☼ S E R A P H I N A ☼
The corridors are the loudest - an artery of wailing - what nicks the heart -
drawn tight across all things?
"None other,” he says, “though I am pleased to have made as much an impression on you as you have me.” She gives a soft snort, caught halfway between amusement and exasperation. When he writes, it sounds like a line he spun out of a song, or some romantic novel. She’d thought it clever, when she’d realized there was a code to it; who would expect state secrets hidden beneath the harmless guise of a love letter? What she hadn’t expected was for him to carry it over into speech. Seraphina isn’t sure how to deal with it; she knows better than to think too much of it, though. She has always been a girl who is better-equipped to deal with bloodied blades than flowers, more comfortable dealing with harsh words and mockery than anything soft. She has never known what to do with kindness, where to put it. She doesn’t know how to feel about the prying, persistent warmth of his voice, beyond that it is familiar, but how-?
There is the sound of crinkling paper from outside of the window; a moment later, he pushes a paper rose through the slim crack between the window panes. If there was any doubt in Seraphina’s mind that she was dealing with Verona, and there wasn’t, that was enough to assuage it. Her mind wraps around the rose, gently fingers the edges of its parchment petals. It is delicate craftsmanship – complex. She wonders how he managed to do it. Even if she follows the folds, she is sure that she won’t be able to make it a rose again once she is done reading her, and it almost seems like a pity.
But she hardly has the time to be sentimental about a paper flower. Even less a paper flower with valuable information – schedules, he tells her.
“Thank you,” Seraphina says, because she doesn’t quite know what else to say. “Those will be…most valuable.” It isn’t a lie, but there is something else lingering on the tip of her tongue, something that has been bothering her since his first letter arrived - why are you helping us? But Seraphina doesn’t dare to say it. This still feels too fragile; if she pushes at it, and she stumbles, she is sure that it will break, and she cannot stand the idea of being any more alone than she is already. She cannot risk anyone else leaving. Perhaps it would be better, safer to stick to something fickle. How to fold flowers. Why flowers – why roses? And that would have been the wiser choice to make.
Of course – when she asks him how he found her, he quiets.
For a moment, Seraphina stands staring at where she thought he was, frozen to the spot. She blinks out into the darkness of the streets and swallows; she might have choked, if she didn’t know better, but she did. Instead, her expression stiffens, then settles into something resembling apathy. She turns from the window, back towards the dull, yellow flicker of the wax candle burning out in the far corner of the room, and she reminds herself of all the work she needs to do, now that she has these schedules. If she writes the letters quickly, she can call for Ereshkigal, and they will be with her agents in Solterra by the morning.
It wasn’t as though he’d left the resistance, she reasons.
But she hadn’t minded the company.
Before she can walk away from the window, he speaks again. “A magical map,” he says, simply, and Seraphina hates that she is glad that he is still there, more than she is glad to have the answer to her question. She turns back to stare at the window, at the white fog of his breath and the darkness outside. She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t want him to leave, and she resents it, and she doesn’t want him to be quiet, because then he might as well be gone, but she doesn’t know how to deal with his voice.
How desperate of her. How horrible. She could sneer at herself over it.
“That must be useful.” Seraphina might as well have been a thousand miles away; there is nothing behind the soft cadence of her voice. She is speaking to fill up space, or to take up time, or to beg him without begging him to stay a while longer, because not even Ereshkigal is here for her now. In times like this, when she was a girl, she would pray, because god will always hear you, if you just ask for him to, but she is no longer so sure that her god is listening. Not to her. Maybe not to anyone.
It looks like it’s going to rain, he says, and, now that he mentions it, she thinks that she can smell it on the wind when she stands so close to the just-open window; the drifting scent of sea-salt and incense mingles with something clear and sharp and fresh. And hadn’t she heard thunder? She barely knows how to recognize the sound. In a desert, rain is rare. It was no wonder that she didn’t notice it. Seraphina inclines her head, unable to shake the feeling that he is meeting her eyes. She can’t see them – it’s only a feeling, an invasive prickle that runs the length of her spine. She can’t bring herself to turn away.
His hoof strikes stone. Invite me in, Carrissima? She doesn’t know what the word means. Only how he says it.
She doesn’t know how to do that, really. How to let someone inside. She looks out into the darkness, considering, her lips half-open in hesitation; she’ll see him, then, won’t she? Does she want to? She isn’t sure that she’ll be able to maintain any of this if she sees his face. And she can’t break this. She needs his help.
She licks her lips. They taste like salt. Salt and rain. An aftertaste of incense and candle-smoke. Then, without moving, she reaches the spectral fingers of her mind to the window. They hover there. She hesitates.
A little push is all it takes – a flick. She could break glass with her mind now, she is sure. There is nothing delicate to the hungry tide of her magic, but just for now, she lets it be tentative, almost gentle. Cold, humid air follows; the candle seems to darken behind her.
“Come in,” Seraphina says, her voice ghostly soft – barely more than a whisper. She can no longer discern what it sounds like.
tags | @Caine
notes | love of my life
"speech"
The corridors are the loudest - an artery of wailing - what nicks the heart -
drawn tight across all things?
