When she was younger, she would talk to the gods.
It didn’t really matter which of them she would speak to – Seraphina didn’t ever remember specifying. She was probably too young to care. Blessed with an antisocial, eccentric (to say the least) mother and an absentee father, she spent her earliest days in isolation, and that was when the habit started. In lieu of friends or family, she spoke to anyone that might be listening, and, even with her scant knowledge of folklore, her imaginary friends quickly became what hazy concepts she had developed of the gods. Now, she would openly admit that her perceptions of her childhood were fragmented and discordant, warped into jagged, sharp chunks that felt as though they happened to someone else by Viceroy’s influence. When she thought about herself, she felt very deeply that she was more of a spectator of her own memories. Rationally, she knew that they had happened to her, but it felt as though she’d watched them occur to someone else. These so-called “imaginary friends” were among the few memories that remained completely intact and untainted – even Viceroy considered a few things sacred, and religion was one such thing. This was likely why she still spoke with them from time to time, though it was largely confined to her trips to Veneror or her internal monologue. It was silly, when she thought about it, but the impulse was so unconscious that she hardly noticed it until long after the fact.
She’d slipped away from the politics and heat of Solterra like a ghost in the middle of the night, tracing the familiar pathways (the few stone landmarks in the sand and the stars, then trees and dusty trails, worn thin by years of devotion) to make her way to the holiest site in Novus. She brought with her the long strip of mother-of-pearl that she had taken from the shore of the Terminus Sea, a set of several teryr feathers bound up in thin golden chain, a vine of blush-white flowers that bloomed at night, a strange piece of driftwood she’d found washed up on the shore of the Mors, carved with strange symbols, and, perhaps most intriguing of all, a shard of brightly-colored red glass, like fire, found beneath the starlit sky of the Mors days after a terrible storm. These respective offerings had been hoarded over the months that followed Viceroy’s death; she felt ashamed to admit it, but she hadn’t been to Veneror for worship since just days before her mentor was slaughtered, laid out bright red and blood in the sand. (Had he known? She sometimes wondered if he knew. The last time that they had walked these paths together – the last time they would – she recalled his blazing white silhouette, his crown of draconian horns wreathed in red flames that set the first blush of dawn to shame, set the sun to shame. He’d turned to her, eccentric golden eyes brimming with an emotion that felt so very strange on him, a tiredness that she would never associate with the immortal, and spread out his great, angelic wings to their fullest extent. “These aren’t my gods, you know. These are the gods of this land. This land is not my land. This is…” He’d turned his gaze to the dawn, the sun as it split the blurry edge of the horizon. The flames danced and writhed, like snakes. “Kaerth-sihl ehl louctet fienccia nomar de.” Apprentice, the birds are burning in the midday sun. He never spoke when he knew that she’d understand it; it wasn’t midday, and there weren’t any birds, up so high. She wondered, then, if he was finally collapsing – she’d watched it for a while, like the slow wear of the crags on the ocean shoreline. Maybe there was more to it, she thought, from time to time. Some cipher or message, perhaps? But she didn’t see any meaning to his words. Seraphina should have missed him, and she did miss the quiet lilt of his voice as she ascended the mountainside, if only because the silence, save the low howl of the wind, felt suffocating.
She didn’t miss him at all.)
The shrines, covered in their tangles of overgrowth, welcomed her as she finally arose to the mountain’s highest point, wind whipping frantically through her mass of hair, left loose, for once, and tumbling to her chest. She laid her small offerings at each shrine in turn; the flowers for Caligo, the feathers for Solis, the shell for Vespera, the wood for Oriens, and, finally, the glass for Tempus. She lingered only moments at each shrine, though the longest space of time was reserved for Solis, genuine worship by comparison to simple respect – a whispered thanks that none had been killed during the fight with the teryr. She stood, for a long moment, at the base of his shrine, head dipped in prayer. When she stepped back, still in quiet contemplation of the divine, the first blush of dawn had slipped above the horizon, stripping away starlight with a soft haze.
The silence, she found – sheltered from the whip of wind – was a comfort, if a momentary one.
