☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
try try your whole life to be righteous and to be good
wind up on your own floor, choking on blood
That little lick of flame lingers, and it tears her apart. She wants – the peace that the blackness promises, the comfort of the darkness that wants to swallow her. She needs – to keep fighting. She hopes – that this is some nightmare, some terrible dream, that she will wake in familiar sandstone walls any moment now and breathe a sigh of relief. She knows – that will not happen. She must – stand up, somehow, find some way back to herself, return to her people, to her kingdom, to her. She cannot – abandon them, abandon everything, watch it all be swept away like the shifting of the sands, watch herself be erased. But, but, but, but-
She doesn’t know who she’ll be if she wakes up.
She wants to wake up, she needs to wake up – she wants to let go. She cannot help but feel that there is no point in pulling herself one way or another; she will yield to time if nothing else, because she cannot save herself, and no one is coming to save her. But she doesn’t have it within herself to abandon what light remains, and, as hard as she’s tried to push it all out of her, – push out everything, hollow herself thin, freeze over entirely – it remains, and she can’t let go of it, not even now, not even when it means nothing at all.
She is vaguely aware of the movements of something massive. She is vaguely aware of another presence, perhaps two; in her delirious haze, it is difficult to discern anything outside of the cage of her own body. She wonders if Raum is back, come to kill her, or if some passing stranger has decided to put her out of her misery.
Seraphina is not prepared for the searing pain that comes with medication and pressure; she is not prepared for bandages. She is not prepared for the sudden, nauseating revelation that she might survive this.
She tries to sob out some desperate plea to let her go, just let her go. She doesn’t want to wake up, not to – this. If she wakes up, it will make all of this real, and she will be forced to look it in the eyes and find some way to handle it, and she can’t, she won’t, she doesn’t want to. She wants it to be over. She’s tired of fighting. If she dies like this, she will have died a death befitting a Queen of Solterra, but, if she lives on, she will have been robbed of everything, of every piece of her, of her kingdom and her pride and her honor and her hope-
But she can’t speak. Even if this stranger would have yielded to her begging, her words will not force their way out of her unyielding mouth.
She does not know how long she lingers between places, vaguely aware of the ministrations of whoever had come to save her. She barely remembers stirring, or the fluttering of her lashes. At some point, she raises her head, and she doesn’t remember the movement; she looks at the sea-touched unicorn who has come to her aid and the expanse of her dragon, but she doesn’t see them at all. Her gaze darts over them as though they are a part of the landscape, not even a hint of recognition in her glossy stare. She is vaguely aware of the dragon’s wings, a canopy over her head, vaguely aware of the unicorn’s muzzle at her throat, vaguely aware of how she twitched away from her lips on instinct as they neared her silver collar, vaguely aware…
In those first, stumbling moments after she opens her eyes, Seraphina is swallowed by an overwhelming sense of dismay.
If she had died, in spite of her failure, she would have been granted an honorable death. Far from home, certainly, and lonely – and she likely never would have been given proper funeral rites. Her body would have rotted out alone on the pocked, lifeless turf of the steppe, robbed of the pyre her culture demanded. (If she had been denied her ashen burial, would her soul have still joined the sun god? It was no matter now.) That would have been devastating, but she is not sure that it is not less devastating than living on, shamed by her loss and dishonored entirely by her salvation. Her stare is defocused and blank as she stares up at the hazy shape of the pale moon, pupils dilating to all but swallow the brightness of her eyes, and, perhaps, the faintest hint of a snarl pulling at the dark corners of her lips.
This world has taken so much from her, and it won’t even grant her a good death.
She has nothing left to give.
Her first impulse is to run. Surely, Raum thought that she was dead, and he would certainly brag of it; it would be a convenient excuse to disappear, to flee this land, to take the freedom that she’d always been deprived of. It passes as quickly as it comes, leaving her with a burning sense of shame in its place. She can’t leave. She has a responsibility to her people, to her nation – she can’t run from what has to be done. But what can she do? She has shown her weakness, and Solterra resents nothing more than the weak. Has she ever been particularly strong? Perhaps that is her worst and most undeniable failure. Seraphina has always admired the warrior-queens of her nation’s history, blood-soaked and vicious, armed with teeth like knives and sharper convictions, and she knows that she has never been one of them. A tremor wracks her spine. Certainly, she has killed before, but she has no flame, no spark, nothing-
But that little bright thing is still twitching in her chest, clawing at the insides of her throat. She is horrifying cognizant of the fact that it wants out of her, that it has wanted out of her for years, and she does not know if she will be able to hold it in much longer. Her stomach twists with nausea, and sweat beads on her brow, and she is not sure if she is trembling because of the blood that still stains the ground beneath her or if it is because that brightness wants out, because that spark is bulging to flame…
“I-I…” Her voice comes out as a hazy, painful rasp as the world blinks into focus; her odd stare turns on the mare and her dragon. “No, no, no, I can’t, I…”
She’s failed.
She doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know how to so much as begin to know what to do, she…
Politeness manages to take over her stumbling words. “You…saved me. Thank you,” she says, scarcely able to afford a whisper, though she isn’t sure if she is actually grateful.
In the distance, she sees Veneror rising up towards the heaven, and, in the absence of any other answer, she is possessed by the sudden, desperate need to find Solis. For all she knows, he could be gone forever this time, and, even if he were, for some reason or another, up on the mountain, she doubts that he’d want to see her, after her loss. She is no longer his queen, and she is sure she’d never been his chosen. But she needs…something, to find…something, and that burning sensation – creeping down her limbs in feverish shivers – presses her towards the mountain. She is stumbling to her hooves before she is entirely aware that she is so much as moving, and, though she quakes like a newborn, she manages to take a trembling step forward.
“I…” Her voice comes out shuddering. “I need…to go to Veneror. I…I have to…” She pauses, looking back at her savior and her reptilian companion. “I…I apologize. I’ll find some way to repay you, but I…I have to go. I have to…I have to find some way to fix this.” She sounds delirious, even to herself, and she’s sure that her rambling makes no sense to the woman at her side, but she is possessed by her urgency and her desperation and her frenzied need to make some semblance of sense of this situation.
(She is flickering, flickering, flickering, too hot and not herself or maybe more of herself than she has been in years, and she doesn’t know if she wants to fight the fire or let it swallow her whole.)
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
tags | @Isra
notes | sera's having a #breakdown, whoops.
try try your whole life to be righteous and to be good
wind up on your own floor, choking on blood
That little lick of flame lingers, and it tears her apart. She wants – the peace that the blackness promises, the comfort of the darkness that wants to swallow her. She needs – to keep fighting. She hopes – that this is some nightmare, some terrible dream, that she will wake in familiar sandstone walls any moment now and breathe a sigh of relief. She knows – that will not happen. She must – stand up, somehow, find some way back to herself, return to her people, to her kingdom, to her. She cannot – abandon them, abandon everything, watch it all be swept away like the shifting of the sands, watch herself be erased. But, but, but, but-
She doesn’t know who she’ll be if she wakes up.
She wants to wake up, she needs to wake up – she wants to let go. She cannot help but feel that there is no point in pulling herself one way or another; she will yield to time if nothing else, because she cannot save herself, and no one is coming to save her. But she doesn’t have it within herself to abandon what light remains, and, as hard as she’s tried to push it all out of her, – push out everything, hollow herself thin, freeze over entirely – it remains, and she can’t let go of it, not even now, not even when it means nothing at all.
She is vaguely aware of the movements of something massive. She is vaguely aware of another presence, perhaps two; in her delirious haze, it is difficult to discern anything outside of the cage of her own body. She wonders if Raum is back, come to kill her, or if some passing stranger has decided to put her out of her misery.
Seraphina is not prepared for the searing pain that comes with medication and pressure; she is not prepared for bandages. She is not prepared for the sudden, nauseating revelation that she might survive this.
She tries to sob out some desperate plea to let her go, just let her go. She doesn’t want to wake up, not to – this. If she wakes up, it will make all of this real, and she will be forced to look it in the eyes and find some way to handle it, and she can’t, she won’t, she doesn’t want to. She wants it to be over. She’s tired of fighting. If she dies like this, she will have died a death befitting a Queen of Solterra, but, if she lives on, she will have been robbed of everything, of every piece of her, of her kingdom and her pride and her honor and her hope-
But she can’t speak. Even if this stranger would have yielded to her begging, her words will not force their way out of her unyielding mouth.
