Tell me where it hurts
I just want to build you up, build you up
'Til you're good as new
I just want to build you up, build you up
'Til you're good as new
The parcel is displayed unassumingly, leaning there upon the door of the barracks that is commonly known to belong to Marisol, Queen and Commander. It is a simple rectangle shape, wrapped in brown paper with perfect folded corners. Tied about the package is a thin red cord, and delicately held within its bow is a single flower stem, red blooms somehow bright and alive despite the chill to the air.
The gift inside, however, is much less modest.
A portrait of Marisol—done in charcoals—looks out from warm parchment paper. Her head is framed by clouds disappearing into a deep midnight sky with flecks of distant stars fading down into cresting waves which wreath the bottom of the piece. Although there is no color to the artwork, its almost possible to see the storms and steel in the warm discernment of her eyes. They are loyal eyes, eyes that have held back tears in favor of strength. Brave eyes that honor child-like wonder and integrity.
Beneath the waves in fine script there reads: “Fluctuat nec mergitur.” There is no signature upon the piece, at least that one can find, and no note to accompany the parcel as it sits there awaiting its intended recipient to find it. And there, just beyond in the shadows, waits a lavender girl with soft and gentle eyes, because the gift is not her only purpose for being here tonight.
