The sky is still glowing rosy when Bexley emerges from the oasis and moves headfirst into the sun. It’s only just past dawn, with swirls of color lining the sky and a cool, dying breeze moving through the desert, and her chest is filled with a spark of purpose, flashing brightly through her map of nerves. Maxence has finally asked for her help with something, and despite herself, Bexley can’t help being… proud. Satisfied. Happy that he’s finally letting her do something. Something girly and not crazily important, but it’s still something, and something that she’s really good at.
Blond hooves scraping up sand as she walks, Bexley sways toward the oasis with a bounce of excitement. Her white-blonde mane is bound into a thick braid, loose enough that wisps have settled around her sharply carved cheeks; the gash on her shoulder from the Teryr attack has browned and scabbed over, on its way to recovery; and the bruise that has plagued her from hip to ribs has reached its deepest and darkest, leaving an unruly black blotch against that golden skin. It’s obnoxious to look at, but still she thanks Solis that her injuries were not worse.
By the time she reaches the edge of the canyon, the sun is low but beaming down at her, regaining its strength from the long night behind them. Giddiness seeps through her brain, through her skin. Maxence has not arrived yet, but for once Bexley does not find herself annoyed by the thought of the commander; instead she reaches down to take a drink from the creek that winds next to her feet and hums in contentment as the sound of the desert coming alive around her.
Walking was a number one cure for nightmares in the opinion of the King, and it was under this guise that Maxence had strolled forth from his chamber to the fields of sand surrounding their refuge. The sun had only just begun to stir when the paint trudged over the dunes in the direction of the creek and the canyon that slept within it, his trek taking him a longer and slower route than he normally would take to weave through the clutches of Elatus.
The bones of the elder teryr were lit with a peachy glow by the time Maxence's hooves arrived beside it, spilling dust and sand onto them as he gaze out over the vast expanse of cliffs and the valley below. He did wonder how on earth he'd ever get down there in a timely manner were he not blessed with wings, though with the full intent of arriving at his appointment with one of the commoners on time he flared his wings against the wind, allowing it to lift him as he leapt from the cliff face.
Soaring with ease upon the current, one which carried a barely-there feel and a temperature so cool for summer it felt barely there. It was his favorite feeling; to step out onto wind untained by intense heat or cold and instead feel completely weightless. It was a blessing of the warmer months, though with their raging summer afternoons it made these mild dawns shortlived.
Bexley came into view after a number of minutes of scouting the river bed and soon the sovereign touched down upon the quenched earth near by, his wings bracing against the impact of landing, a snort escaping his nares as all the air within his lungs was expelled.
Turning to face the blond woman, one who had already pledged so much service to Solterra, he couldn't help but lift his perpetual scowl ever-so-slightly. Perhaps seeing the commoner, one he intended to name the Champion of community in the days to come, had raised his spirits from a no-talking-morning-mood to a talking mood. Bexley was glowing this morning, that much was true, though Maxence surely was not. "What are you smiling about?" He grumbled as he pressed on past her, accidentally brushing his shoulder against her own on his way toward the creek. The clumsiness of his stride caused him to blink and a blush even threatened in his jowls, though any stray thoughts were shaken from his mind in moments. Surveying the plant life that grew within the creekbed and surrounds, the splashed stag gave a gruff sigh accompanied by a nod. Flower picking; his favorite.
On instinct Bexley flinches at the sound of wings above her, and with a deep inhale she forces herself to calm down, to still her quickly beating heart; it must be Maxence, it must, it must, not those damn birds from the maze, not the vultures she’s been seeing on the horizon, their black shapes ominous against the stark blue of the desert sky. A shiver erupts over her aureate skin, but when she finally looks up, her nerves cool. It’s him indeed. That brown-and-white blotch blocking parts of the steaming sun, gliding on the cool air that swirls above Bexley’s head, kicking up dust and sand as he finally dips toward the ground and lands with the hard sound of hooves on packed dirt.
She looks him over calmly, not bothering to hide her interest. That dark gaze skates the curve of his wings, that thick hair, the lion’s head perched on his back, face set in a forever-snarl. Have they ever been at such close proximity? Or even in each other’s presence outside of a herd meeting? Bex doesn’t know him well enough to say that he’s happy, but he looks less uptight than she’s ever seen, not smiling, but not actively frowning, either; it’s much more attractive than his usually deep-set scowl, puts a new light in the blue eyes that match Bexley’s. Dry amusement crosses her face. There’s a pleasant day ahead of them, that’s for sure. Or at least it will be for her.
His question brings a biting smirk to her face. Because it’s a good day not to have a stick up my ass, she shoots back within an instant, voice glittering with amusement, but I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that. What a gem this boy is! Her body hums, pleased already with the exchange. There’s a challenge laying in wait, and Bexley, curious to insanity about the commander, has never been afraid of those.
