☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
The sun curls up in her lungs as she breathes in the scalding heat of the midday sun, dry familiarity; when the falcon lands in front of her, she can barely remember what she was doing, passing through the midst of the marketplace. Work. Something – on her way to meet someone. They would have to wait. It takes little more than a rudimentary glance at the brilliant gold of the bird’s feathers, a look into her clever eyes, to make Seraphina realize that whatever had just lighted before her was far, far more important than whatever arrangement she was meant to attend. This was not normal. This was not-
The falcon speaks.
The voice makes her think of winding branches and black water, of a great monster with sharp, sharp teeth and skin that rippled like ink; it makes her think of running, the white-hot adrenaline of terror, of empty loneliness and misplaced devotion. She skims the words of the unfurling message. Rakes her eyes along them. Skims again. A week from now? They should move quickly. Be there early. Was it him? Will it be him? She’ll find out when she gets there, she thinks, idly.
(A choir girl steps up to the altar to sing, but she doesn’t remember the sound of her own voice.)
Seraphina has never doubted the gods.
She is native-born and native-raised, after all; they are as real to her as the sky, the trees, each grain of sand cast golden across the dunes. In all things, she sees the touch of the divine, painting everything cast out in front of her eyes like some great, celestial paintbrush. She does not need to see them in front of her when she knows that they are everywhere. In all her times of terror, – before now - the concept of some divine watching over her had been a comfort. Now, it makes her stomach twist with nausea. What have we done now? No, not we - what have I done now? It sinks in, abrupt as a bullet to the chest, that she has spurned her own god, that she is a sun queen with no sun to watch over her. Was that the last straw, the final offence of a nation bent double beneath the weight of its ancestors' sins? Was this some sort of divine reckoning? You will come. (She was trying so hard – she had tried so hard.) She doesn’t want to go – she wants to dig her heels into the sand and focus on continuing to rebuild what remains of her nation, to try and unify her people in the face of tragedy and history and a future that seems to waver like the mirages that dance in hazy reflections along each mountainous ridge of sand in the smothering midday heat. Like most things that she is slowly realizing scare her, it makes her want to run, to bolt off into the dunes like a shadow and bury herself so deep in the sands that she will never be found again. Selfish, Seraphina. Selfish. She needed to be steadfast, now of all times; she couldn’t falter. (But, then, there was never a time when she could.) She needed to be as sharp as a knife forged in her country’s steel and twice as quick – whatever awaited her at Veneror Peak, it was likely not on her side.
(Whatever. She knows – of course she knows. Tempus himself. She isn’t ready to admit that yet, though.)
She watches the bird dully, momentarily transfixed by the metallic gold of its feathers, and she is quietly aware that she stands alone in front of something divine, and she doesn’t want that anymore. Everything has a reason, Seraphina. They are always watching over us. Was there a reason for this? For any of this? (Her eyes, torn from gold, creep along a burnt, crumbling mosaic; ashes cling to the crevices between the tiles.) She can’t blame the divine for the actions of mortals, she knows, and she is tired of blaming, or perhaps being blamed, but she’s heard time and time again that the gods have a plan.
She doesn’t know, – if there is a purpose to things, she has never been very good at figuring it out – and she doubts that a bird, no matter how holy, will be able to enlighten her about the mysteries of the universe. (She is not sure if the god still possesses her, after all.) Instead, she inclines her head at the falcon, uncertain. “Is there anything I might bring you, messenger? The flight from Veneror must have been long, and the desert is not always hospitable to travelers.” She is not sure she the flight has actually bothered it, as she looks like she belongs in the desert skies more than anything she has ever seen, and she doubts that she can speak on her own, but perhaps an indication of her needs would allow her to meet them…if she is even a bird at all, not some extension of the divine creature she represents.
She glances back at the crowd that had gathered with the falcon’s arrival, her multicolored gaze eerily composed, all things considered. “It seems,” She says, simply, “that Tempus requests our presence.” Hers, at least – and Eik’s and Bexley’s, she assumes. (In any case, there are none in Solterra she would trust more than her own two hands, Avdotya’s betrayal be damned.) She gazes at a sea of familiar faces, awaiting the questions that would no doubt be in store for her.
