b e x l e y
the merry girl who became lot's bride, the happy woman who loved her wicked city;
N
o matter how long Bexley spends here, she is sure she will forever feel… different. The crowds around her are dark and silver and red, no gold to be spotted; she is the only one who still carries the smell of the outside, the only one who is not yet fully perfumed with the jasmine and the incense and the rising pools of smoke. Even the blankets carry the scent of Denocte. Fiery, sweet. Far too warm.But to bring her furniture from Solterra is impossible. It would be a goddamn nuisance, hauling it all the way here, and sacrilegious besides, to sully the space Moira has so kindly given her with something from Denocte’s enemy. (Although—is enemy still the right word? Relations have calmed. There are new kings and queens in place, new ordinances have been put into action. Has enough time passed? They’ve seen enough war. She cannot be the only one who wants it all to stop.)
There is a new sound. Hooves meeting the cobblestone, slow and steady; then the sound of a breath, a long exhale, which ruffles the fine hairs on the back of Bexley’s neck, and despite herself she is flinching, shying away in surprise, more than skittish at the thought of being snuck upon though she knows (most of) her enemies are in the ground by then. Her heart pounds, it shoots up into the back of her throat. Suddenly her chest feels weightless. She could fall if a strong wind pushed her, she would bleed out with just the slightest brush of teeth—
But when Bexley turns, fast and sharp as lightning with her hair swirling behind her, it is only Moira. Moira, who stands with a sweet grin holding two cups of hot chocolate—Moira, whose dark hair is twisted into so many small buns, who looks at Bexley with glittering eyes, as if she is worth forgiveness, or maybe even love.
For a second her throat closes. Guilt wracks her, strong and deep as the ocean’s incoming waves, and swirls in the pit of her chest.
Then it is gone, and she swallows hard. The feeling abates to a dull ache. She turns her eyes to the pillow Moira is holding up, plush cream and teal, and says softly, almost breathless, “Good morning to you, too.” With a nod toward the pillow, Bexley finishes, “You have good taste.”
And with her pulse still racing, she takes a sip of the cocoa Moira offers her, eyes dark over the rim of the mug.
@Moira | "speaks" | notes: <3
