☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
try try your whole life to be righteous and to be good
wind up on your own floor, choking on blood
He looks startled. Why shouldn’t he be? It is only coincidence that she happened to have experienced the revolts firsthand; it seems that her life is a mess of coincidences, a mess of firsthand experiences. It seems that she has a certain attraction to trouble, or trouble to her – how else would one explain her tendency to stand in the way of history? "There was years there, in the pain they inflicted on everyone in that revolt." Oh, yes. Generations. Children were born into pain; the stories told ‘round fires, built for light rather than heat, were stories of pain and of long-lost glory until all those who remembered the glory days of Solterra died, and then there was nothing left at all. History became something for the books, most of which now lie in ashes. "All bottled up and suddenly it was allowed to be free, freer than they ever had been. War is War, it's a dance. Regardless of the moves or the tactics, there is always a beat which it dances to. Revolts? Chaos. There is no predictability in it, no sense of honor and justice within its fires. There is no controlling it, as you can a field of battle, you can only hope the flames are kinder than an inferno, and burn out quickly." But it seems to her that Solterra is always burning. The desert breeds fire and flame, and, in the heat, it spreads wildfires out of all control. She wonders, sometimes, if they will ever truly find peace.
She settles for a simple, “You’re right.” There aren’t any words that will put thoughts of the revolution at peace. She knows that, now, but sometimes she still wishes that she could find some poetic meaning in the slaughter, some sort of rationale that would explain everything, or make it a part of a larger narrative. Viceroy was like her mother, in that he always told stories. Everything was always a means to an end, a cycle towards something larger. She’d come to realize that some horrible, horrible things would never have a meaning, and they would never be a part of some higher purpose. They would only ever be ugly and horrible.
His expression darkens, then, when she speaks of Viceroy. The subject of her mentor is not one that she actively avoids, but she rarely seeks it out, either. He had died years ago, now, but he still felt like a fresh bruise; he was a monster and a teacher, the closest thing that she had to a family and the architect of all her horrors. She owed – owes – him most everything, but, for his horrors, she isn’t obligated to him at all. She had never asked for his tutelage.
"You will make a better future for yourself, I have every confidence." His expression is warm again, and his eyes bright – the optimism is refreshing, and it sits well on him. Certainty is something that Seraphina has never really possessed. It seems to her that, all too often, her life spins and contorts out of her control. She is picturesque, statuesque restraint, a girl raised up to be a weapon. Her control has never extended further than herself, however, regardless of how she tries to convince herself otherwise; lately, even that seems to slip out of her reach. Her emotions seem to ebb and flow like the tide, propelled by forces outside of her control.
“It’s already better,” She offers, somewhat reassuringly. She would be hard-pressed to end up worse than how she had started, after all. Seraphina has the feeling that she is growing into something that Viceroy would dislike, something softer than what he had molded, something quieter than what the desert and the sun above demand, but she isn’t sure that she minds. She has always worn defiance well.
Fortunately, they don’t linger on the subject of her for long; when she speaks of his leadership, his smile stretches into a grin.
“Thank you,” He says, of her comments. "I'm sure Jaeren and the other members might disagree that they are lucky to have me, they'd also tell you that you will make my ego dangerously large with such compliments." Well. Arrogance wouldn’t be quite so charming as…whatever strange, optimistic charisma he seemed to radiate like some brilliant star that travelers might use as a light in the night, but she also didn’t dislike the grin that he was wearing, so she wasn’t sure that she minded feeding his ego a bit. She watched him thoughtfully, a hint of amusement coloring her oh-so often dry features.
To her optimism, he tells her, "If anyone can do it, you can. You have seen every aspect of Solterra, you have walked among them, you have fought for them." His confidence is endearing, really – and refreshing. When you are surrounded by fire and blood, it is all too easy to forego idealism and hope for the future; she remembers the Davke attack. In the days – weeks - that followed, she had ached - ached - too much to look at anything but what was behind her. It followed her like a suffocating, strangling darkness. For a time, she had thought that she could simply fall back into who she was, but that was a remnant life she was no longer living, and a world that she no longer occupied. How could she run from change?
