☼ S E R A P H I N A ☼
in the end, the World takes everything.
Somewhere else, I am alive still, saying.
His gaze steadies on her, though he only speaks some time after she has given her explanation; she supposes that he needs time to process. I had a home very similar, he says, but it is gone now. There is a moment where she pauses, allowing his words to settle in her head. His home – gone? At first she wants to think of it as metaphor, but the look in his eyes suggests something more physical.
She cannot fathom the idea of a place simply disappearing. But, then again – she knows nothing at all of the circumstances. (She isn’t quite inclined to ask, either; to pick at a bruise.)
“I’m sorry,” she says, on instinct. It probably means nothing; what good have condolences ever done in the face of any tragedy? She does mean it. She is not malevolent enough to wish for anyone’s pain. (Ereshkigal’s ragged voice cuts into her thoughts like the screech of torn metal. “Don’t lie,” she says, and laughs lowly. “I remember you, when we met.” Seraphina tries not to remember herself, when they met; and more than that, she refuses to remember the way that her anger has eroded her. Did erode her. Is still, more than she would like to admit, eroding her.) Condolences mean nothing, and she tries to come up with something better to say.
The result almost certainly falls flat. “I…” Her voice trails off into a quiet and lingering hesitation, like she isn’t quite sure what to say (and who would be, when faced with the prospect of an entire land, destroyed, some refugee stranger-in-mourning?), “…can’t even imagine.” Or maybe she can. She’s seen her home burnt to the ground, seen statues made of living flesh, seen a tyrant remake the character of the desert twice over; and every time it changes, she finds herself asking if what comes about in its wake is the same as what existed prior. But perhaps the comparison is insensitive. Seraphina can imagine Solterra burnt, bloodied, on her knees, whittled away, collared – but she cannot imagine it simply gone.
She cannot imagine returning. She cannot imagine having nothing to return to, either.
When he consents to her offer, she is relieved. It prevents her from of attempting to come up with any better consolations. “Walk with me, then,” Seraphina says, and, with a nod of her head in the direction of the capital, starts off across the sands. “You can ask any questions that you have as we go.”
She will leave him, she is sure, when they see the city gates. She is no longer any good at staying – at seeing anything through. (That has to change; but she is not willing to change it for any other living creature than the two growing in her stomach.)
But, for now – even as some faded, disappearing thing, she will be whatever company she can provide.
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.
His gaze steadies on her, though he only speaks some time after she has given her explanation; she supposes that he needs time to process. I had a home very similar, he says, but it is gone now. There is a moment where she pauses, allowing his words to settle in her head. His home – gone? At first she wants to think of it as metaphor, but the look in his eyes suggests something more physical.
She cannot fathom the idea of a place simply disappearing. But, then again – she knows nothing at all of the circumstances. (She isn’t quite inclined to ask, either; to pick at a bruise.)
“I’m sorry,” she says, on instinct. It probably means nothing; what good have condolences ever done in the face of any tragedy? She does mean it. She is not malevolent enough to wish for anyone’s pain. (Ereshkigal’s ragged voice cuts into her thoughts like the screech of torn metal. “Don’t lie,” she says, and laughs lowly. “I remember you, when we met.” Seraphina tries not to remember herself, when they met; and more than that, she refuses to remember the way that her anger has eroded her. Did erode her. Is still, more than she would like to admit, eroding her.) Condolences mean nothing, and she tries to come up with something better to say.
The result almost certainly falls flat. “I…” Her voice trails off into a quiet and lingering hesitation, like she isn’t quite sure what to say (and who would be, when faced with the prospect of an entire land, destroyed, some refugee stranger-in-mourning?), “…can’t even imagine.” Or maybe she can. She’s seen her home burnt to the ground, seen statues made of living flesh, seen a tyrant remake the character of the desert twice over; and every time it changes, she finds herself asking if what comes about in its wake is the same as what existed prior. But perhaps the comparison is insensitive. Seraphina can imagine Solterra burnt, bloodied, on her knees, whittled away, collared – but she cannot imagine it simply gone.
She cannot imagine returning. She cannot imagine having nothing to return to, either.
When he consents to her offer, she is relieved. It prevents her from of attempting to come up with any better consolations. “Walk with me, then,” Seraphina says, and, with a nod of her head in the direction of the capital, starts off across the sands. “You can ask any questions that you have as we go.”
She will leave him, she is sure, when they see the city gates. She is no longer any good at staying – at seeing anything through. (That has to change; but she is not willing to change it for any other living creature than the two growing in her stomach.)
But, for now – even as some faded, disappearing thing, she will be whatever company she can provide.
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
