[P] separation brings us awfully close

[Marisol]

“He who wants everything loses everything.”

Marisol doesn’t quite know who she is anymore.

Because the old Marisol—Commander, not Queen—would never have been caught dead at an event like this, as honorable or well-intentioned as it might be. She would have found any excuse to be busy on the night. And most of them weren’t even excuses; there was a time when her every waking moment was occupied by looking over the barracks, reining in wayward cadets, scraping blood off the hard-packed sand footing of the spar ring, rain or shine.

And somehow she has still ended up here. Soft. Lazily settled in the reaches of high society and not the underbelly of the Terrastellan army. Who am I? Marisol thinks as she slinks through the venue. When she catches sight of herself in a frosty piece of gilded mirror, she almost does not recognize herself, brushed to gleaming, her tail bound in a thick, neat braid instead of choked with sweat and dirt.

Mari looks beautiful. She knows this. But—beautiful in the way of someone else.

It might be a typical Terrastellan evening, but she does not feel typical at all. And even if the night itself is ordinary—a warm front followed by a brief, chilly wind; the sky a little overcast in shades of gray and purple, the lights in the streets gleaming like fresh-caught stars—there is an edge to it that doesn’t feel ordinary. The air is sharp, almost electric; when Marisol breathes in, it is mint-cold inside her lungs. Darkness has settled in the corners of the city. The gods are watching, it feels like. 

Vespera’s eyes fall on her back like stone after stone after stone, and they follow her even as she slinks out of the streets and into the party.

A servant accosts her almost as soon as she enters. A short chestnut, his hair done in neat knots, proffers a tray of well-polished champagne flutes, and with a strained smile, against her better judgement, Marisol takes one from the dish and presses it to her mouth. Bubbles drift up from its surface, and Mari’s nose wrinkles at their brief sting. She is only just taking her first sip of the nearly-gold liquid when a girl’s voice interrupts her, soft and eager: Commander?

Marisol’s ear flicks sharply back at the title. Surprise washes over her, and for a moment she wonders whether Vespera Herself has sent whoever this is to remind her of who she really is.

She turns to meet the stranger.

It is but a girl. She looks vaguely familiar, and Mari stares as she tries to place her recognition—is she a Foster, maybe? Either way, she is beautiful. A hand or so shorter than Mari, her skin is a soft silver turning sooty at the edges, and one of her back feet is capped in a thick line of white. They don’t look much alike except, maybe, for build, and—

Marisol is startled, almost burned by surprise, when she sees the girl’s steel-gray eyes. (It is not all that common a color.) 

A brief moment of silence as she gathers herself. Then: “Of course not,” Mari responds finally, offering the softest of smiles. “Your family has done much for our country. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Isabella.”

And if the name feels nearly familiar, it can’t be seen on her dark face.

---

<3

aimless | kokovi