He is smaller than he was upon arrival in Novus. Some combination of lack of food and lack of training. It is odd to feel small, when you were never really aware of feeling large. It makes you wonder what else you aren't aware of. Malnourishment, though it is a bit drastic to call it that (call it weight loss, but don't start a sentence with it), suits him, oddly enough. He was never a man of decadence, indulgence-- his joy was in the smallest, some would say strangest, things. Beams of sunlight filtered through the redwood forest, the first crack of the lake in spring, getting carried away in the rush of a new thought... or the smell of a certain woman's skin.
So he does not mind the way his skin sort of hangs on his bones like an afterthought-- for that is what it is. Scarred and simple and the shell of something deeper, stranger.
(How you love the word Stranger. And how we are all strangers here, in this always illuminated place, even when we aren't. You live for it-- you have no choice)
The desert grows on him, by circumstance if not true fondness. The change of the seasons helps- he is not suited for the heat, and likely never will be. He has explored much of the Mors and the nearby canyons, but there is always more to see. The landscape changes day by day, either physically in the shifting of the sand dunes, or visually in the way the light plays on the canyon walls.
Today it is the oasis he seeks- a calm, private place. He is only half-surprised to find that he is not alone. For all the privacy this place provides, the residents of Solterra flock to it as all living things do. He tilts his head, uncertain if his presence is unwelcome. "Hello." He says to the woman, remembering the way she danced upon being titled some position (what was it Seraphina called it? vocation?). He does not trust her beauty, it is the oldest trap in all of history. "May I?" He asks, taking a step forward, not realizing that he hadn't specified anything at all. Forgetting that the tilt of a head is not a sentence, and gestures are not words.
Unsurprising that Solis has decided to fuck up her plans once again - as if a million times weren’t enough. Standing at the edge of the oasis, dripping water that sparkles in the sunlight like gold, Bexley’s head drifts close to the ground, but her ice-blue eyes move upward, glowing from under a thick swash of lashes, to meet the gaze of the stranger who has just made his way into the area.
They have seen each other before, in passing. Perhaps a few words exchanged at meetings or an apology given for bumping shoulders, but nothing important, nothing Bexley would find worth remembering, nothing she can recall now. She struggles, for a moment, to think of his name. Hello, Bex finally answers, her suspicion only the littlest bit evident - she raises her head slowly, never taking her eyes from his, and then nods affirmingly at the water just under her feet. If that’s what you’re referring to -
She watches him with a faint smile, one that is genuinely amused and almost a little deprecating: it’s always endearing to see the awkwardness of the newcomers, the awkwardness of men, the strange, almost titillating effects of Bexley’s super-imposed confidence and charm on those around her. It’s cold, though. She draws a lazy circle on the fractured-glass surface of the water, raises a brow at him. Just a warning.
She seems irate, and he can only imagine what thoughts course through the brain behind those long lashes. He feels sheepish, yet it seems too late to leave- the peace is broken, shattered, and only time will repair it.
"Good." He says simply, a dry breeze picking at his mane as the water sidles over her curves and drip-drops off her like molten gold. (away he goes, off in his mind, thoughts jumping to dark wings in moonlight-- and just how many grains of sand are there in the desert anyway) He thinks briefly of the many ways of being feminine, and how easily she seems to fill every definition of the classic beauty.
"I'm Eik."
And then he thinks of the other beautiful women he's met here- the desert rose (set on fire), the black-winged night the woman of stone. Each alluring and confusing and unique. Captivating. He feels frustrated, the way it feels to keep saying something, over and over again, and never be heard- except nothing but silence lies between them. Perhaps it is all the things he wants to say, all the possibilities hanging ripe for the picking, then falling rotten to the ground.
God damn your lofty indecision.
He steps forward, finally, wading up to his knees in the oasis. The waters are cold, as forewarned, and he thinks absently that in the next few months the desert itself may come to be far colder than he had expected. In the early morning the temperatures drop enough that he's even considered venturing to the court for warmth-- and it is still fall, though that too is changing quickly. But doesn't it always? Soon enough it will be summer again, and he will be drowning in his own sweat and cursing our beloved Solis.
She seems so at place here in the desert. Sun-kissed and vibrant, the opposite of himself. He assumes she was born here, raised here, which is unlike him; he does not like to assume things. Perhaps the confidence she exudes is rubbing off on him. "What is winter like here?" He asks, glancing at her briefly from time to time but never maintaining eye contact. He does not want to stare.
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
Bexley is stilled by the presence of the stranger, and the just-cold wind that touches her gossamer skin, sending a stay-in-place chill up her spine; she regards Eik from across the pond with cool indifference, and a faint smile ghosts with permanence across her lips. She sways slightly on those dished opaline hooves. It’s fascinating, the tension between them. And how long has it been since her last really interesting encounter? A spark of interest goes fluorescent deep within Bexley’s chest.
What is winter like here?
