[P] the dark won't hide you [winter festival]

[Marisol]

but when the night has left us
will the spell remain?

“Have a drink, Queen Marisol—“

It is a face covered in a mask of green and gold silk that offers the cup to her. It smells strongly of alcohol and something sweeter than necessary, a thing that is both fruity and spicy. She cannot recognize the face behind the veil. It has eyes that sparkle dangerously, a smile so charming it blinds. But no matter how many names she runs through her mind, the face evades identification. Something loose about the grin. Something strange about the glimmer of excitement. 

“Come on,” says the face. It smiles again.

“No,” Mari insists, “that’s alright—“

But whoever it was has already spun away back into the ring of dancers, and she is left standing in semi-stupor, the mug of cider now trembling in her grasp. 

“Drink, Commander!” comes another voice that she cannot pinpoint.

 How strange this is, she thinks, and takes a shy sip. A roar of approval goes up from the crowd.

For a moment something like disappointment overtakes her. This is not the Terrastella she knows.

This—the courtyard just inside the city walls—this is a different world, a different time, a different dimension—the lanterns have been snuffed out and replaced by bobbing, floating, candles; a conifer festooned with sparkling baubles and red ribbon looms, dangerously, tall over the square; everywhere there is laughter and music, a joyful, dark-tongued slash of whining strings through the warm air, and hooves clattering over the cobblestones, and whispers being exchanged and drinks poured and gifts opened—

It is quite loud. She notices afterward that it is also quite beautiful.

Around the tree, a loose ring of dancers goes round and round in infinite circles. They laugh, they cheer, they sing along. Their jewels and ribbons flash like fire in the darkness. The sound and the movement is infinite, it is all-powerful and overwhelming. They have been at it for hours. Marisol cannot imagine how much it must hurt—not only to keep dancing, but to be excited while doing it. Yet here they are, brighter than ever, bursting with energy. Something in their hearts does not know how to stop being happy.

The Commander watches from the sidelines with poorly concealed interest. She has taken a seat on a plush blanket with Anselm curled up against her back, his broad white head resting on her spine, drifting off into a half-sleep that is every so often interrupted by a new smell or sound that cannot be ignored. The moon lets down a wave of soft white light from overhead. It is a calm scene in their little corner. Sweet, even. 

But Marisol watches the the circle oh-so-intently. With rapt curiosity, the gray irises darkened in focus, like a predator, like a hunting, circling bird, because even in peace it is hard not to be careful, not to analyze. 

The feet moving like a blur. The tossed heads and the swirling hair. The scent of juniper escaping cracked stones. She watches and watches and does not move, observant as a dog over its prized sheep. Something in her heart is unduly proud, unforgivably warm.

Good job, murmurs Anselm.

You enable me, Marisol responds, almost amused, and flicks her tail over the bridge of his nose.

That flick reveals the strangest thing of all: the steel-eyed, stone-skinned Commander has allowed the children of Terrastella to decorate her. The long, dark tail always so carefully kept clean is now braided with thin strips of red and green silk, spotted with carefully-placed pins of lacquered holly leaves, a pretty, festive painting, a hairdressers wildest dream.

Finally, she gives in. Finishes the cider. Lets it muddy her thoughts. Forces herself to relax under the shade of a mistletoe hung from a cobblestone high, high overhead. Breathes in deep—

And suppresses a smile when she realizes the air smells of Solterra.

“Speaking.”

credits