[P] Don't let the colours fade to grey

[Florentine]

f l o r e n t i n e

The air is close and tight as she slips from the sky. The land shimmers and shakes before her, one moment close, the next further away. She is not sure how much longer she can fly through this stifling heat. It weighs her wings so heavy, it sets her blood to boil and her eyes blink, and blink again, to rid her gaze of this mirage.
 
There is a gem that glows cerulean blue, its waters deep and cold, like ice, found in the very depths of the desert. Above it, a waterfall falls, glistening in the unrelenting light.
 
Sweat glistens upon her neck attracting sand and dust that rub her skin until she feels as rough as sandpaper. She will be dust, she thinks, before she ever reaches this phantom oasis.
 
All around golden sands stretch and stretch for miles. Dunes roll up towards the sky and then down, like the back of a great behemoth moving beneath this sea of sand and gold.
 
Florentine’s dagger, made hot by Oriens’ ferocious sun, burns against her breast. This sun laughs at her, it keeps its smoldering eyes upon her skin and threatens to burn her down to ash. Even her flowers, lilac and beautiful, have wilted in the heat.
 
Yet onward Florentine flies until the gem becomes a pool, until her feet land, small in the vast sands of this unforgiving desert. Her heart pounds in her chest, effortful, heat stressed and water thirsty. Amethyst eyes, behold the sudden blues and vivid greens of this idyllic place.
 
Cool waters whisper of respite, of cool kisses across her too hot skin. A bag thumps to the ground, weighed low by tinctures and herbs, and lies forgotten in the shade of a palm tree. She is gone, the sunset girl, for she collides at flight with the roaring waterfall.
 
Cold, cold water washes like a sheet over skin so hot she is sure she will melt into the water like molted gold. Steam rises from her skin like Oriens own breath hot, hot and lingering. Flora watches lavender petals, pulled from her mane by the torrent, tumble down the waterfall to float, dazedly away across the stilling pool.
 
But it is one small petal, steady and idle, that drifts across to bump against familiar, golden skin. It takes but a lazy blink of water-wet lashes, to recognize the body her petal has found. Swooping low, water cascading from her outstretched wings, the twilight girl lands in the basin. Wading in to the shallows, her skull already low, her lips search for familiar skin. “Bexley.” She hums, “I heard about the Teryr…” She says so softly, for it paid to be an emissary, to hear the dealings of the courts. A blood splattered king, fresh from the teryr fight, fills her mind and she huffs it away.
 
“Did you escape unscathed?” She asks, she hopes, she prays.


@Bexley

this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

[Bexley]

" BEXLEY BRIAR "

The day is heavy with sunlight and hot almost to burning, yet Bexley is comforted by the intensity of the summer growing around her. Splayed halfway into the water and halfway out, she stretches until her joints protest, then relaxes, resting her cheek against the warm sand that stretches for miles around her, auburn lashes drifting closed against the light with a lazy flicker before they settle. The bruise on her side, turned now to the sky, has ripened into its richest black, stark against the ochre of that previously flawless skin; the cut on her shoulder has darkened and scabbed, leaving a hard line slashed deep into layers of muscle.

Bexley’s body tingles with soft, black exhaustion. Slumped against the sand, clear water lapping at her hips, Bex lets out a sigh so heavy it rips through her lungs, frustration winding a slow, hot path through each muscle: why is she so lead-footed in this damn recovery, stapled to the dirt like she’s already a corpse? Her whole body aches, protests, crackles and pops when she moves, joints moving around in their sandy sockets. Her mane and tail are lazily wound up in two loose braids, strands falling against her cheek and legs to let sand trickle over her skin. Half-asleep, she doesn’t notice that one pale petal pushing against her leg, but of course her eyes snap open at the sound of a voice emanating from above her.

