BEXLEY BRIAR
The longer they stand there in the choking silence, the more Bexley begins to loathe this side of her: girlish, quiet, utterly subdued. Her own voice is a weight now, a rock lodged in the curve of her throat. Close-to-tears brim in those blue eyes. And as she tilts her head upward, curls falling away, the moon-lace scar finally making itself known, the rapid heartbeat growing and growing inside her chest, some part of her begs to be let go, to fall apart, to give up.
And what part of her is that? A part that has lain dormant sine she first left Greer-Briar, since she was a small child, golden and helpless in the forests of her homeland as a civil war raged on around them. A part that she has spent years suppressing and shredding and warping to force silent. A part of her that is still a girl with a penchant for violent romance - a part that reminds her, everything you’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it. Every person she's ever poured her heart into, everything she's ever loved is ash and
The weight of Florentine’s eyes on the scar is something wild and magical, sets Bexley’s teeth to itching and her nerves ablaze. What judgement awaits? What is the Dusk Queen thinking of her - what disappointment is hidden in the slow curve of her mouth? There must be something Florentine will hold against her. The dull flicker of a fire blown out, the blackness like smoke in Bexley’s previously bright gaze. How can Florentine not be disappointed in the Regent when she is so disappointed in herself?
And then, like magic, the distance between them closes. Bexley watches it with bated breath. Her heart pounds in her mouth like an animal of its own. The steps between them close at an excruciatingly sluggish pace: moments upon moments passing in syrupy slowness. It is all so strange, so astronomical. Before her body and mind can come to terms, can even overlap, Florentine is there, stepping close, and they are face-to-face, and all the world’s love comes flooding in, almost knocks Bexley off her feet as she feels Florentine’s satin skin against her own, smells the faint waft of lavender staining the air, their foreheads pressed together and the space between them warm and bright; those blue eyes flutter shut, and she struggles to draw breath, flooded by warmth and emotion.
You have always stood brave and fierce.
Something like a laugh escapes her involuntary. Have, she repeats, hoarse and bitter. I am not sure I know that girl anymore - the one I was. The one that people still see in me. The one who ever had the nerve to yell at you. Her gaze flicks up to meet Florentine's from under thick black lashes. Guilt swims through her eyes, vile and bright.
Guilt for so much - for her jealousy over Reichenbach, for the bitter words that escaped her the last time they met, for this showing up announced, all wreckage and burnt gold, fighting for even the littlest bit of righteousness.
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