See the dead on the cover of a magazine
See my smile, it was born from amphetamines
She moved like a shadow down the sand covered streets, silent and prowling like a feline. In the aftermath of the Davke attack many of the sandstone buildings still bore their scars; dark, wild burns that thrashed over their pale exteriors. The citizens who remained… some were empty, hollow things. Others had changed irrevocably, twisted and gnarled and no longer recognizable as the person they were before. Teiran had long since washed herself of the blood of war, but still it lingered, clinging to darkened corners and long alleyways. One could almost hear the screams of the dying faintly on the breeze, but maybe that was just the sound of it whistling through the cracks left behind in their psyche.
These dusty roads were the same unforgiving ones of her childhood, if not more bleak for the recent events. She remembered so little of it, just broken mirror fragments that cut through her in the dark of night. Over the years since Zolin’s murder so much had changed and yet so much remained the same. One thing was certain, and it was that Teiran would stand by the court whatever came to pass. She would help it rebuild, help to do whatever was required of her. So many underestimated her, and yet here she stood with more death on her hands than perhaps half the court could claim. More static in her thoughts, more demons clawing their way free of her skin.
At length she found herself moving through the halls of the court, hooves tapping rhythmically on the floors—a staccato that echoed and echoed its loneliness off the walls and down the empty lengths around her. The sight of the burned library forced Teiran to pause in her excursion. She stood outside its heavy, smoke stained doors, sage green eyes moving over what she could see through them as they hung partially open. Of course she had known that Seraphina had burned it, and a pang flashed through her at the loss of what had been stored within. It was an odd feeling, of missing something that had never really been hers though she had immersed herself more than once among the scrolls and books.
There would be more, one day. History would continue to be kept and tales would be written and one day it would be rebuilt and filled to the brim she was sure. Still, Teiran knew her days of wandering in and finding something to read, to occupy her time, were gone for now. The small woman was about to turn away and start back on her rounds when the sound of approaching steps had her turning her head. A well-known shape drifted toward her as if carried by the heavy summer winds, the sun glinting off the distinct collar at her neck. “Seraphina,” she said—familiarity an undercurrent to her otherwise invariable tone—as her sovereign approached.
and heaven knows how hard I tried but the devil whispered lies I believed
There is comfort in familiarity.
Seraphina is not built for adaptability, and she is innately, uncomfortably aware of it. In the months that followed Zolin’s death, before the arrival of Maxence, she had followed her familiar patrol routes across the dunes, clenching desperately to routine even as the entire world seemed to spiral out of control around her. The guardian of a fallen kingdom, the guardian of a dead sovereign – in hindsight, it seemed so laughably delusional, but it was the only way that she (and the others like her, she imagined) could survive. It was the only way that they knew how to survive.
As she walks the streets of the still-scorched city, she finds herself falling into familiar patterns. Unrecognizable as the ash-laden paths and crumbling buildings have come to be, she can still rely on muscle memory to guide her forward, though she has no distinct direction. While she is like this, she is almost the Seraphina that she was after Zolin’s death – the fire, at least, is almost mockingly similar.
The only difference, perhaps, is that she survived where he did not.
Her steps eventually guide her towards what she recognizes as the burnt shell that was once Solterra’s great library. As she looks at it, she feels a pang; as Emissary, she spent days upon days bent over a desk, scouring scrolls and worn tomes. Now, most of them had gone up in a fire that she had started herself, burning their own history a final act of defiance against the Davke’s assault – but not all, in spite of her reluctance to pull them from their hiding place…the most important texts, the oldest and most irreplaceable records and stories, remained intact. However, with the possibility of another attack still resting heavy on her mind, Seraphina decided it was best to keep their presence hidden.
As she steps through broken, downed rafters and walls, her ears catch on the sound of movement; she freezes, tension running a livewire course down her spine, then settles at the sight of a familiar form. Seraphina, Teiran greets, and her voice is cold, albeit familiar.
But she, of course, feels no chill when her eyes rest on that familiar steel collar; when she looks into those apathetic eyes, she feels only a faint, kindred bond. They would both feel wrong, she imagines, to anyone else – standoffish and cold, distant and aloft if not somewhere else entirely. Maybe they are wrong. As she has been dragged further and further into a society to which she is utterly unaccustomed, the thought has crossed Seraphina’s mind countless times, though she has concluded that shameful might be the better term. Unpleasant, like a stain – better to be washed away with the desert sands.
They, of course, know nothing of the truth behind their haunted little ghost children. They know nothing of their resilience – or their loyalty, blind as it might be. She doesn’t intend to misplace it.
The small woman is greeted with a gentler glance than she would afford most. “Hello, Teiran,” She says, coolly, mirroring the distant familiarity of the other woman’s tone, “Out on patrol?” There is, in truth, no need to ask; she already knows the answer.
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
See the dead on the cover of a magazine
See my smile, it was born from amphetamines
Seraphina turned toward Teiran and the rosy hued girl might have smiled had she understood the intricacies of companionism. As it were, she stood maybe a little less stiffly, looked on with less of a narrowed, inspecting gaze. She remembered more of their time in Viceroy's army than she cared to admit to herself, but of that she knew that Sera had spent most of her time at the man's side. Had she, more than any of them, been suscepted to different horrors? Teiran did not, could not know, and she would never ask.
