☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
heavy is the head that wears the crown
He eases into her name, and she relaxes, slightly, with the informality. Now of all times, she wishes that her title lay on someone else’s head – someone far more worthy of it than she, sun-scorned and girlish in the face of all the experience she once imagined was hers. There was no accountability in her childhood. All of that blood wasn’t really on her hands; she kept her distance from all the broken bodies, and she told herself day in and day out that it wasn’t what she wanted or what she willed. She did what she must. There was no such comfort now; all the weight in the world seemed to beat down on her shoulders.
He tells her that no thanks are needed, but her stubborn politeness insists. “The gesture is…greatly appreciated nevertheless,” As much as it stings to take charity from a kingdom whose intentions she cannot truly discern, Seraphina is being honest; it is not as though her people had many supplies, even before the Davke attacked. “I know that the relationship between our nations is tense, at the moment.”
Isorath is silent until the guards leave the room, and then, advancing, declares that he has no intention to buy her. “Thank you,” She says, as something of an afterthought. That is not to say her tone is especially grateful; it remains cool as ice. As though she could ever be bought in the first place. Seraphina had grown up in a land of nobles swollen on the suffering of others, and, though a part of her wonders if she is still a queen at all in the wake of such a monumental failure, she knows - knows - that she will not make the same mistakes. Nevertheless, she appreciates the sentiment, if only because it offers a hint of sympathy – or empathy – for her people. Perhaps it is a cynical notion, but she is sure that many of his fellows have laughed while her nation crumbles to its knees.
At least he still believes they deserve anything at all.
A pause, and then an explanation of his intentions. She could have guessed them; he is an emissary, and she knows that it is an emissary’s job to put out fires. Seraphina wasn’t aware that Denocte had any interest in smoothing over their relationship with Solterra, however. Their nations had spent so much time at war that she suspected it would feel more unnatural if they weren’t at each other’s throats, much as she’d rather their relationship be otherwise. “What transgressions have you been made aware of, and how would you see them resolved?” Her eyes linger intently on his white-and-gold frame; she makes little attempt to disguise her wariness, though her tone is nothing if not cordial. She remembers her own time spent as Maxence’s Emissary, and she remembers how she had regarded his decisions on foreign policy. (For a moment, memories of Rostislav and his hellhound come bubbling to the surface, but she is quick to dismiss them again.) Seraphina knows, then, that she cannot necessarily consider the Emissary’s thoughts to parallel his Sovereign’s. A part of her would rather be speaking with Reichenbach himself, rather than a proxy, but she has the creeping feeling that she doesn’t need the man in front of her to know exactly what his stance is on her nation.
She remembers Reichenbach, though it feels like she met him lifetimes ago; a charming creature, really, with a disarmingly pleasant smile. (In light of more recent events, the thought makes her stomach turn knots.) She knows of his temper, and she knows of the temper of his Stormsinger. (There is no part of her that is unconvinced that the woman wouldn’t like to see each and every Solterran reduced to ashes by their own flames; for a moment, she hears a vicious, ugly crack.) She knows what he did to Florentine. If that was how he treated a lover, even if he had fallen out of love with her, how could she ever trust his good will?
She says nothing, of course – merely waits. Seraphina had learned not to put her cards on the table until she knew what game her opponent was playing, if she could call the man in front of her an opponent at all. If it was truly peace he sought, or, if nothing else, restitution, then they were on the same side.
(But, of course, memory of Avdotya’s betrayal runs hot, like fresh blood. She tells herself that she won’t be so quick to take anyone at their word ever again.)
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tags | @isorath
notes | <3
heavy is the head that wears the crown
He eases into her name, and she relaxes, slightly, with the informality. Now of all times, she wishes that her title lay on someone else’s head – someone far more worthy of it than she, sun-scorned and girlish in the face of all the experience she once imagined was hers. There was no accountability in her childhood. All of that blood wasn’t really on her hands; she kept her distance from all the broken bodies, and she told herself day in and day out that it wasn’t what she wanted or what she willed. She did what she must. There was no such comfort now; all the weight in the world seemed to beat down on her shoulders.
He tells her that no thanks are needed, but her stubborn politeness insists. “The gesture is…greatly appreciated nevertheless,” As much as it stings to take charity from a kingdom whose intentions she cannot truly discern, Seraphina is being honest; it is not as though her people had many supplies, even before the Davke attacked. “I know that the relationship between our nations is tense, at the moment.”
Isorath is silent until the guards leave the room, and then, advancing, declares that he has no intention to buy her. “Thank you,” She says, as something of an afterthought. That is not to say her tone is especially grateful; it remains cool as ice. As though she could ever be bought in the first place. Seraphina had grown up in a land of nobles swollen on the suffering of others, and, though a part of her wonders if she is still a queen at all in the wake of such a monumental failure, she knows - knows - that she will not make the same mistakes. Nevertheless, she appreciates the sentiment, if only because it offers a hint of sympathy – or empathy – for her people. Perhaps it is a cynical notion, but she is sure that many of his fellows have laughed while her nation crumbles to its knees.
At least he still believes they deserve anything at all.
A pause, and then an explanation of his intentions. She could have guessed them; he is an emissary, and she knows that it is an emissary’s job to put out fires. Seraphina wasn’t aware that Denocte had any interest in smoothing over their relationship with Solterra, however. Their nations had spent so much time at war that she suspected it would feel more unnatural if they weren’t at each other’s throats, much as she’d rather their relationship be otherwise. “What transgressions have you been made aware of, and how would you see them resolved?” Her eyes linger intently on his white-and-gold frame; she makes little attempt to disguise her wariness, though her tone is nothing if not cordial. She remembers her own time spent as Maxence’s Emissary, and she remembers how she had regarded his decisions on foreign policy. (For a moment, memories of Rostislav and his hellhound come bubbling to the surface, but she is quick to dismiss them again.) Seraphina knows, then, that she cannot necessarily consider the Emissary’s thoughts to parallel his Sovereign’s. A part of her would rather be speaking with Reichenbach himself, rather than a proxy, but she has the creeping feeling that she doesn’t need the man in front of her to know exactly what his stance is on her nation.
She remembers Reichenbach, though it feels like she met him lifetimes ago; a charming creature, really, with a disarmingly pleasant smile. (In light of more recent events, the thought makes her stomach turn knots.) She knows of his temper, and she knows of the temper of his Stormsinger. (There is no part of her that is unconvinced that the woman wouldn’t like to see each and every Solterran reduced to ashes by their own flames; for a moment, she hears a vicious, ugly crack.) She knows what he did to Florentine. If that was how he treated a lover, even if he had fallen out of love with her, how could she ever trust his good will?
She says nothing, of course – merely waits. Seraphina had learned not to put her cards on the table until she knew what game her opponent was playing, if she could call the man in front of her an opponent at all. If it was truly peace he sought, or, if nothing else, restitution, then they were on the same side.
(But, of course, memory of Avdotya’s betrayal runs hot, like fresh blood. She tells herself that she won’t be so quick to take anyone at their word ever again.)
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tags | @isorath
notes | <3
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
