[P] we all have our reasons

[Marisol]

hang on to your dreams
until there's nothing left of us

Of everyone in her court—at least, of those she knows more than just as an acquaintance—she might worry about Hugo the most.

How fragile is he, how irredeemably sweet? Marisol has seen enough of the world to know a smile like that is never made from just happiness. It comes to him so easily the only explanation is practice. Practice grinning—not only what it should look like, how wide, how bright—but when to flash those teeth, how to turn away other people’s concern, how to deflect even reasonable worry. 

Mari’s learned the same tactics. She’s just not quite as good at remembering to use them.

Sometimes she thinks they are too similar to get along. It is nearly impossible to love someone who is just like you, Mari feels, unless you are, at heart, a narcissist. And they both worry too much, about all the wrong things. They’ve argued more than once about the use of the forge, Hugo’s haphazard organization, the direction of the unit and its armor as a whole; they’ve butted heads in front of cadets, training officers, citizens, Vespera and everyone. Yet still Marisol finds herself ridiculously, inexplicably fond of him, for reasons she doesn’t understand or even want to acknowledge. 

She watches the blacksmith with narrowed gray eyes. He seems off, more off than usual. Nervous. The black-barred wings keep shifting impatiently; the feathers shuffle with the sound of rushing wind. Suddenly the forge seems dark, oppressive, far too crowded even with two bodies, and the fire sets her dark skin to sweltering. 

In the brief space between her posed question and his answer, Marisol’s breath catches in her chest. Her eyes fix on his, asking and asking and asking. Fire roars and crackles in the belly of the forge. White light plays like glitter off the sheafs of polished metal. And really, she is not sure what she wants him to say; none of the options are all that enticing. But then they never are.

I’d assume so. Whyyy?

For a heartbeat Marisol closes her eyes. In her chest and up to her throat, her pulse has grown louder and louder and louder until it nearly blots out the sound of rushing blood in her ears. Her body feels like an incoming piece of wreckage, a ship about to crash, hot and cold and then almost completely on fire.  “It's back,” she says, softly, finally. 

And the thing she does not say—I don’t know what to do.

“Speaking.”

credits