I THINK YOU WILL SET YOURSELF AFIRE BEFORE YOU
REALIZE THAT EVEN YOU CANNOT CONQUER THE SUN. REBELLION SITS WELL ON YOU; LIKE A RED COAT OR THE GILT GOLD BURNISH OF YOUTH. (I DO NOT BELIEVE WE SHALL EVER SEE HOW OLD AGE LOOKS ON YOU, YOU ARE BREAKING MY HEART)
REALIZE THAT EVEN YOU CANNOT CONQUER THE SUN. REBELLION SITS WELL ON YOU; LIKE A RED COAT OR THE GILT GOLD BURNISH OF YOUTH. (I DO NOT BELIEVE WE SHALL EVER SEE HOW OLD AGE LOOKS ON YOU, YOU ARE BREAKING MY HEART)
First, Boudika believed his appearance was unassuming, a dark stallion beneath a dark sky—and then her eyes better focused, and she could discern the nearly shimmering blue-silver of his back, marked with brilliant roaning of iridescent hues. First, she was reminded of a fish’s scales, and then, somehow, of the ocean. Something about that, however, did not seem adequate for a stallion gazing so rapturously at the sky.
Tonight is a full eclipse, and the mare’s response was only a noncommittal hm. Incredulously, however, the dancer felt anxious. Boudika wondered if this eclipse affected her home land, far away, beyond even the sea. Would the priests be gazing up at the sky to discern the meaning of a dark moon, a moon that only held relation to the sea? If the Khashran remained wild, would they emerge to wage some last battle on the sands of their ancestral homes, or if their bodies were already Bound with iron, would they simply look skyward in hopes of being set free? No. They would search the oceans with their eyes; her priests would sleep soundly; and perhaps none of that was real at all, anymore, but only a strange dream or memory. It seemed to grow farther and farther away every day, so that Boudika could not even imagine an eclipse there.
Did she genuinely wish to forget the taste of salt-water on her tongue? Boudika listened to him, this stallion with the severity of one of the devout. She felt like an outsider, although it was not due to his generosity—it was due to her own understanding of her place in the Court, and how it seemed almost silly to her, that the sun and the moon might fight during an eclipse. He had caught her eyes in a deadpan, and Boudika’s expression did not shift. She listened simply, quietly, until he was finished. ”Or perhaps we take signs to be more than they are, and forget the actions of the every-day.” Her voice was quiet. War did not happen because of a blood-moon.
It happened, she knew, because of hate. And the rumours she heard, the whispers of these sovereigns, these kings and queens of Novus, that was all Boudika could conclude; hate, hate, hate, as bitter as blood and salt, or the whip of the sea-breeze. Could it be foretold? Could the stars whisper the secrets of the future? Boudika, again, found that dubious—as the past was clearly written, if only someone cared to look, and somewhere in the past was the answer for the actions of the today.
They were our songs before they were yours, Copperhead Orestes’ voice, unbidden and bright, in her mind. Something about Azrael’s solemnity reminded her of the Prince of a Thousand Tides. Where, Boudika wondered, did the strings tangle—where did the hitch begin? ”What do you believe?” she asked, the skin around her eyes drawn tight as they narrowed. She could not help but be critical.
After all, the darkness of night did not sing like the sea.
@Azrael