It’s familiar. More than familiar - Bexley has been hearing it in her dreams for days. Against the protest of her wounds, she rolls instantaneously to sit up on folded legs, heart pounding viciously in her chest, a flush of excitement (and anxiety) moving through her body as she whips to meet Florentine’s gaze. Hi - a moment passes in which, overwhelmed by surprise, eyes wide, she struggles to pick the right word - angel. A blush creeps into her cheeks, but she meets Florentine’s stare with affectionate and confidence. The flowers in Flora’s mane have wilted, and Bexley frowns as she notices, thinking of the one that had graced her hair not long ago, lamenting that her own home should have treated them so badly.

Uh, not… Bexley presses her lips into an uneasy line. But there’s no reason for her to lie, nor, really, any conceivable way to pull it off, so she wriggles to show Florentine the continental bruise, the stripe of congealed blood over her shoulder. No, but it’s not bad, at all. As she finishes speaking her inhale slows, a baited breath waiting in the curve of that slender throat, behind the golden chain that still presses gently against her skin.

@Florentine !!! 

love, space

[Florentine]

f l o r e n t i n e

Hi..
 
That pause as Bexley searched for the right word, had the twilight girl’s lips lifting into a playful smile. She waits, in no rush to help the Solterran girl out. Curiosity burns deep, deep into her skin, and raises an eyebrow in a slow lift. She remains stood, towering over Bexley, stealing her sun and sky. The dark of Florentine’s shadow turns the Solterran’s brilliant gold skin to burnished bronze.
 
“Hmm?” The dusk girl asks sweetly, too soon, too fast to have ever given Bexley fair time come up with a name. But ah, when she does at last it has Florentine’s eyes blazing. Those lips curl even more, her smile becoming an indulgent thing, sweet, yet lazy like the morning sun.
 
“Angel.” She says softly, trying the word upon her tongue as her eyes trail over the delicate contours of the other girl’s face. “That is too flattering, but thank you, Beautiful.” Flora breathes, leaning in towards the golden girl, her eyes following the darkening blush.
 
All too soon, however, Bexley’s eyes darken at the talk of the teryr hunt and with them they steal the smile from Florentine’s face. Midnight bruising and angry red scabs fill her gaze as moves bearing them beneath the glow of the too hot sun.
 
“Bexley…” She breathes, stepping closer, water stirring between them as her lips lower to ghost over the angry bruise and lurid red scab. The flower girl’s touch is soft as a feather, feeling the warmth of worried skin, flushed with healing.
 
In a breath of sun scorched air Florentine is gone, retreating to collect her discarded bag. It is cool in the shade, and were vipers not twisting her abdomen into knots with worry for Bexley, she may have lingered to enjoy the cool.
 
The burn of heat, as Flora peels away from the shade, is as startling as ever and sweat beads readily across her neck. Reaching the bathing girl once again, Florentine lets the bag drop to the sandy grasses with an unceremonious thump. “I raided the Dusk court’s stash before I came. And picked my own.”
 
Slowly, gracefully, Flora lowers herself into the water beside the sun girl. Amethyst eyes fall to the groove of Bexley’s throat when her mane shifts to reveal that familiar glint of metal. As before, the dusk girl’s lips reach out to brush softly over the exposed gold chain before she says, gently with cheeks colouring, “At least you are safe…” A familiar sense of drowning begins to creep up on the twilight girl, and it is only then that she finds herself pulling her gaze from Bexley’s azure eyes. With a fluttering breath she consults her bag of remedies.
 
“So. I kinda rose to emissary before I ever managed to hone my healing skills, but I wanted to try and help you…” Her lips purse, colour flushing to her cheeks. “Try this.” She hums removing a small leaf from her bag. “It will ease some of the pain, but it will prickle on the tongue a bit. I promise it won’t kill you though…” A wicked smile begins to curl her lips, water still dripping idly from her forelock,  as she peers through the tangled tendrils at the girl in the water. “You are too pretty for that.”


