[P] closed doors and open windows [marisol]

[Marisol]

"Good sense comes the hard way.
And the grace of the gods
(I'm pretty sure)
is a grace that comes by violence."

As she always does, Marisol spends the first few moments they have together sizing the stranger up. 

It is something she has grown quite practiced at—an easy glance up and down, noting how Elena stands just slightly shorter than she does; her slightly awkward stance, as if cowed or impressed by the mute splendor of the citadel’s first room; the soft blue of her eyes, which sets Mari a bit more at ease, because she cannot find even a glint of anything but light in Elena’s gaze and her shy smile. The sovereign lets her posture relax. Her shoulders finally fall. Baked by their body heat, the room grows a few degrees warmer, and frost melts down Marisol’s spine.

The citadel is unusually empty. From other rooms there can be heard the clatter of dishes, the low voices of cooks and maids cleaning up the after-dinner mess. Somewhere windows are being shut against the cold, toothy wind. Mari does not mind the silence (she never has), but for the brief moment that she and Elena stand close without speaking, she almost misses the cushion that the usual chattering white noise of the city would have provided.

She wonders suddenly, briefly, what has brought so many strangers here in recent days. Mephisto, Elena—Lyr, who is not new but had never before bothered to show his face—is it something in the air or is it demanded by the stars? Is there something she doesn’t know, a spell that has been cast, a letter that has been sent to all Novus’ wanderers? But there is nothing she can do about it. To refuse any of them would be to spit on Vespera’s temple. So Marisol holds her tongue, and swallows her questions, and pricks her ears forward as the palomino begins to speak.

I met Anandi a few days ago, she starts. Mari blinks in mild surprise: she does not know whether to be pleased by the Emissary’s proactivity or disappointed in her own failure to find Elena first. Finally she decides it doesn’t matter and pushes the unproductive feelings to the side. I am a skilled healer and a capable politician should the occasion arise, Elena continues; I would be honored to serve this court.

Mari blows out a short, thoughtful, half-surprised breath. Often it is her champions that deal with issues like these, the smaller decisions of who to put where, while she spends her time wrangling cadets and dealing with citizens like Lyr who think they should be spies. But it’s nice, Marisol realizes, to make such a simple decision. Easy in a way that is still satisfying. 

“It seems as though you would fit in well with our medics,” she answers finally, eyes a little warmer,  “unless you were thinking of something else?”

“Speaking.”

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