Then that brush of the shoulders. She pauses to gauge, letting him move ahead. Interesting. It’s probably an accident, but then again, Maxence has never seemed like someone for accidents. Bexley’s skin lights with a nerve-tingling warmth, one that temporarily threatens to sweep her off her feet, but with a light touch she pushes that weakness away, and follows after him, stepping nimbly to reach the side of the older man, and with, a calculated swerve, bumps her slender hip just barely against his rib.
Wouldn’t take you for a flower picker after all that shit you talk about the Dawn Court, she teases, voice light, as the pair comes to a stop. Around them plants have started to pop up from the ground in various shades of green and olive-grey, stark against the dirt, glossy and working hard against the weight of the summer that has started to beat them down; she names them off in their head, a few succulents, yucca with its dense, spiraling leaves, and prickly pear fruits patching the dirt. And there, perfect, the knightdew agave. Its multi-colored flowers are still open, though beginning to close for their sleep during the day. They’re bushy and brightly colored and perfect for a kind of crown, will be beautiful set against leaves of palm, and the yellow spores of an acacia. A genuinely please smile crosses Bexley’s face as she nods at it. There’s your accent piece - and without waiting for his opinion she dips her head to the agave and pulls out the first flower with her teeth, petals falling to the sand at their feet.
It was more than obvious that Maxence was not in the mood for jests or jokes, though still he smirked at Bexley's entertaining excuse for smiling like a madwoman, and then her go at a petty insult. It was true what she said though - it really wouldn't kill him to simply unwind a little. It was not a task that had to be carried out with a hundred men and precise order. They were literally flower picking.
What came next from the pale mare did actually cause a grunt to escape the sovereign's throat, his sighing nose pointing in the direct opposite of Bexley's as he cast his gaze down-river in avoidance. He was certainly now flower picker.
"For fucks sake Bexley, I didn't come here for a bollocking did I. I chose you for this task because you're clearly useless at everything else, like making conversation for example?" He rattled in jest. Really, he quite admired the girl and how bravely she had fought the Teryr and honestly most girls her size and appearance would be snapped up by that beast in seconds. It was Bex who had actually made some tactical manoeuvres in that fight, and while he'd never admit it to her, he was impressed.
As she plucked a flower from the earth below, he soon found himself looking under their feet for more of the same colour and size. "Right" He sighed, an attempt to work himself up to this ridiculous task he'd set for himself. After picking a few flowers of his own and setting them at Bexley's feet he began to grow immensely tired of the silence, so in stead resorted to making conversation of his own (seeing as Bexley was so incapable, apparently).
"How are your wounds healing?" He asked her "you fought bravely".
It’s strange to see Maxence in such an utterly different light, no weapons, no blood, no shows to put on for the many judging glares of the Solterrans he has, for whatever reason, dedicated himself to - attractive, even, to catch the smile that flits across his face, too delicate a thing for the rest of his strength. Bexley bites back her own grin. With warmth tingling from stomach to hips, she blinks and turns away from him, the twists and turns of her expression at least partially hidden by the angle and the cloud of white curls that falls past her cheeks.
The virility in his next statement catches her off-guard, but to her credit Bexley does not flinch, barely even reacts. Head still low to the ground, she flicks him a slow sideways look and says nothing. Let him be a dipshit - not like she hasn’t seen that before. It’s fascinating, and irritating, how easy it is to rub him the wrong way. With a roll of her eyes she turns back to the ground and does not grace him with a response, merely flicks her tail against his leg, and with calculated movement plucks another flower, so carefully the petals don’t even bruise.
The silence doesn’t bother her much, but apparently it does Maxence, and when he speaks again at least it’s pleasant - so pleasant, in fact, that Bexley jerks her head up to give him a glance of disbelief, happiness spreading, unabashed, over the pearlescent planes of her face. Fine, she chirps back, eyes bright under the thick lashes that line them. Thanks. Yours? Noticing a clump of acacia to their left, Bexley unselfconsciously winds in front of him to reach it, humming with heat and electricity; for once she is at home in the Day Court, finally unwound enough to be sure in her steps, in the way her body moves.
To hear that her wounds were healing gave him a slight reassurance that what they had done wasn't completely ridiculous and achievable. Perhaps, deep down, Maxence owrried that he had only survived by luck, a fluke, and little to no measure of what he had assumed was expertise. The fact that everyone had actually survived was one thing to be proud of, but the fact that he had struck the killing blow had given him more than enough to puff his chest about. Had it really been dumb luck though? Solis's grace? Perhaps Maxence didn't wish it to be either; it would mean it wasn't raw talent that won the battle. It wasn't his victory.
