Bexley stands in the damp sand and looks out across the Mors and feels something like pain ratcheting deep inside her chest. In the wake of disaster, very little of their home feels real - not the citadel, not the empty streets, not the solemn quietness of new graves being dug - but the Regent cannot simply sit back and pretend it’s not happening. What kind of leader would she be?
Seraphina has remained lamentably silent, and Bexley has to stand in her place now. But it feels wrong. Those footsteps are far too large from someone like the golden girl to fill. She is not diplomatic, or cool-headed, or smart beyond the scope of emotionality - how is she supposed to measure up to their Sovereign and especially in a situation like this? Solterra does not look up to her in the same way that they do their queen, and for good reason, but Bexley’s grasp of control on the citizenry is slipping out of her hands as quickly as sand through her fingers (when it’s not as wet and dense as it is today).
Her foggy brain takes longer than it should to recognize the sound of an intruder. (This is something else she’ll punish herself for, but only later, when no one can be witness to that kind of weakness.) When she does hear it, though, it’s no more than a second until she’s skidding off toward the gates to track down whoever’s just entered the Court, poised and predatory as ever, the only thing setting her apart from her regular self the presence of newly visible ribs and the look of exhaustion in her blue eyes.
She’s pleasantly surprised to find it’s only Araxes on the steps, someone she’s bumped into time and time again. Bex slows and stops in front of the Denoctian with a raggedy smile and a subtle tilt of her head - Araxes, she greets, and her voice is almost warm. What’s going on?
Seraphina has remained lamentably silent, and Bexley has to stand in her place now. But it feels wrong. Those footsteps are far too large from someone like the golden girl to fill. She is not diplomatic, or cool-headed, or smart beyond the scope of emotionality - how is she supposed to measure up to their Sovereign and especially in a situation like this? Solterra does not look up to her in the same way that they do their queen, and for good reason, but Bexley’s grasp of control on the citizenry is slipping out of her hands as quickly as sand through her fingers (when it’s not as wet and dense as it is today).
Her foggy brain takes longer than it should to recognize the sound of an intruder. (This is something else she’ll punish herself for, but only later, when no one can be witness to that kind of weakness.) When she does hear it, though, it’s no more than a second until she’s skidding off toward the gates to track down whoever’s just entered the Court, poised and predatory as ever, the only thing setting her apart from her regular self the presence of newly visible ribs and the look of exhaustion in her blue eyes.
She’s pleasantly surprised to find it’s only Araxes on the steps, someone she’s bumped into time and time again. Bex slows and stops in front of the Denoctian with a raggedy smile and a subtle tilt of her head - Araxes, she greets, and her voice is almost warm. What’s going on?
Bexley
my dragonfly, my black-eyed flower -
my dragonfly, my black-eyed flower -
