[P] the last flower [midwinter festival]

[Marisol]

it was lovely
it was awful
it was that
kind of feeling.

Marisol knows who the parcel is from as soon as she opens it. Partially she is relieved: she will not owe the sender a gift, and gift-giving is a field which the Commander has never had reason to study.

And partially she wonders—worries—if it is a warning, a premature apology for an unnamed thing still waiting to pounce.

A girl stares back at her from the paper. A girl with charcoal-dark skin and a tiny snip of white on the nose. A girl with short, dark hair that bleeds into the sky, where stars have become pinpricks and begun to melt into the sea. Her eyes are strong, but not cold; the fine, swirling script underneath relays a line of Latin which Marisol recognizes after only a moment of scrutiny, and which makes her heart squeeze in her chest as if pained. The next breath she takes in hurts more than it should.

She closes her eyes. Winter has come rushing in. The wind is cold and brusque with sharp teeth, the air itself is scented with pine and spice and alcohol. Behind her, the barracks are dark and empty. For once the cadets have been released from their duties to celebrate the solstice. The only sign of life is the muted sound of parties from over the hill and the lights of the city, wink-wink-winking in the dark. 

Marisol does not know what kind of flower it is that accompanies the package. But she tucks it it into the cuff around her back leg, and makes a note to herself to ask Corrdelia what kind it is.

---

Finding Fiona takes much less effort than she thought it would. the Commander is ready and willing to trek out to the Champion’s home, Anselm at her side, the portrait now safely tucked away in her office. But Mari hardly makes it around the corner before spotting her, the soft purple of her coat its own kind of dusk against the darkness of the streets.

“Fiona.” Her voice is calm, but not without a twinge of faint surprise. “Were you waiting for me?”

“Speaking.”

credits