BEXLEY BRIAR
Bexley Briar.
The sound of her name sends a shiver down the Solterran’s back: it takes all her courage not to look away, not to step back or turn inside herself. When she meets Florentine’s eyes, so awfully, unbelievable familiar, not even the waves of white hair that touch her face and muddle their scene can stifle the wave of wanting-sickness that rises in Bexley’s stomach, a warmth so unmistakable and overwhelming she almost wants to cry.
Florentine, she tries to answer - but her voice breaks in her throat, so many shards of glass. All those layers of silence on silence. The sun flares overhead, and Bex turns her eyes away. From under fluttering lashes she watches Florentine’s face and the emotions that flit across it like moonlight over water, inscrutable except for in the briefest, most exhilarating moments: a glimmer of concern here, something soft there. Bexley cannot decide whether it is comforting or cause to rage. For all their merits, they are both still human. This seems like the worst punishment of them all.
It is utterly quiet, then. Nothing but sunlight bleaching skin and the cool kiss of a faint breeze. Bexley’s mind turns to what will happen next. Is she expected to break the silence? Must she apologize for their last meeting, for the warning that came from her mouth like gunfire? She’s heard stories of them - of Dusk and Night, of Flora and Reichenbach - of hypnotism and absolute betrayal - of the fires burning in the Arma mountains - but how much of it is true remains to be seen, and wouldn’t it be smart for her to, for once, refrain from making assumptions. Perhaps everything is fine, and Bexley is the only one who still owns her suffering. It would not be the first time.
The distance between them closes as Florentine steps forward, and Bex must fight the urge to flinch. She does. Barely. Lips brush against her cheek, and the world turns over again, cloudy now with the smoke-scent of jasmine, the silk of hair that is not her own brushing against her skin, the heat that washes over her, intimate and irresistible; she sways on her feet, unsettled, but does not falter wholly, thank Solis. I have missed you - the briefest smile crosses Bexley’s lips, but still she says nothing, too unsure to answer.
The shade beckons, and Bexley obeys. With slow, liquid steps she follows Florentine deeper into the citadel, each stride a small noise in the empty hallway, head held lower than it should be. The chain around her neck drags heavy.
Forgive me.
And still, she cannot find it in herself to speak.
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