[AW] by tomorrow we'll be lost amongst the leaves

[Seraphina]

THIS WAS MY WAR:
I did not shrink to fit remarks landing around me, in me, fire almost out when fury came, the seam rip of thunder, a rush of mothers howled through my mouth burst wide.

He seems a gentle thing, like a creature out of a poem, so she does not think that he belongs here. (Much less in Solterra – he is built with a warrior’s grace, but none of the harshness of the desert kingdom.) The realms of the gods are cruel and unforgiving, and they punish – they blame - all those who intrude upon them, regardless of their motivations or their guilt. If he is here for simple curiosity, she pities him, but only because she has learned better.

Questioning the gods only leads you to things that you never wanted to know.

He smiles in a nervous, bashful way, and he says, “I’m not sure how much help mine will be.” She eyes him with a certain gentleness, one she generally reserves for those who are younger than herself. It is unlike her; more and more, her kindness feels wrong, and she wonders if, once all of this is over, she will be able to be able to call herself a good woman, if she will be allowed to have any warmth of her own. The way that Seraphina sees it, there are two paths, and they lead to two doors, and there is a riddle about which one she should go through.

She doesn’t remember how it goes, but she knows that one door leads to Fia, who will not let her live – and Seraphina is behind the other, and she is weeping.

But she has no time for doors, and less time for riddles – save for the one before her. Her voice comes out as warmly as she can muster, though it feels wrong when it spills from her lips. “I’m sure you’ll be plenty of help - just tell me if you see something that seems unusual.”

But then there is Caine, and that warmth is gone, replaced with a magic that sings a war song in her bones and a rage that cannot be soothed; when the boy speaks again, she is so possessed by her own fury that she nearly misses his words. Her ears twitch back. “It isn’t safe for anyone, here.” There is another tone in his voice, now, and she isn’t sure if she likes it – but she doesn’t have time to focus on it, so long as Caine is there.

(All she thinks, now, is that the boy would be terrible in a shakedown.)

“Safer for some than others,” comes her soft, bland remark; she does not so much as glance over her shoulder at him. Her narrowed eyes remain on Caine, meticulously observing his every move. The assassin has shown no signs of aggression, but her body is tensed, her hooves hovering several inches over the leaf-strewn forest floor. (She has made a mess of things, but she barely notices.)

“I came here of my own accord. The king did not send me, if that’s what you were wondering.” He steps closer, and she steps back, brushing up against Pravda; he plucks a leaf from his hair, a look of irritation curling across his features, and she thinks that she accomplished something, although she could hardly do what she wished with the boy around. “Though I do hear that he’s somewhere on the island.”

“Hmmm.” Her tone suggests that she does not believe him. Seraphina knows that Raum is on the island, but she is unwilling to confirm his suggestions – if she does, Caine might decide to find Raum, and it might end poorly for her (and her hunting) if the Blood King knew of her presence. But Seraphina does not doubt that she could kill Raum, now, with her fire-tipped sword and the magic that lies beneath her skin; she still has not searched it deep enough to find where it ends.

(But she knows, even without knowing where it ends, that there is magic enough in her to kill.)

Then, unexpected – “You should be careful.”

“Careful?” A harsh sound escapes her lips, not quite a laugh. “If I didn’t know better, Caine, I’d accuse you of being concerned.” But, even if he were concerned – and the notion seemed laughable –, Seraphina would not care. Whether she lives or dies is inconsequential; all that matters is stopping Raum.

It is all that she can allow to matter.

Behind her, Pravda clears his throat, and that edge is there again – but she does not think much of it yet. “Perhaps now isn’t the time for revisiting old trespasses.” She manages a glance over her shoulder, at his patched form, and fixes him with her mismatched, burning stare. The corners of her lips twitch awkwardly, something like a bittersweet, aching smile pulling at her mouth, and her brow furrows. When she was younger, she might have agreed. When the stakes were lower, she might have agreed. But now, now…now, when her people were dying, and more would die from her inaction-

“You’re right,” she says, quietly, her voice lowering in resignation, “but I’m not sure that I have the virtue of time on my side.” She does not say anything more.

“What have you done?”

When Pravda speaks, he does not speak with the voice of some bashful, reserved boy. There is something else in his voice, something that is almost familiar. (She does not know if it reminds her of something inside of herself or Viceroy and his unyielding, righteous presence.) She looks at him, over her shoulder, and lets her eyes fall on a mirror of her own, gold and blue. His gaze is not warm. It is cold and hard; his eyes could have been hewn in marble and she is not sure that she would notice the difference. For a moment, she looks at him, and she thinks that she sees a snake.

