☼ s e r a p h i n a ☼
your hands are wet with the blood of an empire
you lick it off
She is in the desert when the first, fluttering flakes of snow begin to light on the hot ground.
Seraphina lurches to an abrupt stop, sending a spray of red-gold sand up in an arc in front of her; mismatched eyes widen like waxing moons, and she feels her heart catch in her throat. For a moment, she is sure that she has mistaken the small, glistening fragments for something else – because Solterra is hot and dry and ablaze. Ash, maybe, from the flames that seem to consume the sand-swept land so very often, but never snow. Snow was ridiculous, impossible -
But the gods walk the earth, now, and a slave girl wears a queen’s crown. If she has learned anything in the past two years, it is that nothing is as impossible as she would like to believe.
She stares at the flakes. One comes to a slow, looping landing on her eyelash.
One thought crystallizes in her mind, clear and crisp as the bite of winter wind.
Oh no.
She is in motion before she even processes the words, whipping back on her heels to turn towards the distant silhouette of the capitol city. Whatever this is, she doubts that it is good, and she – she can’t fail her people like this. (Not again. Maybe by ice this time, rather than fire, but not again; she promised them that she would do better, be better. She promised herself.) Great, surging strides send her cascading across the sands like a bullet, blinking thick, fluffy white flakes out of her eyes.
At first, the snow seems innocuous. Innocent, even, like a blessing in a land so hot and arid; were she younger and more naïve and altogether less aware of the events of the previous weeks, Seraphina might have seen the light snowfall as a blessing. As she continues to dash towards the great, glowing shape of the capitol, however, the snow begins to pick up – and quickly. She strains at her own limits, her breath coming out in hoarse white gasps and her limbs growing gelatinous and trembling beneath the weight of her. All around her, the wind grows colder and less forgiving, and it starts to bite, little pinpricks into her sweat-slick skin. The world turns white, the snow a great cascade, less of a flicker and more of a waterfall.
But she is close enough to stumble inside of Solterra’s gates by the time that the storm breaks, though gasping and weak at the knees; bent-double, she still manages to bark out orders to anyone who might be listening, iron-hard, urgent voice crackling at the edges. Her throat is dry enough to taste like blood; she licks melting flakes, mingled with sweat, from her lips.
“Light the braziers on the ramparts!” She yells, in hopes that anyone stranded out in the desert might be able to make out the lights against the thick sheet of white that had come to engulf the world around them, “And get inside – as quickly as possible!” The queen herself, however, does not go inside. Instead, she clambers up the ice-slick stairs that lead to the great walls of the fortress, her hooves slipping clumsily beneath her frame; she comes to a halt beside of one of the lit braziers, shivering in spite of the dull warmth provided by the flame, and stares out into vast depths of endless white.
The hairs on her spine stand straight up, and she can’t shake the feeling that it isn’t just the cold that puts her on edge; something is coming.
Something is coming.
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notes | finally,,, a post
tags | @Random Events
your hands are wet with the blood of an empire
you lick it off
She is in the desert when the first, fluttering flakes of snow begin to light on the hot ground.
Seraphina lurches to an abrupt stop, sending a spray of red-gold sand up in an arc in front of her; mismatched eyes widen like waxing moons, and she feels her heart catch in her throat. For a moment, she is sure that she has mistaken the small, glistening fragments for something else – because Solterra is hot and dry and ablaze. Ash, maybe, from the flames that seem to consume the sand-swept land so very often, but never snow. Snow was ridiculous, impossible -
But the gods walk the earth, now, and a slave girl wears a queen’s crown. If she has learned anything in the past two years, it is that nothing is as impossible as she would like to believe.
She stares at the flakes. One comes to a slow, looping landing on her eyelash.
One thought crystallizes in her mind, clear and crisp as the bite of winter wind.
Oh no.
She is in motion before she even processes the words, whipping back on her heels to turn towards the distant silhouette of the capitol city. Whatever this is, she doubts that it is good, and she – she can’t fail her people like this. (Not again. Maybe by ice this time, rather than fire, but not again; she promised them that she would do better, be better. She promised herself.) Great, surging strides send her cascading across the sands like a bullet, blinking thick, fluffy white flakes out of her eyes.
At first, the snow seems innocuous. Innocent, even, like a blessing in a land so hot and arid; were she younger and more naïve and altogether less aware of the events of the previous weeks, Seraphina might have seen the light snowfall as a blessing. As she continues to dash towards the great, glowing shape of the capitol, however, the snow begins to pick up – and quickly. She strains at her own limits, her breath coming out in hoarse white gasps and her limbs growing gelatinous and trembling beneath the weight of her. All around her, the wind grows colder and less forgiving, and it starts to bite, little pinpricks into her sweat-slick skin. The world turns white, the snow a great cascade, less of a flicker and more of a waterfall.
But she is close enough to stumble inside of Solterra’s gates by the time that the storm breaks, though gasping and weak at the knees; bent-double, she still manages to bark out orders to anyone who might be listening, iron-hard, urgent voice crackling at the edges. Her throat is dry enough to taste like blood; she licks melting flakes, mingled with sweat, from her lips.
“Light the braziers on the ramparts!” She yells, in hopes that anyone stranded out in the desert might be able to make out the lights against the thick sheet of white that had come to engulf the world around them, “And get inside – as quickly as possible!” The queen herself, however, does not go inside. Instead, she clambers up the ice-slick stairs that lead to the great walls of the fortress, her hooves slipping clumsily beneath her frame; she comes to a halt beside of one of the lit braziers, shivering in spite of the dull warmth provided by the flame, and stares out into vast depths of endless white.
The hairs on her spine stand straight up, and she can’t shake the feeling that it isn’t just the cold that puts her on edge; something is coming.
Something is coming.
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notes | finally,,, a post
tags | @Random Events
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
