the dark is empty; most of our heroes have been wrong.
Marisol dreams vividly, and often.
Since childhood, sleep has run from her instead of nipping at her heels, no matter how tired she is. When she tells Hilde of Ole Lukøje, the same story her own mother told her, there is a part of her that wants to say: if he is real, he is a fickle king, for he has never deemed me worthy of good dreams.
Instead, he spreads the black umbrella; and when Marisol sleeps, it is always nightmares that find her, dreams with claws and teeth.
This feels like that. Like the Sandman, the sleep god, is hovering ominously overhead, his feathered wings blocking out the sun. Though Marisol knows that this is indeed here, and now, it all feels somewhat incomprehensible. The scene is colored with the same opalescent fog that lines all of her old memories—the plasticine sheen that she has always associated with times long past. All the corners of the world here are fuzzy, and too dark to find the edges of, and Marisol’s chest is filled with the cold, pale fear that always startles her awake.
She blinks. Tries to focus. Below, the tops of trees sway in a terrible wind. The air up here is so sharp, so thin, it almost hurts to breath; when Marisol exhales, she sees plumes of steam curl away and dissolve into the air.
It is the only real thing.
Of course Orestes had told her. The next time he came to see her, he had mentioned in a strange little whisper, his voice unusually low and tight: I found Asterion, today. Marisol had felt it more than heard it, a rumble pressed up against the curve of her neck, and instantly tensed like a deer caught in Artemis’ crossfire: the sound of his name alone was enough to make her deathly ill, a body cut through by cold and an over-active heartbeat.
But she had said nothing. Just leaned back and pretended to be half-asleep. Now, if she could go back, Marisol knows she would ask: did he seem sick to you?
Because he certainly does now.
His smile is sharp, his body gaunt. His eyes are dark and dull; in the gray afternoon they flicker like firelight, with none of the stability Marisol had grown to expect from him. When they close—when they close, she is stuck in the terrible place between worrying what it might mean, and simply feeling relief that they are not looking at her anymore.
He steps forward. Marisol steels herself. She makes her body, as scared and cold as it is, a permanent fixture settled into the rock; she does not let herself fall back.
He steps forward, again. This time he reaches for her. The dark velvet of his nose brushes against her neck; Marisol's heart clenches and spasms and screams in her chest, so loud that for a moment, all she can hear is the terrible rush of blood in her ears. And every cell in the Commander’s body tightens like a bowstring when she hears the sound of his voice, strange only for how familiar it still feels, saying: I will if you show me the way.
"Wh—"
And oh, now she knows why they all had cause to be afraid of him.
The pain that floods through her body is excruciating. A scream tears out of her mouth, but she is already so far away from her own body that it sounds like nothing worse than a too-early church bell.
Marisol reaches blindly for an explanation, and realizes he is sucking the water out of each cell in her body.
It should be impossible. It feels impossible: a searing, blinding sting so strong her vision goes black; she knows, in that moment, how it would feel to die of thirst in the desert, and on top of the pain, a feeling of horrible worry and nausea splashes through her stomach, and for the first time in a long time, tears stream down the Commander's face.
He pushes her.
Somehow, this is worse.
He pushes her—this man she loves, still, with all her heart—the living being she has known the longest, whose starry-sky markings she could describe in coordinates, if she had to. He pushes her. She could survive the magic, but the push is fatal, simply for the fact that she could never imagine him doing it. He pushes her, and even as Marisol's now-weak body slides toward the edge of the cliff, some part of her, young and in terrible pain, recognizes the smell of his skin.
When her hoof slips from the mountainside, and she goes tumbling down toward the sea of trees, as dark and heavy as a comet, it is her children she is thinking of.
But in the split second between Marisol hitting the ground, and falling into the sleep-god's arms, it is Asterion's face she sees against the paisley-black of her closed eyes.
Since childhood, sleep has run from her instead of nipping at her heels, no matter how tired she is. When she tells Hilde of Ole Lukøje, the same story her own mother told her, there is a part of her that wants to say: if he is real, he is a fickle king, for he has never deemed me worthy of good dreams.
