[P] everything's coming up green

[Marisol]

i wish i could say everything i've done and still be loved.

Something in her is nervous: nervous about the ways he might react, about the things he might say, about what those things might mean for the bond between their courts or what it could unspool in the near future. Marisol has always felt responsibility, but not like this. Not in a way that could ruin her people, her home.

Not in a way that could make life unbearable—for her, for him, for everyone they love.

Marisol swallows thickly. Between them the nautilus shell hovers, delicate like the edge-petal of a spring flower, a reminder of everything Terrastella has lost and all the things they have left to lose. She cannot disappoint them. They have cycled through too many sovereigns to have another one disappear. 

Ipomoea must feel the same. Dawn has had its fair share of  losses; even now, she’s heard rumors of something stirring in their forests, of corpses being found, poachers and sacrificed animals. But now is not the time. Nor the place. Now Mari must stifle her suspicions. She must wear the diplomatic smile that fits her so strangely and tightly; she must speak of things less grave.

How is Terrastella? So much for casual conversation—Mari does grin, a brief, selfconscious thing, if only to laugh at the turn they have taken, how difficult it is for a king and a queen to keep their minds off all the things to be done, all the problems to be solved. “We are well,” she sighs. “Enough.” For a moment, her dark lips purse. Maybe in regret. Maybe in concern.

“And I hope your people are well, too,” Mari adds after a breath, voice soft and heavy with sincerity. “I came to give you this—“ she nods at the shell, “and to discuss, if you are willing, my hopes of a continued peace between our courts. With all of Novus changing recently, I think it could be… a source of stability. For the people.”

For me is what she doesn’t say. For me—my peace of mind, the weight of the world.

She watches Ipomoea, checking the planes of his face for tension, suspicion, anything poor he may be thinking of her. Asterion was better suited for this kind of thing and always had been; something about his face or his wit or his charm garnered him scores of friends and distraught lovers. Being Regent had been easier. Splitting the jobs had been easier.

But now there is no choice.

"Speaking."

queen marisol

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