She does not know how long she lingers between places, vaguely aware of the ministrations of whoever had come to save her. She barely remembers stirring, or the fluttering of her lashes. At some point, she raises her head, and she doesn’t remember the movement; she looks at the sea-touched unicorn who has come to her aid and the expanse of her dragon, but she doesn’t see them at all. Her gaze darts over them as though they are a part of the landscape, not even a hint of recognition in her glossy stare. She is vaguely aware of the dragon’s wings, a canopy over her head, vaguely aware of the unicorn’s muzzle at her throat, vaguely aware of how she twitched away from her lips on instinct as they neared her silver collar, vaguely aware…
In those first, stumbling moments after she opens her eyes, Seraphina is swallowed by an overwhelming sense of dismay.
If she had died, in spite of her failure, she would have been granted an honorable death. Far from home, certainly, and lonely – and she likely never would have been given proper funeral rites. Her body would have rotted out alone on the pocked, lifeless turf of the steppe, robbed of the pyre her culture demanded. (If she had been denied her ashen burial, would her soul have still joined the sun god? It was no matter now.) That would have been devastating, but she is not sure that it is not less devastating than living on, shamed by her loss and dishonored entirely by her salvation. Her stare is defocused and blank as she stares up at the hazy shape of the pale moon, pupils dilating to all but swallow the brightness of her eyes, and, perhaps, the faintest hint of a snarl pulling at the dark corners of her lips.
This world has taken so much from her, and it won’t even grant her a good death.
She has nothing left to give.
Her first impulse is to run. Surely, Raum thought that she was dead, and he would certainly brag of it; it would be a convenient excuse to disappear, to flee this land, to take the freedom that she’d always been deprived of. It passes as quickly as it comes, leaving her with a burning sense of shame in its place. She can’t leave. She has a responsibility to her people, to her nation – she can’t run from what has to be done. But what can she do? She has shown her weakness, and Solterra resents nothing more than the weak. Has she ever been particularly strong? Perhaps that is her worst and most undeniable failure. Seraphina has always admired the warrior-queens of her nation’s history, blood-soaked and vicious, armed with teeth like knives and sharper convictions, and she knows that she has never been one of them. A tremor wracks her spine. Certainly, she has killed before, but she has no flame, no spark, nothing-
But that little bright thing is still twitching in her chest, clawing at the insides of her throat. She is horrifying cognizant of the fact that it wants out of her, that it has wanted out of her for years, and she does not know if she will be able to hold it in much longer. Her stomach twists with nausea, and sweat beads on her brow, and she is not sure if she is trembling because of the blood that still stains the ground beneath her or if it is because that brightness wants out, because that spark is bulging to flame…
“I-I…” Her voice comes out as a hazy, painful rasp as the world blinks into focus; her odd stare turns on the mare and her dragon. “No, no, no, I can’t, I…”
She’s failed.
She doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know how to so much as begin to know what to do, she…
Politeness manages to take over her stumbling words. “You…saved me. Thank you,” she says, scarcely able to afford a whisper, though she isn’t sure if she is actually grateful.
In the distance, she sees Veneror rising up towards the heaven, and, in the absence of any other answer, she is possessed by the sudden, desperate need to find Solis. For all she knows, he could be gone forever this time, and, even if he were, for some reason or another, up on the mountain, she doubts that he’d want to see her, after her loss. She is no longer his queen, and she is sure she’d never been his chosen. But she needs…something, to find…something, and that burning sensation – creeping down her limbs in feverish shivers – presses her towards the mountain. She is stumbling to her hooves before she is entirely aware that she is so much as moving, and, though she quakes like a newborn, she manages to take a trembling step forward.
“I…” Her voice comes out shuddering. “I need…to go to Veneror. I…I have to…” She pauses, looking back at her savior and her reptilian companion. “I…I apologize. I’ll find some way to repay you, but I…I have to go. I have to…I have to find some way to fix this.” She sounds delirious, even to herself, and she’s sure that her rambling makes no sense to the woman at her side, but she is possessed by her urgency and her desperation and her frenzied need to make some semblance of sense of this situation.
(She is flickering, flickering, flickering, too hot and not herself or maybe more of herself than she has been in years, and she doesn’t know if she wants to fight the fire or let it swallow her whole.)
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
tags | @Isra
notes | sera's having a #breakdown, whoops.
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
