☼ 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
They walk. Rarely, the silver queen spares a look over her shoulder at the exhausted mare and resilient child behind her; her mismatched eyes linger longer on the fragile little creature who isn’t really fragile at all. She wants to be angry at her, but, when she reaches inside of herself for some shred of resolve to use for a lighter, she finds nothing at all. Seraphina is drained, trembling, beaten down by an exhaust she didn’t know was possible. In spite of her stiff, quick steps, she is sure that she feels no stronger than Rhoswen, no less broken and betrayed.
She speaks of Bexley, though her voice is barely audible. “That it is,” Seraphina agrees, a hint of some strange pride lingering as an afterthought in her tone. Bexley Briar, after all, had no need to hide in the shadows like the Crows that had left her for dead. Bexley Briar hid from nothing at all – every struggle that came her way she faced head-on, with a ferocity and a flame that put all of Solis’s celestial fire to shame.
They reach the oasis as she recounts the attack.
Rhoswen speaks of the senselessness of the Davke, and Seraphina can offer little more than a soft, knowing, “You’re right.” Hungry dogs, however, don’t care who they sink their teeth into so long as they can get a meal. “But they wanted blood for blood, and they were not satisfied until they had their fill…regardless of who had to bleed to quench their thirst.” She thinks of the dead children, some barely older than the tiny, delicate creature at Rhoswen’s side; she thinks of them crushed to a pulp, barely recognizable, eyes bulbous and glassy. She finds it in her to look at Rhoswen, and she isn’t sure what to make of what she sees in her expression. Rhoswen isn’t wrong; if the Davke came for her people again, she would be prepared. “No, they will not.” But she was still a fool, if a fool that learned. If she could even keep her position in the wake of such unforgivable violence, Seraphina would make sure that this never happened again. Even after their assault, the Day Court still had superior numbers to the Davke, and now they were prepared and outraged – attacking again so quickly would likely be nothing short of suicidal.
“Heavy is the head that wears the crown – I shouldn’t think a phrase has ever been so relevant.”
“So they say.” She casts her eyes downward again because she can’t bear what she finds in Rhoswen’s, peering down at her reflection in the moon-struck water. “I don’t…know what I expected it to be like, to try and…change Solterra. I never expected it to be simple, but I...never anticipated feeling so utterly out of control.” Her voice is quiet and stark, and, for once, her eloquent tongue seems to stumble over itself as she grasp for the right words to say. She feels weak, then, and childish, and she suddenly remembers that she is barely a year into adulthood – she had felt so prepared, and she had been so, so wrong, and she hadn’t even been the one to pay for it.
“It isn’t safe for you in Solterra,” She says, suddenly, and looks out at the little girl sheltered among the palm leaves. A war is no place for a child. Didn’t she tell herself that she would protect her nation’s children, so that they might be sheltered like she had never been? You couldn’t save them. She finds it in her to look back at Rhoswen, then, expression unreadable. “Not now. We do not know what the Davke plan – they could return to raze the rest of us tomorrow.” The ugly, nauseating truth of the statement sinks in only after it is out of her mouth, and, for a moment, she is silent. “I’m not sure if you even wish to stay in the Day Court, and I cannot tell you with any certainty how you will be treated if you do…much less with the child at your side.” Much less considering who her father is, she means, but she does not say it. She wants to hope that her people could put aside their hatred for the Night Kingdom to care for a girl who may well be raised among them, but, with tensions burning like wildfires out of her control, she is no longer sure that is possible. “For now, it does not matter. You must return to Denocte; I cannot protect you or your daughter. You will be far safer with them.” And she loathes it. She loathes her failure, her weakness, her loss of control, her own insignificance and incompetence. She had one job. It was not simple, but it was not impossible, either. She had one job, and she hadn’t done it. (In the back of her mind, the screams still haunt her, a violent chorus that seems all but omnipresent.) She had one job, and she had failed in the most devastatingly brutal manner she could ever have imagined, and that failure lingers on her shoulders like some cackling wraith, whispering in her ears.
