[P] we travel, some of us forever [midwinter festival]

[Marisol]

it was lovely
it was awful
it was that
kind of feeling.

He looks like her: like all the times she has been lonely, felt separate, hurt with dejection. He looks like heartache, like the part of Marisol that manages to suffer in the brightest times or be alone even when she is surrounded by her people. 

And so it hurts, to see him, because he looks so kind. So sweet. Marisol can’t help admiring the sheer volume of his hair, bound up against his neck; even if duty did not demand the cropping of her mane, it has always struggled to grow. 

She wants to say something about it—you are beautiful, do you know that?—but refrains. They do not know each other well, or at all; he might be put off by her exuberance. (Which, in itself, is unusual. But he can’t possibly know that.) Instead of speaking, she watches and waits for him to follow. Her gray eyes are earnest, concerned. 

When he responds, Mari’s mouth curves up into a genuine smile. “You’re in luck, then,” she remarks, bright and sly. Like they are old friends, she bumps her shoulder against Michael’s. Rain is still coming down around them, frosting Marisol’s lashes, running down Michael’s cheeks, but the mood seems to have lifted. She nods at the celebration around them, which is growing rowdier by the minute, and finishes, “There’s never a better time to find a drink in Terrastella.”

Perhaps that’s obvious. Marisol’s normally peaceful court is now embroiled in a celebration whose only rule is have fun. In every directions there are dancers, singers, noblemen and princesses; in every stall there are drinks being poured, food being served, wares being sold.

Their sovereign had a limited hand in creating it all, but she is still warmly proud of their success. Let her people decorate, flounce, laugh and grow raucous; she will be dutiful in watching for danger and let them enjoy themselves, as they deserve.

Now they are sweeping down the street to a cluster of food-stalls. The aromas of their drinks make a strange new smell when they mingles with the petrichor—cinnamon, cloves, chocolate, honey. “I am,” she agrees. Her smile quirks strangely for a moment. Queen Marisol. It will never not sound strange. 

For a moment she says nothing else. Michael is still shivering at her side, seemingly soaked to the bone, so Marisol focuses on reaching out to snag two drinks—squat, round-handled glasses brimming with buttery spiced rum. The smell of it is intoxicatingly warm. Still the rain is coming down around them, but it’s starting to let out. The air is foamy-silver, and the chill is biting; it wakes her up from her stress-induced stupor, and suddenly she feels alive, too alive, generous and eagerly friendly. Nodding forward, as if he needs encouragement to take a sip, she hands one cup off to the golden stranger. “Welcome to Terrastella, mister…?”

And finally, the lights sparkling like suns around them, Mari takes a drink.

“Speaking.”

credits