☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
what doesn't kill you
makes you wish you were dead
tw for some suicidal ideation
If you had asked Seraphina to trade her life for Acton’s, she would have agreed in an instant.
It was not any particular love for Acton that would have prompted this trade, though she did think that he had been – something – like a friend. It was a more mathematical calculation. He had a lover and a daughter and friends who mourned his absence, and, she thought, those were the kinds of things that one was supposed to live for. She was sure that he had not wanted to die.
She wished that she had bled out on the Steppe. (If Raum had been kind, he would have finished her, but he must have wanted her to suffer – and, oh, she was suffering, but certainly not how he would have liked.) She wished that their places had been switched. She would have died for almost anyone, if it meant feeling like she’d atoned. But now she was alive – scarred, yes, and spectral in her bearing, but alive in spite of it all – and she had to bear the terrible burden exclusive to the living: not absolution, but responsibility.
And, when she is playing Fia, it is almost easy – even dangerously so – to think that she might be forgiven. (She wishes that she were Fia; she wishes that she were so fiery and leonine, that her words could roll off her tongue smooth as silk, that she could punctuate her tones with that rare, rolling humor, that she could be an open, expanding thing, not a house collapsing in on itself. But she is not Fia, and, whenever she plays her role, the knowledge that Fia is an illusion – a clever deception – hangs heavy as a funerary shroud at the back of her mind. She is not Fia, but she wishes that she were. She finds herself wondering, on occasion, what the people she has recruited under the guise of Fia will think when they inevitably discover that she is not some concerned citizen, but, rather, a coward who can’t even bother to use her true name-) But she cannot be Fia at this meeting, this meeting that she already knows will break some part of her heart. She stands in the canyon like polished steel, willing her frayed nerves – burning at the edges – to calm, struggling to grapple with consolations and apologies that she knows can’t possibly make up for anything that has been done.
It isn’t her fault that Acton is dead. (But maybe it is – if she’d made Raum pay for what he’d done to Bexley, if she’d just been willing to push Reichenbach, consequences be damned…) It isn’t her fault that Acton is dead. (But she certainly feels guilty that only one of them survived their encounter with Raum, that Isra only managed to save one of them.) It is her fault that Solterra is under the control of a madman who wants nothing more than to see the sun court crushed beneath his hoof, because she could have stopped him. Her mind is a long, rolling mantra of you could have prevented this, and, with every horrible thing that she hears that he has done, the chorus grows louder and louder, and she is reminded that it did not have to be this way.
But it was.
Bexley is a fleck of brilliant gold – radiant as the sun in the afternoon light – growing closer with each passing moment, and she watches her approach with some nauseating apprehension, uncertainty gnawing a hole in her chest. She comes closer, closer, ripping gold, still every bit as lovely as she was the first time that Seraphina saw her, years ago, but those sky-blue eyes are dull as glass marbles. She doesn’t know why she called her here, abruptly. (She wanted to know if she was okay – if she was even alive. She wanted her help. She wanted to make sure that Raum didn’t kill her, too.) Asking anything would feel like asking too much.
“Hm,” Bexley says, with that sort of casualness that she wears so well, “looks like we’re both undead.”
“Seems like it.” There is a quiver in her voice as she struggles to read Bexley’s expression; she isn’t sure if it’s the barest hint of a laugh or a sob. “Raum…left me to bleed out. I suppose he wanted me to suffer.” She punctuates with a sharp exhalation. Seraphina can’t think of any other reason why a trained assassin would leave her on the Steppe without bothering to finish the job, and it washes her in a renewed wave of bitterness; she’d never done anything to Raum, so why was she the one who had to pay for all the terrible things that he’d done, all the terrible things he’d do? She was collateral damage - she’d always be collateral damage. Did she think that becoming a queen would make her something important? Well, it hadn’t. She wished that, if her life had to be torn to shreds, she could at least say that it was her own fault, but, no, she is collateral – ugly, ugly collateral.
“Isra found me.” This admittance is offered with some quiet reluctance. She is quiet, for a fraction of a second; there is something that she has to say, but she doesn’t want to say it, or, rather, she doesn’t know how to say it. Seraphina doesn’t know what love is – some implacable foreign emotion, relegated to fairy tales or passing faces on the street -, but she knows that Bexley loved – loves? – Acton. She knows that Acton is dead, and he isn’t coming back. (She used to believe in a sort of heaven, a place where spirits would join the gods after their deaths…but now she’s not sure that she believes in anything at all. People weren’t always – or maybe often - good, the gods didn’t come to save her or anyone else, doing good didn’t always – or often – warrant good things in turn, suffering didn’t always have some glorious ultimate meaning, and sometimes – or often – happy endings weren’t possible. And – she thinks – meeting again in the afterlife isn’t much consolation.) “…she told me about Acton. Bexley, I…” She trails off in spite of herself, hesitating. “…I’ll be honest. I don’t know what to say. But I’m…” Seraphina isn’t sure that there is anything to say; her words won’t make anything better. (She isn’t sure that they ever do; she has always been better at rubbing things raw than soothing them.) But she opts for more honesty, regardless. “…I’m sorry that he’s dead.”
And, in spite of all the dead things that she has seen, she is.
