☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
FIRE ALMOST OUT WHEN FURY CAME
the seam rip of thunder, a rush of mothers howled through my mouth burst wide --
They are twin horrors, now, twin horrors – she can vaguely remember meeting Bexley Briar, and thinking that she was probably the prettiest girl she’d ever seen, but there is nothing pretty about the light in her eyes or the toothy, feral smile curled across her golden (oh-so golden) features, and she’s sure that there’s nothing pretty about her or the way that she’s looking at Bexley right now. They are twin horrors, now, and Seraphina doesn’t run from it. She doesn’t run from the way that, when she looks into Bexley’s sky-blue eyes, she swears she sees the world burning, and she almost thinks that the world deserves it. When she was younger, and a little more naïve, and a little more hopeful, she’d held her rage and her grief tight to her chest, and, no matter how much she hurt, she never let them come spilling out. Now, with that mass of gold scars raked across her face forever, she has no choice but to wear them on her skin. She knows that it should feel terrible. She knows that she should feel terrible, because she knows what terrible things can come from rage and grief, and that little voice inside of her that is still Seraphina begs her to do better, to be better, to not give in. But she isn’t listening. She’s past the point of listening to that voice; look where it got her. Dead in a field, buried by jewel-bright flowers. What a fucking end for a Solterran queen. She was supposed to burn.
She looks at Bexley Briar, her hair a mass of writhing serpents, her hooves suspended like a specter, and she can’t feel terrible. She can only think that Raum is going to die, because we’re going to kill him, and he’s going to deserve every last horrible second of it.
“We are hurt too, Seraphina,” Bexley says, those jewel-bright eyes glittering like chips of eyes, her voice obvious without being condescending; and the simplicity of the statement strikes her all over again, because Raum thinks he’s lost everything, and maybe he has, but they have too. “The difference is-“
The silence hangs between them, and Seraphina knows that she is doing it for some dramatic effect. But it isn’t really silent – there is the mournful howl of the desert wind scraping its clawed fingers across the sand and carving an echo through the canyons and caverns that stretch out for miles behind them, and there is the sound of her magic between her ears, louder than the wind, or thunder, or even her own thoughts. (She doesn’t know where she ends and the magic begins – like it’s her blood, or like it’s a river, and she’s just caught in its currents -, but she’s starting to think that maybe, she doesn’t care, or maybe it doesn’t matter. It feels like it could kill. She knows, in her bones, that it could kill.)
(And, if she could see the future, she would know that it will. Over and over again. Over and over.)
“—he’s a cunt,” Bexley finishes, and then she bursts into hysterical laughter – deranged laughter, like a wild beast, like a madwoman. (It’s better, at least, than the quiet, dead-eyed thing she was when she appeared; better mad than empty. Better mad than void.) She doesn’t laugh, save for a breathy exhalation that almost sounds like the afterthought of a laugh or some snicker that she smothered in her throat, but she smirks, and it feels wrong and right all at once – because Seraphina doesn’t smirk (and she doesn’t smile, especially not like that), but she isn’t Seraphina anymore, because Seraphina is dead, and she knows that she can’t be a dead person.
Bexley flashes her a smile. It is all teeth, like a hungry animal. “Whenever you need me,” she says, and then she’s gone, quick as she came.
Seraphina watches her go, gold skin on gold sand, and she almost says be careful, but instead she just licks her lips. Drags her tongue along the ridges of her teeth – wonders if they feel sharper lately.
Her mouth still tastes like blood.
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tags | @Bexley
notes | ty for the thread!!! <3
FIRE ALMOST OUT WHEN FURY CAME
the seam rip of thunder, a rush of mothers howled through my mouth burst wide --
They are twin horrors, now, twin horrors – she can vaguely remember meeting Bexley Briar, and thinking that she was probably the prettiest girl she’d ever seen, but there is nothing pretty about the light in her eyes or the toothy, feral smile curled across her golden (oh-so golden) features, and she’s sure that there’s nothing pretty about her or the way that she’s looking at Bexley right now. They are twin horrors, now, and Seraphina doesn’t run from it. She doesn’t run from the way that, when she looks into Bexley’s sky-blue eyes, she swears she sees the world burning, and she almost thinks that the world deserves it. When she was younger, and a little more naïve, and a little more hopeful, she’d held her rage and her grief tight to her chest, and, no matter how much she hurt, she never let them come spilling out. Now, with that mass of gold scars raked across her face forever, she has no choice but to wear them on her skin. She knows that it should feel terrible. She knows that she should feel terrible, because she knows what terrible things can come from rage and grief, and that little voice inside of her that is still Seraphina begs her to do better, to be better, to not give in. But she isn’t listening. She’s past the point of listening to that voice; look where it got her. Dead in a field, buried by jewel-bright flowers. What a fucking end for a Solterran queen. She was supposed to burn.
She looks at Bexley Briar, her hair a mass of writhing serpents, her hooves suspended like a specter, and she can’t feel terrible. She can only think that Raum is going to die, because we’re going to kill him, and he’s going to deserve every last horrible second of it.
“We are hurt too, Seraphina,” Bexley says, those jewel-bright eyes glittering like chips of eyes, her voice obvious without being condescending; and the simplicity of the statement strikes her all over again, because Raum thinks he’s lost everything, and maybe he has, but they have too. “The difference is-“
The silence hangs between them, and Seraphina knows that she is doing it for some dramatic effect. But it isn’t really silent – there is the mournful howl of the desert wind scraping its clawed fingers across the sand and carving an echo through the canyons and caverns that stretch out for miles behind them, and there is the sound of her magic between her ears, louder than the wind, or thunder, or even her own thoughts. (She doesn’t know where she ends and the magic begins – like it’s her blood, or like it’s a river, and she’s just caught in its currents -, but she’s starting to think that maybe, she doesn’t care, or maybe it doesn’t matter. It feels like it could kill. She knows, in her bones, that it could kill.)
(And, if she could see the future, she would know that it will. Over and over again. Over and over.)
“—he’s a cunt,” Bexley finishes, and then she bursts into hysterical laughter – deranged laughter, like a wild beast, like a madwoman. (It’s better, at least, than the quiet, dead-eyed thing she was when she appeared; better mad than empty. Better mad than void.) She doesn’t laugh, save for a breathy exhalation that almost sounds like the afterthought of a laugh or some snicker that she smothered in her throat, but she smirks, and it feels wrong and right all at once – because Seraphina doesn’t smirk (and she doesn’t smile, especially not like that), but she isn’t Seraphina anymore, because Seraphina is dead, and she knows that she can’t be a dead person.
Bexley flashes her a smile. It is all teeth, like a hungry animal. “Whenever you need me,” she says, and then she’s gone, quick as she came.
Seraphina watches her go, gold skin on gold sand, and she almost says be careful, but instead she just licks her lips. Drags her tongue along the ridges of her teeth – wonders if they feel sharper lately.
Her mouth still tastes like blood.
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tags | @
notes | ty for the thread!!! <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
