DEATH ON ALL FOURS
TURN YOUR RABID INTO RUSH -
TURN YOUR RABID INTO RUSH -
For all her practiced composure, Bexley can’t help jumping when the statue speaks.
It is the utterance of one god or a hundred, a multitude of sonorous voices overlapping, chilling the regent’s blood to a hibernation-inducing deep-freeze, sending a vicious, nauseating electric pulse up her spine. Bex’s breath catches in her chest and sticks so hard it becomes painful. For a moment she thinks she might faint, swaying on her feet in the feeble wind as that telltale blackness, so soft, so warm, creeps into the edges of her vision.
Then she regains herself.
What is the cause of these squabbles? What do you have to say to yourselves?
What do you have to say to yourselves?
For a moment the group stands in stunned silence. Bexley flicks a glance to Seraphina, finding only her expression of usual stoniness: the expressions of the other Sovereigns (she passes over Reichenbach with a slight scowl) are unreadable. Gentle as ever, the trees sway overhead. Gentle as ever, the breeze kisses her skin. And as quickly as awe overtook her a moment ago, so anger does now.
Morality is a costly luxury, Bexley seethes. All of a sudden she is a living thing of anger and heat, rage running like a flame across that gilded skin, lip curled in disgust, blue eyes fervid and feral. And even costlier when we moralize in ruins. Think, for a moment, about the land these Sovereigns inherited - already soaked in blood, already rent with distrust - why do you expect us to disregard a history you yourself created?
Bexley pauses for a moment, sucking in a breath so gritty it nearly hurts, and for a moment she wavers in her fortitude - thinks this may have been a bad idea, arguing with the god of gods - and then, stubborn as ever, disregards that doubts.
Do not blame us for a hatred that your own children instilled in their courts. Her nostrils flare, and the rise and fall of her chest picks up speed. Is it not the nature of mortals to worship their gods? And is it not the nature of our gods to quarrel?
Trembling with just-contained anger, Bexley bows her head. Do not forsake Novus for following the path that you have pushed us toward. With the slick movement of a narrow shoulder, she shifts a wave of loose, pale hair to show Tempus her scar.
It could almost be an offering, if the violence in her eyes wasn’t so palpable.
