☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
my blood will fill the ditch // my blood will bury the mountain // but for now it sits still in my mouth // just waiting on the tip of my tongue
my blood will fill the ditch // my blood will bury the mountain // but for now it sits still in my mouth // just waiting on the tip of my tongue
The sun hangs low in the sky, staining it red. A faint, clean twang in the air – in the far distance, Seraphina thinks she can see the smoky tendrils of rainclouds. A storm is brewing on the horizon.
Her slender limbs carry her through the maze of canyon walls, thoughtlessly, carelessly, rhythmically. She has walked these canyon walls a thousand times under a thousand circumstances. They are home to her, more comfortable than the recesses of her own mind, so she knows when they have changed – when she finds herself facing the cavernous darkness of a cave that sounds wrong as the wind howls through it, she knows that it was not so when last she passed it. She would have been content to leave it uninvestigated (the desert shifts by the hour), but dusty wind blows out the unmistakable, bitter scent of blood.
As Seraphina descends into the blackness, she grows vaguely aware of the sound of breathing; it is quiet, but unmistakable in the stillness. She draws in further, seeks the noise, seeks the smell…until a passage brings her to face a sea of crumbled rocks, speckled with sunlight from the gaping opening from which they seem to have spilled. The light illuminates them, draws her eyes down, down, down.
She finds the source of the smell.
There is Bexley Briar, her body crushed beneath the canyons that should have protected her – there is Bexley Briar, left bloody and broken in the lands of a god that should have been watching over her. Seraphina stands frozen, statuesque, her eyes flying the length of the girl’s frame (or what she can see of it) as she struggles to grasp the scene in front of her. Realization comes with a dull, subdued horror. She stares her in the bloodied face, her mouth dry and tongue cold even in the suffocating heat of the day.
“Bexley.” The golden girl’s name rips its way free of her lips in what is practically a strangled scream that feels wrong, tastes wrong – a voice that doesn’t feel like it is her own. Silly girl. Silly girl, you shouldn’t feel a thing. But she does.
She’s running towards her fallen, crumpled form before she realizes that she is in motion, white-hot adrenaline pumping panic Seraphina has forgotten how to feel in her veins to the frantic flutter of her heart. Solis, no, no, no. “Bexley?” Her voice is steadier, then; she reigns herself in, searching for the cold that seems to have escaped her. “Bexley, can you hear me?” Only the faint heave of the girl’s sides tells the silver queen that she still lives. She breathes in deeply and forces herself to focus – surveying the rocks that cover her as she searches for a way to pull the golden girl free, she reminds herself that she has seen far worse than this.
One thought crystallizes; a million answers are quick to follow. Who did this to you?
Her slender limbs carry her through the maze of canyon walls, thoughtlessly, carelessly, rhythmically. She has walked these canyon walls a thousand times under a thousand circumstances. They are home to her, more comfortable than the recesses of her own mind, so she knows when they have changed – when she finds herself facing the cavernous darkness of a cave that sounds wrong as the wind howls through it, she knows that it was not so when last she passed it. She would have been content to leave it uninvestigated (the desert shifts by the hour), but dusty wind blows out the unmistakable, bitter scent of blood.
As Seraphina descends into the blackness, she grows vaguely aware of the sound of breathing; it is quiet, but unmistakable in the stillness. She draws in further, seeks the noise, seeks the smell…until a passage brings her to face a sea of crumbled rocks, speckled with sunlight from the gaping opening from which they seem to have spilled. The light illuminates them, draws her eyes down, down, down.
She finds the source of the smell.
There is Bexley Briar, her body crushed beneath the canyons that should have protected her – there is Bexley Briar, left bloody and broken in the lands of a god that should have been watching over her. Seraphina stands frozen, statuesque, her eyes flying the length of the girl’s frame (or what she can see of it) as she struggles to grasp the scene in front of her. Realization comes with a dull, subdued horror. She stares her in the bloodied face, her mouth dry and tongue cold even in the suffocating heat of the day.
“Bexley.” The golden girl’s name rips its way free of her lips in what is practically a strangled scream that feels wrong, tastes wrong – a voice that doesn’t feel like it is her own. Silly girl. Silly girl, you shouldn’t feel a thing. But she does.
She’s running towards her fallen, crumpled form before she realizes that she is in motion, white-hot adrenaline pumping panic Seraphina has forgotten how to feel in her veins to the frantic flutter of her heart. Solis, no, no, no. “Bexley?” Her voice is steadier, then; she reigns herself in, searching for the cold that seems to have escaped her. “Bexley, can you hear me?” Only the faint heave of the girl’s sides tells the silver queen that she still lives. She breathes in deeply and forces herself to focus – surveying the rocks that cover her as she searches for a way to pull the golden girl free, she reminds herself that she has seen far worse than this.
One thought crystallizes; a million answers are quick to follow. Who did this to you?
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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
