bexley briar
"ARE YE HAPPY?"
WE ARE MIGHTY.
"ARE YE HAPPY?"
NO: ART THOU?
Y
ou took away the only thing I had. The world ripples around her, not exactly real; a long, red body of light.
The only thing I had.
He stares out at her from a shrine of darkness. Bexley can't help thinking that this must not have been what he looked like in life. His hair is dark and wild, cut terribly shaggy; his eyes are little stones in his face, cold and dark. He is certainly skinnier now than he was then. Her heart squeezes, tightens, at the fact that now it is a struggle to picture him correctly: no matter how strong her focus is, he shifts and creases like a mirage. Every time Bexley blinks, he has changed a bit, the markings on his coat having shifted, or his mouth having moved into an expression she just doesn't recognize.
The only thing she had left, and the fact that that thing was merely the smoothness of her face, sounds like a bad joke now. I was very young then, Bexley thinks. I could not have imagined there was so much left to lose.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
At one point he had accused her of having an impostor, because she had sent him a letter with the word sorry in it.
Now Bexley knows he was right.
I knew it was fake, ‘cause it had the word sorry in it, is what he had said exactly. That was true enough, but there were other clues. Things Bexley should have been wary of seeing in herself because, even then, being kind felt like a terrible lie. He always knew her better than was comfortable. (Is there anything you won't fake?)
Whatever version of her it was that could form her mouth around an apology; whatever version of her it was that stood at the summit, in the cool, bright wind, laughing because it would be her first time seeing the gods in person, and what else was there to do with all that anxiety; whatever version of her it was that loved, really, wholly, desperately loved—
That was the impostor.
The real Bexley is a bitter little girl, and she is climbing toward the top of a mountain, leaving Solterra so far behind.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
The desert is one long flame below her, a patch of pure gold in a sea of ocean and forest and field. Despite herself, Bexley can't help glancing at it over shoulder as she winds up the mountain's narrow path; the capitol is but a little spark inside the endless dunes, and she wonders vaguely what it is that everyone is doing in the city. Gearing up for the new king's coronation, probably.
Strange: this is the first one she will not be a part of. She was a champion at Maxence's coronation and a regent at Seraphina's; she had awoken from that long, supernatural sleep in time to witness Orestes' too, though that had been from the very edges of the crowd, watching with a glower made of blue flame. Four years and it has come to this.
(Solis' breath had been star-hot against her cheek. Even with her eyes closed, Bexley could not see anything but the pure white light of his skin and his flowing hair, a light so bright it bled into her brain. At that point, she knew. It was a rock in her stomach. It was not the worst shame, but it was close. When he had said Adonai's name, proud and regal, the worst part of it all had been that her eyes were still closed, and underneath the words he spoke, she had heard the thing he said to her so long ago: Such big words for someone with so little power. His voice had been a sneer. Let us see how you do without your magic.)
Looking back, Bexley thinks: that should have been the last straw. He has never shown himself to be a god worth worshipping.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
Up here the air is thin and cold. When Bexley breathes, she feels the sharpness of it prickling at her nose, her throat, all the way down to her chest. Summer feels like some long-gone memory; at this height, and in the sweet blue darkness of the night, all she can think about is the stars above and the wind that ruffles her long white hair.
Caligo's statue stares at her; and for the first time, Bexley looks back at it with more than distrust in her eyes.
