It seemed to be going well enough, for a moment. Perhaps this was the way women communicated, barely veiled barbs and offhand responses, smiles like a knife and laughs somewhere between a thorn and a rose. It was a strange way of making friends, but he could adapt, surely —
and then.
At first he’s caught off guard when she whirls, green eyes flicking to her face and his breath catching to see the anger written there brief as lightning. It smooths into a different sort of cloud and for a moment he continues, closing the short distance between them, even in the face of her expression. At first he only listens, head tilting in an unconscious quizzical gesture that turns to disbelief as she continues.
How quickly these girls turned - their conversations were dizzying, sharp zigzags from strange flirtations and purred words to threats. It’s more exhausting than walking this far into the desert had been, never mind the sweat that slicks his dark coat.
“Flower-picker? Is that what you call us?” This time it’s his turn to laugh, a rough, brief sound, and as he does he stops, feeling the warmth of the sand rise up around his pasterns. His green eyes are at first surprised and then turn hard as he takes in her expression, and his own ears flick back as he dips his snipped nose and the scythe of his golden horn catches the sunlight.
Her piece done, Bexley turns and continues on, but Charlemagne remains, ignoring the distant vultures in favor of the blonde mare. He’s caught between incredulity, confusion, and an anger that rises as fast and sure as hers had. An anger that pushes him into careless stupidity, calling after her back.
“Don’t insult you, in the same breath you insult me? A high tolerance for blood, perhaps, but clearly a low one for honest questions. I left my home because it was full of warriors just like you. Maybe I wasn’t as talented at fighting as the rest of them, but it wasn’t that that bothered me - it was the meanness. You’d fit in there.” It feels good to say the words, good to get the unspoken things out - the fears that had been circling him like rats since his first morning here, meeting the winged flower-girl. Even as he feels a horrible sense of deja vu (this situation is ending the same way Florentine’s had, and it feels like a free-fall) there is an awful satisfaction, to be done pretending. There was little doubt in his mind that she didn’t care what he had to say - might not even be listening - but he’d needed to say it, anyway.
“I’ll find my own way home,” he says - likely quite unnecessarily - and turns away, leaving parallel tracks peeling off from hers. “Girls,” he hisses, shaking his head, and tries not to think about the long path ahead of him (through the desert, with no tracks to follow, the forest he came from a haze on the horizon) as he leaves the golden girl behind with whatever lay ahead of her.
As for what might lay ahead of him, well…hopefully he’d live to regret today.
Her skin burns with anger as much as the glare of the sun, spreading heat everywhere, everywhere, a flood of it that has her limbs weak and her brain in disaster mode, this is why it’s useless to help the fucking flower pickers, why the Solterrans are always so far removed. Kicking up sand with delicate hooves, frustration shows in every line of muscle, every extended stride. She shouldn’t have talked to him in the first place. Too-nice Bexley, she thinks, amused and exasperated, like that’s ever crossed her mind before.
His laugh grates at every nerve in her body; ears pinned flat against her head, she turns only far enough to snarl out a Yes, flower picker, before straightening and continuing on her own path. No part of her regrets jumping on him, insulting him leaving him behind. He deserves it - stupid, know-nothing boy. Bexley is not a gray-area girl. Either she likes him enough to keep him alive, or she doesn’t, and she doesn’t. Let his bones and his blood stain the sand. She’ll come visit the nameless grave, say goodnight to it, take Maxence here to show him don’t worry about these damn flower-pickers, they’re not hard to kill, because she’s sure they aren’t.
Blood throbs in each vein, lets her know she is still alive. And still violent. And still wild. It’s been a long time since she has been genuinely upset like this, but now that it’s happened, it’s so easy to remember, to fall back into, to be in love with, like a second skin. The sun blisters overhead. Bexley inhales, a deep, gritty breath that scratches deep into her lungs, listens to the incessant pulsing of her heart, thump-thump, thump-thump, bragging that she’s worth more now than he ever will be, that the desert loves her, that Solis is watching, is-he-not-always?
You sure as fuck will, Bex snaps as he offers to take himself home, finally spinning on her heels to meet him face to face, the disgust coming off of her in bristles, in sparks. Her eyes glow their deep blue, their violent cunning. Listen, baby, if you’re looking for someone to inflate your ego, you’re even dumber than you look - and that’s saying something - for coming here. She steps so close that her exhales could ghost over his skin, so close that every bared tooth is visible, a flame personified. Underneath those auburn lashes is something so violent it could turn on itself, even - Bexley would be frightened had she seen it herself. I’m not mean for talking back, or for finishing something you started, you’re just used to getting coddled, and no one here is going to give that to you. The sooner you learn that, the better. And out of the goodness of my heart, I’m going to give you one more little piece of advice, even though I don’t really care if you follow it: do not come back here, because if you do, my friends and I will fucking rip you apart.
Bexley leans away. Her breathing is even, eyes calmed instantly from the tempest. With a skip back she flashes him a sweet, girlish smile, sings out, Have a great summer! - and, hips swaying, turns away to disappear.
![[Image: 500_by_memuii-dbfxt60.png]](http://orig02.deviantart.net/75f6/f/2017/192/d/5/500_by_memuii-dbfxt60.png)
