☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
but oh, my heart was flawed, I knew my weakness
so hold my hand - consign me not to darkness
They say that a person who steps out of a room is never the same person who stepped in.
The Queen of Solterra prowls in front of the sun god’s golden statue like a lurking tiger, albeit without any trace of hungering subtlety; each fluid stride clatters, vicious as a thunderclap, against the marble dais. Hours have passed – a day, perhaps – since the Regimes clawed their way free of the wreckage that Tempus had trapped them within, haloed by rubble and sunlit grit. Dust and debris still clings to her coat like a second skin, dulling the silver beneath. Only the collar around her throat is left to shine.
She had believed in them.
As a child, stiff as a soldier on Viceroy’s heels, she had been taken to the peaks of Veneror time and time again to offer her devotions to the god she served. Part of her induction into their particular brand of nationalism – they wanted her to know that she was doing god’s work. In her desperation, she cried to the gods to save her; in the depths of the night, nursing wounds that kept her awake for countless hours, she whispered to them, if only to create the illusion of company. They all did - she saw the starving, in the streets, wailing to the gods. When chaos and fire reigned supreme after Zolin’s death, people took shelter in the shrines; she remembers the crescendo of crying, sobbing, begging. As she grew older, as she was finally freed, she made the trek herself; she offered proper respect to all of the gods, with little offerings, though her worship (and the finest trinkets she could find) was reserved for Solis. Before each battle, she spoke his name in prayer. Even as her work – and rank – increased and she had less and less time to devote to her personal desires, she made her way to Veneror with some degree of regularity. She had taken comfort in the atmosphere, in the knowledge that the gods were watching; the divinity that now felt so suffocating was a shield from an outside world that was tumultuous and painful. Seraphina had been softer there - knowledge of their celestial presence peeled away the rugged layers she built up and left her barer than she wished to admit. They didn’t have to do anything, or so she thought. They would simply watch, and watching – no, listening - was enough.
But now they had shown themselves, and the only intention or explanation they had offered was that they intended to intervene in the quarrels between the courts, and it was as good as a slap to the face; unlike the one she had been given by the Stormsinger, however, this one hit its mark, and she was left bloody and raw and clawing. In the rubble, she had been like a caged animal, but now, the loathing was left free and festering, a sandstorm set to swallow the face of the desert whole. She had always told herself that she was just, not vengeful, but maybe she was – the weight of Solterra’s screaming had yet to be paid, and, for their indifference, the gods were compliant in her nation’s suffering.
She does not know how, but she will make them answer for it or die trying -- some part of her tells herself that this thought, this knowledge, is rash and foolhardy, that they have not explained themselves yet, but their silence is a crime, too. Her expression remains stiff and cold, utterly contained, but her movements are as fluid and rippling as in the heat of combat, and her eyes still burn like twin suns, fueled by fury enough to guide her path with or without the god of day. She was unblessed in the gathering, and surrounded by the favored, – with magic, or company – but she wants no blessing, no obligation, nothing from them; she has the sweat of her brow.
Seraphina is not alone.
Suddenly aware of another, familiar presence, she whirls. With a soft prickle of something akin to shame, she meets the gaze of her advisor, her left hand, her head diplomat, and – and her dear, dear friend.
“Eik…”
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tags | @Eik
notes | had this on repeat while writing
but oh, my heart was flawed, I knew my weakness
so hold my hand - consign me not to darkness
They say that a person who steps out of a room is never the same person who stepped in.
The Queen of Solterra prowls in front of the sun god’s golden statue like a lurking tiger, albeit without any trace of hungering subtlety; each fluid stride clatters, vicious as a thunderclap, against the marble dais. Hours have passed – a day, perhaps – since the Regimes clawed their way free of the wreckage that Tempus had trapped them within, haloed by rubble and sunlit grit. Dust and debris still clings to her coat like a second skin, dulling the silver beneath. Only the collar around her throat is left to shine.
She had believed in them.
As a child, stiff as a soldier on Viceroy’s heels, she had been taken to the peaks of Veneror time and time again to offer her devotions to the god she served. Part of her induction into their particular brand of nationalism – they wanted her to know that she was doing god’s work. In her desperation, she cried to the gods to save her; in the depths of the night, nursing wounds that kept her awake for countless hours, she whispered to them, if only to create the illusion of company. They all did - she saw the starving, in the streets, wailing to the gods. When chaos and fire reigned supreme after Zolin’s death, people took shelter in the shrines; she remembers the crescendo of crying, sobbing, begging. As she grew older, as she was finally freed, she made the trek herself; she offered proper respect to all of the gods, with little offerings, though her worship (and the finest trinkets she could find) was reserved for Solis. Before each battle, she spoke his name in prayer. Even as her work – and rank – increased and she had less and less time to devote to her personal desires, she made her way to Veneror with some degree of regularity. She had taken comfort in the atmosphere, in the knowledge that the gods were watching; the divinity that now felt so suffocating was a shield from an outside world that was tumultuous and painful. Seraphina had been softer there - knowledge of their celestial presence peeled away the rugged layers she built up and left her barer than she wished to admit. They didn’t have to do anything, or so she thought. They would simply watch, and watching – no, listening - was enough.
But now they had shown themselves, and the only intention or explanation they had offered was that they intended to intervene in the quarrels between the courts, and it was as good as a slap to the face; unlike the one she had been given by the Stormsinger, however, this one hit its mark, and she was left bloody and raw and clawing. In the rubble, she had been like a caged animal, but now, the loathing was left free and festering, a sandstorm set to swallow the face of the desert whole. She had always told herself that she was just, not vengeful, but maybe she was – the weight of Solterra’s screaming had yet to be paid, and, for their indifference, the gods were compliant in her nation’s suffering.
She does not know how, but she will make them answer for it or die trying -- some part of her tells herself that this thought, this knowledge, is rash and foolhardy, that they have not explained themselves yet, but their silence is a crime, too. Her expression remains stiff and cold, utterly contained, but her movements are as fluid and rippling as in the heat of combat, and her eyes still burn like twin suns, fueled by fury enough to guide her path with or without the god of day. She was unblessed in the gathering, and surrounded by the favored, – with magic, or company – but she wants no blessing, no obligation, nothing from them; she has the sweat of her brow.
Seraphina is not alone.
Suddenly aware of another, familiar presence, she whirls. With a soft prickle of something akin to shame, she meets the gaze of her advisor, her left hand, her head diplomat, and – and her dear, dear friend.
“Eik…”
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tags | @
notes | had this on repeat while writing
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
