the dark is empty; most of our heroes have been wrong.
Men are fickle.
Girls are fickle, too. But in a different way, a way Marisol understands more clearly.
Girl’s hearts stay put. When girls feel a thing, or love someone, it is inherently permanent, Marisol thinks, and it is only the use of their head that stops them from showing so. More than once she has rebuffed someone she loves. More than once she has denied feeling anything at all.
But it does not mean the feeling is not there—only that her head outweighs it. It will simmer there forever, just under the surface. It will push at the bonds her head makes to keep it in check. Often times, the head is stronger. But sometimes the heart will win.
Men are fickle in a way Marisol cannot comprehend, a way that she finds infinitely more terrifying. A man cannot be counted on to love something for years. For that matter, he cannot be counted on to love something the way he did yesterday; sometimes, somehow, he cannot even be counted on to tolerate it the way he did last night.
They are switches instead of dials. On—off—instantly. Girls are fickle from the head, and men are fickle from the heart. One is infinitely more painful to be subject to.
(Orestes was meant to be different. He spoke differently, act differently, and still left her, left his country, left his children, did everything right and still disappeared, said everything perfectly and still broke her heart and how can anything ever be okay again—)
The mountain, though, is permanent.
She is supposed to be a pious girl. But Veneror has evaded her list of priorities ever since she became Sovereign, and even for years before that; something about its towering height, the sheer importance of its existence, sends her into a panic. Even now, standing at its base, looking up at it from under the foamy gray-blue sky, something in her hurts. It aches. Her chest constricts. Just looking at it, she feels its weight.
For a moment there is silence. Just the sound of the breeze, the leaves rustling faintly. Marisol debates turning back. There are altars at home.
But those altars did not stop her husband from disappearing. Maybe this one, she thinks, her heart all-pain, can change things.
And when she starts up the slick staircase to the temple, she is too bruised to even the remember the first man who left her, for the first time in many months.
Girls are fickle, too. But in a different way, a way Marisol understands more clearly.
Girl’s hearts stay put. When girls feel a thing, or love someone, it is inherently permanent, Marisol thinks, and it is only the use of their head that stops them from showing so. More than once she has rebuffed someone she loves. More than once she has denied feeling anything at all.
But it does not mean the feeling is not there—only that her head outweighs it. It will simmer there forever, just under the surface. It will push at the bonds her head makes to keep it in check. Often times, the head is stronger. But sometimes the heart will win.
Men are fickle in a way Marisol cannot comprehend, a way that she finds infinitely more terrifying. A man cannot be counted on to love something for years. For that matter, he cannot be counted on to love something the way he did yesterday; sometimes, somehow, he cannot even be counted on to tolerate it the way he did last night.
They are switches instead of dials. On—off—instantly. Girls are fickle from the head, and men are fickle from the heart. One is infinitely more painful to be subject to.
(Orestes was meant to be different. He spoke differently, act differently, and still left her, left his country, left his children, did everything right and still disappeared, said everything perfectly and still broke her heart and how can anything ever be okay again—)
The mountain, though, is permanent.
She is supposed to be a pious girl. But Veneror has evaded her list of priorities ever since she became Sovereign, and even for years before that; something about its towering height, the sheer importance of its existence, sends her into a panic. Even now, standing at its base, looking up at it from under the foamy gray-blue sky, something in her hurts. It aches. Her chest constricts. Just looking at it, she feels its weight.
For a moment there is silence. Just the sound of the breeze, the leaves rustling faintly. Marisol debates turning back. There are altars at home.
But those altars did not stop her husband from disappearing. Maybe this one, she thinks, her heart all-pain, can change things.
And when she starts up the slick staircase to the temple, she is too bruised to even the remember the first man who left her, for the first time in many months.
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