You couldn’t save them.
tag || @rhoswen
notes || <3
try try your whole life to be righteous and to be good
wind up on your own floor, choking on blood
They walk. Rarely, the silver queen spares a look over her shoulder at the exhausted mare and resilient child behind her; her mismatched eyes linger longer on the fragile little creature who isn’t really fragile at all. She wants to be angry at her, but, when she reaches inside of herself for some shred of resolve to use for a lighter, she finds nothing at all. Seraphina is drained, trembling, beaten down by an exhaust she didn’t know was possible. In spite of her stiff, quick steps, she is sure that she feels no stronger than Rhoswen, no less broken and betrayed.
She speaks of Bexley, though her voice is barely audible. “That it is,” Seraphina agrees, a hint of some strange pride lingering as an afterthought in her tone. Bexley Briar, after all, had no need to hide in the shadows like the Crows that had left her for dead. Bexley Briar hid from nothing at all – every struggle that came her way she faced head-on, with a ferocity and a flame that put all of Solis’s celestial fire to shame.
They reach the oasis as she recounts the attack.
Rhoswen speaks of the senselessness of the Davke, and Seraphina can offer little more than a soft, knowing, “You’re right.” Hungry dogs, however, don’t care who they sink their teeth into so long as they can get a meal. “But they wanted blood for blood, and they were not satisfied until they had their fill…regardless of who had to bleed to quench their thirst.” She thinks of the dead children, some barely older than the tiny, delicate creature at Rhoswen’s side; she thinks of them crushed to a pulp, barely recognizable, eyes bulbous and glassy. She finds it in her to look at Rhoswen, and she isn’t sure what to make of what she sees in her expression. Rhoswen isn’t wrong; if the Davke came for her people again, she would be prepared. “No, they will not.” But she was still a fool, if a fool that learned. If she could even keep her position in the wake of such unforgivable violence, Seraphina would make sure that this never happened again. Even after their assault, the Day Court still had superior numbers to the Davke, and now they were prepared and outraged – attacking again so quickly would likely be nothing short of suicidal.
“Heavy is the head that wears the crown – I shouldn’t think a phrase has ever been so relevant.”
“So they say.” She casts her eyes downward again because she can’t bear what she finds in Rhoswen’s, peering down at her reflection in the moon-struck water. “I don’t…know what I expected it to be like, to try and…change Solterra. I never expected it to be simple, but I...never anticipated feeling so utterly out of control.” Her voice is quiet and stark, and, for once, her eloquent tongue seems to stumble over itself as she grasp for the right words to say. She feels weak, then, and childish, and she suddenly remembers that she is barely a year into adulthood – she had felt so prepared, and she had been so, so wrong, and she hadn’t even been the one to pay for it.
“It isn’t safe for you in Solterra,” She says, suddenly, and looks out at the little girl sheltered among the palm leaves. A war is no place for a child. Didn’t she tell herself that she would protect her nation’s children, so that they might be sheltered like she had never been? You couldn’t save them. She finds it in her to look back at Rhoswen, then, expression unreadable. “Not now. We do not know what the Davke plan – they could return to raze the rest of us tomorrow.” The ugly, nauseating truth of the statement sinks in only after it is out of her mouth, and, for a moment, she is silent. “I’m not sure if you even wish to stay in the Day Court, and I cannot tell you with any certainty how you will be treated if you do…much less with the child at your side.” Much less considering who her father is, she means, but she does not say it. She wants to hope that her people could put aside their hatred for the Night Kingdom to care for a girl who may well be raised among them, but, with tensions burning like wildfires out of her control, she is no longer sure that is possible. “For now, it does not matter. You must return to Denocte; I cannot protect you or your daughter. You will be far safer with them.” And she loathes it. She loathes her failure, her weakness, her loss of control, her own insignificance and incompetence. She had one job. It was not simple, but it was not impossible, either. She had one job, and she hadn’t done it. (In the back of her mind, the screams still haunt her, a violent chorus that seems all but omnipresent.) She had one job, and she had failed in the most devastatingly brutal manner she could ever have imagined, and that failure lingers on her shoulders like some cackling wraith, whispering in her ears.
You couldn’t save them.
tag || @rhoswen
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
