[AW] And like the cat I have nine times to die;

[Marisol]

with sword
and salt

By His light, the girl says, and oh, Marisol smiles.

Even on her, whose face is not meant for such pretty things, it cannot be mistaken for anything but pure, pleased approval. She lets out a little huff of a breath. Feathers flicker and shift over her wings. Her eyes shine bright, her lips curl up: she finds it hard to talk around the weight of the thing, strange as it feels against her mouth, but somehow she manages. “You are unusual,” she says, “For someone from here, at least, in speaking of your god so quickly. I admire it.”

Obviously.

Marisol sizes the girl up, though not unkindly (the light in her eyes has still not quite dimmed). Scrawny, her ribs showing like floorboards. Coat a little dull. (She thinks of Solterra and the unsaid name. A flicker of sympathy comes into her blood-dark heart.) Her wings are impressive, though, all soot and ruby, and the Commander is particularly entranced by the spring green of her eyes, how they shine out of the darkness of her face like gemstones. Often as a child, Marisol had wished to be less plain—had wished for a gaze of seaglass or grass. Pretty. Exotic and dangerous.

Seeing such eyes in person, now, only makes her more jealous.

The girl smells like sun, like the beach Mari never has time to visit. Suddenly her mouth is watering. The scent of blood is moving through the air. It stirs something in Marisol that she does not like to think of anymore, something with teeth, something so dark—her heart palpitates, pulses too-loud in her chest, and she has to fight hard against the teeth and claws to swallow back the lust that coats her throat like sand. (Don’t do it. Don’t say it.)

(Don’t even think about it. And of course she has to think about it. It. Marisol has lost her edge. Now she cannot quite tell if she wants for blood or for roses, a kill or a kiss.) 

Her lips part, as if she’s about to say something—what exactly her brain hasn’t quite decided—when she hears the second voice, chiming in like a bell to answer her question.

“Florentine.” Marisol’s voice is pleased, lighter than usual, and she nods to the ex-queen with the faintest of smiles. They have never spent much time together, but the Commander trusts her—trusts her like she would trust Asterion. A girl like this, all flowers and curls and giggles, cannot mean too much trouble for their side. “Good morning.” 

Stature noticeably relaxed, her cool gray eyes turn back toward the Solterran. And when the girl speaks, ridiculous as it is, Marisol does not laugh or scowl or mock: she sees the desperation in the green eyes and her heart pangs, as she thinks of how much she would hurt to see Terrastella destroyed. Fate is cruel, she thinks dazedly, and men still crueler. But philosophy does not solve crimes and pity does not stop wars.

“When Halcyon was killed, it was in a set of armor blessed by Vespera. It has been the Unit’s birthright for centuries, traditionally worn by the Viacrius to protect their commander. It went missing, sixty years ago—“ And here her eyes darken, a little sad, a little feverish. She meets Flora’s gaze somberly, and then Elif’s, a little less serious. Her tail swishes. “And a clue has just been dug up that presumes it could be found now.”

She does not say anything of Elif’s plea to help Solterra, nor of the presumption that Marisol would ever hand it off to her. That is something to be discussed another time. Something to be discussed when luck is more on their side. 

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