☼ S E R A P H I N A ☼
my body, the quiet grave
it's the difference between drowning & burning
He jolts away from her touch.
There is a certain way that the wild roll of his eyes sends a chill up her spine. She tells herself that it is likely simple paranoia, the product of years spent in constant fear for her life, and, when she looks at him, her gaze turns apologetic. She edges a step further away from him, biting back an uncomfortable sigh. She had transgressed, judging by the way he startled like a frightened deer; but, then, perhaps that was to be expected. She has never been much good at this, whatever it is.
The pressure’s off, at least, he says.
Seraphina puts a bit more space between them.
She might have cringed at the defensive note in his answer, but she doesn’t; instead, as he recounts a story she half-knows from Florentine already, Seraphina berates herself, somewhat, for the question. (It certainly is not one that she would have wanted to hear.) She trains her stare on the waves and bites her tongue, wholly unsure of what to say, if anything at all.
It was only meant to be a moment. She’s not quite sure what she feels, when his voice quiets. It might be pity, or something less toxic, like mere sympathy; but neither option is useful, so she dismisses it entirely.
Seraphina nearly apologizes, though she is not sure if her apology would have been for the question or the touch or the circumstances of his disappearance; at any rate, the words never make it past her lips. She finally looks back to him and finds him perfectly serene. It occurs to her that it doesn’t seem quite right, but, still, she says nothing at all. He asks her why she came back. Her expression darkens with shame – but only for a moment.
Seraphina is trying to be honest, lately.
She has found that she does not like it at all; more often than not, it is viscerally uncomfortable, requiring parts of herself that she would rather not admit to possessing, and, perhaps more damningly, it forces her to reconsider things that she would rather leave in the distant past. It would be ridiculous to say that she owes him any particular sincerity – they barely know each other -, but she spends a moment considering the honest answer regardless.
She probably doesn’t belong in Solterra anymore. How could she, after what she has done? (More aptly: after what she had failed to do?) She probably doesn’t belong anywhere - save, perhaps, in a grave.
“I don’t think I know how to leave.” Her voice comes out soft and flat – not quite hesitant, but paper-thin. “My entire life has been Solterra-“ she pauses, her lips twisting a grimace, as though she is considering something unpleasant, “-as a slave, or a soldier, or an emissary, or a queen.” She has left. In moments, in brief instants; she left for a while, when Raum died, and then when Florentine found her amidst her self-imposed exile. They have never lasted for long.
The idea of leaving forever is overwhelming, and probably impossible to grapple with. Besides-
She exhales sharply. “And – I….failed my people, terribly. I don’t know if it would have changed anything, but I know that I am not the same as I was-“ because now she is unchanging, because her mind can shatter mirrors and snap necks, because, if she listens carefully, she can hear the hum of sparks where Alshamtueur sits at her hip, because the sun god gave her all these things and told her to repent, “-and I know that, so long as I am still alive, I…must do what I can to ensure that something like that never happens again.” The idea that she could do something in the face of another tyrant seems arrogant, even laughable in the face of her previous failure. Regardless, it is something.
(At least that means she still has use.)
Slowly, she turns her head, odd eyes shifting back to linger on Asterion. “…It seems strange to ask,” she concedes, still so softly, “since it was not your intention to leave, but why did you come back?”
tags | @Asterion
notes | <3
"speech"
my body, the quiet grave
it's the difference between drowning & burning
He jolts away from her touch.
There is a certain way that the wild roll of his eyes sends a chill up her spine. She tells herself that it is likely simple paranoia, the product of years spent in constant fear for her life, and, when she looks at him, her gaze turns apologetic. She edges a step further away from him, biting back an uncomfortable sigh. She had transgressed, judging by the way he startled like a frightened deer; but, then, perhaps that was to be expected. She has never been much good at this, whatever it is.
The pressure’s off, at least, he says.
Seraphina puts a bit more space between them.
She might have cringed at the defensive note in his answer, but she doesn’t; instead, as he recounts a story she half-knows from Florentine already, Seraphina berates herself, somewhat, for the question. (It certainly is not one that she would have wanted to hear.) She trains her stare on the waves and bites her tongue, wholly unsure of what to say, if anything at all.
It was only meant to be a moment. She’s not quite sure what she feels, when his voice quiets. It might be pity, or something less toxic, like mere sympathy; but neither option is useful, so she dismisses it entirely.
Seraphina nearly apologizes, though she is not sure if her apology would have been for the question or the touch or the circumstances of his disappearance; at any rate, the words never make it past her lips. She finally looks back to him and finds him perfectly serene. It occurs to her that it doesn’t seem quite right, but, still, she says nothing at all. He asks her why she came back. Her expression darkens with shame – but only for a moment.
Seraphina is trying to be honest, lately.
She has found that she does not like it at all; more often than not, it is viscerally uncomfortable, requiring parts of herself that she would rather not admit to possessing, and, perhaps more damningly, it forces her to reconsider things that she would rather leave in the distant past. It would be ridiculous to say that she owes him any particular sincerity – they barely know each other -, but she spends a moment considering the honest answer regardless.
She probably doesn’t belong in Solterra anymore. How could she, after what she has done? (More aptly: after what she had failed to do?) She probably doesn’t belong anywhere - save, perhaps, in a grave.
“I don’t think I know how to leave.” Her voice comes out soft and flat – not quite hesitant, but paper-thin. “My entire life has been Solterra-“ she pauses, her lips twisting a grimace, as though she is considering something unpleasant, “-as a slave, or a soldier, or an emissary, or a queen.” She has left. In moments, in brief instants; she left for a while, when Raum died, and then when Florentine found her amidst her self-imposed exile. They have never lasted for long.
The idea of leaving forever is overwhelming, and probably impossible to grapple with. Besides-
She exhales sharply. “And – I….failed my people, terribly. I don’t know if it would have changed anything, but I know that I am not the same as I was-“ because now she is unchanging, because her mind can shatter mirrors and snap necks, because, if she listens carefully, she can hear the hum of sparks where Alshamtueur sits at her hip, because the sun god gave her all these things and told her to repent, “-and I know that, so long as I am still alive, I…must do what I can to ensure that something like that never happens again.” The idea that she could do something in the face of another tyrant seems arrogant, even laughable in the face of her previous failure. Regardless, it is something.
(At least that means she still has use.)
Slowly, she turns her head, odd eyes shifting back to linger on Asterion. “…It seems strange to ask,” she concedes, still so softly, “since it was not your intention to leave, but why did you come back?”
tags | @Asterion
notes | <3
"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
