[P] please do

[Marisol]

 who's the fool who wears the crown?

There is a new pair of wings in her court tonight.

Marisol watches them bob above the rest of the crowd, rows of feathers patterned in pale, rosy brown. It seems as though whoever is wearing them might have a second pair, too; sometimes Marisol catches sight of another layer flashing underneath the first, but the crowd is too thick to really tell. 

She chews absentmindedly on a mint leaf, situated in a position that feigns relaxation—one back hoof cocked—as the festival gains life around her. It is true dark now. The air is biting-cold, and underfoot the cobblestones are glazed with clear black ice. Some part of her, maternal or maybe just war-torn, is worried. Kids might slip and fall on such frosty ground.

But no one has been hurt yet; in fact her people are happy, happier than they have been since Asterion’s disappearance, and though concern gnaws like a hungry animal at the inside of her chest, Mari holds it back with a sigh and gazes thoughtfully out at the crowd. The festivalgoers are dazzling. They are decked out in glittering necklaces, wrapped in mountains of thick-knit fabric. Marisol herself has her nose buried in a scarf loosely wrapped around her neck.

Finally she watches the pair of wings breach the crowd. They rise like a predator from underwater, or a whale reaching to find air. The girl who hosts them is one Mari recognizes only vaguely, a tough, pretty thing half-rosy and half-pearl, hair floating loose down her neck. 

Pretty. 

The Commander blows out a breath, watching it collect like frost in the air. Children are hanging baubles on low branches; their parents watch, sipping hot drinks, and laugh. 

Finally she steps forward. 

“By Her hand,” the queen—queen?—says. Wearing half a smile, she dips her head in greeting.

"Speaking."

credits