THE DEAD MATURE; WITH THEM, MY HEART.
He does not seem to notice her approach, at first. It might be the slight moan of the wind over the snow that covers the crunching of her footsteps, or the bleak beauty of the sky stretching out for leagues that distracts him. It might be that after all this time wasting away Bexley is, in fact, a ghost, and he will never notice her no matter how loud she screams. (It is not altogether improbable.) It could be anything — the possibilities twist in her nerves like the hooked end of a knife.
But then he turns, and Bexley lets out a brief noise of relief. She is alive yet! Gods willing or not. Up close the previously blurry edges of his markings sharpen, and Bexley can see more clearly that the blotch is made of thin, dark lines knocked into a complex pattern she does not recognize, a pattern so unfamiliar it almost makes her frown. It is hard to tell whether the thing is scar tissue, blood, or paint. It matches the streak that runs past his cheek. She can appreciate, at least, the aesthetic symmetry.
Slowly she draws to a stop. The bright-cold snow rises up to her fetlocks; suddenly she feels small, buried in the snow, woefully short and slight compared to the stranger. She tilts her head up a little. I hope you’re well, he says, and Bexley wishes she could laugh at it: if only he knew, poor boy, though she should be glad that he doesn’t. He would be, if he had any idea.
Instead of laughing, she manages a wry, tired smile. Her head tucks into her chest in a vain effort to protect against the breeze, though its cold, rough hands still tousle her hair against her neck. “Well enough.” It is an empty sentiment, but he doesn’t have to know that. (In fact, she would rather he didn’t.) “And you?” Her voice is rough with cold and pain and disuse, but still it is a song compared to the silence around them.
Briefly she thinks about offering her name, then stems the offhand desire, pushes it back down into the pit of her chest. It means very little here, in the open whiteness, or now, when they are still strangers.
