OH MY OWN VOICE CANNOT SAVE ME NOW--
Nods and agreement, understanding that has not quite sunk in (or so she assumes). That is the only way, she reasons, that she can understand how he seems to have so easily accepted her proposition, how quickly his mind seems to be ticking forward again, towards some untold destination. She remembers when Maxence declared her Emissary, so unexpected and so public; Seraphina had never expected to be more than another body to feed to the war machine. She never expected to become a diplomat, much less a queen, and more than a small part of her still shuddered in disbelief when she thought of the events of the past year. She too, she thought, was ticking on forward in some direction that she couldn’t quite place. She didn’t know what that meant, yet, but she did know that she was grateful that she was not proceeding forward in the same cold solitude with which she had always pressed forward before.
She notices his glance at her collar when she mentions Solterran steel. Eik doesn’t know what it means, of course, or so she assumes – most who aren’t Solterran by blood don’t, or, at the very least, don’t speak of it. She wonders if he wonders what the point of the collar is; she is, by nature, far from prone to the showiness that accessories provide, and, given its omnipresent status, curled around her throat, it does not quite seem like an accessory besides. Closer examination reveals nicks and scratches lining the shiny metal surface, reminiscent of the scars that knot and roll beneath the comfort of her soft silver coat. Of course, any assumptions that might easily be made of it are likely far from the ugly, ugly truth of her noose, and she isn’t apt to put thoughts or questions to rest. Not about that. Not if she can avoid it.
What is not asked, she will not answer. (And that is a question that she holds close to her heart.)
“I have so many questions for you. We will be here a while?” It was what she expected, but it still provoked the ghost of a smile from the silver mare; not quite a grin, but the faint curling of the corners of her charcoal lips, so rare and strangely warm. It was good, she thought, to be able to trust someone – to be able to share in a purpose. She had spent so much time with little concern beyond some desperate, instinctual urge towards survival; when freed of it, she didn’t know where to go or what to do, and wandered the dunes like a little lost ghost. Seraphina had spent months choking on dry, stagnant desert air. Now…now there was motion once more.
“As long as you wish,” came her soft response, and a nod. Darkness crept in through the windowpanes, drawing shadows up along the walls, but the light from the candles kept Calligo’s night at bay. Another late night – but not one spent alone, with nothing but the cold comfort of history. She was changing, she thought. She didn’t know how, exactly, but she knew that she was.
(She didn’t want to be alone anymore.)
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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
