[P] perennial quiet

[Marisol]

watch the world go by, dreaming /
blood-red dreams of pretty women

Marisol is no more suspicious of him than any other visitor who comes knocking. Appearances like these are not uncommon; she is interrupted more often than she would like by the petty squabbles of citizens, or their personally important but overwhelmingly mundane requests. Ah, but so is the curse of being sovereign, an unintended side effect of being anointed in power. So is the duty she owes to her people. 

His face makes her think he is here to ask for something either very large or very small. The red eyes and pale lips wear an expression almost of fear, and Mari has fielded enough requests to know that that kind of apprehension is sometimes warranted and sometimes isn’t, but either way it takes a toll. When his gaze meets hers, Marisol, despite her best efforts, feels such a twinge of pity she can’t help but offer him an awkward, stilted smile; a smile that might fail, but at least tries, to set him a little more at ease.

Sovereign, he says. Some part of her is surprised—though it has been months, she still thinks of herself as only Commander. But it doesn’t matter. Marisol opens her mouth to ask his name in polite return. But even as she forms her lips around the question he is dropping into a bow deeper than she has seen from almost anyone, knee to the cold tile, head held against his chest. 

Her brow rises inadvertently; she blows out a short, almost confused breath. But she lets him pass by her and into the drawing room without remarking on his frosty silence, his rabbit-red eyes and the way they watch the floor, or his stiff, almost anxious step and posture. (She has to wonder—is he always like this? An overwound clock? A ribbon tied too tight? It’s the way she feels, always—tense to the point of splintering—but oh, it has never occurred to her that it might look like this.) 

Instead, she steps back in silence and lets him take his place in the center of the room. Lantern-light glints off the cold marble of his skin. When he speaks, though, it’s stronger and smoother than she would have ever expected just by looking; he even sounds certain, as if it’s something he’s practiced for eons, maybe since birth. Marisol listens to the words with her eyes fixed on his and her ears pricked forward, a look of careful consideration pulling down at the corners of her mouth.

She has always been careful to weigh her options.

When he finishes speaking, a moment of silence passes. Marisol’s gray eyes fix on Lyr’s and stare deeply as she lets it sink in, thinking silently, working over the theories in her head.

“So I take it,” she says finally, “that you think I may need your eyes and ears some day soon. Why?”

“Speaking.”

credits