BEXLEY BRIAR
Girls can be guns, Bexley thinks, as she wanders the desert. She would know - she is one. She has been. Smoking at the barrel from a bullet just shot off, a grip iridescent, made of white pearl. Deadly and beautiful. Makes the boys salivate. It’s entrancing to think about, herself as a weapon, as a knife-hilt, a force to be reckoned with.
In reality she is just a girl, fluorescent gold in the stormy-gray sadness of the winter desert. A watery shape that moves and twists in frighteningly nonlinear fashion. With Seraphina away and the court in a state of deep-freeze lethargy, Bexley has found herself increasingly more irritable, more shut-off, more suspicious; she glares at the bodies that pass her in Court, swathes the windows of her room in velvet to block out their eyes, lets flowers wilt and swiftly dry on her sill, her body buzzing constantly and consistently with the warm touch of liquor and fruit wine. As abrasive as ever.
Bex treks across the Mors alone, humming something tuneless under her breath, simultaneously grateful for and frustrated by her solitude. But her aloneness vanishes as abruptly as it found her. At the edge of the world - the place where so many grains of sand meet the bleached gray-blue of the sky - a figure appears, slender and dark on the horizon. Bexley’s ear flicks, but her step does not falter. A moment later, a stride closer, she raises her head in almost-happy surprise: Rhos!
@rhoswen <3
