I’m so wound-bound.
I’m so lost to the vanity of staying. Stay.
Seraphina is quick, but Bexley is quicker. She dances out of the way of her teeth before they can clamp down on her mane, and Seraphina is too preoccupied to notice the way that her steps are too clumsy to be much of a dance, or the way that her expression has twisted. She comes away with a few strands of pale mane caught in her teeth, and she expects to be disappointed with herself, but she isn’t.
Instead, she isn’t sure what she feels. When she doesn’t catch her, she doesn’t move, her hooves dug into the dry, malleable soil; she lets Bexley put some distance between them and makes no effort to give chase. Her expression is an inquiry, her two-tone stare a question - is it over?
When she exhales, long and loud enough for Seraphina to hear it even though she’s some distance away, she lets herself relax. The tension melts off her limbs like snow off the side of a mountain at the end of winter, slow and lax, and she straightens, kicking a crust of dirt off her half-buried hooves. At the edge of the field, Ereshkigal is shifting, kneading her talons in Seraphina’s scarf in an obvious gesture of anticipation. A moment later, her voice comes. “Are you done yet?”
(Seraphina has discovered that the vulture is even more single-minded than her; she thinks that it is probably because Ereshkigal enjoys her job. Seraphina acts out of necessity, and Ereshkigal acts out of a certain sophisticated bloodlust. She would never compare it to a primal urge, but it is primal in that it is what she is crafted for – she is judge, jury, and executioner by nature. It will always be her impulse to hunt and to punish.)
Seraphina doesn’t reply to the vulture, but she does pick her way over towards her abandoned armor and weaponry, dragging her tongue along the ridges of her teeth almost grimly. Once she returns to Solterra, the world will be burning again, and she’ll be on fire with it. Once she returns to Solterra, the sun will be scalding instead of pleasant, and she won’t have friends, she’ll have allies, because it is easier to swallow losing a friend than an ally.
Once she returns to Solterra, if she finds herself in combat, it won’t be to relieve stress. She looks at her reflection in Alshamtueur’s gleaming silver hilt, and then she throws a glance over her shoulder, towards Bexley. It is another inquiry.
Bexley flashes her one of those bright, bright smiles – practically brilliant things, better still for being genuine. She always understands why people seem to adore her so easily when she sees her smile like that.
Seraphina, in turn, gives her one of those smiles that isn’t quite a smile, but is more of the foggy impression of one; generally speaking, it’s the closest thing that Seraphina has to offer, and she hopes that it’s enough. She hopes she knows that she cares, even if she’s terrible at putting words to it, or showing it on her face, and she hopes that she knows that she is glad that she’s here, by her side. (She’s glad that she’s been at her side through all of this – the good moments and the horrible ones alike.) She’s never had many friends, and she’s never quite been sure if she can call her Regent one, but looking at her now, sweaty and suspended in sunshine-
She’s grateful to have found a friend in her.
@
"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
