by sword
by salt
by salt
When they show up, Marisol is relieved, more than anything. She is relieved that they respect her enough to show up; relieved that they care enough to offer themselves; relieved that even in the wake of tragedy they are willing to attend to the needs of their country and that, like her, they will not flinch in the face of adversity.
When they show up, her heart soars high in her throat and she smiles, soft and sweet. She watches them filter in around her. and with each new body her spirit climbs higher. until her body buzzes with adrenaline and her pulse is like gunfire in her chest, and though the sky is dark, the people of Terrastella burn too bright to fade out; they shimmer in the dim purple light.
Israfel is the first to step up. If Marisol is not surprised, she is at least pleased—despite herself she has to suppress a kind of smirk, and her eyes meet Israfel’s not with their regular coldness but with a gleam that speaks of knowing that is almost mischief. How bold is she, and how brave. They are yin and yang. Light and dark. Where Israfel roars like fire, Marisol is dark and cool. It is the most unexpected kind of balance.
As the sun daughter steps to the queen’s side, Marisol’s brow raises in mild surprise—even for her the move is bold—but she says nothing. As always, Marisol is better at listening. Her eyes meet the flame of Israfel’s steadily. She dips her head, then, to acknowledge the end of the Warden’s speech: in a wry voice that only Israfel can hear, she mutters, “Oh, how you flatter me,” and then coolly turns her eyes back to the crowd.
Bright-winged, dark-eyed Uzuri steps forward then, and Marisol listens with her ears pricked forward. Without effort she remembers the day that they met in the fields, and how entranced she had been with the intricacies of her coat; it is no different now, for still Uzuri stands strange and different from their people. But underneath that Marisol knows her heart is true and strong, just as dedicated to the blessings of Vespera as anyone else in the crowd.
Marisol is surprised and warmed by the request of Samaira, who steps forward then, and it is this request that she chooses to respond first. (When Marisol looks at her, she still finds it hard not to think of that fearful girl she’d found in the woods, the awkward angle of the shattered wing; it is amazing how strong she looks now, though, Mari realizes, it is not altogether surprising.)
“Samaira,” she begins, and is hardly aware that she is speaking—it does not sound like her, the voice is so warm and relaxed—“I would bless your request a hundred times over. By Her hand.” And with shining eyes she presses her cheek, for a brief moment, against Samaira’s, and then steps back wearing a faint, sad smile.
She still cannot help thinking of Asterion.
Theodosia speaks then, in that voice she knows show well, and when Marisol does meet her eyes it is hard not to shiver. The champion looks like a god—crackling with lightning, shedding raindrops, her eyes fiery—and it is at once beautiful and unsettling, like watching a disaster unfold in real time. Warden, she says, and Marisol’s lips curl up, just barely. It is all the reaction she gives.
The next to stand forward is a woman Marisol has never quite talked to, only seen around the court. Initially that fact is enough to dissatisfy her, to make suspicion rise in her like the hackles on a wolf, but oh, she’s a charming one—with every word Mari finds herself a little less prickly, and by the end of the girl’s speech, her head is ringing with it. This girl, when she bows, a cloud of salt-smell fills the air. Marisol’s pupils dilate. Her breath sharpens.
A water-horse.
A girl who would—might—know her in a way no one else does.
Her throat tightens; suddenly it is hard to swallow. Of all decisions, she thinks, this will be the hardest to make, though there is only one candidate for the position.
The queen raises her head. Her eyes are steady, but not unkind; they look out over her people with the kind of fearful, reserved love worthy of only those most holy things.
“Israfel will be our Regent.”
She touches her cheek to the sun-daughter’s.
“Theodosia will be our Warden, and Uzuri, if you are willing, shall fill her previous role as Champion of Battle.”
Again she presses her cheek to Theodosia’s, then to Uzuri’s, brief as a thunderclap and warm as a fire.
“And Rhone—you will always be a most trusted advisor. Thank you, always.” Though it is not official in any capacity, Marisol is still glad to step forward, to offer the respectful touch with a gaze that says you are safe with me.
And then the phrase that makes her chest seize: “Anandi,” she says, “will be our Emissary.” Cheek to cheek again. But this time she lingers just a little bit longer, meets Anandi’s eyes with a little more ferocity; when they touch she whispers quickly, coolly that they might like to talk privately, later.
When she draws back the Commander is stoic and cool as ever.
There is no fanfare or celebration, no complex ritual to be enacted; Marisol only meets her people's eyes with dazzling calm and says, “I promise you that Terrastella will gladly feast on those who would subdue her.”