@Bexley

this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

[Bexley]

" BEXLEY BRIAR "

It is a strange mixture of affection and fear that turns Bexley’s stomach to electricity under her bones, flushes heat up to her throat and cheeks, turns her azure eyes into something like a cesspool under auburn lashes. Still she meets Florentine’s gaze with level excitement, the good or bad kind it’s hard to tell. It’s fascinating to watch the way that the Terrastellan reacts to her nickname, the luxurious raise of an eyebrow, the curiosity that floods across that delicate face, the sweet, daring curl of her lips, a look of intensity, of strangeness, that makes Bexley tremble and blink too hard, and though she wants to say she’s become accustomed to it, that’s a lie.

She flinches at the ghost of Florentine’s lips across her skin, but not from pain. Inexplicable feeling races up and down her side, into her muscles, her bones, thrums like a plucked string in the recesses of her chest, spreading a warm, gauzy pleasure across every inch of Bexley’s body. And thank Solis this is when Florentine turns away, for the Solterran can’t imagine what would have come of one moment longer spent in some close proximity. Bexley ducks her head back toward the sand. How strange is it that she feels so ashamed of something that has never bothered her before? Or is it simply fear - a fear of falling too deep and too quickly, when Bex has never not been in control.

What’s - the golden girl starts, then cuts herself short, eyes moving uncertainly over the bag that Florentine brings down with her. So who told you about the Teryr? Not something I would’ve pegged to be of interest to the Dusk Court… She raises both eyebrows in a bleary question. Perhaps Bexley is the one out of the loop, assuming that any Court would not be keeping eyes on its brethren. With Herculean effort she shifts upward, and, trusting Florentine despite the innate suspicions that tugs at her heart, takes the leaf into her mouth. A bitter sting spreads across her tongue; Bexley wrinkles her nose, not bothering to hide any expression. After what she’s let show there’s not any point to it.

When the taste finally subsides, and Bex catches her counterpart’s compliment, she rolls her eyes good-naturedly. Right, she snorts, you just want me for my looks. Despite the forced glint of humour in her eyes, her voice is even and serious, so serious it almost fades at the end, black and uncertain. You sound just like everyone I’ve ever met. An ancient smile passes over Bexley’s lips. Dusty and well-worn, it belies the sliver of suspicion that has now been lodged into her brain, as if she wouldn’t be surprised to find that Flora is using her - a knowing flash of teeth to brag that she’s well aware that people will use her, and she’s remembering all the times it’s been done in the past.

All at once realizing that the pain in her side has lessened, she says, abruptly, Thank you for that, and awkwardly gestures at her wounds.

@Florentine

love, space

[Florentine]

f l o r e n t i n e

Amethyst eyes watch, enraptured, as lines begin to draw themselves across Bexley’s muzzle. Her displeasure lifts Florentine’s lips into a subtle smile, her eyes alight with humour. “I have more, something to rub over the scabs and another for the bruise.”
 
Bexley’s words drag her mind from puzzling its way through healing remedies and off to a canyon, crowned by a lion king covered in blood from battle. “I know because it’s my job to know.” She says softly, gently. “I am the Dusk Court’s Emissary.” She sighs softly, “I met Maxence after the fight. I am glad you are safe.”
 
The shy, flirty look remains, gold upon gold, soft skin near soft skin. But all at once, faster than Florentine can blink, faster than she can inhale to find the words help, pain slips its way across Bexley’s face. The Sun Girl’s eyes glimmer, humour there, but it has a bitterness to it that leaves a twinge in Flora’s heart. She might have smiled, might have brushed off Bexley’s comment with a touch, with a caress and a flirty comment. But before Flora can, Bexley continues, her voice lower, her eyes suspicious and then there is the flash of unhappy teeth.
 
Such a moment, such a smile sends the twilight girl crashing back to a moonlit night with Reichenbach, to a part of her that has not felt right since.  Her heart begins to race, a gazelle across the plain, frightened of this dawning reality that stalks after her like a lion.
 