If she could not heal her homeland now, she would make herself anew into someone who could.
Her ears twitch up, and she thinks back to his response when she offered her sincere compliments. “I believe I should be telling you not to feed my ego,” She says, with a (not unpleasant) quirk of her brow. Seraphina isn’t any less thankful for the reassurance, though; she has spent weeks attempting to reassure herself that the world is not crumbling to pieces beneath her hooves.
A warm, genuine smile to her thanks. His, she thinks, is a smile she doesn’t mind – when it means something, at least, and she knows that this one does. "You do not have to thank me, I should be thanking you." She’s taken aback, slightly. What did he have to thank her for?
“You needn’t thank me for anything,” She murmurs, her tone surprisingly gentle. She realizes that he doesn’t have a clue – that he doesn’t know what it means that anyone has faith in her, in the wake of failure, even knowing what she is. Seraphina is accustomed to being regarded as something inextricably damaged, a discarded, broken thing that happened into a position of influence and power. They didn’t expect her to do anything with it. Not really. The court never expected her to be anything. They see the wreckage she will return to when she finishes her trek through the Abigo Caves as proof enough of that. In truth, she has never thought them wrong. It isn’t though she isn’t aware of what she is, or that she isn’t aware that there is something deeply, deeply abnormal about her. However…
She doesn’t believe that is the end of it. It can’t, she reasons, be so simple – not so long as she is still trying.
She has to keep herself from fidgeting as she awaits his response with something akin to smothered, nervous anticipation. She wants him to say yes, she realizes abruptly, and she’s not sure that she likes the realization. "I would like that...very much." A ghost of a grin. "It'd be nice to see Solterra without the banners of War above my head, and hear more stories about its people and history." Seraphina is always eager to share that - already, her mind is rolling over places to take him, things to show him. She likes to think that she might have been something of a scholar, if things had been different. As they were…
“Then, whenever you wish…” She trails off, adding, “I cannot guarantee that we are in our…most appealing state, at the moment, but perhaps you will see us more clearly that way.” The capitol is still in shambles, but in the scorch marks and the rubble, she thinks that you can find the clearest image of Solterra that has been available in years. After all, in the aftermath of such destruction, her people have worked together to rebuild and regrow; a common enemy to rally against, a force that wished for the destruction of them all was just what they needed to begin to heal the gaping divide between the classes. Oppressor and oppressed, for the first time in a very long time, were forced to work together for the common good. It isn’t beautiful. It’s hours of hard work beneath a relentless and uncaring (she thinks, somewhat bitterly) sun. Nevertheless, it is healing. No people in Novus are so resilient, so utterly relentless – opposition only fed their flames.
"Then, perhaps, after my visit in Solterra. You could come see Direstone? It is not as grand as the Night Palace, nor the Day Palace but—" He cuts himself off. She has a feeling that he’s trying to convince her to go. He doesn’t need to.
She considers, briefly; she didn’t anticipate the invitation (though she doubts that he anticipated hers, either). Thoughts of seeing more of Denocte than was offered to her during the war hadn’t crossed her mind, even with her change in status, – her relationship with the Night Kingdom was hardly friendly – and she least of all anticipated seeing the base of what was, from her understanding, their standing army. That didn’t mean she wasn’t immediately inclined to accept the offer. “I…would like that.” She doesn’t want things often, but she has the feeling that she wants this - Seraphina has always liked travelling. (And, though she pushes the thought to the back of her mind, she doesn’t think that it hurts that it would be another opportunity to meet Renwick. That thought is quickly hushed and pushed aside, though.) “I can’t say I’m sure of what Denocte’s Regime would think of my presence in their borders, but, if you’d have me…” Another one of those hints of a smile, a faint curling at the corners of her lips.
