[Judged] I think my fate is losing its patience;

[Bexley]

BEXLEY BRIAR

but if i gave up on being pretty,
I wouldn’t know how to be alive

Neither of them are… as they should be.

Bexley has not seen Seraphina since that day in the canyons long ago, and her face twists in bitter sympathy when she notices that the girl-queen is still gaunt and tired. Her ribs and hips are showing;  the scar on her face shines too-bright against the rest of her. Her eyes are… cold. Bexley’s stomach turns. Now they are only caricatures of what they were, or what they could have been—bad drawings of girls who used to be lovely. (Perhaps this was a poor idea. Life is already exhausting as-is. And both of them are traumatized enough to last a lifetime: Bexley is not quite sure why there is a part of her that still begs for blood after drownig in so much of it, but it lives and craves on, and she can only imagine Seraphina feels the same.)

She is a little relieved to see that Seraphina is not wearing her armor, nor her sword. Now they are more evenly matched, or at least that’s what it feels like. When Bexley meets her mismatched eyes, it is with a faint smile and a small measure more confidence than she entered with. No distractions. No weapons. Just teeth and blood and heart-deep magic.

And for a moment, after she hears her name, there is silence.

Bexley’s heart aches. I love you, she wants to say, or I forgive you, but her mouth won’t make the right shapes. It’s been far too long since she’s said anything kind. She’s out of practice. And they've never been one for pretty words like that anyway. Bexley and her queen have always talked like this--in less than words, in nods and blinks that say okay, come on.

Seraphina starts toward her, and Bexley does not move.

She watches. She waits. The distance between them closes, and she leans back slightly, picking up her feet, but does not run. Better a barbarian than a coward. Seraphina's path is too straight for any kind of surprise; as the seconds pick up weight, the gears in Bexley's brain start to turn. It's an attempt at prophecy, a try at predicting what's about to happen. She notes the grey's hindquarters springing to lunge, winding up like so many coils—and though she does not dodge completely, she does twist away, quick and hot as a lightning bolt. Hooves scrape her legs and gnashing teeth meet the side of her neck, but the pain is a brief thing that ebbs and passes by the time Seraphina lands.

Bexley's pulse is picking up speed now. Her breath scrapes against her chest as she lopes away, rolling blood off her shoulder. But the pain feels good. It feels like living. And she hasn't liked living much, recently, but this brings back something inside of her—an animal that wants to fight and love and laugh.

She does laugh a little (a breathy, exhilarated thing) as she turns back toward Seraphina. Her eyes flash with adrenaline, and it does not take more than a moment before the distance between them is closing again under her quick strides. They are coming together at ninety degrees, perfectly perpendicular; just before impact, Bexley digs her front hooves into the ground and goes sliding, turning parallel to Seraphina before they collide. If this works like it's supposed to, Seraphina might fall completely--if not, spoiling her balance is good enough.

As soon as Bexley feels their bodies collide, she rushes to find traction in the loose dirt and take off again.

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