----------------------------------------------------------
tags | @Bexley
notes | sera is bad at consolationsand very sad, part 1000 of many.
what doesn't kill you
makes you wish you were dead
tw for some suicidal ideation
If you had asked Seraphina to trade her life for Acton’s, she would have agreed in an instant.
It was not any particular love for Acton that would have prompted this trade, though she did think that he had been – something – like a friend. It was a more mathematical calculation. He had a lover and a daughter and friends who mourned his absence, and, she thought, those were the kinds of things that one was supposed to live for. She was sure that he had not wanted to die.
She wished that she had bled out on the Steppe. (If Raum had been kind, he would have finished her, but he must have wanted her to suffer – and, oh, she was suffering, but certainly not how he would have liked.) She wished that their places had been switched. She would have died for almost anyone, if it meant feeling like she’d atoned. But now she was alive – scarred, yes, and spectral in her bearing, but alive in spite of it all – and she had to bear the terrible burden exclusive to the living: not absolution, but responsibility.
And, when she is playing Fia, it is almost easy – even dangerously so – to think that she might be forgiven. (She wishes that she were Fia; she wishes that she were so fiery and leonine, that her words could roll off her tongue smooth as silk, that she could punctuate her tones with that rare, rolling humor, that she could be an open, expanding thing, not a house collapsing in on itself. But she is not Fia, and, whenever she plays her role, the knowledge that Fia is an illusion – a clever deception – hangs heavy as a funerary shroud at the back of her mind. She is not Fia, but she wishes that she were. She finds herself wondering, on occasion, what the people she has recruited under the guise of Fia will think when they inevitably discover that she is not some concerned citizen, but, rather, a coward who can’t even bother to use her true name-) But she cannot be Fia at this meeting, this meeting that she already knows will break some part of her heart. She stands in the canyon like polished steel, willing her frayed nerves – burning at the edges – to calm, struggling to grapple with consolations and apologies that she knows can’t possibly make up for anything that has been done.
It isn’t her fault that Acton is dead. (But maybe it is – if she’d made Raum pay for what he’d done to Bexley, if she’d just been willing to push Reichenbach, consequences be damned…) It isn’t her fault that Acton is dead. (But she certainly feels guilty that only one of them survived their encounter with Raum, that Isra only managed to save one of them.) It is her fault that Solterra is under the control of a madman who wants nothing more than to see the sun court crushed beneath his hoof, because she could have stopped him. Her mind is a long, rolling mantra of you could have prevented this, and, with every horrible thing that she hears that he has done, the chorus grows louder and louder, and she is reminded that it did not have to be this way.
But it was.
Bexley is a fleck of brilliant gold – radiant as the sun in the afternoon light – growing closer with each passing moment, and she watches her approach with some nauseating apprehension, uncertainty gnawing a hole in her chest. She comes closer, closer, ripping gold, still every bit as lovely as she was the first time that Seraphina saw her, years ago, but those sky-blue eyes are dull as glass marbles. She doesn’t know why she called her here, abruptly. (She wanted to know if she was okay – if she was even alive. She wanted her help. She wanted to make sure that Raum didn’t kill her, too.) Asking anything would feel like asking too much.
“Hm,” Bexley says, with that sort of casualness that she wears so well, “looks like we’re both undead.”
“Seems like it.” There is a quiver in her voice as she struggles to read Bexley’s expression; she isn’t sure if it’s the barest hint of a laugh or a sob. “Raum…left me to bleed out. I suppose he wanted me to suffer.” She punctuates with a sharp exhalation. Seraphina can’t think of any other reason why a trained assassin would leave her on the Steppe without bothering to finish the job, and it washes her in a renewed wave of bitterness; she’d never done anything to Raum, so why was she the one who had to pay for all the terrible things that he’d done, all the terrible things he’d do? She was collateral damage - she’d always be collateral damage. Did she think that becoming a queen would make her something important? Well, it hadn’t. She wished that, if her life had to be torn to shreds, she could at least say that it was her own fault, but, no, she is collateral – ugly, ugly collateral.
“Isra found me.” This admittance is offered with some quiet reluctance. She is quiet, for a fraction of a second; there is something that she has to say, but she doesn’t want to say it, or, rather, she doesn’t know how to say it. Seraphina doesn’t know what love is – some implacable foreign emotion, relegated to fairy tales or passing faces on the street -, but she knows that Bexley loved – loves? – Acton. She knows that Acton is dead, and he isn’t coming back. (She used to believe in a sort of heaven, a place where spirits would join the gods after their deaths…but now she’s not sure that she believes in anything at all. People weren’t always – or maybe often - good, the gods didn’t come to save her or anyone else, doing good didn’t always – or often – warrant good things in turn, suffering didn’t always have some glorious ultimate meaning, and sometimes – or often – happy endings weren’t possible. And – she thinks – meeting again in the afterlife isn’t much consolation.) “…she told me about Acton. Bexley, I…” She trails off in spite of herself, hesitating. “…I’ll be honest. I don’t know what to say. But I’m…” Seraphina isn’t sure that there is anything to say; her words won’t make anything better. (She isn’t sure that they ever do; she has always been better at rubbing things raw than soothing them.) But she opts for more honesty, regardless. “…I’m sorry that he’s dead.”
And, in spite of all the dead things that she has seen, she is.
----------------------------------------------------------
tags | @
notes | sera is bad at consolations
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