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tags | @Renwick
notes | <3
try try your whole life to be righteous and to be good
wind up on your own floor, choking on blood
He looks startled. Why shouldn’t he be? It is only coincidence that she happened to have experienced the revolts firsthand; it seems that her life is a mess of coincidences, a mess of firsthand experiences. It seems that she has a certain attraction to trouble, or trouble to her – how else would one explain her tendency to stand in the way of history? "There was years there, in the pain they inflicted on everyone in that revolt." Oh, yes. Generations. Children were born into pain; the stories told ‘round fires, built for light rather than heat, were stories of pain and of long-lost glory until all those who remembered the glory days of Solterra died, and then there was nothing left at all. History became something for the books, most of which now lie in ashes. "All bottled up and suddenly it was allowed to be free, freer than they ever had been. War is War, it's a dance. Regardless of the moves or the tactics, there is always a beat which it dances to. Revolts? Chaos. There is no predictability in it, no sense of honor and justice within its fires. There is no controlling it, as you can a field of battle, you can only hope the flames are kinder than an inferno, and burn out quickly." But it seems to her that Solterra is always burning. The desert breeds fire and flame, and, in the heat, it spreads wildfires out of all control. She wonders, sometimes, if they will ever truly find peace.
She settles for a simple, “You’re right.” There aren’t any words that will put thoughts of the revolution at peace. She knows that, now, but sometimes she still wishes that she could find some poetic meaning in the slaughter, some sort of rationale that would explain everything, or make it a part of a larger narrative. Viceroy was like her mother, in that he always told stories. Everything was always a means to an end, a cycle towards something larger. She’d come to realize that some horrible, horrible things would never have a meaning, and they would never be a part of some higher purpose. They would only ever be ugly and horrible.
His expression darkens, then, when she speaks of Viceroy. The subject of her mentor is not one that she actively avoids, but she rarely seeks it out, either. He had died years ago, now, but he still felt like a fresh bruise; he was a monster and a teacher, the closest thing that she had to a family and the architect of all her horrors. She owed – owes – him most everything, but, for his horrors, she isn’t obligated to him at all. She had never asked for his tutelage.
"You will make a better future for yourself, I have every confidence." His expression is warm again, and his eyes bright – the optimism is refreshing, and it sits well on him. Certainty is something that Seraphina has never really possessed. It seems to her that, all too often, her life spins and contorts out of her control. She is picturesque, statuesque restraint, a girl raised up to be a weapon. Her control has never extended further than herself, however, regardless of how she tries to convince herself otherwise; lately, even that seems to slip out of her reach. Her emotions seem to ebb and flow like the tide, propelled by forces outside of her control.
“It’s already better,” She offers, somewhat reassuringly. She would be hard-pressed to end up worse than how she had started, after all. Seraphina has the feeling that she is growing into something that Viceroy would dislike, something softer than what he had molded, something quieter than what the desert and the sun above demand, but she isn’t sure that she minds. She has always worn defiance well.
Fortunately, they don’t linger on the subject of her for long; when she speaks of his leadership, his smile stretches into a grin.
“Thank you,” He says, of her comments. "I'm sure Jaeren and the other members might disagree that they are lucky to have me, they'd also tell you that you will make my ego dangerously large with such compliments." Well. Arrogance wouldn’t be quite so charming as…whatever strange, optimistic charisma he seemed to radiate like some brilliant star that travelers might use as a light in the night, but she also didn’t dislike the grin that he was wearing, so she wasn’t sure that she minded feeding his ego a bit. She watched him thoughtfully, a hint of amusement coloring her oh-so often dry features.
To her optimism, he tells her, "If anyone can do it, you can. You have seen every aspect of Solterra, you have walked among them, you have fought for them." His confidence is endearing, really – and refreshing. When you are surrounded by fire and blood, it is all too easy to forego idealism and hope for the future; she remembers the Davke attack. In the days – weeks - that followed, she had ached - ached - too much to look at anything but what was behind her. It followed her like a suffocating, strangling darkness. For a time, she had thought that she could simply fall back into who she was, but that was a remnant life she was no longer living, and a world that she no longer occupied. How could she run from change?
