"i know endings too,
and life-in-death,
and something else
I'd rather not recall
just now."
and life-in-death,
and something else
I'd rather not recall
just now."
It’s deep-dark, and beautiful, and the air is toothy and Marisol is alone, alone, alone in the hot-heavy and incredibly crowded aisles of the night markets as the world turns around her without ever inviting her in.
Underfoot, the cracks in the cobblestone are filled with thin veins of jewels in many colors. They twist and shimmer in the glaze of the bonfires that rise up overhead to towering, towering heights, greater than Marisol could ever feel comfortable with. Her skin is lacquered with the heat of it as the flames bear down from their stone prison. But no one else is bothered by it; they walk the streets like there’s nothing suffocating about the way bodies press in on every side, or how Denocte’s music swells until it’s ringing in her skull.
The sound of laughter ricochets through the alleys, and Marisols’ heart hurts, her head throbs, she snakes through the markets and tries to keep her head down against the crushing noise and heat and darkness. Denocte has never quite sat well with her. She is not made for happiness. Not made for the raucous parties and celebrations that dot the streets every night. Not made to be wild, nor lucky, nor joyful.
She tries not to think of how Isra is all these things and more; she tries not to think of what disaster it might spell, that they are so very different.
But with or without their differences, Isra is a queen, and Marisol is now, too, and there are… things to be discussed. Asterion’s disappearance. The missing relic. Whether the borders between their homes will be left open, and, if so, for how long. Gods, she has so many questions—what happened, how do you do it, what if I make a mistake, what if I fail, what if I fail?
Do you miss me?
“Speaking.”
Underfoot, the cracks in the cobblestone are filled with thin veins of jewels in many colors. They twist and shimmer in the glaze of the bonfires that rise up overhead to towering, towering heights, greater than Marisol could ever feel comfortable with. Her skin is lacquered with the heat of it as the flames bear down from their stone prison. But no one else is bothered by it; they walk the streets like there’s nothing suffocating about the way bodies press in on every side, or how Denocte’s music swells until it’s ringing in her skull.
The sound of laughter ricochets through the alleys, and Marisols’ heart hurts, her head throbs, she snakes through the markets and tries to keep her head down against the crushing noise and heat and darkness. Denocte has never quite sat well with her. She is not made for happiness. Not made for the raucous parties and celebrations that dot the streets every night. Not made to be wild, nor lucky, nor joyful.
She tries not to think of how Isra is all these things and more; she tries not to think of what disaster it might spell, that they are so very different.
But with or without their differences, Isra is a queen, and Marisol is now, too, and there are… things to be discussed. Asterion’s disappearance. The missing relic. Whether the borders between their homes will be left open, and, if so, for how long. Gods, she has so many questions—what happened, how do you do it, what if I make a mistake, what if I fail, what if I fail?
Do you miss me?
![[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)
