BEXLEY BRIAR
Perhaps it is childish that Bexley looks to her station with such pleasure - that what crosses her face in a gilded glimmer is elation and not fear.
But then perhaps she is a child in matters of political prowess. Perhaps her idolization is that not only of a false god but a false happiness - trust misplaced in an idea that has followed her since birth, the idea that power will bring satisfaction. Perhaps Seraphina is wrong to trust her so, to put the fate of Solterra in the hands of a girl who burns and burns and burns when their land has already burned so many times.
When that thought comes to her, it sends a chill into her veins, one of pure ice that shocks her down into the bones. It is a strange feeling in a desert that burns so bright.
But - and later, walking the streets of Solterra after the sun has dipped, she’ll thank Solis for timing it with the perfect exactness to ensure Seraphina will never see her subsurface weakness - this is when the Sovereign speaks, and Bexley is saved from her own misgivings by a completely different sent of anxieties. Watching Seraphina’s mismatched gaze, she almost frowns. It is almost a softer voice than she has ever heard the Sovereign speak in, and that reverence, the unexpected gentleness, sets Bexley’s teeth to buzzing in the same way that catching someone in a lie would.
All my life I have gone unthanked, she comments dryly, and her lashes flutter in a languid blink. It seems to be my family’s curse. I may as well make use of my practice at it - a smile cuts at those white lips, and for a moment she thinks of the thanklessness of being born a woman, the thanklessness of forever wearing a chain around your neck, and thinks that Seraphina might be the only woman ever worthy of sitting on Solterra’s throne, but that she owes it to the silver to at least try living up to that legacy.
It is the first sense of duty she has felt in ages.
But then perhaps she is a child in matters of political prowess. Perhaps her idolization is that not only of a false god but a false happiness - trust misplaced in an idea that has followed her since birth, the idea that power will bring satisfaction. Perhaps Seraphina is wrong to trust her so, to put the fate of Solterra in the hands of a girl who burns and burns and burns when their land has already burned so many times.
When that thought comes to her, it sends a chill into her veins, one of pure ice that shocks her down into the bones. It is a strange feeling in a desert that burns so bright.
But - and later, walking the streets of Solterra after the sun has dipped, she’ll thank Solis for timing it with the perfect exactness to ensure Seraphina will never see her subsurface weakness - this is when the Sovereign speaks, and Bexley is saved from her own misgivings by a completely different sent of anxieties. Watching Seraphina’s mismatched gaze, she almost frowns. It is almost a softer voice than she has ever heard the Sovereign speak in, and that reverence, the unexpected gentleness, sets Bexley’s teeth to buzzing in the same way that catching someone in a lie would.
All my life I have gone unthanked, she comments dryly, and her lashes flutter in a languid blink. It seems to be my family’s curse. I may as well make use of my practice at it - a smile cuts at those white lips, and for a moment she thinks of the thanklessness of being born a woman, the thanklessness of forever wearing a chain around your neck, and thinks that Seraphina might be the only woman ever worthy of sitting on Solterra’s throne, but that she owes it to the silver to at least try living up to that legacy.
It is the first sense of duty she has felt in ages.
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