Tell me where it hurts
I just want to build you up, build you up
'Til you're good as new
The parcel is displayed unassumingly, leaning there upon the door of the barracks that is commonly known to belong to Marisol, Queen and Commander. It is a simple rectangle shape, wrapped in brown paper with perfect folded corners. Tied about the package is a thin red cord, and delicately held within its bow is a single flower stem, red blooms somehow bright and alive despite the chill to the air.
The gift inside, however, is much less modest.
A portrait of Marisol—done in charcoals—looks out from warm parchment paper. Her head is framed by clouds disappearing into a deep midnight sky with flecks of distant stars fading down into cresting waves which wreath the bottom of the piece. Although there is no color to the artwork, its almost possible to see the storms and steel in the warm discernment of her eyes. They are loyal eyes, eyes that have held back tears in favor of strength. Brave eyes that honor child-like wonder and integrity.
Beneath the waves in fine script there reads: “Fluctuat nec mergitur.” There is no signature upon the piece, at least that one can find, and no note to accompany the parcel as it sits there awaiting its intended recipient to find it. And there, just beyond in the shadows, waits a lavender girl with soft and gentle eyes, because the gift is not her only purpose for being here tonight.
it was lovely it was awful it was that kind of feeling.
Marisol knows who the parcel is from as soon as she opens it. Partially she is relieved: she will not owe the sender a gift, and gift-giving is a field which the Commander has never had reason to study.
And partially she wonders—worries—if it is a warning, a premature apology for an unnamed thing still waiting to pounce.
A girl stares back at her from the paper. A girl with charcoal-dark skin and a tiny snip of white on the nose. A girl with short, dark hair that bleeds into the sky, where stars have become pinpricks and begun to melt into the sea. Her eyes are strong, but not cold; the fine, swirling script underneath relays a line of Latin which Marisol recognizes after only a moment of scrutiny, and which makes her heart squeeze in her chest as if pained. The next breath she takes in hurts more than it should.
She closes her eyes. Winter has come rushing in. The wind is cold and brusque with sharp teeth, the air itself is scented with pine and spice and alcohol. Behind her, the barracks are dark and empty. For once the cadets have been released from their duties to celebrate the solstice. The only sign of life is the muted sound of parties from over the hill and the lights of the city, wink-wink-winking in the dark.
Marisol does not know what kind of flower it is that accompanies the package. But she tucks it it into the cuff around her back leg, and makes a note to herself to ask Corrdelia what kind it is.
Finding Fiona takes much less effort than she thought it would. the Commander is ready and willing to trek out to the Champion’s home, Anselm at her side, the portrait now safely tucked away in her office. But Mari hardly makes it around the corner before spotting her, the soft purple of her coat its own kind of dusk against the darkness of the streets.
“Fiona.” Her voice is calm, but not without a twinge of faint surprise. “Were you waiting for me?”
Tell me where it hurts
I just want to build you up, build you up
'Til you're good as new
Fiona steps away from the wall and into the moonlight, which turns the soft tones of her coat to almost-silver. Her lavender eyes are gentle and knowing, like a wish. Or a warning. “I was,” she responds with quiet tones, knocking gently upon Marisol’s thoughts.
“I know it’s tradition to have the recipient find the giver so I hope you won’t fault my breaking from the mold, but I needed to speak with you,” there is, perhaps, a smile turning up the corners of her lips. It is wistful, and content. Fiona has made up her mind, the only thing left to do is to make it official. “I hope you liked it,” she says, obviously referring to the gift.
This decision is not an easy one too make, though it does ease her mind knowing that there are so many in place to aid and support Marisol where and when necessary. But, Fiona has helped to guide her people through so many things, and now she feels it is time to withdraw while things are both calm and looking forward.
“Would you humor me with a walk?” the Champion requests, turning away from the barracks toward the quiet fields used for training. Here, it is almost easy to believe the court is all tucked up safe and warm in their beds. But further away, the streets are bright and filled with light and merriment. She wonders if they will still be celebrating tonight, once their coversation is through.
it was lovely it was awful it was that kind of feeling.
Fiona melts out from the dark cobblestones like a ghost, easy and gentle, invisible: like a fish surfacing to breathe, slipping to the surface of a still pond. In the dim light, she is more purple than silver. But beautiful as always. Her eyes are like moons, a soft lilac gray pitted with dark craters. Marisol can’t help being nervous about what, exactly, it is they need to talk about, but still there is a fuzzy, reverent feeling in her chest when she looks at her champion. How can someone be so good?
Marisol is strong and capable. Smart. Dedicated. But she is not good, not nearly as much so—or even in the same way—as the girl who looks back at her from the liquid shadows in the city. As they stand together, still as statues in the half-lit street, Mari’s heart warms. Pride rises in her chest for the length of a breath. Just for that moment—things are alright.
Then Fiona knocks gently at the door of her thoughts. The Commander swallows; her heart seems to drop through her chest, far lighter than air as it shoots to the center of the earth. “It’s lovely,” Mari responds, true and wistful; her voice vibrates with unrestrained warmth, even as she tries her best to keep her tone light and expression calm.
Mari dips her head in a nod, agreeing without argument to Fiona’s request. Then they’re off. She walks just ahead of Fiona, leading the way into the darkest part of the night. Out in the training fields, there is no light but the faintest silver cast of moon; not even the streetlights reach this far, blocking out by the rising skyline where the festival is continuing, raucous, behind them.
Here the world is quiet and still. Cicadas sing from the short-cropped grass, which sways as it bites at Marisol’s ankles, and there is a mixed song of birds and leaves from high above.
When she breathes deep, the air smells like flowers and salt.
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