[P] not strong enough to stay away

[Marisol]

hallelujah
I found
jesus when
i drowned

Often Mari has wished for magic, and equally often has she realized she should be glad for being barren. To be so powerful is a burden as much as a blessing; she has seen the energy it saps, and the blood sacrifices it might require. And what would Vespera even see fit to give her? Mari has her wings, and her spear, and her wits. There is little more to ask for.

But this is something else. Something that gives, not takes. Something more beautiful than dangerous. Rhone’s magic seeps into the very earth and blossoms up, up, up, and with wide eyes Marisol watches as the oak teetering on the edge of the cliff rises and rises and rises up toward the bleeding sky, standing tall and proud against the dawn. Its leaves unfurl, and new bark splits open across the trunk; the scent of lilies floats through the air, and she looks down with surprise as a patch of white petals blossom at their feet, swaying in the stiff breeze. A breath of soft wonder escapes her like a sigh.

“That’s wonderful,” she says, warm and pleasantly surprised, and sifts a hoof carefully through the new grass as if searching for a four leaf clover. “And… yes. Of course. It’s hard not to, anyway.” She swallows hard against the lump in her throat, turns her eyes down to the thrashing edge of the sea so far below. Salt burns in her nostrils, and the corners of her gaze. Don’t cry, don’t cry. Mari blinks hard. Don’t cry. It’s the only thing she’s been able to think about coherently since she first heard—since the bird with the bright eyes let her know, in no uncertain terms, that they weren’t coming home.

No Florentine, no Lysander, no Asterion. Even though they belong here. Even though she is sure, no matter how hard she works, there is a better chance than not Terrastella will fall apart without them.

How can Rhone stand so strongly, so surely? She envies his strong stance, the perfect certainty of his hooves planted in the dirt—more than any of that, the soft warmth in his eyes, unwavering, unafraid. She can be sure her own expression is not so calm. Her pulse trembles in her chest, and her nerves pop and sizzle like so much fire. It feels as though she’ll never sleep again.

“Speaking.”

credits