one good honest kiss, to feel alright
South. Ha! What a girl. At least they are somewhat matched in wits; the trip down would be unbearably dull if she were subjected to the misfortune of meeting some tepid, smiling angel.
In the nighttime, they could both be ghosts. Their shadows are tiny against the gargantuan teeth of the mountain range they pass through. As Bexley begrudgingly follows her charge down the slope, she’s careful to pick only the steadiest stones to pass her weight over, and she watches each step like a child newly entranced by motion. The wind has picked up speed now, and voracity. It whips the thick waves of her hair into a frenzy until she can hardly see through the mass of white curls. It reminds her, in some vague, macabre way, of Solterra’s freakish blizzard all those seasons ago.
She shivers against the cold. It’s always been her enemy, but this is worse than she can remember—it cuts through her matted fur and down to the bone, and it sticks there, more stubborn than ever. Bexley grits her teeth and tries not to let her discomfort show. Ianthe is ahead of her, anyway, visibly only by the awkward shape her wing makes against the moonlight and the river of dark fur that follows her spine.
“It was a gift.” Maybe her voice is a little softer than it was, or maybe part of it has simply been lost in the breeze. The chain seems to curl tighter against her neck, until it feels like a noose. “From someone long gone. So.” It’s hardly a defense; then again, what does she have to prove to this girl?
Denocte’s lake shimmers in the distance ahead, as sweet and tempting as the image of the Oasis in the Mors. Bexley’s dry mouth lets out a kind of gasp. And with a playful flick of her tail against Ianthe’s side, she picks up her stride and bounds deeper into the darkness.
