☼ S E R A P H I N A ☼
Something laughs in the hills devours all I’ve left behind
shreds of longing hang from jaws as crushing as its absence.
He laughs – in a sound like wine and incense. She watches him uneasily, intimately aware that she is prone. Yes, she knows how quickly she can draw Alshamtueur. Yes, she knows that she does not even need the sword anymore. She can imagine the press of her spectral fingers to his throat, if she could find it under that cloak; she is sure, if she grasped enough, that she could. And that, yes, she is sure, is the reason why she cares to know who he is. He does not understand – she is not sure that anyone understands – what is growing inside of her head. What it means to kill with a thought, that each little twitch of her mind is deadlier and deadlier by the day. What it means that sometimes she barely thinks of it.
What it means that she wonders if someday she won’t really have to think at all.
You wound me, Fia- She is half-listening, a cold sense of unease settling into her stomach. She saw his eyes. She is sure that she knows them, but this isn’t – quite right. His voice and his words don’t match those eyes. (And I could have killed you, don’t you know that? Don’t you know I still could?) Her gaze clamps down on the space where his eyes were, but she can’t make sense of them. She can’t make sense of any of this. If you listen-
When he manages to finish his sentence, his voice is not the same.
No guessing. I will reveal myself at the end. I am tired of games, anyway.
Her stare lingers, bone-cold on the shadows. She opens her mouth, as though to speak, and then she closes it, swallowing, and simply nods. His posture shifts; she can tell, even beneath the cloak of shadows. There is something about it that strikes her as almost frighteningly sincere. Gaping silence stretches out between them, and Seraphina feels like she should say something - anything - to break it. She doesn’t, though. She simply stands stock-still, up against the wall, and the faint tilt of her head asks what next?
He speaks again. He assures her that he will keep to the other side of the room, and he tells her not to make herself uncomfortable on his account; she opens her mouth, managing a, “You don’t need-“ before he slips off the bed. (She doesn’t know why she tries to stop him. Perhaps she just doesn’t want him to run, though she is sure that, at the moment, running would be difficult. But Seraphina knows that running is not the only form of pulling away, much like physical distance is not the only form of distance – and she is sure that, when he agreed to reveal himself, something shifted. She is not sure if the change is for better or for worse.) Those ink-stains of shadows withdraw into him, leaving room for her opposite him.
It is almost fascinating to watch the way that they move. Horrifying, in a certain light – horrifying, certainly, as a creature of the day. But there is something to the way that they draw around them that makes her wish that she could move closer to examine them. They are almost like a living thing.
She does not want to repay the gesture with distrust, though a part of her longs to stay in the corner, deluding herself into thinking that the candle is some barrier. She doesn’t know why it matters. (But she is sure that if she falters at all – if she lets herself relax even an inch – that everything will come crumbling down around her. She is holding herself together by the skin of her teeth. There is no room to breathe, not even for a minute, because if she breathes -
If she breathes-
If she breathes, she will have to think all of this through, and then she will not be able to deal with it. All the death. All the failure, and the cruelty. The horrible, horrible realization that no one can really be trusted or relied on – that everyone is fallible. And that she had somehow started to believe otherwise, even though she knew better.)
Still. She draws forward, hesitantly, and lays down opposite him, snow-white hair fanning around her. Her posture remains woefully tense, her gaze focused on him like a steel trap. She waits.
(It reminds her, somehow, of when she was younger, of memories that she struggles to grasp at now. How she learned all those stories of Solterra. Long nights in the court, collecting stories from passers-by, and all the things she learned as queen. She doesn’t understand why it is becoming difficult to remember anything before Raum, that she had a life before Raum, that she had ever been happy, even for a moment, before that all-consuming dark hole that was Raum-)
I shall tell you the story, he says, and she lingers on each word, of the boy who put Death in a sack.
tags | @Caine
notes | my oral storytelling senses are tingling
"speech"
Something laughs in the hills devours all I’ve left behind
shreds of longing hang from jaws as crushing as its absence.
He laughs – in a sound like wine and incense. She watches him uneasily, intimately aware that she is prone. Yes, she knows how quickly she can draw Alshamtueur. Yes, she knows that she does not even need the sword anymore. She can imagine the press of her spectral fingers to his throat, if she could find it under that cloak; she is sure, if she grasped enough, that she could. And that, yes, she is sure, is the reason why she cares to know who he is. He does not understand – she is not sure that anyone understands – what is growing inside of her head. What it means to kill with a thought, that each little twitch of her mind is deadlier and deadlier by the day. What it means that sometimes she barely thinks of it.
What it means that she wonders if someday she won’t really have to think at all.
You wound me, Fia- She is half-listening, a cold sense of unease settling into her stomach. She saw his eyes. She is sure that she knows them, but this isn’t – quite right. His voice and his words don’t match those eyes. (And I could have killed you, don’t you know that? Don’t you know I still could?) Her gaze clamps down on the space where his eyes were, but she can’t make sense of them. She can’t make sense of any of this. If you listen-
When he manages to finish his sentence, his voice is not the same.
No guessing. I will reveal myself at the end. I am tired of games, anyway.
Her stare lingers, bone-cold on the shadows. She opens her mouth, as though to speak, and then she closes it, swallowing, and simply nods. His posture shifts; she can tell, even beneath the cloak of shadows. There is something about it that strikes her as almost frighteningly sincere. Gaping silence stretches out between them, and Seraphina feels like she should say something - anything - to break it. She doesn’t, though. She simply stands stock-still, up against the wall, and the faint tilt of her head asks what next?
He speaks again. He assures her that he will keep to the other side of the room, and he tells her not to make herself uncomfortable on his account; she opens her mouth, managing a, “You don’t need-“ before he slips off the bed. (She doesn’t know why she tries to stop him. Perhaps she just doesn’t want him to run, though she is sure that, at the moment, running would be difficult. But Seraphina knows that running is not the only form of pulling away, much like physical distance is not the only form of distance – and she is sure that, when he agreed to reveal himself, something shifted. She is not sure if the change is for better or for worse.) Those ink-stains of shadows withdraw into him, leaving room for her opposite him.
It is almost fascinating to watch the way that they move. Horrifying, in a certain light – horrifying, certainly, as a creature of the day. But there is something to the way that they draw around them that makes her wish that she could move closer to examine them. They are almost like a living thing.
She does not want to repay the gesture with distrust, though a part of her longs to stay in the corner, deluding herself into thinking that the candle is some barrier. She doesn’t know why it matters. (But she is sure that if she falters at all – if she lets herself relax even an inch – that everything will come crumbling down around her. She is holding herself together by the skin of her teeth. There is no room to breathe, not even for a minute, because if she breathes -
If she breathes-
If she breathes, she will have to think all of this through, and then she will not be able to deal with it. All the death. All the failure, and the cruelty. The horrible, horrible realization that no one can really be trusted or relied on – that everyone is fallible. And that she had somehow started to believe otherwise, even though she knew better.)
Still. She draws forward, hesitantly, and lays down opposite him, snow-white hair fanning around her. Her posture remains woefully tense, her gaze focused on him like a steel trap. She waits.
(It reminds her, somehow, of when she was younger, of memories that she struggles to grasp at now. How she learned all those stories of Solterra. Long nights in the court, collecting stories from passers-by, and all the things she learned as queen. She doesn’t understand why it is becoming difficult to remember anything before Raum, that she had a life before Raum, that she had ever been happy, even for a moment, before that all-consuming dark hole that was Raum-)
I shall tell you the story, he says, and she lingers on each word, of the boy who put Death in a sack.
tags | @Caine
notes | my oral storytelling senses are tingling
"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