“I am not using you.” She says, too softly, too unsure. What was this she had between Bexley, between Reichenbach? Oh She could tell Bexley she is not using her and it would be truth, in part. She was not using her for her looks, of that she was sure. But she could not lie to this girl of gilded gold and tell her she was not using her, that she was different when she was so wildly afraid she was using her.
 
New feelings stalked her, alien, unwanted but so glorious. She did not even know what Bexley was to her except a girl she craved to be with, in whose company she found joy.
 
All too soon Florentine felt too young, too unsure, awash at sea with this maelstrom of feelings that were beginning to rise within her. There was no girl for her to talk to, none but Rannveig, her queen, her sister. It was all happening too soon… The twilight girl had been hoping to speak to Rannveig but here she was forced into this moment, dragged into searching her own heart. If only she knew what she was looking at or for.
 
“I want you to know there is a boy.” The girl begins, tremulous, fearful, lost. “From another court… we can’t be together…” She fades off, unsure what to say or how to say it, for how can she when even her heart does not even know? When even the Night King had no answer for what was happening between them!
 
Her tongue feels too small to carry the heavy weight of these words and she cannot bear to look at Bexley, cannot bear to see what here eyes might hold.
 
“I enjoy being with you Bexley, I need you. But I don’t know what I can offer you.” She might laugh at herself, at her declaration, was she not so young, so utterly lost. What she did know was that to lose Bexley and never have Reichenbach might surely kill her.
 
“I don’t know what this is with us but, I need you.” She whispers to the waters, to the sun, to the girl who sits across from her. “In whatever way I can have you, please… I – I love you, but it’s not the same as how I feel with him. I have to tell you. I-“ She trails off for the seeping dawn of horror. The agony of realization creeps upon her and it is red and black and hot. But it is glorious and welcoming and wonderful too.
 
She was in love with the Night King, but she needed Bexley too. Never had Florentine felt so wretched, never so unsure.
 
Flora’s eyes lift up for the inferno, seeking Bexley’s eyes of crystal blue. 


@Bexley

this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

[Bexley]

" BEXLEY BRIAR "

Even as the words leave her mouth, Bexley regrets them, knowing that whatever Florentine says in answer will only make her feel worse. Yet here she is, sabotaging herself again, making mistakes, wanting the wrong people, always wanting and wanting more than she deserves, wanting whatever’s bad for her, like an idiot: her head goes black with the impact of the thought, but she forces herself to stay upright, to stay calm, to meet Florentine’s eyes with some semblance of goodness, of understanding. 

But that moment of control passes within an instant when Florentine says there is a boy, and Bexley’s brain repeats boy, so insistently that she would have stumbled if she were standing up, but from her spot on the ground all she can do is blink hard, attempting to move the stars from her eyes. Instead of something hot or bright, there is just an empty wind that appears in the girl’s chest suddenly, sends a gauzy darkness through every nerve. Her limbs start to go numb, fuzzy. Underneath those fluttering lashes the blue of her eyes turns to something caustic and uncontrollable, a tempest and a fire, though the violent upset there does not completely cover a sadness underneath.

Before Florentine can continue, Bexley strikes out against the sand and, with a sudden burst of power in her muscles, hauls herself back to standing. Water sloughs off her skin to rejoin the oasis, spreads tiny shreds of diamond into the air around them. If she were not so confused, so angry, she would have appreciated the scene: all sunlight and hot air, the cool press of the lake at her feet, the beautiful shape that Flora makes against the bright-blue sky, though now Bexley looks upon that shape with a kind of disgust, disgust for herself for getting involved in the first place, for not asking the right questions. 