If she could not heal her homeland now, she would make herself anew into someone who could.
Her ears twitch up, and she thinks back to his response when she offered her sincere compliments. “I believe I should be telling you not to feed my ego,” She says, with a (not unpleasant) quirk of her brow. Seraphina isn’t any less thankful for the reassurance, though; she has spent weeks attempting to reassure herself that the world is not crumbling to pieces beneath her hooves.
A warm, genuine smile to her thanks. His, she thinks, is a smile she doesn’t mind – when it means something, at least, and she knows that this one does. "You do not have to thank me, I should be thanking you." She’s taken aback, slightly. What did he have to thank her for?
“You needn’t thank me for anything,” She murmurs, her tone surprisingly gentle. She realizes that he doesn’t have a clue – that he doesn’t know what it means that anyone has faith in her, in the wake of failure, even knowing what she is. Seraphina is accustomed to being regarded as something inextricably damaged, a discarded, broken thing that happened into a position of influence and power. They didn’t expect her to do anything with it. Not really. The court never expected her to be anything. They see the wreckage she will return to when she finishes her trek through the Abigo Caves as proof enough of that. In truth, she has never thought them wrong. It isn’t though she isn’t aware of what she is, or that she isn’t aware that there is something deeply, deeply abnormal about her. However…
She doesn’t believe that is the end of it. It can’t, she reasons, be so simple – not so long as she is still trying.
She has to keep herself from fidgeting as she awaits his response with something akin to smothered, nervous anticipation. She wants him to say yes, she realizes abruptly, and she’s not sure that she likes the realization. "I would like that...very much." A ghost of a grin. "It'd be nice to see Solterra without the banners of War above my head, and hear more stories about its people and history." Seraphina is always eager to share that - already, her mind is rolling over places to take him, things to show him. She likes to think that she might have been something of a scholar, if things had been different. As they were…
“Then, whenever you wish…” She trails off, adding, “I cannot guarantee that we are in our…most appealing state, at the moment, but perhaps you will see us more clearly that way.” The capitol is still in shambles, but in the scorch marks and the rubble, she thinks that you can find the clearest image of Solterra that has been available in years. After all, in the aftermath of such destruction, her people have worked together to rebuild and regrow; a common enemy to rally against, a force that wished for the destruction of them all was just what they needed to begin to heal the gaping divide between the classes. Oppressor and oppressed, for the first time in a very long time, were forced to work together for the common good. It isn’t beautiful. It’s hours of hard work beneath a relentless and uncaring (she thinks, somewhat bitterly) sun. Nevertheless, it is healing. No people in Novus are so resilient, so utterly relentless – opposition only fed their flames.
"Then, perhaps, after my visit in Solterra. You could come see Direstone? It is not as grand as the Night Palace, nor the Day Palace but—" He cuts himself off. She has a feeling that he’s trying to convince her to go. He doesn’t need to.
She considers, briefly; she didn’t anticipate the invitation (though she doubts that he anticipated hers, either). Thoughts of seeing more of Denocte than was offered to her during the war hadn’t crossed her mind, even with her change in status, – her relationship with the Night Kingdom was hardly friendly – and she least of all anticipated seeing the base of what was, from her understanding, their standing army. That didn’t mean she wasn’t immediately inclined to accept the offer. “I…would like that.” She doesn’t want things often, but she has the feeling that she wants this - Seraphina has always liked travelling. (And, though she pushes the thought to the back of her mind, she doesn’t think that it hurts that it would be another opportunity to meet Renwick. That thought is quickly hushed and pushed aside, though.) “I can’t say I’m sure of what Denocte’s Regime would think of my presence in their borders, but, if you’d have me…” Another one of those hints of a smile, a faint curling at the corners of her lips.
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tags | @
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
