☼ fia the crownless ☼
oh, pity the damned
It is some vast, cosmic irony that she meets a girl – on the verge of adulthood, but not yet there – before any other creature in Delumine.
Winter has crept into the Dawn Court, and, unlike the winters in her desert homeland, she can feel it; the sharp chill makes her grateful for the mesh of leather and thick fabric that make up her armor, which she wears in spite of her peaceful intentions. She has heard that there is a monster in Delumine. If she truly wishes to gain the Dawn Kingdom’s aid, she should offer her own in turn. (And she had, when she had inquired to Somnus for help; there are monsters aplenty in Solterra, least of all the beasts. Surely, surely, though she is no good at anything else, she can offer some sort of aid there.)
Snow crunches beneath her hooves, strange and cold. (It makes her think of the blizzard that enveloped Solterra only months ago, when she was still…) The light is newborn and pale, distorted by the slow but steady trickle of snowfall, and, if her mind weren’t so troubled, perhaps she would have found it beautiful. As she is, she cannot bring herself to linger on the allure of the landscape. It troubles her to leave her people, when their existence is so fragile; one mistake and they will bring the full force of Raum and his Regime down on their heads, and, Solis knows, she has made plenty of mistakes. Mistakes in trusting. Mistakes of confidence. Of morals. Of certainty. Of uncertainty. Foolish things. They are only in this situation because she made a mistake – and she is not sure if it was taking the throne in the first place or simply her loss to Raum. (Either way, everything she had done is undone by him. When she had taken the crown, she had thought of herself as a girl, thought of the other girls, the children of the desert nation. She had thought that she could give them something other than the violence that plagued her girlhood, that, if only she led with a steady and kind hand, she could give them some other way. But there was no end to the violence, and whatever good she had done had been momentary, which meant that it was no real good at all. Her legacy is to be nothing.)
Still, she strides across the meadow unhindered and dauntless, as though there are no ghosts behind her eyes; her sword clinks in its scabbard to the rhythm of her strides. Her scarf falls back against her shoulders, leaving her white hair to tumble freely about her neck, pale as the fallen snow. The last time she was in this meadow, she had been at a party…kinder times, before the gods had come down from the sky, before the Night Regime had disappeared, before…
It had been the last time she’d spoken to Acton. Now, he was dead. They’d argued, hadn’t they?
And now her kingdom was bleeding. And now there were so many dead. And all because he thought that he had the right to decide who lived and died, or all because she hadn’t been enough to stop him-
And she’d been fool enough to think that Solterra could ever be otherwise.
(Another crime – he was stripping her heart, or what was left of it, away from her. She wonders if she isn’t becoming like him, all heartless and rage and bitter pangs of insignificance. There is something inside of her that she loathes, this black and ugly darkness, and it is full of teeth. She wants it to go away, to leave her alone, but, wherever she looks, there it is, smiling.)
The meadow – or what remains of it in winter – is as clear as the Mor most days, with little room to hide. A splash of cream and white against the snow catches her attention, and her gaze turns to focus on the girl. She is lean and graceful and young, and she walks about the meadow with some sense of purpose. Seraphina wonders what she is doing out there alone, with a beast on the loose. She is a child; an older child, but a child nonetheless, and unarmed. She makes a fragile sight, against the snow, at least in the eyes of the silver – so free an unhindered.
(She thinks of the children she sees at home, the girls her age, herself what feels like so many years ago; they are so scared, and this girl is so free.)
There is no point in trying to avoid her, no matter how much of a rush she is in, so, instead, she strides towards her. “Should you be out here alone, girl?” She inquires, once she has moved close enough to ensure that she can be heard; after all, there are monsters afoot.
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tags | @Maerys
notes | <3
oh, pity the damned
It is some vast, cosmic irony that she meets a girl – on the verge of adulthood, but not yet there – before any other creature in Delumine.
Winter has crept into the Dawn Court, and, unlike the winters in her desert homeland, she can feel it; the sharp chill makes her grateful for the mesh of leather and thick fabric that make up her armor, which she wears in spite of her peaceful intentions. She has heard that there is a monster in Delumine. If she truly wishes to gain the Dawn Kingdom’s aid, she should offer her own in turn. (And she had, when she had inquired to Somnus for help; there are monsters aplenty in Solterra, least of all the beasts. Surely, surely, though she is no good at anything else, she can offer some sort of aid there.)
Snow crunches beneath her hooves, strange and cold. (It makes her think of the blizzard that enveloped Solterra only months ago, when she was still…) The light is newborn and pale, distorted by the slow but steady trickle of snowfall, and, if her mind weren’t so troubled, perhaps she would have found it beautiful. As she is, she cannot bring herself to linger on the allure of the landscape. It troubles her to leave her people, when their existence is so fragile; one mistake and they will bring the full force of Raum and his Regime down on their heads, and, Solis knows, she has made plenty of mistakes. Mistakes in trusting. Mistakes of confidence. Of morals. Of certainty. Of uncertainty. Foolish things. They are only in this situation because she made a mistake – and she is not sure if it was taking the throne in the first place or simply her loss to Raum. (Either way, everything she had done is undone by him. When she had taken the crown, she had thought of herself as a girl, thought of the other girls, the children of the desert nation. She had thought that she could give them something other than the violence that plagued her girlhood, that, if only she led with a steady and kind hand, she could give them some other way. But there was no end to the violence, and whatever good she had done had been momentary, which meant that it was no real good at all. Her legacy is to be nothing.)
Still, she strides across the meadow unhindered and dauntless, as though there are no ghosts behind her eyes; her sword clinks in its scabbard to the rhythm of her strides. Her scarf falls back against her shoulders, leaving her white hair to tumble freely about her neck, pale as the fallen snow. The last time she was in this meadow, she had been at a party…kinder times, before the gods had come down from the sky, before the Night Regime had disappeared, before…
It had been the last time she’d spoken to Acton. Now, he was dead. They’d argued, hadn’t they?
And now her kingdom was bleeding. And now there were so many dead. And all because he thought that he had the right to decide who lived and died, or all because she hadn’t been enough to stop him-
And she’d been fool enough to think that Solterra could ever be otherwise.
(Another crime – he was stripping her heart, or what was left of it, away from her. She wonders if she isn’t becoming like him, all heartless and rage and bitter pangs of insignificance. There is something inside of her that she loathes, this black and ugly darkness, and it is full of teeth. She wants it to go away, to leave her alone, but, wherever she looks, there it is, smiling.)
The meadow – or what remains of it in winter – is as clear as the Mor most days, with little room to hide. A splash of cream and white against the snow catches her attention, and her gaze turns to focus on the girl. She is lean and graceful and young, and she walks about the meadow with some sense of purpose. Seraphina wonders what she is doing out there alone, with a beast on the loose. She is a child; an older child, but a child nonetheless, and unarmed. She makes a fragile sight, against the snow, at least in the eyes of the silver – so free an unhindered.
(She thinks of the children she sees at home, the girls her age, herself what feels like so many years ago; they are so scared, and this girl is so free.)
There is no point in trying to avoid her, no matter how much of a rush she is in, so, instead, she strides towards her. “Should you be out here alone, girl?” She inquires, once she has moved close enough to ensure that she can be heard; after all, there are monsters afoot.
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tags | @Maerys
notes | <3
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
