Boudika doesn’t know what she had expected of him, when she spoke, when the story bled from her lips like a sacrificial lamb. Her truth. Her story. A confession she had shared with no one else, in all the years since it had happened. Boudika doesn’t even know what she had hoped for, but, whatever it had been had been foolish, and naive, and--
There is another girl.
It is the last thing she had expected him to say.
It is the one thing she had not guarded against.
Why would she? In what world does a sinning monk find not one woman to love, but two? Tenebrae wears scars upon his back where he had been whipped for wanting her; and now, that confession from him seems dual-edged, opaque. Had it been atonement for one sin, or two?
The softness of her expression, the tears dancing at her lashes, vanish. Boudika steels herself and a hardness comes upon her like a curtain closing. She turns away, unable to meet his gaze. Her thoughts spiral--how could she not have known, or assumed? The answer comes: because you are a fool.
Whatever else he says, it does not matter. Her mind is filled with the impossible images of something, someone else. What secret intimacies has he shared with her? What delicate secrets, or quiet fables? When he had not been calling at the sea, had he instead been whispering outside of cabins, or forest walls? How many other kisses had he shared, when he had stolen her first?
I never said I would leave the Night Order for her.
Boudika’s eyes snap to him.
There are many types of fire. It was Vercingtorix who told her, once, that love and hate are not so different. The line between them is thin, he had said, and one day she might grow to understand. One day, she might even forgive him. Her eyes are alight with it, with a fury that she has never felt, with a hot branding of betrayal. How dare he. The transgression rips her apart; it flays her with a sudden, unexpected chasteness. No, Tenebrae. I was the fool.
It is his turn to talk, and talk, and talk. It is his turn to bury himself in sentiment that no longer matters. Boudika listens, but she does not care. Boudika hears, but cannot sympathise. The silence that lasts after his confessions is deafening; it is as if the entire forest has laid down and died right beside her, in the giant aching his truth has produced. His rough laugh strikes her like flint upon stone.
“How dare you.” Her voice is quiet, at first. It rises a pitch when she repeats, seething: “How dare you.” Boudika’s expression should be as gnarled as she feels inside; but it isn’t. As much as her magic clamours in her soul to become anything but woman, she remains firm in her form. There is a dangerous, deadly calm settling over her expression. “How dare you come to me, confess your love of me, your intent to sacrifice, sitting on a lie like that. How dare you offer to sacrifice something so deep when in the same breadth you’ve confessed such betrayal.”
His eyes lay claim to her, and in doing it, fans the flames.
“What does she look like, Tenebrae?” Boudika goads, in a moment of uncharacteristic cruelty. Her features abruptly transform. Ironically, the night gives her power, and her fury fuels it. She goes from herself to a plain chestnut mare, then a gray, a black--she waits until something sparks in his face, and then retains the form of a palomino. Her magic had been begging to be used, stretched; and it stays steady now. “Like this, is she?” Boudika asks, in a tone like a blade’s whetted edge.
It is with the palomino’s mouth she speaks, when she says: “You do not know love, Tenebrae. You know want, and hunger. You do not even understand duty, or even discipline.” Then, the palomino’s face is gone: Boudika is herself again. She does not move closer, nor away; her tail does not lash, and her eyes do not spark. “You compare us, as if the comparison is meant to bring me solace. But the truth is for yourself. It is because you want me to say, ‘What an admirable sacrifice you offer, Tenebrae, it rights your wrongs,’ or ‘you must love me so much, Tenebrae, to leave both the Order and another woman.’” Boudika’s mouth twists as a thousand memories contend within her: his admission makes her feel like a girl, a little girl, who had been too trusting. It makes her wish for no heart, and brings upon her shame she has not known in years. At least it had always been just her. At least when Vercingtorix had not kissed her, it had been because he had loved her too much. Orestes had given her herself, a gift she could never repay. And whenAmaroq had left? He had left her with a future.
But what does Tenebrae leave her with? What has Tenebrae given her? Nothing. Nothing but handfuls of hope turned to shame. Nothing but a feeble hope for more, more, more that now has turned to ash. “You don’t know what love is,” Boudika repeats; at last, the rage is evident in her tone. “First, it is built on truth, and you don't even respect me enough to give me that. No, Tenebrae--you were too much of a coward for that, to face me with your truth, or at least the Order. Instead, you wait for us both to cede to your wants. I won't do that.” It is her turn to laugh, but it is cold and mirthless. Boudika turns away. “I wondered which one of us would lose first, which one of us would hurt the other. You decided that from the beginning though, didn’t you, whenever you began to keep not just one lie, but two? I could accept the Order. I will never accept this. You don’t deserve to look at me.” This last line, Boudika spits.
That is when she becomes an osprey, a last bubbling of magic that drains nearly all her power from her. It is Boudika’s final insult. You will never fly, it says, and it is why she chose a form he could not follow.
