[P] it's the thought that counts

[Marisol]

with sword
and salt

Marisol is always surprised to hear people talk of their homelands. Born and raised in Terrastella, she is prone to forgetting that the world extends beyond their shores, that over the leagues of the ocean there are places with different mountains, different languages, different gods. No Vespera. No blessed rivers, no cross-shaped clouds. She is prone to forgetting because to think about it is difficult: it is the only real promise that what they believe here might, after all, be disputable.

What do these people know that Novus doesn’t? And how can it ever be known who is right?

She tries desperately to pull her mind away from that unknown edge of the world, tries to focus on here, and now, and the words coming from Corrdelia’s mouth. Around them the citadel is dusty and quiet.Set them off to sail at sea. Marisol nods, though she can hardly focus. The sea—of course, it’s what she first thought of, too. It’s what Asterion loved and what he would have wanted. Florentine and Lysander she’s not so sure of; when Marisol thought of them she had always thought woods, flowers, deer. But now it’s too late to ask, isn’t it?

Corrdelia’s letter suggestion makes her shudder a little, though she tries to suppress it with her gritted teeth: you are fooling yourself, she aches to say, if you think they are coming back. But hadn’t she believed the same thing, just a few days ago? And hadn’t hope made her that much stronger, that much brighter? She cannot take that feeling away from her people. Not even if it’s delusional. Not even  if it’s wrong. In times like these it must be better for the soul, Marisol thinks, to be wrong and happy than right and scared.

Tension has begun to build in her back and shoulders again; Mari can feel her stress regrowing as she glances around the disheveled office and thinks of all the things she has left to prepare. “That’s a lovely idea. Both, I mean, but especially the sea.” She plasters on a smile, genuine if a little strained, and when Corrdelia offers her shoulder and wing, Marisol finds herself leaning easily into the embrace, comforted by the witch’s sturdiness and warmth. She smells like home—like the prairie and the swamp, like potions and herbs. Mari closes her eyes and sighs.

“I have to get back to work,” she says finally, voice tinged by some combination of regret and disappointment that almost makes her throat hurt. “But thank you, Corrdelia, for everything. I promise I will check in soon about the vigil—if there’s anything you need, just tell me. Please.”

Mari presses her cheek to Corrdelia’s in a brief, intimate goodbye, and withholding her strained exhale begins to pick up the scattered papers again.

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