☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
try try your whole life to be righteous and to be good
wind up on your own floor, choking on blood
She meets Rhoswen’s gaze steadily, and she finds no pleasure in the fear and uncertainly and guilt engraved across her features. If you knew it was wrong, why did you do it? She couldn’t have thought that this would end well, could she? They had intelligence. Be it by their will or his, Raum’s identity would have been revealed sooner or later, and they all would have had to suffer for it. Now…now, Seraphina doesn’t know what to do. She won’t turn Rhoswen away tonight, when she’s in such obvious need, but she isn’t sure if she can trust her to remain in Solterra. She doesn’t even know if Rhoswen will want to stay, accompanied by the child of a Crow. Even if she were to leave, how much could Seraphina be expected to forgive? She had sheltered a spy from another nation, and that spy had nearly killed one of her citizens; legally, she would likely be considered complicit, and Seraphina did not make exceptions to her laws. That, she thought, would probably mean leaving Rhoswen’s fate to Bexley, and she doesn’t know how the golden girl will react to any of this; the attack has changed her. Scars always do.
At the frantic quiver in her voice, Seraphina considers her words. After a moment’s contemplation, she makes no attempt to hide Bexley’s condition; rather, she speaks, with what is perhaps a hint of pride. “She is scarred, but she is recovering. It seems that she is stronger than they anticipated.” When throws her head back over her shoulder to regard Rhoswen, she catches the glimpse of something that has become utterly familiar to the silver over the past few weeks – raw, vehement, uncontrolled fury. Rhoswen is angry. Rhoswen is betrayed. Seraphina regards her, for a moment, before her eyes return to the horizon, finding the distant silhouette of the Oasis. Rhoswen is the sister of the Night King, and the beloved – presumably – of one of his Crows. She can only imagine that she is close to the others. If nothing else, her rage is productive, and it tells her more of her allegiance than apologies and explanations ever will.
She takes no pleasure in her next admittance, either; something about it stings, despite Rhoswen’s resolve. Perhaps it is just the familiarity of the circumstances – how many times has she told herself it will not happen again in the days since the attack? Those words are a cold comfort when you would rather it never have happened at all.
At her question, then, Seraphina takes a breath, and she summons her own resolve. “…you are not the only one who has been foolish.” A stark admission; her expression darkens, and she looks away, her lips curling into a tight line. All at once, her eyes seem to stare off, past the bushy tops of distant palm trees at which they are directed and towards some indistinct object on the horizon, or perhaps the sky. “It was not Denocte, no – it was Avdotya and her Davke. They razed most all of the capitol, leaving a trail of fire and death in their wake, and they had no mercy…not for children or elders, not for the sick…not for those who were not warriors. They wanted their revenge, and they took it out on anyone they could find, regardless of whether or not they were compliant in the attack against their people.” In spite of her ruthlessness, in spite of the blood that she knows splatters her hooves from her time as a soldier, the thought of all of the dead in the capitol makes her stomach turn – the meaningless, ugly brutality of it all repulses her. She is no saint. Half of the time, she wouldn’t even call herself “good;” her only motivation, after all, is making the most pragmatic choices for her people. That hasn’t changed. Her pragmatism and violence, she tells herself, is a product of necessity. Not anger, not hunger, not rage. There must be a difference. Every day, as she reckons with all of the dead and leads her patrols out on the streets to kill even more, she tells herself that there has to be a difference.
She swallows those thoughts down and tells herself to focus on the swaying palm leaves in the distance, on the steady clap of her hooves against the sand. “Bodies pile up in the streets, and what remains of the Day Court is still clearing the city of the Davke that still remain. The rest have disappeared back into the desert, and I…do not know what they intend for us now.” She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t have answers – she’s not even sure if there are answers.
tag || @rhoswen
notes || sorry for the wait on this <3
try try your whole life to be righteous and to be good
wind up on your own floor, choking on blood
She meets Rhoswen’s gaze steadily, and she finds no pleasure in the fear and uncertainly and guilt engraved across her features. If you knew it was wrong, why did you do it? She couldn’t have thought that this would end well, could she? They had intelligence. Be it by their will or his, Raum’s identity would have been revealed sooner or later, and they all would have had to suffer for it. Now…now, Seraphina doesn’t know what to do. She won’t turn Rhoswen away tonight, when she’s in such obvious need, but she isn’t sure if she can trust her to remain in Solterra. She doesn’t even know if Rhoswen will want to stay, accompanied by the child of a Crow. Even if she were to leave, how much could Seraphina be expected to forgive? She had sheltered a spy from another nation, and that spy had nearly killed one of her citizens; legally, she would likely be considered complicit, and Seraphina did not make exceptions to her laws. That, she thought, would probably mean leaving Rhoswen’s fate to Bexley, and she doesn’t know how the golden girl will react to any of this; the attack has changed her. Scars always do.
At the frantic quiver in her voice, Seraphina considers her words. After a moment’s contemplation, she makes no attempt to hide Bexley’s condition; rather, she speaks, with what is perhaps a hint of pride. “She is scarred, but she is recovering. It seems that she is stronger than they anticipated.” When throws her head back over her shoulder to regard Rhoswen, she catches the glimpse of something that has become utterly familiar to the silver over the past few weeks – raw, vehement, uncontrolled fury. Rhoswen is angry. Rhoswen is betrayed. Seraphina regards her, for a moment, before her eyes return to the horizon, finding the distant silhouette of the Oasis. Rhoswen is the sister of the Night King, and the beloved – presumably – of one of his Crows. She can only imagine that she is close to the others. If nothing else, her rage is productive, and it tells her more of her allegiance than apologies and explanations ever will.
She takes no pleasure in her next admittance, either; something about it stings, despite Rhoswen’s resolve. Perhaps it is just the familiarity of the circumstances – how many times has she told herself it will not happen again in the days since the attack? Those words are a cold comfort when you would rather it never have happened at all.
At her question, then, Seraphina takes a breath, and she summons her own resolve. “…you are not the only one who has been foolish.” A stark admission; her expression darkens, and she looks away, her lips curling into a tight line. All at once, her eyes seem to stare off, past the bushy tops of distant palm trees at which they are directed and towards some indistinct object on the horizon, or perhaps the sky. “It was not Denocte, no – it was Avdotya and her Davke. They razed most all of the capitol, leaving a trail of fire and death in their wake, and they had no mercy…not for children or elders, not for the sick…not for those who were not warriors. They wanted their revenge, and they took it out on anyone they could find, regardless of whether or not they were compliant in the attack against their people.” In spite of her ruthlessness, in spite of the blood that she knows splatters her hooves from her time as a soldier, the thought of all of the dead in the capitol makes her stomach turn – the meaningless, ugly brutality of it all repulses her. She is no saint. Half of the time, she wouldn’t even call herself “good;” her only motivation, after all, is making the most pragmatic choices for her people. That hasn’t changed. Her pragmatism and violence, she tells herself, is a product of necessity. Not anger, not hunger, not rage. There must be a difference. Every day, as she reckons with all of the dead and leads her patrols out on the streets to kill even more, she tells herself that there has to be a difference.
She swallows those thoughts down and tells herself to focus on the swaying palm leaves in the distance, on the steady clap of her hooves against the sand. “Bodies pile up in the streets, and what remains of the Day Court is still clearing the city of the Davke that still remain. The rest have disappeared back into the desert, and I…do not know what they intend for us now.” She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t have answers – she’s not even sure if there are answers.
tag || @rhoswen
notes || sorry for the wait on this <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
