[P] to think that we could stay the same

[Seraphina]

AND YET I SWEAR I LOVE THIS EARTH
that scars and scalds, that burns my feet -- and even hell is holy.

I do not know what it means to exist outside of time.


Ereshkigal does. Or, she says that she does – I can never tell, despite everything, if she is speaking the truth or lying. (And, if it is either of those things, I am not sure if the knowledge is meant to be consolation or some new horror.) I know that I am not especially old, though I am older than I had ever expected to be. I had become accustomed to the idea of dying. Sometimes, I still think that I should be dead.


Sometimes, I still wake up and swear that I am dead.


It is not hard to tell that I am no longer myself, that I have shed some kind of skin – one after another. I have not changed. Not since I died. I should have changed. Time has passed, and I have not passed with it. I look the same. Feel the same. Even if I did not want to admit it, at first, Ereshkigal will not let me forget the truth of the matter, which is that I no longer change. Perhaps this is some last gift from Tempus, or some curse. It is hard to tell the difference. Time is his domain, and he has always been fickle. I am not sure that this will last forever. One day, I might wake up, and age might catch up to me; time might come biting at my heels all at once. I think that I will be ready, if it does. I think that I have made my peace with it.


But. One day, I might grow as old and worn as the desert sands. The thought is nauseating, or staggering, and I am not sure how I can ever come to terms with it.


I do not know how long I will be here. I suppose that none of us do.


I think that, sometimes, redemption is impossible. I am sure that it is impossible for me. I have never meant to be evil; it is nevertheless difficult to deny that I have done evil things, intentionally or through negligence. I am sure that, no matter how long I wander these sands, no matter what I do with this time I’ve been given, I will never be forgiven for what I have done or what I have allowed. I will never be redeemed, much less saved – but salvation has never been the issue. What is redemption? How can it be classified, picked apart, dissected? If it is simply a matter of mathematics, time could certainly make up for my sins. I’m sure that I could find a way to save enough lives to make up for the deaths that I have caused.


But it is not math. Lives are not an equation; each one is unique. And no matter how many I might save, no matter how much good I might do, there is no way to bring back the dead, or make up for their absence. So. Forgiveness is irrelevant. Redemption, too. Striving for either would be useless.


I have never been good at knowing what I wanted.


I don’t think that this is it, either. But – what can I do? Solterra has her share of ghosts. I do not think that one more to haunt the sands will be too many, and I am sure that I can stand the quiet. When I stand in the center of the Mors with nothing but sand and sky and jackal-howling wind, I can almost remember something I forgot long, long ago. It is almost warm. Not scalding, or burning. Just warm.


I promised my life to Solterra. Not once. Not twice. More times than I can count. I am still living, so I will not break my oath, even unseen. Even silent.


I think that I am tired. Very tired. Eroded. I am sure that I could find a more comfortable fate – but I have always been a woman ill-suited to comfort, and Alshamtueur is always starved for blood.


I stand amidst the dunes. The heat would be unbearable, but I barely notice it; I barely notice the way sweat streaks my skin. High above, Ereshkigal circles in the morning sky, a small blot of darkness against an overwhelming and brilliant blue. The sands might as well be molten gold.


When I was a child, I was taught prayers to Solis – forced to memorize them. I am no longer sure that he is worth praying to; I am not sure that any of the gods should be entrusted with our fates. Still. I am too used to talking to him to fall silent now, even after all my disdain, even after struggle, even after violence or revelation. I am not sure that I forgive him. I am not always sure what he did wrong. I am not always sure what I did wrong. I whisper a prayer, regardless.


The sun is just visible over the horizon – a burning orb.


I walk towards the light.

---

@ || welp. it has been done.

"Speech!" || "Ereshkigal!"

@