☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
She watches her and that taunting smirk – she tries to keep herself impassive and cold, even though she knows that some part of her is breaking apart and the Stormsinger knows it, like a shark out for blood. What does the woman standing in front of her know of Solterra, really? She lives in a nation where she is beloved, where the king she serves is beloved; what does she know of what it means to be despised, to be surrounded by those who wish for your destruction? She should know. The Stormsinger is not wrong. She should know; she should have stopped the Davke; she should have done something, somehow. Her mind keeps ticking back to the months that came before the attack, to the time when she could have done something. Perhaps she is a failure. To her nation, to her people, to everything she is meant to stand for. She is no prodigal daughter, after all. No noble blood runs through her veins, and no people really call her their own. Solterra would rather forget that she existed than stare at her crown every day and be reminded of what they had done to their own children. They didn’t want her as queen. There were people in the capitol that didn’t even want her alive, to say nothing of the Davke.
Perhaps, she thinks, she is a failure.
Fine, she is a failure. If her training taught her anything, it was that failure was inevitable – now began the process of dragging herself back up. For now, that meant tolerating Denocte’s Reagent. Fine. She wouldn’t fight her; let her sink her teeth in and take what she wanted, if that would cool her temper. Her eyes linger on the scrap of metal sprawling across her forehead, and, for a moment, disgust is palpable in her icy stare, before apathy washes into it once more. Another woman with another filthy fucking crown.
She goes on in scorn – although her fury is less palpable, Seraphina senses it twitching beneath her skin. There is a part of her that wants to see if she can unravel it, to coerce her into snapping. Gods know that it would be easier than being forced to stand back and take it. She listens to her words with a slightly quirked brow, her eyes narrowing. Was she meant to be intimidated by her tone? By her words? By the way she strolled in and out of her goddess’s shadows, illuminated only by the occasional crack of lightning in the distant sky? Seraphina has looked far more frightening creatures in the eye than a pretty crowned woman with a grudge – it was all she could do to avoid rolling her eyes at the posturing.
“They all sound the same to me,” She says, finally, “and I don’t think that I want to hear any of them.” Retribution. Revenge. Vengeance. Who does she sound like? (Seraphina wonders if she knows – knows that there is a viper lurking in the desert that likes to think of the same things.) Well, she doesn’t care much for retribution and vengeance and revenge; they all sounded very pretty and noble, full of high ideals, until you looked a bit closer and realized that all of those lofty excuses and pretty words meant nothing at all. What does she care to hear her stories? What does she care to hear her motivations, or her injuries? There are certainly more unbiased parties to refer to – it isn’t as though everyone in Denocte was so aggressive. No, the Stormsinger can’t tell her anything that she can’t find out through other means – though, for approaching her in the first place and demanding that they speak, she must have something that she wants from her.
The faintest of dark, dark smiles curls at the corners of her lips, and she turns.
“Enjoy the company of your goddess, Stormsinger.” There is something oddly cordial to her tone, abnormally and pleasantly amicable – especially for the circumstances. She casts one long stare at Solis’s statue, over her shoulder, and looks towards those eyes.
They don’t look back.
She is gone, then, down the mountainside and towards her desert home, away from constricting darkness and lightning – she has a city to rebuild.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
tags | @
notes | finishing this.
half gods are worshiped in wine and flowers
real gods require blood
She watches her and that taunting smirk – she tries to keep herself impassive and cold, even though she knows that some part of her is breaking apart and the Stormsinger knows it, like a shark out for blood. What does the woman standing in front of her know of Solterra, really? She lives in a nation where she is beloved, where the king she serves is beloved; what does she know of what it means to be despised, to be surrounded by those who wish for your destruction? She should know. The Stormsinger is not wrong. She should know; she should have stopped the Davke; she should have done something, somehow. Her mind keeps ticking back to the months that came before the attack, to the time when she could have done something. Perhaps she is a failure. To her nation, to her people, to everything she is meant to stand for. She is no prodigal daughter, after all. No noble blood runs through her veins, and no people really call her their own. Solterra would rather forget that she existed than stare at her crown every day and be reminded of what they had done to their own children. They didn’t want her as queen. There were people in the capitol that didn’t even want her alive, to say nothing of the Davke.
Perhaps, she thinks, she is a failure.
Fine, she is a failure. If her training taught her anything, it was that failure was inevitable – now began the process of dragging herself back up. For now, that meant tolerating Denocte’s Reagent. Fine. She wouldn’t fight her; let her sink her teeth in and take what she wanted, if that would cool her temper. Her eyes linger on the scrap of metal sprawling across her forehead, and, for a moment, disgust is palpable in her icy stare, before apathy washes into it once more. Another woman with another filthy fucking crown.
She goes on in scorn – although her fury is less palpable, Seraphina senses it twitching beneath her skin. There is a part of her that wants to see if she can unravel it, to coerce her into snapping. Gods know that it would be easier than being forced to stand back and take it. She listens to her words with a slightly quirked brow, her eyes narrowing. Was she meant to be intimidated by her tone? By her words? By the way she strolled in and out of her goddess’s shadows, illuminated only by the occasional crack of lightning in the distant sky? Seraphina has looked far more frightening creatures in the eye than a pretty crowned woman with a grudge – it was all she could do to avoid rolling her eyes at the posturing.
“They all sound the same to me,” She says, finally, “and I don’t think that I want to hear any of them.” Retribution. Revenge. Vengeance. Who does she sound like? (Seraphina wonders if she knows – knows that there is a viper lurking in the desert that likes to think of the same things.) Well, she doesn’t care much for retribution and vengeance and revenge; they all sounded very pretty and noble, full of high ideals, until you looked a bit closer and realized that all of those lofty excuses and pretty words meant nothing at all. What does she care to hear her stories? What does she care to hear her motivations, or her injuries? There are certainly more unbiased parties to refer to – it isn’t as though everyone in Denocte was so aggressive. No, the Stormsinger can’t tell her anything that she can’t find out through other means – though, for approaching her in the first place and demanding that they speak, she must have something that she wants from her.
The faintest of dark, dark smiles curls at the corners of her lips, and she turns.
“Enjoy the company of your goddess, Stormsinger.” There is something oddly cordial to her tone, abnormally and pleasantly amicable – especially for the circumstances. She casts one long stare at Solis’s statue, over her shoulder, and looks towards those eyes.
They don’t look back.
She is gone, then, down the mountainside and towards her desert home, away from constricting darkness and lightning – she has a city to rebuild.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
tags | @
notes | finishing this.
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
