horology | the darkling

pirouettes and paranoia

pretend it's home - beth crowley

the higher you climb
the farther you fall
but don't be ashamed
of wanting it all

/

'darling, no one's soul is pure; we are not here to stay clean' - unknown

-

seraphina

Time turner, tsarista, tyrant.

For the next few days, nothing ran through Seraphina's mind except the three words. She didn't see the Sidorov at all, even in fleeting and she was glad for it. It was unwise to be picking at old wounds especially since she had made a deal with the devil.

A deal that kept a reward that she hadn't reaped.

She hadn't heard from the Darkling since that night. She had spoken to Genya a few times; they mostly kept up their bitchiness towards each other. Constant jeers in the hallways or in passing told outsiders that they were far from friends. But their private conversations in the evening retained their relations; Genya loved to gossip and Seraphina loved to listen. The Tailor spoke nothing of the Darkling and she could tell that Genya was going to the ends of the Earth to avoid speaking about him. Seraphina could tell why.

As the hours of each day crept lazily by, Seraphina found herself becoming more and more distracted.

She got use to her routine in the Little Palace fast. It was nothing that she hadn't done: study, fight and train. In the mornings, she visited Baghra and trained with a Shu man who went by the name of Botkin. He was apparently recruited by the Darkling to teach Grisha to master their powers. Botkin was impatient but he was fast, strong and extremely efficient. Despite her substantial experience in fighting, Botkin beat her easily. His swords were sharp but his movements were sharper and more controlled. He had the graceful motion of a dancer but the deadly might of an assassin.
Seraphina hadn't spoken to him much but she had read enough facial cues to know that he was impressed by her. Not hugely impressed but she appreciated that he was surprised by her fighting skills.

In the evenings, she read dull leather covered books with extensive sentences on Grisha history and philosophies. Seraphina took umbrage that her family wasn't in any of the history books; if anybody deserved credit for almost single handedly preventing war in Ravka, it was the Vessensky household.

But her inattentive mind couldn't help but drift to the three words that haunted her like shadows on a sunny day.

Time turner. Tsaritsa. Tyrant.

They rewinded in her brain like a broken record tape. She remember the poison in Michail's voice as the words spewed out of his mouth. He sounded wounded. Serphina knew she shouldn't care what he thinks. She just costed him his job, well at least she hoped she would. He had every reason to hate her. But last night. She didn't feel so alone. Because he understood that side of her.

The library was empty. She shook her head, her brain scattered her hopeless thoughts as she bent over a copy of a book about the Border Wars. An analysis of a strategy that Yaromir the Determined had taken had briefly caught her attention but she didn't have the will power to make sense of his words just yet.

Instead, she wanted to dance.

Seraphina missed the tightening the muscles in her body as the tips other feet floated gently on the floor. The pain that would shoot through her feet every time she stood en pointe, the distance her back had to bend to achieve a graceful posture. A pirouette followed by a sauté. It would hurt but it was a beautiful melancholic agony.