☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
and heaven knows how hard I tried
but the devil whispered lies I believed
There is comfort in familiarity.
Seraphina is not built for adaptability, and she is innately, uncomfortably aware of it. In the months that followed Zolin’s death, before the arrival of Maxence, she had followed her familiar patrol routes across the dunes, clenching desperately to routine even as the entire world seemed to spiral out of control around her. The guardian of a fallen kingdom, the guardian of a dead sovereign – in hindsight, it seemed so laughably delusional, but it was the only way that she (and the others like her, she imagined) could survive. It was the only way that they knew how to survive.
As she walks the streets of the still-scorched city, she finds herself falling into familiar patterns. Unrecognizable as the ash-laden paths and crumbling buildings have come to be, she can still rely on muscle memory to guide her forward, though she has no distinct direction. While she is like this, she is almost the Seraphina that she was after Zolin’s death – the fire, at least, is almost mockingly similar.
The only difference, perhaps, is that she survived where he did not.
Her steps eventually guide her towards what she recognizes as the burnt shell that was once Solterra’s great library. As she looks at it, she feels a pang; as Emissary, she spent days upon days bent over a desk, scouring scrolls and worn tomes. Now, most of them had gone up in a fire that she had started herself, burning their own history a final act of defiance against the Davke’s assault – but not all, in spite of her reluctance to pull them from their hiding place…the most important texts, the oldest and most irreplaceable records and stories, remained intact. However, with the possibility of another attack still resting heavy on her mind, Seraphina decided it was best to keep their presence hidden.
As she steps through broken, downed rafters and walls, her ears catch on the sound of movement; she freezes, tension running a livewire course down her spine, then settles at the sight of a familiar form.
Seraphina, Teiran greets, and her voice is cold, albeit familiar.
But she, of course, feels no chill when her eyes rest on that familiar steel collar; when she looks into those apathetic eyes, she feels only a faint, kindred bond. They would both feel wrong, she imagines, to anyone else – standoffish and cold, distant and aloft if not somewhere else entirely. Maybe they are wrong. As she has been dragged further and further into a society to which she is utterly unaccustomed, the thought has crossed Seraphina’s mind countless times, though she has concluded that shameful might be the better term. Unpleasant, like a stain – better to be washed away with the desert sands.
They, of course, know nothing of the truth behind their haunted little ghost children. They know nothing of their resilience – or their loyalty, blind as it might be. She doesn’t intend to misplace it.
The small woman is greeted with a gentler glance than she would afford most. “Hello, Teiran,” She says, coolly, mirroring the distant familiarity of the other woman’s tone, “Out on patrol?” There is, in truth, no need to ask; she already knows the answer.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
tags | @Teiran
notes | almost two months later....anyways, I'm excited <3
and heaven knows how hard I tried
but the devil whispered lies I believed
There is comfort in familiarity.
Seraphina is not built for adaptability, and she is innately, uncomfortably aware of it. In the months that followed Zolin’s death, before the arrival of Maxence, she had followed her familiar patrol routes across the dunes, clenching desperately to routine even as the entire world seemed to spiral out of control around her. The guardian of a fallen kingdom, the guardian of a dead sovereign – in hindsight, it seemed so laughably delusional, but it was the only way that she (and the others like her, she imagined) could survive. It was the only way that they knew how to survive.
As she walks the streets of the still-scorched city, she finds herself falling into familiar patterns. Unrecognizable as the ash-laden paths and crumbling buildings have come to be, she can still rely on muscle memory to guide her forward, though she has no distinct direction. While she is like this, she is almost the Seraphina that she was after Zolin’s death – the fire, at least, is almost mockingly similar.
The only difference, perhaps, is that she survived where he did not.
Her steps eventually guide her towards what she recognizes as the burnt shell that was once Solterra’s great library. As she looks at it, she feels a pang; as Emissary, she spent days upon days bent over a desk, scouring scrolls and worn tomes. Now, most of them had gone up in a fire that she had started herself, burning their own history a final act of defiance against the Davke’s assault – but not all, in spite of her reluctance to pull them from their hiding place…the most important texts, the oldest and most irreplaceable records and stories, remained intact. However, with the possibility of another attack still resting heavy on her mind, Seraphina decided it was best to keep their presence hidden.
As she steps through broken, downed rafters and walls, her ears catch on the sound of movement; she freezes, tension running a livewire course down her spine, then settles at the sight of a familiar form.
Seraphina, Teiran greets, and her voice is cold, albeit familiar.
But she, of course, feels no chill when her eyes rest on that familiar steel collar; when she looks into those apathetic eyes, she feels only a faint, kindred bond. They would both feel wrong, she imagines, to anyone else – standoffish and cold, distant and aloft if not somewhere else entirely. Maybe they are wrong. As she has been dragged further and further into a society to which she is utterly unaccustomed, the thought has crossed Seraphina’s mind countless times, though she has concluded that shameful might be the better term. Unpleasant, like a stain – better to be washed away with the desert sands.
They, of course, know nothing of the truth behind their haunted little ghost children. They know nothing of their resilience – or their loyalty, blind as it might be. She doesn’t intend to misplace it.
The small woman is greeted with a gentler glance than she would afford most. “Hello, Teiran,” She says, coolly, mirroring the distant familiarity of the other woman’s tone, “Out on patrol?” There is, in truth, no need to ask; she already knows the answer.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
tags | @Teiran
notes | almost two months later....anyways, I'm excited <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
