[P] I know beginnings

[Marisol]

"i know endings too,
and life-in-death,
and something else
I'd rather not recall
just now."

I knew—

She knew and didn’t send a bird. 

She knew, and she didn’t send a gift—she knew three of Marisol’s best people had fallen off the edge of the earth and did not come to visit, did not send a letter, did not even send a messenger in place of her remorse. 

The edge of her vision becomes dark and blurry; bright, sharp heat burns against the inside of her chest and the curve of her nostrils; for a moment the world presses in so tight she can hardly breathe, can hardly hear for the rising pitch of ringing in her ears, and Marisol feels the world falling away in a pitch-dark whirlpool as she stands, cold and tense, in a square full of life she cannot begin to understand. The music is too loud now, too oppressive. It weighs down on her like duty, like diamonds, and with every passing second it knots her shoulders tighter.

The world is ringing, and ringing, and ringing—

She blinks, resurfaces, and all at once and everything is clear and loud again. 

But it’s not any prettier. And she doesn’t feel any better.

Underfoot the ground shifts like so much sand, reverberates in an earthquake-song that crawls snakelike through Marisol’s bones, echos against her ribs. Cavernous. Empty, empty, empty. Every beat cracks her shell a little bit more; her gaze is starting to burn with the effort of holding back tears. Damn it. She blinks, hard and rapid, furious, and still salt is building in the corners of her mouth, brimming against her lashes, don’t cry—

A sharp inhale and she’s stoic again. Composed. Quiet. All the things a queen is supposed to be, all the things a Commander needs to be—she is strong again, so strong it makes her stiff and sharp.

And yet inside all she wants to do is say please, and please again; all she wants to do is fall into Isra’s arm; all she does is want, want, want, and it will never be enough, will it? But now is not the time to think of it. Now is not the time to show weakness. If she plays her cards right, this meeting will be only political. If she can keep her act together, Isra will never have to know about the thing inside her that keens, pathetic as a dog, for a thing it can never have in good conscience. 

“Well enough.” Mari’s voice is rough and low, something like strained but not quite. Her pulse trembles bright and loose. With every blink of those thick, dark lashes, with every second that she meets Isra’s bright-blue eyes, her conviction wavers. 

How am I so weak, she thinks, and a moment later—around her, how could anyone not be?

“I…” The word is clipped so early it’s almost inaudible; Marisol ducks her head close to her chest. Despite her best efforts her voice is starting to tremble. The emotion swims as close to the surface as a salmon does in a river; it is as raw and disheartening as a newly opened wound. She inhales so deep it burns. “I—I’ve—I’ve missed you.”

And the admission of it sinks in her stomach like a boulder.
“Speaking.”

credits