Her glance is cool and hard as it meets the emissary’s, and when she speaks it is rough only at the edges, flat with contained animosity - A boy. On anyone else it would sound harsh; from Bexley’s mouth the words are still warm and disaffected, as though this information has brought her no strife at all, has not turned her blood to boiling, her head to blackness. Those blue eyes glitter wolfishly. Her head tilts to one side in what might be interest, or a mocking of it. Despite everything, Bexley feels more like herself than she has in weeks, for what is she if not in the control, if not holding the power close to her chest, if not strong enough to say no and not him and I’ll make you love me?

Next to the bitterness in her heart is satisfaction, and that troubles her more than anything.

What boy? she finally continues. Different how? There are so many questions she wants to be answered, so many whys, and most frustrating is that she knows the most pressing ones won’t be answered, simply because they can’t be. With an icy gaze unfit for a Solterran she glances at Florentine and says with perfect evenness, You can’t love both of us and also say it’s not the same. On the last word her voice finally goes violent, with a bitterness so intense it almost hurts to grind it out through her teeth. Maybe it’s a low blow - Bexley isn’t exactly a love expert, either - but she’s gone far enough that morality and ethics don’t seem appealing anymore, and anyway, she believes it - they can’t be the same and different. An explosion of heat starts to build in her chest, but she pushes it down with the steely resolve she’s carried since child hood and pays it no more mind, watching Florentine with vicious intensity.

@Florentine 

love, space

[Florentine]

florentine

She watches the impact of her words, horror spilling out like ice across her hot, hot skin. But she has started and she cannot finish now. The confessions keep coming relentless. Each one is a desperate bids to explain herself, to explain something not even she truly understands yet. The flower girl is lost at sea, drowning.
 
The glaze of Bexley’s eyes, that terrible, terrible glaze is the lance that pierces Florentine’s wayward heart. It pins her down, a spear through the wing of a fleeing bird. It stutters and flutters but cannot escape. It is only once the black begins to shroud Bexley’s eyes, that Florentine realizes just how much of this golden girl she had seen there, hidden in those blue, blue depths. The sun girl blinks, and blinks again and Florentine’s heart crawls up to her throat, her mouth. It is painful, it is agonizing and Florentine sees the coming of the storm.
 
This silence, this terrible prolonged silence, is an agony the twilight girl cannot bear. The quiet strings itself between them and it pulls, it pulls and it pulls until Florentine’s body grows taught with the need to flee. She becomes the gazelle within her blood, the creature lying still and quiet in hopes the lion might pass. Yet she knows too well this is a storm she cannot escape. It is a storm that has already begun to break her.
 
The first bolt of lightning comes and Flora jumps with the force at which Bexley’s stands. The girl of flowers was never ready for this, for any of it. Love has her cascading, tumbling, splitting into pieces.
 
Aghast, petals tumble from Flora’s mane, water sloshes between them, panicked, wild and angry. It splashes Florentine, it splashes Bexley, in its chaos. It is all Flora can do to sit and stare up at the girl now framed by a sun, wild with vengeance.
 
A boy.
 
The words are acid between them, slipping off Bexley’s tongue to strike like a venomous bite. Florentine flinches, lashes lowering as she seeks to hide beneath her fringe of petals and golden thread. But she doesn’t, she stops herself, forcing bruised purple eyes to open and rise to face the sun girl whose anger transcends all Florentine feared it could be.
 
Suddenly Flora is stood too, water pouring from her slender body like a tattered veil, falling away, leaving her exposed, vulnerable. Never has she felt so small. A breath, fluttering and fearful, rocks from her chest as the waters turn to glittering crystal around them.
 
“I-“
 
What boy?
 
Flora’s eyes widen. Darkness and starlight creep their way up from her heart to form his name upon her tongue.  Her lips are tight, a seal, a lock that refuses to open, refuses to release his name. She cannot, but she needs to confide, though it feels wrong to confess here. Both wrong and right for she cannot bear to keep secrets from this girl. She has opened herself up and it seems only a small thing to open herself up more – small, but so terrifying.
 
