[P] separation brings us awfully close

[Marisol]

“He who wants everything loses everything.”

Marisol’s mouth is still stinging with the taste of champagne when their eyes meet. There is an insistent pop-pop-pop of bubbles against her tongue that lingers even after she’s swallowed it down, and for a moment the queen feels a little... awkward. She becomes increasingly aware of her proximity to the other guests. Their body heat makes her itch. Their breaths are too loud in her ears. For a moment, Marisol feels lost in the sea of noise, and bodies, and twinkling lights; lost in a world that is in one sense hers and, through another lens, will never be hers no matter how hard she tries. 

Part of her is devastated by this realization, though she came to it a long time ago. Another part of her insists, stubbornly, that she and this part of Dusk—the part made for the truly civilized, the part where blood is never spilled—are better off without one another. She might destroy it; it would certainly destroy her.

Heat blazes through her nose. The embarrassment makes her feel almost childish. A flush rises briefly to her cheeks, though most of it is lost in the darkness of her skin. I should be old enough, Marisol thinks to herself, to drink without wincing. 

But the concept is foreign to her. Years of training from sun-up to sun-down segued into (in some places, overlapped with) years of politics without much room to breathe in between; somehow, the ability to drink gracefully didn’t make an appearance in either curricula. And Marisol is so used to her strict diets that even a few sips is enough to set her lightly buzzing. She’s already growing warm by the time the girl starts speaking.

But, to the Commander's credit, she is able to focus instantly. Like a hawk, zeroing in on a mouse a hundred feet below. Her eyes meet Isabella's and remain there, steady, intense, and slightly narrowed. (Like Dalmatia once said of her: Marisol has eyes like weapons, slate gray and sharp, and she has a strange way of looking at you, a way of making you feel like you don’t really exist.) If she is distracted by the noise around them, then it is impossible to tell, for her ears remain pricked curiously forward; and even as the crowd turns and jostles around them, Marisol forces herself to remain concentrated on the Foster's voice as she speaks.

(Perhaps forces is not the right word. Paying attention to her is easy. Too easy. It is—it is as if they are two magnets of opposite poles, and even if Marisol wanted to look away, she could not. It would be painful. And more importantly, she doesn't want to.)

"It does," Mari responds, "keep me busy. The Halcyon. But I have two titles to honor now, and..." She shrugs, almost helplessly. What else is there to say about it? I have two titles to honor now, and I would rather die than disgrace them. I have two titles to honor now, and if honoring them comes at the expense of my sleep, my health, my life—

Well, so be it.

Your wings are beautiful. Marisol's chest grows warm; a hint of a smile curls the edges of her lips, and for just a split second she touches her cheek to her own shoulder, almost bashful. Compliments are not so terribly hard to come by. But compliments on her wings, of all things, are uncommon. And... she cannot explain it, but something about this girl in particular complimenting her touches Marisol differently. Her gray eyes catch the light a little bit brighter when she speaks. "Thank you, Isabella." 

The Commander pauses for a moment, not sure what to say next. But when she does speak it is both collected and earnest: "I have not been to your family's library in... many years. I would certainly enjoy a tour from you. But—while we're stuck here—" she looks conspiratorially around the crowded room. "—describe it to me. What have you collected recently?"

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<3

aimless | kokovi