Instead, he spreads the black umbrella; and when Marisol sleeps, it is always nightmares that find her, dreams with claws and teeth.
This feels like that. Like the Sandman, the sleep god, is hovering ominously overhead, his feathered wings blocking out the sun. Though Marisol knows that this is indeed here, and now, it all feels somewhat incomprehensible. The scene is colored with the same opalescent fog that lines all of her old memories—the plasticine sheen that she has always associated with times long past. All the corners of the world here are fuzzy, and too dark to find the edges of, and Marisol’s chest is filled with the cold, pale fear that always startles her awake.
She blinks. Tries to focus. Below, the tops of trees sway in a terrible wind. The air up here is so sharp, so thin, it almost hurts to breath; when Marisol exhales, she sees plumes of steam curl away and dissolve into the air.
It is the only real thing.
Of course Orestes had told her. The next time he came to see her, he had mentioned in a strange little whisper, his voice unusually low and tight: I found Asterion, today. Marisol had felt it more than heard it, a rumble pressed up against the curve of her neck, and instantly tensed like a deer caught in Artemis’ crossfire: the sound of his name alone was enough to make her deathly ill, a body cut through by cold and an over-active heartbeat.
But she had said nothing. Just leaned back and pretended to be half-asleep. Now, if she could go back, Marisol knows she would ask: did he seem sick to you?
Because he certainly does now.
His smile is sharp, his body gaunt. His eyes are dark and dull; in the gray afternoon they flicker like firelight, with none of the stability Marisol had grown to expect from him. When they close—when they close, she is stuck in the terrible place between worrying what it might mean, and simply feeling relief that they are not looking at her anymore.
He steps forward. Marisol steels herself. She makes her body, as scared and cold as it is, a permanent fixture settled into the rock; she does not let herself fall back.
He steps forward, again. This time he reaches for her. The dark velvet of his nose brushes against her neck; Marisol's heart clenches and spasms and screams in her chest, so loud that for a moment, all she can hear is the terrible rush of blood in her ears. And every cell in the Commander’s body tightens like a bowstring when she hears the sound of his voice, strange only for how familiar it still feels, saying: I will if you show me the way.
"Wh—"
And oh, now she knows why they all had cause to be afraid of him.
The pain that floods through her body is excruciating. A scream tears out of her mouth, but she is already so far away from her own body that it sounds like nothing worse than a too-early church bell.
Marisol reaches blindly for an explanation, and realizes he is sucking the water out of each cell in her body.
It should be impossible. It feels impossible: a searing, blinding sting so strong her vision goes black; she knows, in that moment, how it would feel to die of thirst in the desert, and on top of the pain, a feeling of horrible worry and nausea splashes through her stomach, and for the first time in a long time, tears stream down the Commander's face.
He pushes her.
Somehow, this is worse.
He pushes her—this man she loves, still, with all her heart—the living being she has known the longest, whose starry-sky markings she could describe in coordinates, if she had to. He pushes her. She could survive the magic, but the push is fatal, simply for the fact that she could never imagine him doing it. He pushes her, and even as Marisol's now-weak body slides toward the edge of the cliff, some part of her, young and in terrible pain, recognizes the smell of his skin.
When her hoof slips from the mountainside, and she goes tumbling down toward the sea of trees, as dark and heavy as a comet, it is her children she is thinking of.
But in the split second between Marisol hitting the ground, and falling into the sleep-god's arms, it is Asterion's face she sees against the paisley-black of her closed eyes.
![[Image: ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda...jvUop12efQ]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/c175b84a-409b-40aa-8b86-49ed65b989ee/ddg6quy-9d15dab5-339c-4b09-8b57-20a99fda550e.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcL2MxNzViODRhLTQwOWItNDBhYS04Yjg2LTQ5ZWQ2NWI5ODllZVwvZGRnNnF1eS05ZDE1ZGFiNS0zMzljLTRiMDktOGI1Ny0yMGE5OWZkYTU1MGUucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.j-t9RuUsmMyaVL-O1rvZqbyyPYdOvtjHLjvUop12efQ)