Maybe he would make a better Solterran than his gentle demeanor had suggested. To be like the sun – scalding-bright and illuminating.

Before she can speak, Caine opens his mouth. “Fia and I have unsettled business. Neither of us wanted to see the other, so you can see how disagreeable this encounter is for anyone.” She snorts, her brow furrowing; she is not sure if she is more irritated at the annoyance with which he addresses the boy, who is entirely uninvolved in their troubles, or the way that his voice changes, false Solterran accent dripping over his words like honey. (Or some golden, oozing lookalike.)

When she was Queen, Seraphina would spend long hours in the library, studying the history of her people – many accounts were written in Ancient Solterran. The old native tongue of the land was a well-guarded secret. She did not know much of the language, as a child, and she’d struggled to learn it as an adult, but she knew it. (Well enough to wield Alshamtueur, at any rate.)

“Syzh gir emes eehn deh anwe,” runs circles around her head, but she stops herself before the words can pass her mouth; she doesn’t want to explain them.

You are not one of us.

A long, hissing breath escapes her lips, barely prodding through her gritted teeth. Why he would play at being a native Solterran was beyond her; in spite of their xenophobic history, the borders had been open for years, and ability determined respect in most of Solterran society. (The nobility, of course, cared primarily for blood.) Was it to lend himself legitimacy? Was it to provoke her? If that was the goal, he had certainly succeeded.

She shakes her disgruntlement and narrows her eyes at him sharply. “You’re still pronouncing the r wrong.” To his comments, she offers no real response; instead, she eyes Pravda, her mismatched gaze softening fractionally. “I’d tell you,” Seraphina says, and her tone is almost apologetic, “but I don’t want to involve you in Solterra’s affairs, right now. Let’s say that Caine and I hold two very different views of our king.” Oh, but that does not even stroke the surface of her fury, of his betrayal - she longs for her prior impassivity. Seraphina longs to be the weapon that Viceroy made of her, sharp and silver and cold. Even if she could explain it to the boy, even if that didn’t chance involving him in the brewing civil war, she is not sure that she has the words to explain why she hurts. Her rage is voiceless, and often she forces herself to believe that it is anger.

More realistically, it is anguish.

It feels better to burn.

“We should probably-“ She braces herself for whatever Caine is about to say.

He never finishes his sentence.

At first, when he moves, Seraphina thinks that it was a clever ploy, pretending to speak; Alshamtueur, as though ignited by her anger alone, gives a high-pitched sizzle. But, when he moves past them, dagger unsheathed, and cries out “Behind you!”, Seraphina is quick to whirl, and her eyes widen at the sight behind them.

A cat, of course – what else would hunt a bird? What else would approach so craftily, so silently, that she did not notice it at all? Her magic flares, whirling through her serpentine coils of hair, and finds her sword, drawing it from its scabbard so swiftly that it is all but a silver blur.

The jaguar-creature drags its claws into Caine, leaving a shallow gash across his chest, though he manages to dig that bejeweled dagger of his into its ribs; the damnable creature nearly lost his head, she thinks, furrowing her brow. She does not have time to contemplate why he dove into the fray, instead of running. She does not have time to contemplate his posture, the way that his wings are outstretched – like some fragile barrier between herself and the boy and the jaguar-thing.

She eyes its wings.

“Stay back,” she whispers to the boy, though she is not sure that she expects him to listen. “You’re unarmed.”

And then she is moving – a dash of silver, cascading forward with easy, even strides, as though she is utterly unconcerned by the fantastical beast in front of her. “What in the Solis’s name are you doing?” Her voice is hardly grateful; it comes out as a hiss. She does not risk a look at Caine, though her words are clearly directed at him.

She dives past the pegasus gracefully, unaccustomed as she is to fighting on the forest floor. “Alshamtueur,” she snarls, and the sword screams to life and burns, red-hot flames leaping down the sides of the blade.

She slashes at the cat loosely, but she does not quite desire to strike it – she wants to distract it, to draw it back. Her focus does not linger on her blade.

The creature has a dragon’s wings, full of little bones. Visible bones. She focuses her energy on the delicate humerus of one wing, Alshamtueur still dancing the distance between them – and she jerks, her mind straining against the weight, the force of her concentration

If she can break the bone, she can ground it, though there is little room for it to fly. But a broken wing will throw it off balance, hinder its movement...

Hunt it like a teryr, she tells herself, and tries to ignore its teeth.

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@Pravda @Caine || she's still #angery || "orbit," victoria chang

"Speech!" || "Ereshkigal!"

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