hang on to your dreams
until there's nothing left of us
until there's nothing left of us
The forge is a gaping mouth, a black hole lit from the inside out; and Hugo makes a strange, dramatic figure against the warm orange-yellow glow that seeps out from it, looking even taller than usual now that he’s backlit. Almost imposing. Behind him the half-organized workshop looks sort of like a dollhouse. Marisol does not think often about the way he towers over her, or the breadth of his shoulders, or the way he might become a warrior—that is a fantasy best left to another Commander, and he is a man best thought of as a maker, not a warrior.
Right?
He is staring at her, with poisonously purple-blue eyes that have grown dark in a few places but still glitter with infuriating mirth. His smile is an easy, half-cocked thing with more crudity than should really be allowed, in a professional sense. And when Marisol brushes past him into the workshop, her shoulder bumps his playfully and she is overcome with the smell of leather and smoke, and she feels… small.
Small. It shocks her. She does not feel small often. And most of the time it is a feeling that irritates her. But today it is almost calming—as if right here, and for now, someone else can take her spot on the front lines. Mari ducks through the door. Finally the crawling, prickling cold of the wind outside fades away, replaced by a creeping warmth that presses forward, inch by inch, and drags along a cloak of firelight to cover her dark skin.
Who’s awake? asks Hugo. Never met her. Mari manages to drag half a smile over her lips. But she is distracted by the need to watch him as he shuffles around the edge of the forge and begins to put things in their places. It’s fascinating. She follows his movements with dark, narrowed eyes, with focused thoughts, and still cannot quite comprehend the pattern in which he tosses his tools into drawers and boxes, or the rhyme or reason to the piles of ingots on every surface.
It is all beautiful in a very uncomfortable way. Like she is watching something she loves crash and burn.
His voice sounds out again. Mari turns over her shoulder to look at him; her mouth twists thoughtfully, and for a long moment she is silent, contemplative, maybe even a little too serious. Those gray eyes glint in the firelight. Finally, she asks: “Did your family ever work on Prudence?”
![[Image: ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda...jvUop12efQ]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/c175b84a-409b-40aa-8b86-49ed65b989ee/ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda550e.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcL2MxNzViODRhLTQwOWItNDBhYS04Yjg2LTQ5ZWQ2NWI5ODllZVwvZGRnNnF1eS05ZDE1ZGFiNS0zMzljLTRiMDktOGI1Ny0yMGE5OWZkYTU1MGUucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.j-t9RuUsmMyaVL-O1rvZqbyyPYdOvtjHLjvUop12efQ)