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tags | @Random Events @Eik @Bexley specifically
notes | just casually ignore the existential dread over here
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
The sun curls up in her lungs as she breathes in the scalding heat of the midday sun, dry familiarity; when the falcon lands in front of her, she can barely remember what she was doing, passing through the midst of the marketplace. Work. Something – on her way to meet someone. They would have to wait. It takes little more than a rudimentary glance at the brilliant gold of the bird’s feathers, a look into her clever eyes, to make Seraphina realize that whatever had just lighted before her was far, far more important than whatever arrangement she was meant to attend. This was not normal. This was not-
The falcon speaks.
The voice makes her think of winding branches and black water, of a great monster with sharp, sharp teeth and skin that rippled like ink; it makes her think of running, the white-hot adrenaline of terror, of empty loneliness and misplaced devotion. She skims the words of the unfurling message. Rakes her eyes along them. Skims again. A week from now? They should move quickly. Be there early. Was it him? Will it be him? She’ll find out when she gets there, she thinks, idly.
(A choir girl steps up to the altar to sing, but she doesn’t remember the sound of her own voice.)
Seraphina has never doubted the gods.
She is native-born and native-raised, after all; they are as real to her as the sky, the trees, each grain of sand cast golden across the dunes. In all things, she sees the touch of the divine, painting everything cast out in front of her eyes like some great, celestial paintbrush. She does not need to see them in front of her when she knows that they are everywhere. In all her times of terror, – before now - the concept of some divine watching over her had been a comfort. Now, it makes her stomach twist with nausea. What have we done now? No, not we - what have I done now? It sinks in, abrupt as a bullet to the chest, that she has spurned her own god, that she is a sun queen with no sun to watch over her. Was that the last straw, the final offence of a nation bent double beneath the weight of its ancestors' sins? Was this some sort of divine reckoning? You will come. (She was trying so hard – she had tried so hard.) She doesn’t want to go – she wants to dig her heels into the sand and focus on continuing to rebuild what remains of her nation, to try and unify her people in the face of tragedy and history and a future that seems to waver like the mirages that dance in hazy reflections along each mountainous ridge of sand in the smothering midday heat. Like most things that she is slowly realizing scare her, it makes her want to run, to bolt off into the dunes like a shadow and bury herself so deep in the sands that she will never be found again. Selfish, Seraphina. Selfish. She needed to be steadfast, now of all times; she couldn’t falter. (But, then, there was never a time when she could.) She needed to be as sharp as a knife forged in her country’s steel and twice as quick – whatever awaited her at Veneror Peak, it was likely not on her side.
(Whatever. She knows – of course she knows. Tempus himself. She isn’t ready to admit that yet, though.)
She watches the bird dully, momentarily transfixed by the metallic gold of its feathers, and she is quietly aware that she stands alone in front of something divine, and she doesn’t want that anymore. Everything has a reason, Seraphina. They are always watching over us. Was there a reason for this? For any of this? (Her eyes, torn from gold, creep along a burnt, crumbling mosaic; ashes cling to the crevices between the tiles.) She can’t blame the divine for the actions of mortals, she knows, and she is tired of blaming, or perhaps being blamed, but she’s heard time and time again that the gods have a plan.
She doesn’t know, – if there is a purpose to things, she has never been very good at figuring it out – and she doubts that a bird, no matter how holy, will be able to enlighten her about the mysteries of the universe. (She is not sure if the god still possesses her, after all.) Instead, she inclines her head at the falcon, uncertain. “Is there anything I might bring you, messenger? The flight from Veneror must have been long, and the desert is not always hospitable to travelers.” She is not sure she the flight has actually bothered it, as she looks like she belongs in the desert skies more than anything she has ever seen, and she doubts that she can speak on her own, but perhaps an indication of her needs would allow her to meet them…if she is even a bird at all, not some extension of the divine creature she represents.
She glances back at the crowd that had gathered with the falcon’s arrival, her multicolored gaze eerily composed, all things considered. “It seems,” She says, simply, “that Tempus requests our presence.” Hers, at least – and Eik’s and Bexley’s, she assumes. (In any case, there are none in Solterra she would trust more than her own two hands, Avdotya’s betrayal be damned.) She gazes at a sea of familiar faces, awaiting the questions that would no doubt be in store for her.
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tags | @Random Events @
notes | just casually ignore the existential dread over here
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
