A
s Marceline's eyes scan the darkening meadow, she spots no sign of Oberon, nor does her nose pick up any traces of his scent. Perhaps he had gone to the Meadow or the Falls instead, she reasons, though it does little to temper the subtle sense of panic that begins to bloom within her chest.
"Not yet, darling," she murmurs to Imshael, her expression drawn.
"Let's have a look around, he's sure to be here somewhere."
Marceline has taken no more than three steps before she freezes, her eyes locked on Lucifer's approaching figure. He is just as intimidating as the last time she saw him, all those years ago in the Peak. He could snap her leg like a twig if he wanted to. Silently, Marceline says a prayer that he has not come for retribution, and presses herself further against Imshael.
'I can help you find whoever you're searching for Marceline,' the great black beast says, and it takes nearly every ounce of her willpower to keep from scowling at him.
"And why would you do that, Lucifer? You never did strike me as the type to do something out of the goodness of your little black heart." She quips, and though she attempts to keep her tone as neutral as she can, there is no concealing the hard edge that cuts through every syllable.
Before Marceline has the opportunity to make another verbal jab at him, a second stallion shoves his way into the conversation. Marceline's eyes nearly roll right out of her skull at his words, the pale strands of her tail whipping irritatedly across the speckled curve of her hip.
"And that is the most tired pick-up line I have ever heard. Has it ever actually worked for you?"
But it is the spotted stallion's next statement, addressed to Lucifer, that truly piques her ire.
"If only he were so lucky," she scoffs. The mask of neutrality she had worn only moments ago has fallen away, her expression twisting towards disdain.
"Do not speak of me as if I am not here."
Marceline is close to turning on her heel and stomping away when the dull thud of hooves catches her attention. Her eyes widen as Ashteroth inserts herself amidst the group, the harsh click of gnashing teeth filling the air. Thank goodness for small miracles, Marceline thinks as she watches Astheroth settle opposite her at Imshael's side. Marceline catches the painted Peak mare's gaze from the corner of her eye, grateful to have a friendlier familiar face amongst the growing crowd. 'Thank you,' she mouths silently, subtly, hoping Ashteroth would pick up on her appreciativeness.
'Well well, look who has come crawling to the commons in search of another fool to latch onto...' Purrs a familiar feminine voice.
Marceline latches onto the acidic anger that boils through her veins at the sight of Nyimara. After so many months of feeling little else but grief and sadness and uncertainty, she is desperate to feel something,
anything else. The fire within her that had been smothered under the weight of Asmodeus' absence suddenly roars back to life, burning through her in a bright and furious blaze.
"Making unfounded assumptions again, Nyimara. You always have been adept at making a fool of yourself." She snarls, baring blunted teeth at the dark-eyed witch. Despite the years that have separated them, the rivalry they share rekindles so easily. Marceline casts her most judgmental glare at Nyimara, her lip curling as she taunts,
"I'm sure you know all about tiring out men until they leave you, don't you, Nyimara? Considering Asmodeus left you first." Childish? Perhaps. But Marceline never had been above petty insults. A haughty smirk slips its way onto her lips, her amber eyes gleaming with barely concealed malice.
The spark in her eyes grows cold at the mention of Mattheo. Marceline's cocky grin is replaced instead by a foul sneer, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the mention of him.
"Got you under his hoof, does he? More fool you for falling for whatever bullshit he's been selling you. But I suppose your desperation for attention makes you an easy enough target." Marceline shrugs and turns her attention back to the gathered group around her, not deigning to look at Nyimara as she says, dismissively,
"But I haven't any interest in hearing about your twisted love life with my brother. You may go now."
Resolutely she ignores the silver-haired bitch as she addresses the two stallions.
"Now listen here, both of you. I did not come here to be collected like some pretty trinket. I have no interest in accompanying either of you home, so as far as I am concerned you may turn around and leave right now and allow me to search for my son in peace." Once she found Oberon, she would… well, she wasn't entirely sure what she would do. Returning to the Shore did not seem as pleasing a prospect as she had hoped. There was nothing there for her except heartache and loneliness. Salem, too, seemed out of the question - the idea that she might have to see Nyimara on a regular basis was enough to make the concept wholly unappealing. Yet Marceline had always enjoyed getting on Nyimara's nerves, and her return to the desert island would surely be enough to incense the silver-haired queen to no end.
And if Asmodeus returned to be at her side…
Marceline brushed the thought away. She could not afford to get caught up in far-fetched possibilities. It was dangerous to consider the 'what-ifs', to allow herself to believe in something that might never happen. But Marceline could not deny that she had yearned for years to return to Salem. The Shore had become a home, but Salem was where she belonged.
former queen of the shore
Marceline