“Reichenbach.” It splits her soul and it splits her heart, as his name falls like stars, heavy and white hot, from her lips.
 
She inhales, deep and shaky, - how was her love for them different? Did she even know? The worlds were splitting around her, her magic deprived dagger now so suddenly a foe in all of this – oh what would she give just to have it now, to run to another world and never look back – dragging her bleeding heart with her.
 
But she couldn’t and above all she wouldn’t. The Dusk girl was here, love struck and love hurt, aching for the Night King and yearning to keep this sun girl Sun girl close. It is ironic then, that she can now have neither, though both are so close, so touchable.
 
Her eyes close, hurting and weary. “I don’t know, Bexley.” She confesses, softly, brokenly. She thinks of Reichenbach, of the wildness of him. He was splitting stars, cascading light. He was the darkness so deep she could never find her way out and the longer she was with him, the less she wished to. Being with Reichenbach was uncontrolled it was instinctive, it was celestial.
 
Bexley… She was beautiful, she made the world move faster, the grounds slip from under Florentine’s feet, she brought smiles to the flower girl’s lips and lulled her deeper, deeper into the sweet attraction. They confided, they relished…
 
Flora’s breath shudders, eyes closing for she knows. The words creep their way to her tongue, worried, desperate not to be spoken – but they have to be. “It’s different because, I want you. I am attracted to you, I need you and I love you but… I am in love with him.”
 
She could hear heart tear, feel it bleed. 

@Bexley - crap this turned into long and gratuitous moping. I am sorry you have to sift the wheat from the chaff. I tried but my brain is post fuzzy rn!
 

[Bexley]

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! @Florentine

[Florentine]

florentine
At the name, Reichenbach, Bexley becomes as terrible as the sun. She glows, fierce and hot, wild with an anger that billows out like rippling heat. It scolds Florentine’s skin, drowning her in flame.
 
The Solterran girl is liquid gold and the Dusk girl turns to metal, statuesque, beneath Bexley’s onslaught. This sun girl is as unforgiving as the desert around them. Her reaction rips at Florentine’s heart as fiercely as the teryr ripped at Bexley. The flower girl’s heart hurts as brutally as the golden girl’s rend flesh.
 
The whistle, the agonising intake of breath, feels like universes colliding and through it all, should the worlds fall down around her, Florentine can do little but stand before this Solterran girl, taking each blow she delivers.
 
Solis help you. The words are a whip across tender, surprised skin, and Florentine feels the run of blood, trickling down her heart, flowing out through her soul. For all that she longs to, for all that her body and mind beg to, Flora cannot tear her amethyst gaze from the glassy blue of Bexley’s. Even in her fury Bexley is beautiful. In her rage that roars like a lion, savage and aggressive, oh, even then Bexley is beautiful!
 
The Night King. Flora closes her eyes against the words, against the betraying clench of her heart, her abdomen. There is a longing for him that she hates, what would she give right now to stop loving him? To be able to leave here with her heart full and untouched, unbroken, unscarred? To have returned to her the piece he took - the piece she fears she might never see again…
 
You can’t possibly expect that to work. Each word Bexley mutters is detached, flat, eerily calm. Yet they are the spark to Florentine’s gasoline and where once it had been Bexley who raged like wildfire, now she has lit the Dusk girl like a beacon.
 
Golden ears crash to her skull, tangling deep, deep down into flowers and honey hair. Flora’ eyes blaze more coldly than they ever have. Despite their truth, each of those words was agony to hear. Each word only locked the door to Reichenbach more firmly. It was something she should thank Bexley for affirming, yet the grief of that door shutting, of hearing the truth, You can’t possibly expect that to work, is destroying.
 
“I told him no!” The flower girl declares with a hiss so far from her voice of bells and petals. “I am not an idiot, Bexley.” A slender hoof slams into the dust. “He gave me a choice. He would have asked me to join him in the Night Court, if I had let him. I didn’t.”
 