Bold of him, to assume she’s a native, but all the same she feels a sense of satisfaction. Bexley Briar, a Solterran. No longer the princess of Greer-Briar. An entirely new entity, something gold and warm, a girl in her element, so convincingly confident no one could guess she’s not from these parts. She feels the flood of relief like sunlight into her veins, comforting against the oncoming chill of the later day. Something shallowly amused - a real smile? a smirk? - splits her lips, creasing velvet.
I wouldn’t know, she answers, silvery. Those azure eyes follow him as he wades into the pool and, moments later, melts to calmness. It’s charming to see someone so defenseless in a court built on knife’s-edge sharpness. I arrived here last spring - toward the end of spring, even - I’ve only heard from others that it’s mild in Solterra. Bex squints against the white light that rains down upon the two of them. She inhales deeply, breath hitching for a moment in the lowermost curve of her chest, and then, with a near-dead curiosity ringing in her tone, ventures to ask, And when did you get here?
A moment later, so quiet, almost forlornly: Did you have a chance to meet Maxence?
She sways and smiles that ghost of a smile and looks like a queen of sand and salt and sun. She could sink a blade between his eyes and he wouldn't blink. And when Eik learns she is not from here, he raises his gaze to her in pleasant surprise. It is fun, sometimes, to be wrong. It certainly is not boring. He's already left behind thoughts of winter- it was a silly question anyway, for he will soon experience it for himself.
On second look he still cannot see that she is not a native to this place. Perhaps it is the confidence in her shoulders, perhaps everywhere she goes, she looks like she owns the place. "I thought... well, you look like the sun kissed you." A small, amused smile curls at the edge of his lips, and fades again. "Where do you come from?" His curiosity is straightforward and undemanding- he does not pretend to be uninterested her response, but would not feel snubbed if she evaded the question.
Her own question sounds like a flat tire and he wonders if she is asking just to be polite. But she does not seem like the type of woman who wastes time on pleasantries. At least not with men of little importance. (and so the assumptions continue.) "I arrived not long after you- between spring and summer." The desert flowers had just begun to die- in hindsight, it seems like a warning of sorts.
It feels like so long ago- summer is long here.
Just as the seasons pass, he feels change stirring in him, too. Slow but steady and undeniable-- he resists but this only makes his bones ache and his head hurt, as though this change were physical.
(what about me it whispers, you think you're outgrowing me??
you think you're some child of the sun now?)
She speaks, and his dark, silent world fades in a blink. He forces his thoughts back to Maxence, and nods his head absently, thinking more about the tone in her voice than the commander himself. There are many things he could say-- he chooses his words carefully, as always. "I wonder how things would be different if he were still here." Eik could have been taken by the teryr and not a thing would have changed in this world. But the death of Maxence, that had changed something.
The future has never seemed certain to Eik. Like looking to the horizon and never knowing-- not really-- what lies past it until you're there. And now; now he is particularly aware of the chaos of time, the possibility of loss and the promise of change. You'd have to be daft not to feel it, the tension in the world. Particularly here, in the desert. It gives one the uncanny sense that there is weight to every moment.
He knows it must have started long before Maxence, this feeling of the rubber band stretching. He knows that their dreams, their lives, are just scratches in the great wheel that rolls on. And yet there seems something pivotal about that day the pied commander was swept away.
He steps out of the water, and the air is chilly against his wet skin. "You must have known him well? Champion?" There is something like laughter in his voice-- it borders on derision, although he does not mean to mock her. It fades and he asks, earnestly, "what was he really like?"
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
Bexley blinks in unfettered surprise. Dark lashes drift to touch the rise of her cheekbone; her gaze narrows, meeting Eik’s across the water, and for a moment she looks almost suspicious, as if she’s not quite willing to take the compliment, before an insubstantial smile crosses her face and the guardedness in her eyes falls away slightly. What a long time it’s been since a compliment struck her like that - despite her best efforts, a subtle, pleased warmth blooms in her chest, and Bex grins at him. She drops her head to chest for a moment and pushes a silver curl back from her face, laces it behind her ear again before looking up.
A moment passes before the next question comes, and Bexley takes it in stride as much as she can, which is not much at all. She shivers slightly at the remembering. Where is she from… that’s a trauma she hasn’t faced for weeks, even months. You wouldn’t know it. That much is true - Greer-Briar remains a mystery to most of the civilized world, the island of the Amazons, an all-green paradise almost all untouched. They don’t trade with the outside world or accept visitors; it’s been years since a stranger could safely step foot over the border. The land is beautiful. But it is harsh and unforgiving and it loves the Briars only.
No way in hell Eik would’ve heard about it.
