The hypocrisy rankles him, deep in his bones and his soul. Though she says nothing, the coldness in her glacial eyes speak volumes. The silence stretches between them. He is not a stranger to the harshness of the world and yet... there is a foundation of his world that people are good. Perhaps it is this lack of cynicism that has left him on the outskirts of the court. He has known famine and drought and sickness. He has never known war. He has never known the intricate games of intrigue that some play. The only comfort he finds is the sun hot on his back and the fingers of the breeze that tugs the strands of his salt-white tail and stirs the sand around his hooves. That, at least, is always there. Regardless of where he has traveled the wind has been there. Ever changing, flavored by the land it passes over and the people who breathe it, but there. And it still lends him wings when he runs.
For all her harshness, Bexley has answered every question he's asked- even if he has not always liked or understood the answers. His head is heavy with the weight of thought, tamping down the urge to question and question again. His eager curiosity now overwhelmed by the need to reflect and analyze. One hoof lifts, then sets again on the sand. He is still uneasy but then is he ever at rest?
"Thank you." He hesitates, searching for the right words. He doesn't have them. How does he express the value of this speech between them? It is as though she has put cracks in the walls that keep him from truly feeling part of the Day Court, given him a keyhole to peer through. It is not the full picture and he still doesn't have all the pieces, but it is a start.
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