[P] how do i love you? oh, this way and that way;

[Marisol]

I did think, let’s go about this slowly.
This is important. This should take
some really deep thought. We should take
small thoughtful steps.

But, bless us, we didn’t.

I think your people will begin missing you soon.

What she says—Oh. Good—is less than a millionth of what she is trying to express. It is a pathetic rendition. Like making a sunset out of crayons. But there is no combination of words that could even begin to describe that thing, whatever it is, so Marisol does not feel as ashamed as maybe she should.

Besides, isn’t that what poetry is for?

You do not have to wait, he says, and there are no words for that either. Only a cold, sweet rush of relief: coming down like a hammer on her heart, flooding rough-and-tumble through every thunderstruck vein. For a moment their heartbeats are all she can hear.

A tick like a metronome. A beat like a drum. The thrumming of it is steadier than any part of Marisol’s life ever has been. The warmth he exudes is a balm; it settles into her softly, and fully, with no more weight than a gossamer cloak. And for a moment she cannot help wondering what it would be to feel like this, every day, forever:

Stronger than the fear that she is weak; more certain than the rising moon; sure in a way she never has been, in a way that might prove she is worth loving. 

He brushes her cheek. The will to leave grows weaker still. How can someone be so kind? She can see it in his eyes, the undue softness, how he looks at her with something both brighter and quieter than a smile: it is just the kind of look Marisol will never be able to wear properly. Her face is too rough, her eyes are too cold. The lines of her body are far too sharpened by oh-so-many years of spars. Of course she is not made to be kind.

But looking at him—the warmth of his expression, and the sweetness, and most of all the unabashed eagerness, like a boy’s—something deep inside her aches and aches with the desire to be more like him.

Which is to say, good.

How could Solis himself have chosen such a saint? Can he really belong here? Solterra is a place for battle, for blood, for bones: these are the things which make up Mari’s life, and she cannot refuse nor disdain them, but neither can she bear the thought of Orestes at war, Orestes in armor, Orestes with blood at the corners of his mouth. Marisol’s eyes close. Her mouth is gritty, suddenly, with the taste of sand and iron.

I will do anything, she promises to herself then—the thought is dark, and deeply serious—to keep that from happening.

She meets his deep-sea eyes again, and when he speaks in a voice almost soft as a whisper Marisol finds herself shy. Flustered, even. (Perhaps that is his power. Without even asking, he makes her do things she wouldn’t, or act ways she shouldn’t; without any effort, he can pull her by a multitude of strings. For a girl like her it is worse than any real defeat.) And when he remarks upon her eyes, her gaze flits down, down, down: some part of her wants to insist I did not, would not, want to cut you at all.

He must know. He must know. They have met only once, twice, three times, but the stuff of their souls have known each other far longer. There is no other explanation for it—the way her body, now, is less than a weapon but much more than a vessel for blood. Stardust is involved, now. And moonlight. And sea salt. She could not hide from his deep-dark eyes or the curve of his smile even if she wanted to. 

(He must know; the alternative is unbearable.)

“This is enough. More than enough.” From a place deep in her chest, Marisol’s voice is unforgivably earnest; she steps forward to turn her steel-grey eyes up at him, which have long since melted to liquid metal; for once she is all-soft, all-warm, as imploring as any lovestruck girl, duty and court be damned for an hour. She noses absent-mindedly at a curl of white hair, and says softly, "But I would not refuse food, or someone’s bed to nap in—“ Here her mouth twists, the barest flash of a smile.  “—if it would not be too much trouble. And later, anything you wish, if I am with you.”

And even as they stand together and day bleeds into night, as time stretches on, as the day itself ends and Marisol falls asleep, she is only a little bit scared.

“Speaking.”

credits