[Worship] my cruel friend is a funeral bell

[Seraphina]

I AM DEAD & DESPISE ANYONE WHO ISN'T --

She walks the winding trail up to the peak without fear. It is slick with ice and frigid, but she is not afraid. She is not sure if it is because she is not afraid of dying – or if it is because of her magic, which keeps her suspended above the frozen paths regardless. She is grey, like the sky is grey, like the mountainside is grey. The world is monochrome, and winter makes it worse.

Lately, the entire world is grey. Time slips past without her noticing; she has lost track of the days entirely. She is not sure if it is her immortality or her mental state. She knows – innately – that something is wrong, but she tries to ignore it. The idea of doing anything to change it is too overwhelming to consider.

The cathedral looms in front of her. It seems to come up quickly; she barely notices it until she is upon it. She draws up the steps.

Ereshkigal perches outside of the cathedral, but she does not come inside. She has seen her do it before, but she has never seemed to want to; she wonders if demons are averse to holy places. She doesn’t ask her why, though. If she does, and if Ereshkigal gathers that she would rather her stay away, she is sure that there would be nothing she could do to keep her from accompanying her inside.

Seraphina is no good at praying, anymore. She does not want Ereshkigal to make her fragmented faith and half-hearted efforts worse. (Is she even there to pray at all?)

Dull, hazy sunlight leaks into the cathedral. It is hardly bright outside, and the dusty stained glass only serves to further dilute the effect. It is hard to stand inside without thinking of Rhoswen, dead. (Rhoswen, burning. Rhoswen – another casualty.) It is hard to think of Rhoswen without thinking of other things that she doesn’t want to remember. Her near-death. Statues. Corpses. A sinking ship. Starving orphans. A friend, tortured. Him.

She steps forward, hesitantly. The clack of her hooves on stone is too loud in the utter silence of the cathedral; its thick walls block out the wail of winter wind. She regards each statue in turn, but she only approaches Solis, who looms gleaming and gold against the wall which is pointed towards Solterra. She stands in front of the statue, and she stares up into his metal eyes. Having seen him alive, it is almost difficult to look at him like this. He looks like he could come to life at any time. He looks like nothing in him is alive at all.

She sweeps the altar of dust and grime with the bright yellow of her own scarf, giving little care to the way it smears grey against the fabric. She lights sticks of sweet-scented incense and pale yellow candles and arranges them about the altar. She dips her head to pray, but she can’t come up with anything to pray for, so she paces back and front of the altar until the small fires on the incense sticks and candlewicks stop burning, and then she dips her head again, but she finds that she can never get past the word please.

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closed. || idk, man. trying to get a feel for some things?

"Speech!" || "Ereshkigal!"

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