YOU WANNA TAKE A DRINK OF THAT PROMISED LANDgotta wipe the dirt off of your hands--
Stars coated the night sky in a thinly-woven blanket of glistening silver, a tangle of pale light that seemed to flicker in and out of existence imperceptibly – when she was younger, Seraphina would spend hours navigating by starlight, head drooping as she stumbled in-between Viceroy’s hooves. Now, little more than a rudimentary glance up told her exactly where she stood in the vast, smoldering deserts of Solterra, and she had long since stopped thinking about how lovely they were. She was fairly sure that she had looked up at them with wonder a very long time ago, but she didn’t really remember what it felt like, short flashes of images that seemed to her to have happened in third person. Seraphina reminded herself that it didn’t matter, and it never had.
She stood on the high ridges of one of the canyons, eyes cast out on the horizon and searching for something beyond the light of distant stars. Although she was no longer a warrior or a guard, – diplomacy still left an odd taste in her mouth, with her perpetual, if generally tactical, bluntness – it soothed her to wander the borders. The wounds from the Teryr fight that had so terribly marred her glistening silver coat had largely healed in the days – weeks – she had spent confined in the library like a bird in a cage, pouring over documents and history and culture. (The pages were so fine, the scrolls soft and delicate as Spring’s first blushing bloom; she almost feared to touch them, with skin rough from the sand and eyes cast over with jade.) Her hips no longer pricked and ached when she walked, and, for that, she was grateful. Seraphina could return to running.
Tonight, however, she had something of a mission – more specifically, to meet the Dusk Court Emissary, a lovely little pale golden girl by the name of Florentine. Considering their respective occupations, she supposed that it would be in her best interests to attempt to get to know the girl, (girl, she said, as though they were not about the same age) though, in all honesty, she hadn’t the foggiest inclination of how. Florentine was gauzy, graceful, ethereal – all kind smiles and delicate words, soft as the flowers strung in her hair. And if Florentine was the sort of girl that radiated love, breathed it and lived it with her entire being, then Seraphina was a girl with no love at all. There was no room for love or gentleness in a child that had grown old and wise in the confines of battle, no room for sweetness or affection in a gaze sharp and cold as polished steel. In some, small way, Seraphina found herself envious of Florentine and her love, how easily she seemed to adapt to her new role in spite of her status as a foreigner, how deeply and effortlessly loved she seemed to be by those around her.
She reminded herself that it didn’t matter, and continued her silent vigil, still and quiet as a statue save for the near-imperceptible flutter of her hair in the soft desert wind.
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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
