b e x l e y
MADE A GRAVEYARD FROM THE BONE-WHITE AFTERNOON.
In the early morning they are both wraiths, the gold and red of Solterra’s flag blanched somewhat by a weak morning sun: even if Bexley wanted to use her magic, still so novel that she feels it as consciously as she would an extra limb growing from her ribs, it would take an effort in this cool dimness that she is already wasting on containing a vacuous anger. Trembling with just-suppressed emotion, she meets Rhoswen’s gray eyes with a dull bitterness. The dawn is violent and seemingly endless, and it runs a familiar course in Bexley’s heart, wild and red and unrelenting.
You came.
Her lip curls in something half-snarl, half-smile. Perhaps this whole thing would be easier if either of them knew what they wanted, or what they felt, or who they were - but Bexley still doesn’t know many of these things about herself, and something about looking at Rhoswen, seeing the silver-white gleam of light on her roaned skin and the storm of her eyes, convinces the Regent that Rhoswen knows about as much as she does. What do they want? A return to friendship? A return to normalcy? It’s been almost two years since Bexley found her way to Solterra, and not a single damned day has been normal - neither of them would know normalcy if it slapped them in the face.
Is it normal for her to love the world that has beat her down and brought her back up again - the man who hurt her - the girl who allowed it?
We are not strangers, Bexley points out. Her voice is strangely soft, near dissolving in the wide-open space between them. As much as I would want to pretend. Hurting someone is still an act of intimacy.
Bexley stumbles into silence, and the wolfish howl of wind around them is overwhelming. There is no turning away from the history between them or the allowance Rhoswen has given her for anger - although Bex would be so anyway, if such permission had not been given.
@rhoswen <3
