☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
heavy is the head that wears the crown
She hears great sandstone walls shaking, and she knows that Isorath and his guards have arrived, accompanied by his dragon; she doesn’t like its presence in her city, particularly given how quickly she’d seen it burned to ashes at her hooves only weeks before, but she can understand his precaution. He has nothing to fear from her, but she cannot say that there are none among her people who wouldn’t like anything better than to take out their rage and frustration on the Night King’s paramour, even though it was the Davke that attacked the capitol. She sent her own guards to meet him; as the kirin enters the room, surrounded by guards with silver chests of what she can only, uncomfortably, assume are gifts, her own flood in behind them, standing stiff at the door. She cannot make out their expressions, from where she stands. She knows not of what her people think of her willingness to accept Denocte’s request. Frankly, she isn’t sure that she cares – if she allows tensions with Denocte to continue to grow without even attempting to intervene, she will see the rest of her kingdom crumble to dust and ashes at her hooves. She will not let her nation’s foolish pride be the death of them all.
He greets her with the polished words of a trained diplomat. “Such formality is unnecessary – you need not address me by any title.” Right now, it left a sour taste in her mouth, a memory of the cruel sovereign who came before her. I will not be like him. She worried often about becoming someone like Zolin, in the earliest days of her reign; those thoughts had hardly subsided in the wake of the Davke attack. There would be no more decadence in her palace halls, and no more nobility – she would brutalize the structures that had held them firm for so many years or go down fighting in the process. She had never worn their gold-leaf crowns before, and she’d be damned before she wore them now. This gesture was as much of a defiance of the courtly politics that had proved the undoing of so many lives as it was a proverbial olive branch. Just Seraphina. There was a certain degree of power in familiarity, after all.
And then…then, he gestures to his guards to bring forth the gifts.
Instinctual shame burns the walls of her throat. She doesn’t want him here like this, and she doesn’t want his pity – she doesn’t want her people to think she can be bought, either. Nevertheless, her people need supplies, and her reputation and pride…she swallows her every instinct down. They aren’t worth a life that those supplies could save. “Your assistance is… greatly appreciated, in such troubled times.” As Isorath’s guards put the chests down, she gestures to her own. “Take the supplies to the healers. The rest of you…guard outside of the door.” They move to accommodate her will – some begrudgingly, though if it is for removing them or for taking the supplies, she is unsure. However, she does not know who she can trust – not yet. In the wake of the attack, she knows that she must keep her secrets close, particularly in regards to Denocte and Terrastella. She knows of what happened to Aislinn, now, and she knows that she needs to speak with Torstein regarding appropriate use of force. This still offers her no resolution about what Reichenbach’s Crows did to Bexley, and, though muffled, she feels the prickle of outrage scraping at the deepest, darkest corners of her chest. She would take accountability for her subordinate’s actions; here she was taking accountability for Zolin’s and Maxence’s, for the gods’ sake. Nothing she knew of Reichenbach convinced her that he wouldn’t just take their attempted murder with a bloody-lipped smirk – nothing she knew of Denocte convinced her that they knew anything about accountability. They couldn’t even handle injuries from fights they picked themselves.
She settles those thoughts, though; she’d be a fool if she let her opinions of what few citizens of Denocte she had spoken to color her opinion of the entire nation, and, much as she dislikes the situation, particularly given what she’s heard from Terrastella, she steels herself to keep an open mind as she speaks with Isorath. If nothing else, she tells herself, she might gain some information that she can use. She regards the snow-white man in front of her, once again taking account of his draconian features – scales as brilliant gold as she remembers them, great, leathery wings, and sharp antlers. There is a small part of her that is put in mind of Viceroy, when she looks at him, of her mentor’s flaming antlers and leonine tail, the scales like silver moons along his spine and cheeks…but no, the wings are all wrong, and his wings were more important than anything else. She watches him from above as he continues, offering a faint nod of her head at his words. “I do, but perhaps you would like to begin with that one. Why have you come?”
Begin with what seems simplest, then delve in deeper.
