ON THE NIGHT OF MY DEATH, YOUR DESPAIR WAS SO LOUD, THAT I COULD HEAR IT CLAWING THROUGH THE EARTH TO FIND ME. ALL THE MEN SCREAMING, BEGGING, STILL COULD NOT DROWN OUT THE WAILING OF YOUR HANDS.
She wondered—what if? What if she could return back, a boat born upon the current? Tossed out to sea and away, away, away until—at last, home. Even contemplating it made her a fool; Boudika knew as much. And perhaps that was why when her hooves struck the sand—making a pop, pop of sucking water—she felt relieved. A childlike part of her marvelled at her own completeness, at her ability to emerged, unscathed, from the very abyss that would have once consumed her. The sea clung, nevertheless, to ever bit of Boudika. It flattening her short mane upon the muscular arch of her neck; dripping, cold, from every surface of her form. It changed her coat, the copper of her head darkened, darkened, nearly black—her eyes a stark contrast of crimson, turning back to the sea, roaming—
And there, an apparition. What struck her first and foremost was the colour of his hide; the grey was just dark enough, in just the right places, that at first she mistook him. ”Orestes—“ And the hope, barely formed, cut off abruptly. No, not Orestes. The creature that had appeared brandished a horn of twining pearl; something that the water horses, the Khashran, had never possessed. Boudika was first struck by her disappointment—the sickening, twisting emotion of guilt that washed over her, that this was not Orestes, that he was dead.
Had he not saved her life? Had it been at the expense of his own?
But the appearance of a creature so similar to her old enemies evoked a calm rationale, as well—Boudika’s stance changed, leonine, as she twined to face the slick water horse. He could be nothing else. His beauty spoke volumes; the water dripping from his hide; the slick wetness of his mane, pasted down the length of his chest, his neck. The comfort with which he stood in the depths of the sea, appearing, almost, as though he were simply a manifestation of the waves. Boudika’s nostrils flared and she swear she could smell the rot of the ocean through the sharp bite of cold air, the salt, the seaweed, the fish. The mare exhaled, and out billowed frosted clouds. She ought to have felt cold; instead, her body felt searing hot, and her tail flicked with the lethargy of a large cat.
”Water horse.” That was all she could say, as quietly and reverently as a prayer. Oh, how Boudika disdains him! And how he entices her; how fiercely her heart strains towards the silhouette of the familiar, and unfamiliar, all at once! Does he know the songs of the sea? Could he sing them, as Orestes had sung them from iron bars? She transitioned quickly; to the image of their bodies locked in combat, and the thought of fighting him filled her with a rush of pleasure. All her dances of today mimicked old battles with these wraiths of the sea who, as far as Boudika knew, possessed the fierce grace and elegance that belonged to no land-dweller. Boudika forced herself to remember, however, she was no longer a fighter. She could not fight him—she could not.
So what did that amount to, with only so much water between them? There was a shape to his mouth she did not trust; a shape that betrayed the presence of jaws meant to deliver one to some other realm. But still—the shape, so familiar, so vibrant, drew her to him. Boudika did not know if it was his kelpie magic at work, or merely the longing of her own heart, that pushed her again to the brink of the water. It came to kiss her hooves, gently, placatingly, if she did not know better than to trust the sea. ”Are there more of you?” She asked. The only thing that keeps her voice even are the years of military discipline her father enforced.
It was strange to feel a connection so deep and instantaneous to something so horrific; to a strange and foreign creature that merely mimicked her old enemies. And why, Boudika wondered, was she filled with such sentiment, toward even her enemies? Was it that she longed so fiercely for a home that would not have her? Or was it, Boudika wondered, the songs of the sea? Her eyes stared past him, waiting for the crest of curved necks and sharp heads as they pushed against the froth, surging above the waves. Her eyes stared past him, as she hoped for the sudden and violent appearance of the Khashran, whom she both loved. And hated.
I ONCE HELD YOUR SOLDIER HEART BETWEEN MY WAR TEETH, AND SHOOK IT LIKE A DOG WITH A BONE, UNTIL IT KNEW THE FEAR OF GOOD LOVE. DO YOU REMEMBER?
@Amaroq
