[P] wash me in the riverside [fall]

[Marisol]

by sword
by salt

Elena really is her own kind of beautiful. 


Mari knows this—has known it, since the day they first crossed paths in the bristling cold of the city last winter. But in this light, the warm, ichor-gold light that spills over the orchard from the setting sun, the realization comes rushing back to her as though it is the first time. Her gray eyes fall on the heart-shaped mark on Elena’s forehead; the moon-white waves of cloud-soft hair. Her own kind of beautiful, Marisol remembers (or realizes), is the kind that brings things to life and softens the harsh edges of the world. It is the kind of beautiful one only possesses from the inside out.

For years and years, Mari has had coworkers, comrades, who are just as stiff as she is. All warriors alike seem to have their walls up—it’s almost a necessity, considering the facts of the job—and the Commander must take some responsibility for training her cadets to be cold, too, and follow in her footsteps. 

There was a brief moment, just after her succession to the throne, she’d thought politics would be a change. Wasn’t it supposed to be a game? But Israfel and Andi are just as sharply-edged as she is, and Mari is still not quite foolish enough to let her guard down around any of the other sovereigns.

So Elena is… unusual. A part of her still does not quite believe that someone so good would want to be so deeply involved. But perhaps, Marisol tells herself, in this case—unusual is a good thing. 

She doesn’t respond to the golden girl’s tease about dancing, but a little laugh does escape her—just enough to let Elena know that her remark was not thought of badly. (It is Marisol’s own shyness that keeps her from dancing, and she knows as much.) Onward they trek, down the faint slope of the orchard hill, past rows and rows of years-old apple trees whose boughs are heavy with fruit, through the warm screen of golden light that pours down from above; when Elena stops next to a particularly abundant tree and sets down her basket, Marisol stops too, not too far away.

And when Elena speaks, the Commander’s gray eyes remain fixed on hers with pure, attentive interest. A beat passes in which Marisol remains silent. Her ears are pricked forward, and her mouth twists faintly in thought. 

Finally, she says: “You have indeed served us faithfully. I could not ask you for more.” A pause again. Marisol works her mouth out of its knot and sets it into a faint smile. “But—if you would like more responsibility, I will not say no. May I ask what you were thinking of?”

“Speaking.”

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