☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
someone will remember us I say
even in another time
Seraphina passes the great wooden doors with practiced poise and eerie composure, both of her advisors at her side. It would be easy to assume that the events of the past week have not shaken the silver queen at all; she seems to react to them with the same cold with which she responds to everything. Her mismatched eyes scan the space in front of her, running the length of rich tapestries and torches that catch on the silver of her collar. They finally come to a rest on the great shrine at the head of a table – another thing that seems to have been moved. (She wonders if the sea glass she brought so long ago still rests at his altar.) She watches the stones bob and float, and she swears she sees the statue twitch, and she wonders if the gods have always possessed their imitations.
She walks by the Solterran tapestries – some figures are familiar, and others are not. (Her eyes linger momentarily on the painted shape of Queen Sol, more snake than woman.) Under different circumstances and in a very different time, she might have spent more time studying them. Now, she is propelled forward by urgency and adrenaline, keeping the same, brisk pace until she reaches the table.
Oh, she knows that she should be terrified, – shocked, at least – but she isn’t. That terrible, terrible numbness still comes creeping in, as it always does when she is met with information that she is not prepared to handle, and she doesn’t fight it. It will be over faster if you’re quiet. Well – she is – she is quiet.
Situated appropriately, she turns to regard the statue.
“Hello,” She murmurs, hesitant, but with a hint of some bizarre familiarity, “Tempus.” Perhaps she is too informal, but she knows no other form of address. When she was a lost, lonely little girl, she’d held whispered conversations with all of the gods – of course, they’d never offered her any response, but she felt engulfed when she did it. (The gods watch over everyone, or so she has always been told. It was a comfort to think that they might have watched over her, too, in a way that no one else would.) Now…now she didn’t know what she thought of them, or him, or much of anything; her gold-rimmed eyes rise to greet the two pairs of the statue in turn, and she holds her stare steady between them, wondering how she should feel.
As the members of the other courts enter the clearing, she looks away in turn, offering a cordial dip of her head to each. Regardless of her personal opinions of them, they stand on sacred ground, and she has no intentions of sullying it. Each time, too, she looks back to the eyes of the statue, as though she expects to find within them the answer to a question that floats just out of her reach.
(The answer isn’t there.)
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tags | <3
notes | sera rn ft. complicated religious feelings
someone will remember us I say
even in another time
Seraphina passes the great wooden doors with practiced poise and eerie composure, both of her advisors at her side. It would be easy to assume that the events of the past week have not shaken the silver queen at all; she seems to react to them with the same cold with which she responds to everything. Her mismatched eyes scan the space in front of her, running the length of rich tapestries and torches that catch on the silver of her collar. They finally come to a rest on the great shrine at the head of a table – another thing that seems to have been moved. (She wonders if the sea glass she brought so long ago still rests at his altar.) She watches the stones bob and float, and she swears she sees the statue twitch, and she wonders if the gods have always possessed their imitations.
She walks by the Solterran tapestries – some figures are familiar, and others are not. (Her eyes linger momentarily on the painted shape of Queen Sol, more snake than woman.) Under different circumstances and in a very different time, she might have spent more time studying them. Now, she is propelled forward by urgency and adrenaline, keeping the same, brisk pace until she reaches the table.
Oh, she knows that she should be terrified, – shocked, at least – but she isn’t. That terrible, terrible numbness still comes creeping in, as it always does when she is met with information that she is not prepared to handle, and she doesn’t fight it. It will be over faster if you’re quiet. Well – she is – she is quiet.
Situated appropriately, she turns to regard the statue.
“Hello,” She murmurs, hesitant, but with a hint of some bizarre familiarity, “Tempus.” Perhaps she is too informal, but she knows no other form of address. When she was a lost, lonely little girl, she’d held whispered conversations with all of the gods – of course, they’d never offered her any response, but she felt engulfed when she did it. (The gods watch over everyone, or so she has always been told. It was a comfort to think that they might have watched over her, too, in a way that no one else would.) Now…now she didn’t know what she thought of them, or him, or much of anything; her gold-rimmed eyes rise to greet the two pairs of the statue in turn, and she holds her stare steady between them, wondering how she should feel.
As the members of the other courts enter the clearing, she looks away in turn, offering a cordial dip of her head to each. Regardless of her personal opinions of them, they stand on sacred ground, and she has no intentions of sullying it. Each time, too, she looks back to the eyes of the statue, as though she expects to find within them the answer to a question that floats just out of her reach.
(The answer isn’t there.)
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tags | <3
notes | sera rn ft. complicated religious feelings
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
