she dawns, she burns.

stained glass windows catch light  in a way wranglers catch their keep,  except this time their nets are threaded with colour,  with holy word.   alas,  not even light could warm the marble floors of this abode.  sacred as it was,  violated as it was.  she knows the way in which a goddess’ heart may bleed and how her tears burn the slope of her cheeks.  she knows that they are a sign of her sadness,  her unspoiled temper and the fire which grips and slants itself sideways.  blood has been spilt thrice over. 

your grief …   every bird sings in harmony serving only to accentuate her voice where it rides across the summer’s breeze.  blowing quietly now,  raking inwards from lands far from this stone order.  sadness ripples between each pause,  counting celestial vowels as they fall into place.  the sun matron shakes her head.    … your grief has consumed you,  child.

                       AND I WONDER WHAT BECAME OF YOU  /  @valkeirie​.

Her grief is heavy — a stone which sits in her hollow chest absent of a heartbeat and that weighs her down every day she cannot hear the Goddess’ gentle voice nor feel the comfort of Her touch. The darkness has set upon her from all sides. What light there is left threatens to be swallowed up by the shadows of her pain that yet remain. And this great white beast painted with crimson, whose voice is so strange yet somehow familiar, seems to echo the same divine warmth as the Goddess herself.

         Perhaps that is what keeps the darkness in the archbishop’s eyes at bay.

There are laws that seem to govern adults that Cethleann isn’t certain she will ever fully understand and she suspects that even her father was less inhibited in his youth. Mayhaps these wordless rules are the secret to the peace they bask in now, but Seiros’s face looks more radiant than ever, softening into some semblance of tenderness that does not escape notice. 

Cethleann basks in the praise like sunlight— pride warms her heart just as it does her cheeks which must be flushing a rosy pink. She is at the age where compliments like candy are accepted without any hint of skepticism. Lady Seiros does not spread falsehoods so her word is always good and true. It is nothing short of an honor to be asked to accompany the goddess on her daily rounds and manners are the farthest thing from Cethleann’s mind as she eagerly nods in affirmation. The first words she is finally able to pull from the fog of her brain are gratitude in simplest terms.

“ Thank you, Lady Seiros. It would be my privilege to join you, ” she voices with much affection. It feels appropriate to call such strolls a family tradition. “ I have heard from Father that in the past he accompanied you on these same paths. I am also told that he would stop to pluck flowers for my mother. Do you have a favorite flower? ”

The warmth of her smile dips further into fond nostalgia at the mention of Cichol and the pleasant afternoons they spent with each other in their youth. He is her most favored companion — a sentiment Seiros needn’t give voice to for anyone to see the truth she displayed so plainly in her actions — and perhaps that is the reason she adores Cethleann all the more.

“ He did indeed. Your father is quite the romantic; always so careful about choosing the perfect flower for her. ” Flora blooms throughout the canyon, thanks in no small part to the bounty of the Goddess, varying in bright, intense shades and muted pastels that left the mountains awash in their beauty. When Cichol first began plucking flowers she had teased him for it, eager to draw color to his complexion and see his usual composure falter, but truly she found the gesture incredibly sweet. Eventually she stopped with her playful quips and simply smiled knowingly. It was a great shame that their walks together had become infrequent as of late, but now it allowed Seiros to share the same pleasure with his daughter.

     It gave her an opportunity to share more of his embarrassing side as well.

“ It is most likely no surprise to learn that I favor lilies above all else. ” Certainly not, given she adorns white lilies in her hair often. Seiros cannot help but see divinity in the elegant curve of their petals and their delicate white color, untouched by impurities. “ However, I also adore peonies and myosotis. ”

@siriusbled !

How long had it been since Seiros last dreamt of her? It was usually a result of loneliness tearing through her — longing to hear the softness of her mother’s voice, to be awash in her tender gaze and feel the gentle touch of her hand. But now Seiros is closer than she had ever been before to seeing her centuries of work come to fruition. Byleth is the key to everything. Her mother need only wait a little while longer.

          So why is she questioning her now?

“ I must, for it is what must be done. Don’t you see, mother? ” The word ‘mother’ breaks upon her tongue, foreign from disuse, but full of affection still. Seiros cannot help but feel like a child again in Sothis’ presence, dream or not, and her heart aches to be in the circle her mother’s soothing embrace, to rid her of the all-consuming darkness. That day in the canyon still plagues her nightmares — the screaming, the blood, the splintered bone — and it serves as a reminder of why she continues with this ever-tiring farce. It is all for a singular purpose.

Look at what I’ve done, mother. Aren’t you proud of me?

                                                                                         Aren’t you proud?

“ You WRETCHED child. ” There is a savagery in the bite of her voice and a wildness flickering in the depths of her eyes like a forest on fire. Rhea is gone and only SEIROS remains ⸻ a brilliant burning thing stripped straight down to the divinity swelling deep beneath her faultless skin, like a timeless ACHE in her bones. Like holiness tearing through her. It is perhaps the church’s greatest lie ⸺ the divine were not made to be benevolent creatures of perfection.

               We all have blood on our hands