Help… from Denocte.
Almost she smiles, then, half a grin splicing those bone-white lips in two. It’s not a humorous situation - not at all (even as they talk she feels frost creeping up her fetlocks, shivers at the white crust of ice in her hair) - but there’s nothing she can do about it except laugh and move on. Dwelling on the issue will only make it worse. So she grinds her teeth against the cold and stands straight-backed in the wind, stoic and calm.
She remembers when Araxes and Torstein were the only Night-Day conspirators, and how she had laughed at them under her breath, wondering how a Solterran could ever get themselves involved with someone like that - how stupid could someone be to fall for a girl from Denocte? And then she had done it herself, and here they are, polar opposites in icy sand.
The world is strange.
Most of us are okay, Bexley answers, but her mouth twists awkwardly. She’s not sure how much to divulge - if it’s okay, if it will ever be okay, to talk about the bird-boned weaknesses of her own home. Cold but not injured. Food is the problem. People are hungry, most of them are stuck inside, and they’re angry about it. Her voice is flat and unwittingly harsh, and she stares at Araxes with a gaze that is deeply, deeply troubled.
And Denocte?
She does not ask of Acton, as much as her heart asks for it.
Almost she smiles, then, half a grin splicing those bone-white lips in two. It’s not a humorous situation - not at all (even as they talk she feels frost creeping up her fetlocks, shivers at the white crust of ice in her hair) - but there’s nothing she can do about it except laugh and move on. Dwelling on the issue will only make it worse. So she grinds her teeth against the cold and stands straight-backed in the wind, stoic and calm.
She remembers when Araxes and Torstein were the only Night-Day conspirators, and how she had laughed at them under her breath, wondering how a Solterran could ever get themselves involved with someone like that - how stupid could someone be to fall for a girl from Denocte? And then she had done it herself, and here they are, polar opposites in icy sand.
The world is strange.
Most of us are okay, Bexley answers, but her mouth twists awkwardly. She’s not sure how much to divulge - if it’s okay, if it will ever be okay, to talk about the bird-boned weaknesses of her own home. Cold but not injured. Food is the problem. People are hungry, most of them are stuck inside, and they’re angry about it. Her voice is flat and unwittingly harsh, and she stares at Araxes with a gaze that is deeply, deeply troubled.
And Denocte?
She does not ask of Acton, as much as her heart asks for it.
Bexley
my dragonfly, my black-eyed flower -
my dragonfly, my black-eyed flower -