@Inkheart - if you still want to drop in <3It didn’t really matter which of them she would speak to – Seraphina didn’t ever remember specifying. She was probably too young to care. Blessed with an antisocial, eccentric (to say the least) mother and an absentee father, she spent her earliest days in isolation, and that was when the habit started. In lieu of friends or family, she spoke to anyone that might be listening, and, even with her scant knowledge of folklore, her imaginary friends quickly became what hazy concepts she had developed of the gods. Now, she would openly admit that her perceptions of her childhood were fragmented and discordant, warped into jagged, sharp chunks that felt as though they happened to someone else by Viceroy’s influence. When she thought about herself, she felt very deeply that she was more of a spectator of her own memories. Rationally, she knew that they had happened to her, but it felt as though she’d watched them occur to someone else. These so-called “imaginary friends” were among the few memories that remained completely intact and untainted – even Viceroy considered a few things sacred, and religion was one such thing. This was likely why she still spoke with them from time to time, though it was largely confined to her trips to Veneror or her internal monologue. It was silly, when she thought about it, but the impulse was so unconscious that she hardly noticed it until long after the fact.
She’d slipped away from the politics and heat of Solterra like a ghost in the middle of the night, tracing the familiar pathways (the few stone landmarks in the sand and the stars, then trees and dusty trails, worn thin by years of devotion) to make her way to the holiest site in Novus. She brought with her the long strip of mother-of-pearl that she had taken from the shore of the Terminus Sea, a set of several teryr feathers bound up in thin golden chain, a vine of blush-white flowers that bloomed at night, a strange piece of driftwood she’d found washed up on the shore of the Mors, carved with strange symbols, and, perhaps most intriguing of all, a shard of brightly-colored red glass, like fire, found beneath the starlit sky of the Mors days after a terrible storm. These respective offerings had been hoarded over the months that followed Viceroy’s death; she felt ashamed to admit it, but she hadn’t been to Veneror for worship since just days before her mentor was slaughtered, laid out bright red and blood in the sand. (Had he known? She sometimes wondered if he knew. The last time that they had walked these paths together – the last time they would – she recalled his blazing white silhouette, his crown of draconian horns wreathed in red flames that set the first blush of dawn to shame, set the sun to shame. He’d turned to her, eccentric golden eyes brimming with an emotion that felt so very strange on him, a tiredness that she would never associate with the immortal, and spread out his great, angelic wings to their fullest extent. “These aren’t my gods, you know. These are the gods of this land. This land is not my land. This is…” He’d turned his gaze to the dawn, the sun as it split the blurry edge of the horizon. The flames danced and writhed, like snakes. “Kaerth-sihl ehl louctet fienccia nomar de.” Apprentice, the birds are burning in the midday sun. He never spoke when he knew that she’d understand it; it wasn’t midday, and there weren’t any birds, up so high. She wondered, then, if he was finally collapsing – she’d watched it for a while, like the slow wear of the crags on the ocean shoreline. Maybe there was more to it, she thought, from time to time. Some cipher or message, perhaps? But she didn’t see any meaning to his words. Seraphina should have missed him, and she did miss the quiet lilt of his voice as she ascended the mountainside, if only because the silence, save the low howl of the wind, felt suffocating.
She didn’t miss him at all.)
The shrines, covered in their tangles of overgrowth, welcomed her as she finally arose to the mountain’s highest point, wind whipping frantically through her mass of hair, left loose, for once, and tumbling to her chest. She laid her small offerings at each shrine in turn; the flowers for Caligo, the feathers for Solis, the shell for Vespera, the wood for Oriens, and, finally, the glass for Tempus. She lingered only moments at each shrine, though the longest space of time was reserved for Solis, genuine worship by comparison to simple respect – a whispered thanks that none had been killed during the fight with the teryr. She stood, for a long moment, at the base of his shrine, head dipped in prayer. When she stepped back, still in quiet contemplation of the divine, the first blush of dawn had slipped above the horizon, stripping away starlight with a soft haze.
The silence, she found – sheltered from the whip of wind – was a comfort, if a momentary one.
otherwise, AW!
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