"None other,” he says, “though I am pleased to have made as much an impression on you as you have me.” She gives a soft snort, caught halfway between amusement and exasperation. When he writes, it sounds like a line he spun out of a song, or some romantic novel. She’d thought it clever, when she’d realized there was a code to it; who would expect state secrets hidden beneath the harmless guise of a love letter? What she hadn’t expected was for him to carry it over into speech. Seraphina isn’t sure how to deal with it; she knows better than to think too much of it, though. She has always been a girl who is better-equipped to deal with bloodied blades than flowers, more comfortable dealing with harsh words and mockery than anything soft. She has never known what to do with kindness, where to put it. She doesn’t know how to feel about the prying, persistent warmth of his voice, beyond that it is familiar, but how-?
There is the sound of crinkling paper from outside of the window; a moment later, he pushes a paper rose through the slim crack between the window panes. If there was any doubt in Seraphina’s mind that she was dealing with Verona, and there wasn’t, that was enough to assuage it. Her mind wraps around the rose, gently fingers the edges of its parchment petals. It is delicate craftsmanship – complex. She wonders how he managed to do it. Even if she follows the folds, she is sure that she won’t be able to make it a rose again once she is done reading her, and it almost seems like a pity.
But she hardly has the time to be sentimental about a paper flower. Even less a paper flower with valuable information – schedules, he tells her.
“Thank you,” Seraphina says, because she doesn’t quite know what else to say. “Those will be…most valuable.” It isn’t a lie, but there is something else lingering on the tip of her tongue, something that has been bothering her since his first letter arrived - why are you helping us? But Seraphina doesn’t dare to say it. This still feels too fragile; if she pushes at it, and she stumbles, she is sure that it will break, and she cannot stand the idea of being any more alone than she is already. She cannot risk anyone else leaving. Perhaps it would be better, safer to stick to something fickle. How to fold flowers. Why flowers – why roses? And that would have been the wiser choice to make.
Of course – when she asks him how he found her, he quiets.
For a moment, Seraphina stands staring at where she thought he was, frozen to the spot. She blinks out into the darkness of the streets and swallows; she might have choked, if she didn’t know better, but she did. Instead, her expression stiffens, then settles into something resembling apathy. She turns from the window, back towards the dull, yellow flicker of the wax candle burning out in the far corner of the room, and she reminds herself of all the work she needs to do, now that she has these schedules. If she writes the letters quickly, she can call for Ereshkigal, and they will be with her agents in Solterra by the morning.
It wasn’t as though he’d left the resistance, she reasons.
But she hadn’t minded the company.
Before she can walk away from the window, he speaks again. “A magical map,” he says, simply, and Seraphina hates that she is glad that he is still there, more than she is glad to have the answer to her question. She turns back to stare at the window, at the white fog of his breath and the darkness outside. She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t want him to leave, and she resents it, and she doesn’t want him to be quiet, because then he might as well be gone, but she doesn’t know how to deal with his voice.
How desperate of her. How horrible. She could sneer at herself over it.
“That must be useful.” Seraphina might as well have been a thousand miles away; there is nothing behind the soft cadence of her voice. She is speaking to fill up space, or to take up time, or to beg him without begging him to stay a while longer, because not even Ereshkigal is here for her now. In times like this, when she was a girl, she would pray, because god will always hear you, if you just ask for him to, but she is no longer so sure that her god is listening. Not to her. Maybe not to anyone.
It looks like it’s going to rain, he says, and, now that he mentions it, she thinks that she can smell it on the wind when she stands so close to the just-open window; the drifting scent of sea-salt and incense mingles with something clear and sharp and fresh. And hadn’t she heard thunder? She barely knows how to recognize the sound. In a desert, rain is rare. It was no wonder that she didn’t notice it. Seraphina inclines her head, unable to shake the feeling that he is meeting her eyes. She can’t see them – it’s only a feeling, an invasive prickle that runs the length of her spine. She can’t bring herself to turn away.
His hoof strikes stone. Invite me in, Carrissima? She doesn’t know what the word means. Only how he says it.
She doesn’t know how to do that, really. How to let someone inside. She looks out into the darkness, considering, her lips half-open in hesitation; she’ll see him, then, won’t she? Does she want to? She isn’t sure that she’ll be able to maintain any of this if she sees his face. And she can’t break this. She needs his help.
She licks her lips. They taste like salt. Salt and rain. An aftertaste of incense and candle-smoke. Then, without moving, she reaches the spectral fingers of her mind to the window. They hover there. She hesitates.
A little push is all it takes – a flick. She could break glass with her mind now, she is sure. There is nothing delicate to the hungry tide of her magic, but just for now, she lets it be tentative, almost gentle. Cold, humid air follows; the candle seems to darken behind her.
“Come in,” Seraphina says, her voice ghostly soft – barely more than a whisper. She can no longer discern what it sounds like.
tags | @Caine
notes | love of my life
"speech"
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
