BEXLEY BRIAR
Bexley waits and waits and waits - and waits - the world turning around her as she stands still, those blue eyes glass in the sun, water drying off her gilded skin, silver hair turned bright-white in the light, something ferocious and violently feminine splashed against the background of a virulently blue sky. Anger blazes through the atmosphere directly around her, like heat waves rippling off the yellow sand. Her body is a palpable expression of upset - all wound-up gears and grinding teeth.
And the name, splitting the air: Reichenbach.
Bexley sucks in a breath so sharp and so deep it sounds like a whistle, cuts a slice right into her lungs, and she takes a brief step backward, a small one, though it might as well be miles away. For a moment she’s frozen. Her muscles lock, her gaze deepens. Against all instinct, a bony smile splits her face open, carves its way deep into both cheeks, and narrowing her eyes against the sun she bites out, through that smile, Solis help you. Solis help them both. Her chest tightens so sharply that Bexley almost caves in on herself, almost tumbling over and over and over, but doesn’t.
Reichenbach. Gods, she should have known - the Night King and this Dusk girl, so much jasmine and smoke, so closely interconnected, and Bexley on her own little island in the Day, sweet Solis, she should have known. The smile flickers and blazes across her face, wild but unsteady. Each breath taken is an effort, a conscious choice to pull in the oxygen, to blow it out again without shattering, falling apart, cracking at the seams. Yet she does. She does. It’s strangely powerful to feel so weak and yet to be still held together.
The Night King, she mutters. It’s vacant, calm, an absent-minded repetition of a fact she can’t quite process. You can’t possibly expect that to work. That’s a fact. Maybe unkind of her to say, possibly unnecessary - Florentine isn’t stupid enough to expect a happy ending, is she? - yet Bexley is so startled, so black-and-blue with unhappiness, that she can’t help bursting it out, a twinge of disgust in her voice.
I know him. Well.
The amount of things she could say... Bexley's brain turns over and over again, her body a slush, her heart tapping too slow. All the things she could say, and none of it would make a difference.
short lil reply sorryyyyy! @