"It is a quiet day in the Court," she spoke in response to the silver woman's inquiry to her patrolling, "Many are still recovering, staying indoors, I suppose." That was something she could not understand-recuperation, healing. All her life, even from her time as a small filly, Teiran had gone from one trial to another with never a moment in between to breathe. After the attack she had gone from fight mode to guard duty to hard laborer, passing along the walls ever alert, removing rubble and debris and bodies. Perhaps now she could say that they were safe but she refused to chance it.
"Clearing of burned rubble is coming along smoothly, I have taken some time to oversee it, between other duties." The words came out sounding more like a report, as though such duties had been anything but self-imposed. As far as Teiran was concerned, this was all the small talk she cared for, let alone knew how to carry out with any success. Her sage green eyes flickered over Seraphina's features, momentarily landing on the library before she stood alert once more.
There was perhaps a silent question there, lingering. What of the library? It would be a lie to say she did not want to know, but inquire she would not. She did not ask questions that had no bearing on her job as a soldier of Solterra. "Is there anything you would like me to do, Seraphina?" Teiran preferred to constantly be in motion, to always be occupied, and even on a good day she had little to attend to than her own patrols and odd jobs. Working toward the rebuilding of the Court certainly gave her more to do but she would not turn down any sort of direction or orders. The busier, the better.
and heaven knows how hard I tried but the devil whispered lies I believed
Looking at the two of them, Seraphina imagines that no one would suspect that they had lived the same horrors, suffered in the grasp of the same monsters. For those that remain, the past is no subject for discussion; it is simply business as usual, forward progression, perhaps an effort to put it out of sight and out of mind. Teiran is quick to launch into a report, and Seraphina’s dark ears twitch forward to catch her words. “I imagine that they’re worried about the possibility of another attack, as well,” She comments; they all are, particularly with the city still severely damaged. However, with the Davke out in the desert, many were still too frightened to venture out into the desert, so they holed up indoors, even knowing what it meant if they came back. “You haven’t seen any sign of the Davke, I presume?” Seraphina adds quickly; she can’t imagine that she wouldn’t have mentioned it if she had, but she supposes that it’s worth mentioning.
Teiran then mentions that she’s been helping to rebuild – overseeing some of the efforts, even, not that Seraphina expected anything less from her. She remembers herself a year ago, desperate to keep herself busy and feel like she was being helpful, and she appreciates the effort besides. Not everyone is so selfless with their efforts, even in such troubled times. “Good,” She says, with a nod. “I can imagine no one better to oversee the process.” More dedicated, she means, but she doesn’t say it.
She notes the way that Teiran’s eyes drift to the library, but they’re back on her before she can fully consider the implications of her stare. When she asks if there is anything else she can do, Seraphina pauses for a moment, considering; her gaze drifts behind Teiran, towards the rubble in the back of the library. She stares out into the darkness and the ash, the overturned, half-crisped shelves, and then turns her stare back on Tieran. “…Follow me.” With that, she brushes past her, towards the rubble where she set the building ablaze; she climbs over overturned, crumbling shelves with careful strides, each step displacing bits of burnt paper and ash. “I have a project that requires…someone reliable. I believe you would be well-suited to take care of it.” She picks her way to the back of the library, until she stands in front of a great, iron hatch; it seems to have melted very slightly around the edges, but someone has carved it back open. Gripping the handle in her teeth, a task that could easily have been accomplished with her telekinesis, she pulls it open, revealing a stairway down; it is illuminated by flickering orange torchlight from the passage that it spills into.
Without a word, she descends the stairs and makes her way down the passage. At the end of the hall is a semi-circular room, filled to the brim with haphazardly-arranged scrolls and books. Considering the circumstances under which they were placed underground, the chaos is necessary. Seraphina turns an inquisitive eye on Teiran, gauging her reaction before she explains.
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
See the dead on the cover of a magazine
See my smile, it was born from amphetamines
Teiran hadn't considered the fact that perhaps the reason nobody was out wandering the court was because they were afraid. Teiran didn't really understand fear. Maybe, she thought, she had felt it once, but the only things she remembered with any certainty were things. Hunger, pain, exhaustion. Everything else was lost, shut behind a wall that either would not or could not be scaled. Fear, she thought, explained some things, if it meant the people were expecting another attack.
She was not afraid. If there were to be another attack she would only come back fiercer, fight harder. Teiran would do whatever it took to keep this Court safe. Regardless, "No, there has been no sign of the Davke, although I do not intend to let my guard down." Her sage green eyes, often cold, were sharp like the point of the dagger she chose to fight with. Her sovereign's compliment is like rain, landing gently and running off her, and Teiran does not quite know how to reply, how to take the gentleness. In the end, she nods rather stiffly in recognition.
It is Seraphina's next words that seem to, at last, get some sort of reaction from her, as though proving she is not simply a flawed machine. Her gaze shifts, widening a fraction as the state of the library is laid before her. The rosy warrior follows her Queen through the rubble, stepping over what she guesses are remains of tables, bookshelves, pages. "I will get the job done," she says, whatever it is, she thinks. Perhaps she should reassure the silver woman of her trustworthiness, but it does not occur to her to. Her statement is all the reassurance she thinks is necessary.
The large iron door is opened and beyond it lies darkness with only flickering torches to light their way. Seraphina is silent and Teiran does not speak as they make their way down the staircase, eventually stepping into a small chamber. Her eyes alight on the scrolls and parchments and other pieces scattered about and she thinks she knows what has happened here. Something like a smile flickers across her face, barely there before it is gone again, fleeting. "You?" she guessed, for who else than the very one who had set fire to the library in the first place.