"My spine is still thoroughly fucked, thank you" was his response when she in return asked how his wounds were, eyeing the sleek hair fall upon her neck as she reached down to pluck another flower from the earth beneath them. It then came upon him that all e had done so far was mutter and whinge, so quickly he would attempt to make himself useful.
Spotting a white flower attached to bright rounded leaves, the king marched up and plucked it from it's stem's reach. "Here's one" he then murmured, stepping back the way he had come and offering it to the palomino. "How many do we even need?" He sighed, wishing he could be sparring or just anything other than flower picking. He would admit to himself, though, that he did like spending time with Bexley.
It’s obvious that Maxence is thinking hard about whatever he is thinking about, but Bexley is (probably fortunately) not privy to the commander’s thoughts, and besides that, she’s tired of thinking - so despite her natural curiosity, and the fact that his brooding is fucking obvious, she doesn’t ask what he’s thinking of. Instead she slices at the flora with bone-white teeth and surprising exactness, each flower sheared just below the bud, the pile at her bleaches hooves growing lusher by the moment with nary a petal floating out of place. For a moment her head turns to Florentine, but she pushes that name away as quickly as it comes to her.
The glance he passes over her does not go unnoticed, but Bexley’s only response is to suppress her self-satisfied smirk. You’re strong, she teases, though it is true - I’m sure you’ll recover. What could be a blush crawls to her cheeks, spreads warm over her throat, but Bexley grits her teeth to stifle it and rearranges their pile, which has already grown sizeable. Depends, comes her answer, once again interested in the topic, her blue eyes brightening as they meet the commander’s. How many do you want to make, and how big?
Why did you even want flower crowns? Bexley continues after a moment, breaking into a laugh by the time she finishes her question, a genuine curiosity shining through each word. For this, I mean. It’s cute, I like it, but I wouldn’t have pegged that as your - thing. There goes the raise of one eyebrow, a dare for him to give her an interesting answer, something more than the surfactant brush-offs that her previous questions have bought her; she wants to know him better, know anything about him, really. It’s her right, even, to know a little about the man she’s sworn to follow.
The king eyed her with a pensive, pondering gaze until she slightly acknowledged his strength a gesture that Maxence hadn't expected from her after the bollocking he'd just given her. Perhaps he wondered if she wanted something from him, though really if he had known that al she wished for was a decent conversation and the chance to learn more about him he might be happy to oblige her. It seemed his lack of trust in any man or woman lead him to being a hideous conversational partner.
On the topic of the wreaths, Maxence turned his glances between the gathered flowers and the woman who helped with picking them and his countenance turned slightly puzzled. "Is it not a custom to award warriors with wreaths where you're from?" He asked her, brows knitted together. "It's not my thing, it's what tradition demands" the king would soon clarify, though with each passing second the more he worried that it was not a custom anyone else would be familiar with.
"No flowers" He ordered, taking his steps toward a withered, dry devilwood that had most certainly seen better days in the rainy season. Plucking just enough from the bush to weave wreaths, the king straightened and looked ot Bexley with a stern sigh. "We're done here. Perhas you can find another arrangement for the flowers. They might... look nice in your hair"
And with that, the king was off. After placing the coils of devilwood into his harness for safekeeping he took to the skies with just a few beats of his wings, sights seeking the Day Court.
Should’ve known he’d be a fucking pill today - too masculine to pick flowers comfortably, too proud to admit she’s done her job well. Too stoic to ever crack a damn smile. As the minutes pass, Bexley can’t help her frustration heightening, the warmth in her chest growing to an uncomfortable heat. The sideways gazes she keeps flicking at him grow harsher and harsher. She wants them to get along. It shouldn’t be this hard, but it is. Impossible, actually, to get anywhere when he’s so damn stubborn, although Bexley can’t say much in defense of her own obdurate ways.
No, she says finally at the mention of his customs. All gold and jewels for me. A dry smile crosses Bexley’s lips, splitting those bone-white lips without any semblance of real humor. And of course, the gruff no flowers that follows has her rolling her eyes, so expected, so disappointing, that her only reply is a huff as she drops the flower from her mouth and starts, already, to step away. Let him go brood, wherever his man-cave is. She’ll go hang out with Eden or Rhoswen or anyone else, dripping in those gold and jewels, not breaking her back to carry some bullshit conversation. With a dismissive flick of one ear she turns back to face the open desert, but is stopped in her tracks by what he says next.
They might... look nice in your hair.
A roguish smirk overtakes Bexley’s masked face, and, half surprised, half blindingly satisfied, she glances upward to follow his ascent to the sky. To the clouds she blows a sarcastic kiss that she knows will never catch him, and, unbothered by it, starts again on her trek into the desert.
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