It’s across the ocean, she concedes, half-dreamily. An island, sort of - Greer-Briar - you wouldn’t know it, Bex repeats, then falls silent, wearing an expression that could almost be sheepish. It’s a touchy subject for her, even years later, and difficult to reconcile with - but she’s sure that Eik must have something to hide, that almost everyone does, and she doesn’t feel quite as bad as she might have. Even the mention of Maxence doesn’t make her feel as horrible as it might have, so distracted is she by, for once, being in company that makes her feel comfortable. An asshole, she answers succintly.
It’s a harsh reaction, but truthful; a sly smile has cut into her cheeks. I mean - a great warrior, and leader, but an asshole, sometimes. An acquired personality. Of course, not to speak ill of the dead. It’s bitingly sarcastic. What do the dead know of what is said after they die - what do they hear with their ears full of dirt? Maxence, especially, does not beg to be revered. Or at least, he didn’t.
@Eik
Sunset is an extravagant show in Solterra. It begins long before the sun hits the horizon. It begins now, in the burgeoning afternoon, as the plants seem to slowly, slowly turn their heads to the west, and the sandstone begins to reflect orange and purple. And the temperature drops by the water, and the shadows grow long. Colors leak from everything, as if in anticipation of one last violent display before the long silver-blue night.
She's changing too, she takes the afternoon colors and makes them her own. God is kind.
And when she smiles at him, he is surprised.
He has the distinct feeling that if he tried to get a smile out of her, he would walk away feeling a great fool. But her smile is a ray of light in an otherwise dull, tiresome existence- so he looks across the small oasis to the canyon walls in the swelling twilight, and tries very hard not to try. Busy as he is not looking at her, he does not see her reaction to his question. But he feels a tension in the air.
It's across the ocean, she says, and something deep inside of him sighs silently. How many worlds are there, unreachable for that vast, violent sea? How many times has he wanted to swim in a straight line, just to see how far he could go? Just to see if he could be somewhere else?
And does he really think it would solve his existential crisis? Or is he just looking for a poetic way to die?
(We
d a m n
ourselves.)
His curiosity is piqued but for once he doesn't push to have it satisfied. He takes what he gets, and his mind runs away with itself. Swinging hands into the sunset. We are the part of the brain that observes itself. Is it odd that we begin to feel jealous of what we see?
We forget ourselves, but we return (sadly) as we always do. As we must. When she speaks of Maxence, Eik can't help but be amused. She wields her words like a sword- gods know he wouldn't want to be the one on the receiving end! "You have a talent for words." Is all he says in response. He had said the same thing to Asterion once. It is a talent he wishes he had; Eik is good at thinking and thinking and not quite knowing what to say.
After a long pause, he ventures to ask- "Do you think people will talk about you after you're gone?" A small smile, almost shy.. "Do you want them to?"
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
You have a talent for words. She gazes at him in an amusement that is almost surprised, but still that smile widens, and before Bexley can stop herself (does she even want to?) she quips back easily, And you seem to have a talent for making bitter girls less bitter - in the hot red light of the setting sun she burns bright and wild, and yet Eik has softened her, somehow, with nothing but a few well-considered words. Is this vulnerability? Her throat open, her heart loud? Is it supposed to feel this easy?
As the temperature drops around them, Bexley fights the urge to shiver. She is made for the very deepest parts of summer, the very hottest rays of the sun, and even the windchill brought by tonight’s bare, latent breeze is enough to set her on edge. She turns her gaze to the setting sun and watches it with just-concealed affection: the sky painted carmine, the palm trees swaybacked in the wind, concentric silver ripples winding across the surface of the pool.
I think they will, she murmurs laughingly. I’ve been told I’m easily remembered. Gods knows why. Her nostrils flare as she suppresses a laugh, as if she does know why, as if she’s just hiding it, and finally she turns back toward the citadel. Shall we? Seems like it’s getting late.
Above, the painted sky and brief wind make their constant, moving painting, and Bexley watches it all in waiting.
@Eik
06-20-2018, 11:57 AM - This post was last modified: 06-20-2018, 11:58 AM by Bexley
"And you seem to have a talent for making bitter girls less bitter"
He is not so sure he believes her, but it pleases him to think he could disarm a girl (or a woman, even better?) with nothing more than a few words. So he accepts her observation with a shy smile, careful to not meet her sharp eyes.
"I think they will," she says, but she does not mention whether she wants them to. He suspects she does by the offhanded manner in which she replies, but once more is struck by the thought that you can never really know someone even when they're right in front of you. Most people don't even know themselves- he for sure does not.
(and also- he forgets so easily that not everyone takes everything so seriously, weighs all the options, explores all the possibilities before speaking. He forgets that most don't think and speak like he does, so sometimes he looks for the hidden meaning behind every word when there is nothing to be found.)
They make such an odd pair, gold and grey, full of unspoken words. A certain odd fondness grows, as though it does not want to. "We shall," he nods as the evening sputters out like a candle that's consumed itself, turning to the court and departing the oasis with the Champion of community at his side.
Oh, they have no idea how far fate will take them.
- - - There is no better way to know us
E I K than as two wolves, come separately to a wood
