[P] wash me in the riverside [fall]

[Marisol]

by sword
by salt

Unlike the other attendees, Marisol finds very little about the second harvest relaxing, much less enjoyable.

But that is her own fault. She has grown herself to fit the mold of panic, a girl-shaped thing bristling with teeth. Years have passed since the last real battle, the last conflict of any kind concerning Dusk, and still a feeling that the peace will not last gnaws at her insides like some hungry animal. Sometimes it keeps her up at night. What have I been doing with my time? What are the ways I’ve disappointed my people? The slow circles she walks around the edge of the orchard are not ones of contentment or exploration. They are watchful—nervous. The gaze of a worried mother over her children.

This afternoon is particularly warm. Sun shines through the melting-red leaves of the apple trees overhead, mottling the grass that autumn has begun to dry out. The air smells sharply of warm fruit and sweet, yeasty wine, faintly dusty and nostalgic; and the longer she stands in the civilized emptiness of the orchard, listening wistfully to the laughter and conversations of the families and lovers that breeze through.

Another voice breaks through, then, sharp and clear. Surprise seeing you here.

Mari turns abruptly. Her head shifts, too quickly, over her shoulders before the rest of her follows; and she is still bent in an awkward circle when her eyes spark with recognition at the sight of Elena to match the sweet, disembodied voice. “Elena,” she responds warmly, ears flickering forward. Her dark lips curl softly but don’t quite complete their smile. “Yes, I have time. Lead the way.”

Gently she takes the basket Elena offers her, holding it at her side in a loose, invisible grip. And then, for the first time in a long time, the Commander steps back and lets someone else walk first.


“Speaking.”

credits