[P] sky high, girls go sky high

[Marisol]

by sword
by salt

Marisol has never thought much about children, having them or dealing with them. They are a pipe dream for other people—people who don’t have the time constraints of being Commander, much less Sovereign. 

Perhaps this will be her substitution. Charlie has her real mom, and Mari has her real job. Eventually they will have to part ways. Duty and family will come calling again. But at this moment nothing seems more important than being the person that Charlie thinks she is, her number one, proving herself worthy of the totally genuine, innocent admiration that shines from the filly’s brightly orange-red eyes. When her muzzle touches Marisol’s shoulder, the Commander’s heart… melts.

What a strange feeling. Her posture slides a little, and warmth pools in her cheek and against her throat, which half-closes with a mixture of pride and self-consciousness as she wonders what luck has led her to deserve Charlie’s admiration. And Marisol decides, in that moment, that she will work just as hard as she did to become Commander to remain someone worthy of the girl’s adulation.

A sword, Charlie says. Her face is bright with fierce excitement, the kind of confident elation that Mari wishes she had had at that age. And her surety! How can someone so young know exactly what she wants? 

“Come,” she replies with a faint smile, “we’ll go find one.” She bumps the joint of one wing against Charlie’s flank affectionately, a gesture that gently herds her toward the weapons room at the south end of the barracks, where the cadets keep their collection of blunt-ended spears and wooden daggers made for practice spars. The room itself is small and filled with dusty sunlight; Marisol ushers Charlie in ahead of her, and leaves the door loosely open behind them. 

Go ahead, say her gray eyes.


“Speaking.”

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