The silence is thick, permeating the chilly air about the women like a fog over their hearts. Both are lost to the hands of time, clocks ticking backwards as they remember so many, many horrible things. Holly eyes seem misty, but not with age, as Dalmatia thinks to the false claims that placed her behind these bars - it still burns her with rage every damn day. The scoundrels, the filthy, lying court that claimed insanity, claimed she would kill her own, claimed so many, many things that were complete and utter untruths. Then, she wonders what she has missed, what has passed her by in her time below the surface.
Marisol never spoke of it every time her eyes flashed on the other side of the cell. Her mentor would hear the footsteps in and the footsteps out, nothing more, nothing less. That, in itself, was a torture, too. She'd seen how the girl grew into a woman, watched as age took its toll on the sharp curves of her face. It was a tragedy, it made her once-young heart bleed to know that she had not been there to watch Marisol lead a flight of her own and then go wherever the future would take her. Mari was, despite Dalmatia's silence, always one of her favorites, one of the best cadets she'd seen in years. Often times, the woman wonders where the others she's trained have gone, or if they're still alive at all.
Did another sovereign wage war with the water people who would devour them for breakfast after clipping their wings?
With a churning stomach she snarls, "It's about time you found your spine, girl," but it is not rage that colors her words. Buried under layers of gruffness, there is a hint of pride, a gleam in her eyes that is not wholly feral and cruel. For all the ridges of her exterior, Dalmatia is no tyrant, no crone bound to fits of anger and pettiness. She still wishes to see Terrastella and the Halcyon flourish as much as she did the first day - with or without the corrupt regime.
They are near chest to chest and the comet girl can smell the stress and strain on Marisol, its acrid stench hanging between them, her anger a snapping thing in Dalmatia's nose. With a twisted, grim line for a mouth like a reaper's scythe and the slivered moon, she whispers out "By the Goddess," and it is not a good sound, not a holy sound at all. There is no fear, only a promise of retribution. "I'll skin him myself, he's a long list of transgressions to pay for." Her voice is autumn leaves dying, her eyes are exploding stars.
Nothing good would ever come where Cicero is involved, of this Dalmatia is sure.
Beware: I am fearless, and therefore, powerful.
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