[AW] give us bread, give us salt, give us wine;

[Marisol]

WITH SWORD AND SALT -

The smell of the wet earth makes her want to retch. It has never bothered her before — in fact, at times, the petrichor of dusty rain has been the only thing holding her to the ground. But now, well. Now it burns like bile in the back of her throat. It stings like rubbing alcohol in her nostrils. She closes her eyes and breathes through her mouth, trying vainly to keep nausea from roiling in her stomach. Overhead the wind roars as if it is trying to tell her something. She hears it and the song of the ocean in her ears, loud as beating drum or Mari’s pulse against the inside of her head, and the sound of the waves rolling gets louder and louder and louder until she can hear absolutely nothing over its screaming, not Asterion’s voice, not the drum of hoofbeats, not even her heart, and then it all falls away. Instantly.

Marisol opens her eyes and the world is bright again. The sun splits down in a shower of perfect white. She is standing, though shakily, and from her wings stream tears of mud and salty water, forming a pathetic puddle at her hooves. A little crowd has formed in her front of her (Asterion, Atreus, Theodosia) and when the Commander sees the horrible softness in their eyes — pity? concern? — she wants to throw up again, and can’t help spitting a thick stream of blood into the dirt, face furrowed in disgust.

Her whole body thrums with movement, though she is standing perfectly still; it is a strange kind of electricity, then, that burrows its way under her skin and flares until she feels as though she might burst. Heat is burning an ember into the pit of her chest. She is hyper-aware of the slightest change in the air and how it kisses her skin, salt and savage — hyper-aware of the way they are all watching her like she is a child to be looked after, the tone in Asterion’s voice as he asks what she needs, as if Marisol knows what she needs, as if anyone, even Vespera (and much less the boy-king!) could give her whatever it is she needs to be normal.

She glances at Theodosia, inscrutable.

“Ha!” the Commander barks, grave and callous, “I want for no hospital and I need for nothing. Vespera owes me a death, if I collect now, so be it.” Her eyes blaze as she looks around the circle, and though her heart is beating ten times too fast in her throat, no one would ever know for the way she squares her shoulders and settles her breathing. The wind howls past, ruffling hair that is overgrown for the first time in years. Finally her gaze settles on Asterion’s. “Ah, I’ve caught the conscience of the king. Lovely to see you, and we’ve gathered the countrymen.” She laughs again, bright and brittle. (Careful to keep her mouth closed.) “What is the meaning of this?”

And something in her eyes is, for a moment, utterly amused; it shines loud and ethereal, as if she takes pleasure in knowing the absurdity of the situation.

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<3

aimless | kokovi