[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."

Surely there are many differences between them; anyone, Marisol thinks, could tell just by looking that she was been run ragged and made sharp in ways Elena never has.

Neither of them can know it, but perhaps the vastest difference between them are the memories they hold of childhood. Where Elena’s reminiscence is bright and glistens golden, Marisol’s recollections are grungy, dark, even, and ripped at the edges; where Elena thinks of her parents with fondness Marisol thinks of hers with an ache in her chest like a spear wound and blood that feels like it’s becoming sticky and black. 

Her mother—her father—their faces make her lungs ache. The grave plot with the bundle of hyacinths. The dusty, run-down boardroom at the edge of the city. The garden now overrun with weeds, the rusted watering can; the childhood journals, warped and water-stained. 

None of it feels real anymore.

Mari is listening closely, with cool, intent eyes, when Elena ventures that Novus seems… quite peaceful. Her lips purse. It’s not wrong, per se; real war hasn’t broken out for years. But it’s hard to believe when she has been raised to find the danger around every corner, to parry the attacks before they even happen, and her habit of over-extending those worries to the edge of the known universe.

“Sure,” the Commander answers, running her tongue around her teeth; the look on her face is one of resignation, nearly an admission of defeat. “Yes,” she backtracks after a moment, “mostly. In my lifetime war has been uncommon.  But Novus is certainly not perfect. At times… inharmonious.”

Mari’s mouth settles into a soft line as she thinks back to the mess in Solterra, Raum’s bones buried in the sand; Prudence’s appearance, Dalmatia’s decade in her cell: how can there ever be real peace in a place like this, rife with secrets and wild magic?

To Elena’s second question, she responds—“Not always. But for half my life by now, easily. Much longer than I’ve been sovereign.”

Queen still doesn’t sit quite right in her mouth.

“Speaking.”

credits