I WANNA ENTER HEAVEN BLEEDING.
Asshole. Motherfucker. When Bexley stumbles out of the summit meeting she is sweaty and dust-covered and apocalyptically angry.
Nothing but the hot bloody thrum of bass fury in her chest as the world unfolds around her. You immortal pieces of shit. And everything as they left it - what could be worse? When the rocks finally fall away from the entrance of the summit a codeine-crippling rush of relief finds her almost unconscious, but the moment it passes she is herself again and utterly Old-Testament God, Never mind the fact that she should be grateful for the fact that everything is as they left that, that she can breathe clean air now, that even as autumn comes in its abysmal chill that still sunlight pools like gold between her shoulder blades - now the bright halo of the sun above and the scintilla of heat it wraps her in makes her almost nauseous.
The heart remembers things that the body does not know what to do with. Fuck that fist-size weakness.
The moment Bexley is free of the clearing she knows where her body will take her. Strange, the disconnect between form and mind, the neat little slice separating her thoughts from her corpse (and a corpse it might truly be by the time Solis is done with her), but not strange enough that she pays attention to it. Ah, glimmering girl. August in a blue dress. Be the good thing God intended and not that feral animal pretending to wear royal skin. Nothing but clairvoyant violence fills what little empty space in her head has not been swallowed whole by the same black thing that smashed Acton’s kneecaps and crushed some Davke’s skull into the sand.
That blackness is summer in Candyland compared to what washes over her now.
Nothing matters. Not her wants and not her loves, and at this point it’s debatable whether any of what Bexley loves loves her back, or if it even exists. That makes her existentially, chemically, dizzy. Veneror burns at her feet. The Regent’s body temperature has rocketed so high the air around her sizzles, a mocking mosaic of a girl on fire. Dry plants crushed by her hoof steps burst into frightened smoldering. Sparks shower from her skin. Every few yards a pearlescent-gold ghost bursts into existence at her shoulder, snarling and rabid and warmly violent in a way that Bexley is not showing quite yet, then falter and fade a few steps later.
With each stride a braid unwinds, a curl breaks loose, until all her hair is wild and pretty porcelain again, smoking against her shoulder, and how fitting it is that when she arrives, her god looks the same as she, all tousled hair and golden skin.
It is enough to make her sick.
Two have already arrived, and Bexley flicks a disinterested glance toward them. The look in her eyes - an implausible but all too real gold now, rather than their usual deep blue - is callous and more deadly than it has been in years. Her gaze drifts back to the god with lazy purpose.
Solis, she says, and her voice is unnaturally cool, is flatter than anyone would expect for her, is dead and and loud and flirting with massacre. For a moment, the possibility of being civil rests around the, comfortable as a blanket on a cool night. For a moment, the gold in her eyes cools to blue again, and the heat fades from her skin, and her hair settles around her shoulder. Nice to see you -
And then the composure breaks.
- you coffin-dodging waste of oxygen - and she is on fire again, half literally and half with rage, sparks flying in every direction, eyes blazing gold, heart wild and rabid in her chest, and the emotion that floods her is so overwhelming that mirages appear on every side, not only of her but of Seraphina, of Efphion, of Solis himself, sputtering in and out of existence with spastic energy, and none of it is enough to deter Bexley from the speech that floods out of her in a snarl so angry and ragged it could be a child’s - immortality must be a curse when you have to deal with yourself for so long. Fuck you. I wasted so much time trying to pretend I shouldn’t give up, but everything goes, everything slinks off to die, everyone’s a sick dog you have to put down, and I refuse to die having been loyal through every awful second for the sake of your huge ego, I refuse to be loyal to you when you won’t do the same, and I won’t keep acting like some idiot lovesick for someone who won’t love her back until the glorious, wonderful day you decide you can’t live with your guilt and put me out of my goddamn misery, because - because - you don’t deserve it.
At her feet, the dry grass smokes and withers.
There. Piece said. Smite me if you want. It’s what I’ve come to expect from you.
Bexley’s lips peel back against her teeth in an ugly, ugly snarl.
