goes up through the crowd, a faint shudder-ripple, as if of movement. Marisol stops; she blinks, her eyes drop to the cobblestone. It is turning dark, bloody red.
The air fills with the scent of roses, as if blossoms have been crushed on someone’s heel. Now the stones are thinning and rippling into a sea of velvet petals. Thorns surge from the wave of maroon, they scratch and prick her ankles, she thinks for a moment that all that red might be hers, her blood seeping out drop by drop, and with a sharp inhale Marisol turns her narrow, dark head.
Isra is standing very close to her in a space that rings of uncertainty.
Isra is standing with the flame-light golden around all her sharp edges, her face soft as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. Her horn is a sword in the half-darkness and her blue, blue scales the moody color of a shadowed mountain. Her eyes should be blue, under the bright hands of the bonfires, they reflect gold, like sunlight on an unbroken sea.
Marisol finds herself, as always, envious: when will she finally become beautiful?
Anyway, somehow, she swallows against the rough-edged salt in her throat and dips her head, even as Isra speaks, even as her heart pounds against her teeth. Nausea clamps in her stomach. When she looks up through those lashes to met Isra’s eyes, the gray there is dark, dark, dark. Like swirling whirlpools or cave-deep chasms. On anyone else it might be lust. On her it is only hungry.
“Isra,” she says, and with purpose falls silent before she can say anything in response to the I miss you. The lacking words ring in her ears until she can hear nothing else but the crackling of the bonfires and the sorrow-deep beat of her heart in her chest.
Silence.
Silence.
Finally she raises her head. The firelight plays tricks on her dark skin, on the shaper lines of her face and the steel-glint of her eyes. If she does still smell like salt, it is overwhelmed by the jasmine and embers that fill the air around them; but she is straight-backed and hard-shouldered and does not flinch against the cold darkness or the weight of Isra’s gaze on her body.
Marisol clears her throat. “I am Queen now.” Her voice does not tremble, her eyes do not falter. She stares at Isra with vitriol and unflinching nerve. “I imagined you would want to know.”
“Speaking.”
The air fills with the scent of roses, as if blossoms have been crushed on someone’s heel. Now the stones are thinning and rippling into a sea of velvet petals. Thorns surge from the wave of maroon, they scratch and prick her ankles, she thinks for a moment that all that red might be hers, her blood seeping out drop by drop, and with a sharp inhale Marisol turns her narrow, dark head.
Isra is standing very close to her in a space that rings of uncertainty.
Isra is standing with the flame-light golden around all her sharp edges, her face soft as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. Her horn is a sword in the half-darkness and her blue, blue scales the moody color of a shadowed mountain. Her eyes should be blue, under the bright hands of the bonfires, they reflect gold, like sunlight on an unbroken sea.
Marisol finds herself, as always, envious: when will she finally become beautiful?
Anyway, somehow, she swallows against the rough-edged salt in her throat and dips her head, even as Isra speaks, even as her heart pounds against her teeth. Nausea clamps in her stomach. When she looks up through those lashes to met Isra’s eyes, the gray there is dark, dark, dark. Like swirling whirlpools or cave-deep chasms. On anyone else it might be lust. On her it is only hungry.
“Isra,” she says, and with purpose falls silent before she can say anything in response to the I miss you. The lacking words ring in her ears until she can hear nothing else but the crackling of the bonfires and the sorrow-deep beat of her heart in her chest.
Silence.
Silence.
Finally she raises her head. The firelight plays tricks on her dark skin, on the shaper lines of her face and the steel-glint of her eyes. If she does still smell like salt, it is overwhelmed by the jasmine and embers that fill the air around them; but she is straight-backed and hard-shouldered and does not flinch against the cold darkness or the weight of Isra’s gaze on her body.
Marisol clears her throat. “I am Queen now.” Her voice does not tremble, her eyes do not falter. She stares at Isra with vitriol and unflinching nerve. “I imagined you would want to know.”
![[Image: ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda...jvUop12efQ]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/c175b84a-409b-40aa-8b86-49ed65b989ee/ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda550e.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcL2MxNzViODRhLTQwOWItNDBhYS04Yjg2LTQ5ZWQ2NWI5ODllZVwvZGRnNnF1eS05ZDE1ZGFiNS0zMzljLTRiMDktOGI1Ny0yMGE5OWZkYTU1MGUucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.j-t9RuUsmMyaVL-O1rvZqbyyPYdOvtjHLjvUop12efQ)
