☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
my blood will fill the ditch // my blood will bury the mountain // but for now it sits still in my mouth // just waiting on the tip of my tongue
The smile she gives her is glasgow; her lips split, revealing, gritty, bloody teeth, and Seraphina is put in mind of some vengeful, lingering spirit, clawing her way back out of her grave of stone and sand to have her revenge. Oh, she knows when she sees that smile that Bexley Briar will have her retribution, regardless of whether she sanctions it or not – she could try to keep her caged and sooth her temper, but she has a feeling that would be as effective as throwing water on volcanic lava. (Even if it were to work, it would leave an ugly, ugly mark.) However, as she looks at the gnarled, oozing scar across the girl’s face, at her battered limbs, at the stones that would have buried her alive, as she sees her struggle to stand, to even move, chest heaving for breath, as she remembers Acton’s gods-damned smile-
Oh, no. Her gaze is faintly conspiratorial as she watches Bexley make her way to her hooves, as though she might have been sharing some secret with the golden girl. She wouldn’t sanction any actions that might further trouble their relationship with Denocte, but Seraphina had been raised on a steady diet of retributive justice - if she wanted blood for blood, scars for scars, mangled limbs for mangled limbs, death for death attempted, then the silver wouldn’t stop her, regardless of how much trouble it might cause her in the future. As Bexley struggles to straighten, her gaze hardens, and she feels a fresh sting of carefully-contained outrage; she has seen worse, in the days of the war, but, in this case, worse was usually dead. Black, black bruises, and dark smudges of bleeding beneath the skin; long, sand-stained gashes dripping hot, precious blood out onto the stoneswept floor; bones twisted and jerked at awkward angles, a miracle she could move; and that scar across her face. Even if the other wounds would heal, she knew that one would mar her forever, deep and possessive and intentional. He wasn’t content to kill her, she thought – he had to mark her, too. Couldn’t even leave her corpse to peace. Here she stands, teary and wobbling and broken and absurdly wrong, and Seraphina can only watch in silence, shifting forward in case she falls. She searches for words, but, as usual in times of the most desperate importance, they refuse to come to mind.
Bexley, by some miracle or divine blessing from the sun that still pokes and prods through – or, perhaps, pure resilience - , begins to press forward. Seraphina moves to walk at her side, hooves practically dragging the ground; the walk back will be agonizing, and a part of her wonders if she will even survive it. (No, she tells herself. She’s already survived this much.)
“Lean on me,” She says, finally, and offers the other girl her shoulder as they begin their long trek back to the court.
my blood will fill the ditch // my blood will bury the mountain // but for now it sits still in my mouth // just waiting on the tip of my tongue
The smile she gives her is glasgow; her lips split, revealing, gritty, bloody teeth, and Seraphina is put in mind of some vengeful, lingering spirit, clawing her way back out of her grave of stone and sand to have her revenge. Oh, she knows when she sees that smile that Bexley Briar will have her retribution, regardless of whether she sanctions it or not – she could try to keep her caged and sooth her temper, but she has a feeling that would be as effective as throwing water on volcanic lava. (Even if it were to work, it would leave an ugly, ugly mark.) However, as she looks at the gnarled, oozing scar across the girl’s face, at her battered limbs, at the stones that would have buried her alive, as she sees her struggle to stand, to even move, chest heaving for breath, as she remembers Acton’s gods-damned smile-
Oh, no. Her gaze is faintly conspiratorial as she watches Bexley make her way to her hooves, as though she might have been sharing some secret with the golden girl. She wouldn’t sanction any actions that might further trouble their relationship with Denocte, but Seraphina had been raised on a steady diet of retributive justice - if she wanted blood for blood, scars for scars, mangled limbs for mangled limbs, death for death attempted, then the silver wouldn’t stop her, regardless of how much trouble it might cause her in the future. As Bexley struggles to straighten, her gaze hardens, and she feels a fresh sting of carefully-contained outrage; she has seen worse, in the days of the war, but, in this case, worse was usually dead. Black, black bruises, and dark smudges of bleeding beneath the skin; long, sand-stained gashes dripping hot, precious blood out onto the stoneswept floor; bones twisted and jerked at awkward angles, a miracle she could move; and that scar across her face. Even if the other wounds would heal, she knew that one would mar her forever, deep and possessive and intentional. He wasn’t content to kill her, she thought – he had to mark her, too. Couldn’t even leave her corpse to peace. Here she stands, teary and wobbling and broken and absurdly wrong, and Seraphina can only watch in silence, shifting forward in case she falls. She searches for words, but, as usual in times of the most desperate importance, they refuse to come to mind.
Bexley, by some miracle or divine blessing from the sun that still pokes and prods through – or, perhaps, pure resilience - , begins to press forward. Seraphina moves to walk at her side, hooves practically dragging the ground; the walk back will be agonizing, and a part of her wonders if she will even survive it. (No, she tells herself. She’s already survived this much.)
“Lean on me,” She says, finally, and offers the other girl her shoulder as they begin their long trek back to the court.
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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