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tags | @isorath
notes | <3
heavy is the head that wears the crown
She hears great sandstone walls shaking, and she knows that Isorath and his guards have arrived, accompanied by his dragon; she doesn’t like its presence in her city, particularly given how quickly she’d seen it burned to ashes at her hooves only weeks before, but she can understand his precaution. He has nothing to fear from her, but she cannot say that there are none among her people who wouldn’t like anything better than to take out their rage and frustration on the Night King’s paramour, even though it was the Davke that attacked the capitol. She sent her own guards to meet him; as the kirin enters the room, surrounded by guards with silver chests of what she can only, uncomfortably, assume are gifts, her own flood in behind them, standing stiff at the door. She cannot make out their expressions, from where she stands. She knows not of what her people think of her willingness to accept Denocte’s request. Frankly, she isn’t sure that she cares – if she allows tensions with Denocte to continue to grow without even attempting to intervene, she will see the rest of her kingdom crumble to dust and ashes at her hooves. She will not let her nation’s foolish pride be the death of them all.
He greets her with the polished words of a trained diplomat. “Such formality is unnecessary – you need not address me by any title.” Right now, it left a sour taste in her mouth, a memory of the cruel sovereign who came before her. I will not be like him. She worried often about becoming someone like Zolin, in the earliest days of her reign; those thoughts had hardly subsided in the wake of the Davke attack. There would be no more decadence in her palace halls, and no more nobility – she would brutalize the structures that had held them firm for so many years or go down fighting in the process. She had never worn their gold-leaf crowns before, and she’d be damned before she wore them now. This gesture was as much of a defiance of the courtly politics that had proved the undoing of so many lives as it was a proverbial olive branch. Just Seraphina. There was a certain degree of power in familiarity, after all.
And then…then, he gestures to his guards to bring forth the gifts.
Instinctual shame burns the walls of her throat. She doesn’t want him here like this, and she doesn’t want his pity – she doesn’t want her people to think she can be bought, either. Nevertheless, her people need supplies, and her reputation and pride…she swallows her every instinct down. They aren’t worth a life that those supplies could save. “Your assistance is… greatly appreciated, in such troubled times.” As Isorath’s guards put the chests down, she gestures to her own. “Take the supplies to the healers. The rest of you…guard outside of the door.” They move to accommodate her will – some begrudgingly, though if it is for removing them or for taking the supplies, she is unsure. However, she does not know who she can trust – not yet. In the wake of the attack, she knows that she must keep her secrets close, particularly in regards to Denocte and Terrastella. She knows of what happened to Aislinn, now, and she knows that she needs to speak with Torstein regarding appropriate use of force. This still offers her no resolution about what Reichenbach’s Crows did to Bexley, and, though muffled, she feels the prickle of outrage scraping at the deepest, darkest corners of her chest. She would take accountability for her subordinate’s actions; here she was taking accountability for Zolin’s and Maxence’s, for the gods’ sake. Nothing she knew of Reichenbach convinced her that he wouldn’t just take their attempted murder with a bloody-lipped smirk – nothing she knew of Denocte convinced her that they knew anything about accountability. They couldn’t even handle injuries from fights they picked themselves.
She settles those thoughts, though; she’d be a fool if she let her opinions of what few citizens of Denocte she had spoken to color her opinion of the entire nation, and, much as she dislikes the situation, particularly given what she’s heard from Terrastella, she steels herself to keep an open mind as she speaks with Isorath. If nothing else, she tells herself, she might gain some information that she can use. She regards the snow-white man in front of her, once again taking account of his draconian features – scales as brilliant gold as she remembers them, great, leathery wings, and sharp antlers. There is a small part of her that is put in mind of Viceroy, when she looks at him, of her mentor’s flaming antlers and leonine tail, the scales like silver moons along his spine and cheeks…but no, the wings are all wrong, and his wings were more important than anything else. She watches him from above as he continues, offering a faint nod of her head at his words. “I do, but perhaps you would like to begin with that one. Why have you come?”
Begin with what seems simplest, then delve in deeper.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
tags | @isorath
notes | <3
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
