STILL I DREAM MYSELF BLOODIED, MY BODY SWALLOWED
my body grass-stained & longing for the treeline
Salt licks at Seraphina’s forelegs as she stands in the surf, her stare cast out to sea. Dark waves roll on the horizon, far less pristine than the electric blue things that lap at the shore; she thinks that she can see the bob of a tentacle or the shape of something that is like a dolphin or a whale but is somehow wrong in texture rise out of the tumultuous surface, but it is otherwise as grey and murky as she expects of the Terminus, crowned by thin lines of milk-white foam that she can see even from a distance. There is not much foam at the shore; in spite of her stirring, and in spite of the roll of the waves against the sand, the water is largely undisturbed, and it is so blue and so clear that she feels like it could be artificial. Silver fish dart beneath the surface, some swimming dangerously – rebelliously – close to her legs, which stand like pillars sprouting out of the sand. The water is warm, although it is winter, and it would be soothing if everything inside of Seraphina did not burn – burn like a forest fire, left to rage out of control, not like a warm hearth. She does not burn with love. She burns. Everything inside of her is burning to the ground, and it leaves behind nothing but ash and smoke. She used to think that, like the silver of her coat, she was those things that trail after fire-
No. She can be the flame.
But, for now, she is waiting. Ereshkigal circles lazily above her head, barely a dark blip in the cloudless sky; she considers sending the vulture ahead, to scout for Raum, but a moment of consideration makes her decide against it. The island is likely full of dangers, if it is anything like Tempus’s maze, and much as the demon unnerves her and angers her in even measures, Seraphina needs her. If nothing else, she can serve as her eyes as she advances on the forest. She only knows how to navigate open landscapes, and the wild forests that the island seems to promise, full of strange creatures and even stranger magic, will likely be no aid in her efforts to navigate – and, more importantly, to track down her targets.
Crows. Ravens. Gods. She isn’t sure if the discrepancy – the divine and the monstrous – is hilarious or heart wrenching; and, given the magic of her mortal targets and the ugly, wicked feeling that knots up in her stomach when she thinks of the gods, she is beginning to wonder if there is a discrepancy or a line at all.
This much she knows: the gods can’t die, but men can.
When she hears the sound of hooves on sand, she turns to look over her shoulder, the dark yellow of her hood falling back to let her long tangles of white hair, half-undone from their braids, flutter loose in the ocean breeze. She takes in the sight of the Dusk king, with his star-spangled pelt and his deep brown eyes, and she thinks that maybe he is a bit older than when she last saw him – a bit wiser, or a bit stronger, or a bit more determined. Seraphina watches him, haggard and waning, with the eyes of a starving thing, and, when she speaks, it is only his name.
“Asterion.”
@Asterion || I wasn't planning to start this so soon, but Tempus,,, chose for me.
"Speech!" || "Ereshkigal!"
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
