[P] i can't be alone with all that's on my mind

[Marisol]

i wish i could say everything i've done and still be loved.

Marisol is not particularly worried about what Theodosia will answer. After so long training, it would be bizarre if she hadn’t—Mari herself began to think about climbing the ranks from the moment she’d enrolled in the Unit, under the singular impression she would be the one to save it, and they are too much alike for Theo not to have had a similar reservation. 

So she listens intently, of course, but mostly without anxiety—eyes steady, ears pricked forward, resting her weight away from one hoof. The world around them is oh-so-quiet. The dark stillness of the night is interrupted only by the sound of breathing, their gentle voices, the sound of crystals clinking against one another as the breeze moves Theodosia’s hair. 

Sometimes, comes her answer, and Marisol smiles in a way that reaches her eyes but not her lips. Her eyes gleam dark. The shine of them is somewhere between amused and approving, and she purses her lips in thought as Theodosia begins to talk.

She makes good points at first. Marisol spent her formative years poring over the Halcyon records, taking notes on every Commander-Vicarius pair, memorizing every piece of recorded history, and Theo is right that the vast majority of them—perhaps even all of them, if her memory serves her—have been of Terrastellan origin. But she has forgotten, it seems, that Mari’s tenure is less than traditional. Her avowment came far younger than most; she is the only one to be sworn in without a pre-chosen second in command. What is one more bending of the rules?

But the last thing she says catches Marisol off-guard.

That is a feat of its own, which Theodosia must know. Mari blinks, a processing fee, and, when she realizes the admission is serious, arches a brow in clear, sharp surprise. The bastard child of a foreign god? Before she can ask questions (of which she has many), she is briefly distracted by the warm weight of the wing Theo drapes across her back.

And for that brief moment all the world is right again. Mari leans hesitantly into the embrace, resting the weight of her head against Theo’s neck, and lets out a long, strained exhale. Muscle by muscle, some of the tension falls away. Now the world is dark, and Mari’s longs are filled with the familiar smell of lavender, body-warmth, the sweet dust of the arena dirt under their feet.

“The bastard child of a foreign god,” she repeats. The voice doesn’t sound like hers—it’s not composed enough, far too bemused. “That’s... surprising.” Understatement of the year.

@Theodosia

"Speaking."

queen marisol

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