T
he months wear on, and Marceline makes less of a habit of looking towards the sea in the hopes of seeing a familiar figure bobbing through the waves. The flickering ember of hope she had once carried within her has been extinguished, starved for air within the newly rebuilt walls of her heart.
Asmodeus is gone, and she has moved on. But still, there are nights where she lies beneath the stars, watching the moon dance across the vast black sky, that she thinks of him. She likes to imagine he would be proud that she has seized her own destiny. That she is making strides towards uniting Salem. If he were not around to rule Salem himself, she would just have to do it for the both of them.
It has been slow going, and there are challenges yet to come, but Marceline is proud of how far she has come in such a short time.
The Hills, though, are quieter than she would like. She had forgotten how difficult it could be build a herd, but Marceline relishes in the challenge, if only to keep herself occupied and her mind from wandering down dark and dangerous paths. For the second time this winter season she finds herself alone amidst the Commons, tucked against the trees, her petite frame quivering against the frigid air and her breath condensing into small clouds that dissipate like fog beneath the sun.
Her eyes scan the clearing and catch on the distant figure of a stallion where he paces along the treeline. There is something vaguely familiar about him that tickles at the back of her mind, but Marceline cannot put a hoof to it. All in all, there is nothing particularly spectacular about him, but it is not the color of his coat nor the litheness of his frame that draws her attention. No, it is the slump of his shoulders and the downward tilt of his lips that piques her interest. He looks world-weary in the worst of ways. Marceline knows the weight of that all too well, and though she has only just spotted this stranger from across the snow-swept expanse of the meadow, she cannot help but feel a sort of kindredness towards him. She knows what it is like, to be a moth drawn to a flame, only for that flame to extinguish and leave one fluttering directionlessly in the dark.
But there is always another light. In Asmodeus' absence Marceline had searched for hers - in Revenant, in Hasan, in the Commons. And in the end, she had found it in Senu's warm embrace. Seeing Senu again was like seeing the sun rise after a black and endless night.
Perhaps, she thinks, she could offer him the same light that Senu had given her. As she approaches, she has no intentions towards him other than to offer him a place to lay his weary head, if only for awhile. The crunch of snow and dessicated leaves beneath her hooves announces her arrival, but still he startles when she draws near. Marceline steps back, but is ultimately undeterred by his reaction.
"Apologies, I didn't mean to spook you." Marceline offers him a smile that probably looks more like a grimace thanks to the fact her lips feel damn near frozen.
"You look familiar," she says, apropos of nothing,
"Have you been to Salem before?"
the red queen of the hills
Marceline