It is a small thing to be thankful for, but Bexley appreciates that the space Maximus has left between them means her anxiety can go unnoticed. No screwing on a brave face, no plastering on that sharp-edged smile: plunging through the crowd with Max lagging behind her, her breaths are steeled through a row of gritted teeth, her heartbeat a rapid tattoo, and the screwed-up expression on her face is one of obvious discomfort.
At least her steps do not waver. There is some strength in that.
The citadel looms high in the distance. It is a gilded thing of sandstone and glass, many feet high and yellow against the bruised sky. As many times as Bexley has walked this path for an audience with Seraphina or a meeting with Eik, today is different. It is not just a building - it is the hub and the heart of the Day Court, and it is only to be infringed on for serious purposes. She traverses the familiar steps with an increasing sense of urgency, every so often pausing to agitate a fine white layer of snow off her body, but never long enough to stop completely. It is within one of these pauses that Maximus catches up to her and Bexley finally remembers he exists. It had been pushed right out of her mind.
Well. The regent shakes like a wet dog, shedding flakes of ice, and starts forward again: this time she is slow enough for Maximus to keep up, watching him with a gaze of piercing interest as they walk but never turning her eyes from the citadel for too long. A week or two ago the regime of every Court - oh shit, do you know the courts? Strange to think that only a year ago she was as lost as he is know, blissfully unaware of Novus' intricacies and complications, the same ones now making her sick. There’s four - okay, anyway. We had to go the highest mountain, slash, biggest pile of bullshit on this entire continent to meet the gods.
And, she says, tone lapsing into something deeper and more serious, They said change was coming. She still hears that voice in the back of her mind sometimes. When Tempus speaks it is a hundred drums at once, the singing of every kind of bird, a string plucked across the entire world, and it’s hard not to remember. Snow in the fucking desert. Some change - Bexley snorts, shakes her head, as if clearing the memory from her already-muddled brain. She kicks a pea-sized ball of hail from her path absent-mindedly. This all makes about as little sense to me as it does to you, if that you makes you feel any better.
She knows it probably won’t.
At least her steps do not waver. There is some strength in that.
The citadel looms high in the distance. It is a gilded thing of sandstone and glass, many feet high and yellow against the bruised sky. As many times as Bexley has walked this path for an audience with Seraphina or a meeting with Eik, today is different. It is not just a building - it is the hub and the heart of the Day Court, and it is only to be infringed on for serious purposes. She traverses the familiar steps with an increasing sense of urgency, every so often pausing to agitate a fine white layer of snow off her body, but never long enough to stop completely. It is within one of these pauses that Maximus catches up to her and Bexley finally remembers he exists. It had been pushed right out of her mind.
Well. The regent shakes like a wet dog, shedding flakes of ice, and starts forward again: this time she is slow enough for Maximus to keep up, watching him with a gaze of piercing interest as they walk but never turning her eyes from the citadel for too long. A week or two ago the regime of every Court - oh shit, do you know the courts? Strange to think that only a year ago she was as lost as he is know, blissfully unaware of Novus' intricacies and complications, the same ones now making her sick. There’s four - okay, anyway. We had to go the highest mountain, slash, biggest pile of bullshit on this entire continent to meet the gods.
And, she says, tone lapsing into something deeper and more serious, They said change was coming. She still hears that voice in the back of her mind sometimes. When Tempus speaks it is a hundred drums at once, the singing of every kind of bird, a string plucked across the entire world, and it’s hard not to remember. Snow in the fucking desert. Some change - Bexley snorts, shakes her head, as if clearing the memory from her already-muddled brain. She kicks a pea-sized ball of hail from her path absent-mindedly. This all makes about as little sense to me as it does to you, if that you makes you feel any better.
She knows it probably won’t.
Bexley
my dragonfly, my black-eyed flower -
my dragonfly, my black-eyed flower -
