[AW] strong and bound for glory, cursed with a thousand stories;

[Marisol]

"this hour I tell things in confidence.

I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you."

Anselm sniffs the cold air, a fast, sharp breath. His mouth opens to taste the wind, and the pale amber eyes narrow: then with equal quickness his suspicions subside, and through their link he affirms, the boy is not a foreigner. 

The tight rise of Marisol’s shoulders slackens a little. Her stride lengthens and softens, then, with each step forward, and by the time she comes to a stop a few yards away from the blue-skinned stranger she has lost all the airs of a soldier and returned to a normal posture—a girl’s, if a little stiffer than the normal civilian’s. Overhead, stormy clouds race for prominence until all the sky is coated quarter-gray as thoroughly as the gaze of the Commander herself.

Her mercy meet us, says the boy. His voice is warm and level, as sincere as Mari could have imagined, which for whatever reason surprises her. Maybe it’s that he looks to young to be this devout or to be this good at lying; when he turns to meet them, his face is half-swallowed by a waterfall of salt-tousled hair and overwhelmed by a broad, childish grin. Amused, the Commander smiles wryly. This is the kind of place—the kind of person—that so often makes her forget her responsibilities, her flaws and means of guilt.

But almost instantaneously the foolish charm falls away from him. The grin drops. His eyes widen. And when he adds your majesty Marisol lets herself blow out a short, irritated breath, surprised by her irritation but feeling it nonetheless; whatever escape he might have represented is already long gone. 

“Well,” she responds easily, “That's a bit long. Marisol's fine.” Maybe it’s lost in the distance between them in the dim light or the roaring wind, but she does manage to flash him the beginning of a smile in an effort to offset her regular indifference. "And who're you?"

“Speaking.”

credits