The dusk girl, as bruised as the sky she lives beneath, looks away, across endless sands, across a kingdom where shadows are so rare, where darkness resides the least. Maybe she should live here? To be as far from the Night King that she can possibly get…
 
But oh to be close to him…
 
The tears come, hot and unbidden, slowly trickling down one cheek and then the other. They are silent, their paths hot and dusty. This girl is a fool. Florentine loved too hard, she loved too fast, too freely and now she faces loosing it all.
 
Bexley’s disgust, the tone of her voice is yet another lance to Florentine’s heart. Could Bexley hear the moment at which it shatters? Each piece so small she fears she might never patch them back together again.
 
“Do you think I chose to love him?” The girl says so quietly, ire slipping through her words like a blade. “You make it sound like he is the worst possible person to fall in love with. You know him well, so tell me, what is so terrible about Reichenbach?” Her eyes blaze, begging Bexley to tell her some terrible truth about his infidelity, about a terrible way he treats any he loves; anything to help her stop loving him.  


@Bexley 668 words of pure angst, just for you - aren't you a lucky sausage :'D 
 

[Bexley]

BEXLEY BRIAR

---

Adrenaline floods Bexley’s nerves with unexpected force; though her posture is so stiff it could be statuesque, inside she feels tumultuous, overwhelmed, as if each organ is shifting, her muscles rearranging themselves, even her coat standing on end. With wide eyes she watches Florentine, bristling and viscid. A brief, hot breeze blows by, and the only part of Bexley that moves is her hair, silver curls bumping against slender shoulders, against the gentle curve of her ribs, shifting, tumbling, while the rest of her stays painfully still, as if Solis Himself could not have convinced her to move.

Then comes Florentine’s reaction - that quick exhale rent with sadness, her eyes fluttering closed, as if only Bexley’s voice, snarling those hastily chosen words, has broken her completely - and her stillness is shredded, though almost imperceptibly, by the tick under her skin that betrays she is grinding her teeth. It’s impossible to understand whether she is still angry or only, now, regretful. Even Bexley, who has always been overconfident, self-assured, knowledgeable in her matters of the heart and mind, is struggling to put a name to her feelings, or an end to her cruelty. Why should Florentine not suffer, for stringing her along? Why should Reichenbach not be punished, for making promises to someone so unattainable? Why has Bexley been forced to ache in their stead.

Later, when her head clears, perhaps she will realize they are all victims of circumstance; now, blazing with emotion, it does not even occur to her.

They are at odds now, both upset, both cheated of their wants, and now that the emissary has uncovered her rage, they are two fires, two unstable elements, becoming teeth and claws and incarnate; it’s strange to see that Florentine is so affected by just the name of her love, her disposition changed completely with just a few cutting statements against him. What has made the fairy suddenly so volatile? True love - Bex would gag, but it seems juvenile even for her.

Bexley is, quite abruptly, humbled by the sight of tears drawing their lines down Florentine’s cheek; she has to fight the urge to wipe them away. They’re horrible to look at, not only a reminder of the Solterran’s fault, but of the fact that Reichenbach is what has so effected Florentine, cementing Bexley’s revulsion of the entire situation. Still a common denominator connects them - feelings that erupt too fast and too forcefully. The thought crosses her mind that they are both fools. 

What is so terrible about Reichenbach?

What is so terrible about Reichenbach…

Bexley is stunned out of her breath. What is so terrible about Reichenbach. Her mind whirls, races, overturns. Her body flames with sensation. There is only one way to answer, only one thing to say - 

Nothing, comes that answer, soft and embittered, so hard it could cut. Bexley’s eyes shine feverishly. The only terrible part is that he will never be able to love you, and now, neither will I.

The breath she takes in is gritty and painful, lacking in oxygen, yet still she stands, swaying only just barely.

---

 @Florentine