Feast.
It is not a word Asterion would use.
“Speaking.”
When they show up, her heart soars high in her throat and she smiles, soft and sweet. She watches them filter in around her. and with each new body her spirit climbs higher. until her body buzzes with adrenaline and her pulse is like gunfire in her chest, and though the sky is dark, the people of Terrastella burn too bright to fade out; they shimmer in the dim purple light.
Israfel is the first to step up. If Marisol is not surprised, she is at least pleased—despite herself she has to suppress a kind of smirk, and her eyes meet Israfel’s not with their regular coldness but with a gleam that speaks of knowing that is almost mischief. How bold is she, and how brave. They are yin and yang. Light and dark. Where Israfel roars like fire, Marisol is dark and cool. It is the most unexpected kind of balance.
As the sun daughter steps to the queen’s side, Marisol’s brow raises in mild surprise—even for her the move is bold—but she says nothing. As always, Marisol is better at listening. Her eyes meet the flame of Israfel’s steadily. She dips her head, then, to acknowledge the end of the Warden’s speech: in a wry voice that only Israfel can hear, she mutters, “Oh, how you flatter me,” and then coolly turns her eyes back to the crowd.
Bright-winged, dark-eyed Uzuri steps forward then, and Marisol listens with her ears pricked forward. Without effort she remembers the day that they met in the fields, and how entranced she had been with the intricacies of her coat; it is no different now, for still Uzuri stands strange and different from their people. But underneath that Marisol knows her heart is true and strong, just as dedicated to the blessings of Vespera as anyone else in the crowd.
Marisol is surprised and warmed by the request of Samaira, who steps forward then, and it is this request that she chooses to respond first. (When Marisol looks at her, she still finds it hard not to think of that fearful girl she’d found in the woods, the awkward angle of the shattered wing; it is amazing how strong she looks now, though, Mari realizes, it is not altogether surprising.)
“Samaira,” she begins, and is hardly aware that she is speaking—it does not sound like her, the voice is so warm and relaxed—“I would bless your request a hundred times over. By Her hand.” And with shining eyes she presses her cheek, for a brief moment, against Samaira’s, and then steps back wearing a faint, sad smile.
She still cannot help thinking of Asterion.
Theodosia speaks then, in that voice she knows show well, and when Marisol does meet her eyes it is hard not to shiver. The champion looks like a god—crackling with lightning, shedding raindrops, her eyes fiery—and it is at once beautiful and unsettling, like watching a disaster unfold in real time. Warden, she says, and Marisol’s lips curl up, just barely. It is all the reaction she gives.
The next to stand forward is a woman Marisol has never quite talked to, only seen around the court. Initially that fact is enough to dissatisfy her, to make suspicion rise in her like the hackles on a wolf, but oh, she’s a charming one—with every word Mari finds herself a little less prickly, and by the end of the girl’s speech, her head is ringing with it. This girl, when she bows, a cloud of salt-smell fills the air. Marisol’s pupils dilate. Her breath sharpens.
A water-horse.
A girl who would—might—know her in a way no one else does.
Her throat tightens; suddenly it is hard to swallow. Of all decisions, she thinks, this will be the hardest to make, though there is only one candidate for the position.
The queen raises her head. Her eyes are steady, but not unkind; they look out over her people with the kind of fearful, reserved love worthy of only those most holy things.
“Israfel will be our Regent.”
She touches her cheek to the sun-daughter’s.
“Theodosia will be our Warden, and Uzuri, if you are willing, shall fill her previous role as Champion of Battle.”
Again she presses her cheek to Theodosia’s, then to Uzuri’s, brief as a thunderclap and warm as a fire.
“And Rhone—you will always be a most trusted advisor. Thank you, always.” Though it is not official in any capacity, Marisol is still glad to step forward, to offer the respectful touch with a gaze that says you are safe with me.
And then the phrase that makes her chest seize: “Anandi,” she says, “will be our Emissary.” Cheek to cheek again. But this time she lingers just a little bit longer, meets Anandi’s eyes with a little more ferocity; when they touch she whispers quickly, coolly that they might like to talk privately, later.
When she draws back the Commander is stoic and cool as ever.
There is no fanfare or celebration, no complex ritual to be enacted; Marisol only meets her people's eyes with dazzling calm and says, “I promise you that Terrastella will gladly feast on those who would subdue her.”
Feast.
It is not a word Asterion would use.
![[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)
