[P] we travel, some of us forever [midwinter festival]

[Marisol]

it was lovely
it was awful
it was that
kind of feeling.

This is Terrastella at its finest. At its strangest, too—but with every minute Marisol spends in the festival she finds herself more and more comfortable, more and more entranced, more and more in love. The city has never been so loud. Kids scream-laugh, and lovers whisper, and music sings out over the hills from pushed keys and plucked strings; somewhere there is a huge bonfire crackling, and drinks being poured, and bells being rung.

The Commander watches silently. It almost looks like brooding—the aimless way she walks the streets and simply studies her people. It is the warm, concerned gaze of a mother. And yet also  the sharply critical eye of a predator.

Peace is not a word or even a state of being which Mari knows well. It is not in her blood, this kind of frivolity. And so like any good guard dog, she will stand watch, and make sure that they are all safe, that no villain will come for them while they are drunk with their backs turned to dance; she will make sure that they do not turn out like her, who worries every celebration is simply a distraction from some other evil.

It is with this watchful eye she catches sight of the golden stranger in the corner. He looks… well. He looks cold. 

Sympathy rocks Mari’s body like the vibrations of a bell, rushes into her so hard it makes her heart hurt.

You are growing soft, Anselm murmurs from somewhere far away, and the Queen says nothing because she knows it is true. She knows it will become a weakness. But she cannot stop looking, and aching—at the sodden sheets of white hair and the slipping blue knot, the way frigid water sparkles on his skin, how he stands so kindly and oh, so alone, in the middle of this crowd. 

Perhaps it is only the philanthropy of the season, but Marisol thinks she might die if she does not take it upon herself to become his friend.

Anselm pads far behind her as she sweeps up to him. “You look cold,”  the queen says, almost plaintive. In the dim light her eyes glint with the reflection of fire; they are wide and warm with something that might be eagerness, or concern, or both. Mari tries to brush some of the water off him with the tip of one wing and is not sure whether it is at all successful. “Come on—“ This time she tries to make her voice lighter, a little more mischievous. “We’ll get a hot drink.” 

Without waiting for an answer, she tugs him toward the market stalls.
“Speaking.”

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