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

[Marisol]

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

Marisol does not know where she is taking him. Nor is she really sure what will happen when they get there, wherever there is; she only knows that she wants to go there, wants to do that, whatever is meant to happen. She only knows that the thing that buzzes like the sweet song of honeybees in her chest is more insistent than the parts of her, leatherbound, which whisper insistently of duty and Dusk and your people, Marisol. Think of your people.

If she could indeed think straight, she might listen to them. They are the voices of her cadets and her regime, her healers and her soldiers, Asterion and Rannveig; they are the voices of the people she has been sworn to since birth, the voices of everyone she has ever loved, here within these walls. 

And they are all drowned out by the vicious thing that is rising in her chest and sharpening the points of her teeth.

She does not realize that she is changing until it is far too late to rein in. But Vespera has blessed the world (and now Mari) with a darkness that manages to coat the sawtooth curve of her lips, which dampens the blackness that has begun to crawl into the brightest part of her eye, the way the pupil grows bloated like the belly of a wolf: but it cannot hide the way her pulse begins to beat far faster than it needs to, and the sudden chill that rushes through her veins as fast as a river turns to ice; and something in her is rising, oil to the surface of water if oil were black, black, black.

It hurts like a broken bone: aching, pulsating, insisting. In her stomach it curls and gnashes teeth as sharp as its host’s. Every part of her vibrates with the pain of a plucked string.

I want to love him, says the terrible pain, in a voice almost like begging. And Marisol does not respond.

They are sweeping down her streets with the grace of a wave meeting the shore, how all the droplets of water crash into each other so gently. Shoulder against shoulder. Hip against hip. Flame trembles like a pulse in the lanterns on the walls. When the Commander does manage to catch a decent breath, the air is heavy with the smell of smoke and burning spice. Now the world is dark in the way of something evil and tempting, a viscous kind of dark, just heavy enough to wade through; Marisol thinks that she would be happy anywhere inside this darkness, at least with him at her side. The shine of his tattoos and the blue of his eyes are light enough themselves.

Where are we going? She has to decide, sometime soon; the citadel, the center of the city, is rising up in front of them with increasing nearness. Perhaps the barracks, perhaps the church. There are many god-blessed places to go. 

But then he touches her, the swift, soft clip of teeth against the edge of her ear, and for all Marisol’s training she thinks she may very well fall, weak as a newborn fawn tossed over by an open palm of wind. The feeling of it is overwhelming, inescapable: it is a kind of white heat that runs all the way down her spine and back up again until it seems that it will overtake every inch of her, this giddiness, which is something between desire and fear: Marisol’s muscles tighten until she can hardly breathe, until she is almost a moving statue, and still the feeling resonates in every cell. Her lashes flicker weakly, not quite a blink. 

It is hard to hear over the roar of blood in her ears. It is hard to see through the thin film of silvery-red forming in the corners of her vision. It is hard to move forward, having to push against a blooming to desire to kiss him right here, right now. 

Marisol leads them into the silent foyer of the castle, and Orestes asks, what is it like to fly? 

The Commander stops.

Someone has decorated her citadel. Here there is also a tall conifer, decked in baubles and ribbons, a magically glowing star fixed at the top. Braided wreaths of pine branches line the walls. There are vases of poinsettias, carefully stacked string instruments in a corner, a platter of buttery cookies and teacups; on that table she sets down their drinks and the plate from the courtyard, which lets out a dim clink as the porcelain meets the wood. 

“Quiet,” she responds, "and cold, in a good way. Like the freedom of running, but much, much more. It is beautiful. It makes you feel… very small. I think that is a good thing.”

And when he thanks her, Marisol’s heart only beats faster, and harder, and hurts a little more. When she meets his eyes, hers are almost tragic, brimming with something that wants to say I could give you so much more but doesn’t. Instead, she murmurs: "Of course, Orestes.”

To say it is my pleasure does not even cross her mind. It must be obvious.

The room is dim, silent and still, and some part of it feels like magic, the kind Mari has always been somewhat jealous of. They are standing face to face, seemingly the only people in the world, and if she is scared there is no telling, not through the warm darkness of her eyes and sincerity of her expression.

Marisol tilts her head, steps forward. Is this dancing—? Carefully, shyly, she touches her muzzle to a white curl and draws it down, down, down, over the rough curve of his neck to the rise of the shoulder, then the dip of the spine; now they are standing chest to chest and she rasps her teeth, soft as the beating wings of a butterfly, against his hip.

Her heart is beating so fast she can't hear it anymore, and oh, they are so alone.

“Speaking.”

credits