Euphrosyne has been alone for as long as she could remember.
At least, she had always felt lonely. She was never truly by herself: her father had always made sure to give the two young princesses a chaperone (“to protect your honor,” he had insisted, although she knew it was for the sake of her bride price). At the House of Roses she had guards and clients and fellow blossoms that filled up her time and took up the space nearby. Even now, as the festivities swirl around her, she feels the ache of it in her chest.
Marisol’s presence, by contrast, feels warm and inviting. The hound that rests against the heel of his master is pale, and an imposing presence, but she pays him no mind. He is right to be wary of a stranger, though she can’t say she would do anything to incur the wrath of his bite. The equinox, the longest night of the year. It’s superstition. But a good excuse to celebrate. I’m Marisol. Her voice feels like wine, like honey, and Euphrosyne feels drunk already.
“I’m Euphrosyne,” she offers in reply.
She meets the stone gray eyes of the Commander with a certain mirth, a cheer that seeps in from the infectious crowd, and draws on her neatest smile. “Do you dance, Marisol?”
At least, she had always felt lonely. She was never truly by herself: her father had always made sure to give the two young princesses a chaperone (“to protect your honor,” he had insisted, although she knew it was for the sake of her bride price). At the House of Roses she had guards and clients and fellow blossoms that filled up her time and took up the space nearby. Even now, as the festivities swirl around her, she feels the ache of it in her chest.
Marisol’s presence, by contrast, feels warm and inviting. The hound that rests against the heel of his master is pale, and an imposing presence, but she pays him no mind. He is right to be wary of a stranger, though she can’t say she would do anything to incur the wrath of his bite. The equinox, the longest night of the year. It’s superstition. But a good excuse to celebrate. I’m Marisol. Her voice feels like wine, like honey, and Euphrosyne feels drunk already.
“I’m Euphrosyne,” she offers in reply.
She meets the stone gray eyes of the Commander with a certain mirth, a cheer that seeps in from the infectious crowd, and draws on her neatest smile. “Do you dance, Marisol?”
@Marisol
i am so sorry this is so short, if you need more pls let me know
i am so sorry this is so short, if you need more pls let me know