It is also one that does not shed tears. In a last act of pride, Boudika refuses to cry for him. She ascends into the night sky and banks toward the sea, with Caligo's light upon her shoulders.
"Speech." || @Tenebrae
There is another girl.
It is the last thing she had expected him to say.
It is the one thing she had not guarded against.
Why would she? In what world does a sinning monk find not one woman to love, but two? Tenebrae wears scars upon his back where he had been whipped for wanting her; and now, that confession from him seems dual-edged, opaque. Had it been atonement for one sin, or two?
The softness of her expression, the tears dancing at her lashes, vanish. Boudika steels herself and a hardness comes upon her like a curtain closing. She turns away, unable to meet his gaze. Her thoughts spiral--how could she not have known, or assumed? The answer comes: because you are a fool.
Whatever else he says, it does not matter. Her mind is filled with the impossible images of something, someone else. What secret intimacies has he shared with her? What delicate secrets, or quiet fables? When he had not been calling at the sea, had he instead been whispering outside of cabins, or forest walls? How many other kisses had he shared, when he had stolen her first?
I never said I would leave the Night Order for her.
Boudika’s eyes snap to him.
There are many types of fire. It was Vercingtorix who told her, once, that love and hate are not so different. The line between them is thin, he had said, and one day she might grow to understand. One day, she might even forgive him. Her eyes are alight with it, with a fury that she has never felt, with a hot branding of betrayal. How dare he. The transgression rips her apart; it flays her with a sudden, unexpected chasteness. No, Tenebrae. I was the fool.
It is his turn to talk, and talk, and talk. It is his turn to bury himself in sentiment that no longer matters. Boudika listens, but she does not care. Boudika hears, but cannot sympathise. The silence that lasts after his confessions is deafening; it is as if the entire forest has laid down and died right beside her, in the giant aching his truth has produced. His rough laugh strikes her like flint upon stone.
“How dare you.” Her voice is quiet, at first. It rises a pitch when she repeats, seething: “How dare you.” Boudika’s expression should be as gnarled as she feels inside; but it isn’t. As much as her magic clamours in her soul to become anything but woman, she remains firm in her form. There is a dangerous, deadly calm settling over her expression. “How dare you come to me, confess your love of me, your intent to sacrifice, sitting on a lie like that. How dare you offer to sacrifice something so deep when in the same breadth you’ve confessed such betrayal.”
His eyes lay claim to her, and in doing it, fans the flames.
“What does she look like, Tenebrae?” Boudika goads, in a moment of uncharacteristic cruelty. Her features abruptly transform. Ironically, the night gives her power, and her fury fuels it. She goes from herself to a plain chestnut mare, then a gray, a black--she waits until something sparks in his face, and then retains the form of a palomino. Her magic had been begging to be used, stretched; and it stays steady now. “Like this, is she?” Boudika asks, in a tone like a blade’s whetted edge.
It is with the palomino’s mouth she speaks, when she says: “You do not know love, Tenebrae. You know want, and hunger. You do not even understand duty, or even discipline.” Then, the palomino’s face is gone: Boudika is herself again. She does not move closer, nor away; her tail does not lash, and her eyes do not spark. “You compare us, as if the comparison is meant to bring me solace. But the truth is for yourself. It is because you want me to say, ‘What an admirable sacrifice you offer, Tenebrae, it rights your wrongs,’ or ‘you must love me so much, Tenebrae, to leave both the Order and another woman.’” Boudika’s mouth twists as a thousand memories contend within her: his admission makes her feel like a girl, a little girl, who had been too trusting. It makes her wish for no heart, and brings upon her shame she has not known in years. At least it had always been just her. At least when Vercingtorix had not kissed her, it had been because he had loved her too much. Orestes had given her herself, a gift she could never repay. And whenAmaroq had left? He had left her with a future.
But what does Tenebrae leave her with? What has Tenebrae given her? Nothing. Nothing but handfuls of hope turned to shame. Nothing but a feeble hope for more, more, more that now has turned to ash. “You don’t know what love is,” Boudika repeats; at last, the rage is evident in her tone. “First, it is built on truth, and you don't even respect me enough to give me that. No, Tenebrae--you were too much of a coward for that, to face me with your truth, or at least the Order. Instead, you wait for us both to cede to your wants. I won't do that.” It is her turn to laugh, but it is cold and mirthless. Boudika turns away. “I wondered which one of us would lose first, which one of us would hurt the other. You decided that from the beginning though, didn’t you, whenever you began to keep not just one lie, but two? I could accept the Order. I will never accept this. You don’t deserve to look at me.” This last line, Boudika spits.
That is when she becomes an osprey, a last bubbling of magic that drains nearly all her power from her. It is Boudika’s final insult. You will never fly, it says, and it is why she chose a form he could not follow.
It is also one that does not shed tears. In a last act of pride, Boudika refuses to cry for him. She ascends into the night sky and banks toward the sea, with Caligo's light upon her shoulders.
"Speech." || @Tenebrae
tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us
these, our bodies, possessed by light
