☼ S E R A P H I N A ☼
in the end, the World takes everything.
Somewhere else, I am alive still, saying.
Ever so slowly, she forces the magic out of her. It feels dizzying and makes her head spin, much like applying pressure to a bleeding wound. (She doesn’t know what her magic longs for, exactly, or what it wants, but she knows that it is always more.) Her hooves stop their drifting and settle on the sand again, though she still seems unnaturally light, and, as she moves, they barely leave a trace; and her white hair settles back into its tight braids, lies flat against her neck where it had begun to float. Ereshkigal spirals above them, circling the young stallion like she might a corpse; fortunately, Seraphina thinks that he is well beyond noticing. (The demon’s sense of humor is, to say the least, morbid and sadistic.) She doesn’t humor her with a comment.
The truth of the matter is that she doesn’t want to be seen like this.
As she approaches him, she tries to disregard the swell of her sides, the way that she does not move quite so easily as she used to. She tries to disregard the way that the thought of anyone seeing her like this still makes her stomach knot with something like shame, though she knows that it shouldn’t. Most of all, she tries to think of how it is more important to be useful than it is to be ashamed, though that does little to settle the gnawing in her stomach.
One of his eyes flickers open to look at her. She notes the color: bright crimson. Like a poppy, or a rose, or like blood. Juxtaposed against the blue mark on his forehead – she imagines that it is a tattoo, but she has no way of knowing -, it seems particularly sharp, though it only remains open for a moment before it falls shut again. It isn’t a cautious gesture. She wonders if he is so badly injured that he cannot even keep his eyes open (he doesn’t look it, but, then, she can’t make out most of him) or if he is simply beyond caring about any threat that she might pose.
He is quiet. And then:
No.
It’s what she expected, perhaps even what she knew - but she isn’t accustomed to anyone admitting it so easily. He pauses, and she wonders if he will say anything more; a deep, rattling breath escapes his lips before he says, I thought- and then cuts himself off short. She waits a moment for him to finish, or maybe she just hopes he’ll finish, and maybe she waits too long – the silence stretches out between them awkwardly, unfilled space. Finally, Seraphina shifts from hoof-to-hoof, swallowing, and she considers what to say. It is surely useless to try to comfort him; she has never been any good at that.
She gives a soft sigh. It isn’t quite exasperated – it is the kind of sound that you make when you don’t quite know what to say, but you can’t bring yourself to stay silent. She doesn’t know what to say to comfort him, so she decides to settle for something a bit easier, to ask him if he is physically alright. “Did you hurt yourself, when you fell?” At least, if he is, she can do something for that.
Her voice is still soft, and still cold around the edges, no matter how she might wish it were warmer, or less empty.
tags | @Mauna
notes | <3
quote | cynthia cruz, "letters to emily"
"speech" || "ereshkigal"
in the end, the World takes everything.
Somewhere else, I am alive still, saying.
Ever so slowly, she forces the magic out of her. It feels dizzying and makes her head spin, much like applying pressure to a bleeding wound. (She doesn’t know what her magic longs for, exactly, or what it wants, but she knows that it is always more.) Her hooves stop their drifting and settle on the sand again, though she still seems unnaturally light, and, as she moves, they barely leave a trace; and her white hair settles back into its tight braids, lies flat against her neck where it had begun to float. Ereshkigal spirals above them, circling the young stallion like she might a corpse; fortunately, Seraphina thinks that he is well beyond noticing. (The demon’s sense of humor is, to say the least, morbid and sadistic.) She doesn’t humor her with a comment.
The truth of the matter is that she doesn’t want to be seen like this.
As she approaches him, she tries to disregard the swell of her sides, the way that she does not move quite so easily as she used to. She tries to disregard the way that the thought of anyone seeing her like this still makes her stomach knot with something like shame, though she knows that it shouldn’t. Most of all, she tries to think of how it is more important to be useful than it is to be ashamed, though that does little to settle the gnawing in her stomach.
One of his eyes flickers open to look at her. She notes the color: bright crimson. Like a poppy, or a rose, or like blood. Juxtaposed against the blue mark on his forehead – she imagines that it is a tattoo, but she has no way of knowing -, it seems particularly sharp, though it only remains open for a moment before it falls shut again. It isn’t a cautious gesture. She wonders if he is so badly injured that he cannot even keep his eyes open (he doesn’t look it, but, then, she can’t make out most of him) or if he is simply beyond caring about any threat that she might pose.
He is quiet. And then:
No.
It’s what she expected, perhaps even what she knew - but she isn’t accustomed to anyone admitting it so easily. He pauses, and she wonders if he will say anything more; a deep, rattling breath escapes his lips before he says, I thought- and then cuts himself off short. She waits a moment for him to finish, or maybe she just hopes he’ll finish, and maybe she waits too long – the silence stretches out between them awkwardly, unfilled space. Finally, Seraphina shifts from hoof-to-hoof, swallowing, and she considers what to say. It is surely useless to try to comfort him; she has never been any good at that.
She gives a soft sigh. It isn’t quite exasperated – it is the kind of sound that you make when you don’t quite know what to say, but you can’t bring yourself to stay silent. She doesn’t know what to say to comfort him, so she decides to settle for something a bit easier, to ask him if he is physically alright. “Did you hurt yourself, when you fell?” At least, if he is, she can do something for that.
Her voice is still soft, and still cold around the edges, no matter how she might wish it were warmer, or less empty.
tags | @
notes | <3
quote | cynthia cruz, "letters to emily"
"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
