I SEE NOTHING. WE MAY SINK AND SETTLE ON THE WAVES. THE SEA WILL DRUM IN MY EARS. THE WHITE PETALS WILL BE DARKENED WITH SEA WATER. THEY WILL FLOAT FOR A MOMENT AND THEN SINK.
The collision was too much a memory of the cavalry’s call—too much a memory of bodies colliding in knee-deep surf, the undertow snapping at their hooves as their enemies twisted shapes and became something more solid, or less solid, just as teeth or knives or arrows closed in. The harsh press of chest-against-chest, the sharp exhale of impact, a release of intensity that sometimes, somehow, reminded her of a lover’s sigh.
Then there was the matter of the bread strewn across the snow and the bit of blood she smelt in the air. Dazed, Boudika unentangled herself and observed him or injuries as he observed her. No, there was nothing broken or stinging too badly, although she was fairly certain she’d scuffed a haunch on the cobblestones and bruised a good bit of her shoulder. Minor concerns, however, as Boudika mentally scrambled to discern a way which would allow her to maintain her dignity. The more she thought, the more difficult it became, until she finally affirmed the fact she would be unable to do any such thing. Boudika offered an abashed smile. “I can assure you this wasn’t intentional. I’m fine… Are you?” It was the second time she had asked, but Boudika looked at him incredulously, as if she had not believed him.
He was handsome, in the way that one was when they were well-bred. The gold of his skin reminded Boudika of her people’s war colours and the way they painted their horns and faces with the very hue of his coat. Boudika quickly diverted her attention, again, to the spilled bread. “It does appear as though we have at least one casualty.” Her tone, somber and dry, did not convey it as a joke despite her meaning it as one.
Boudika started at the crow’s call, her head tossed skyward as she searched for it with a crimson eye—and then, back to August, gathering herself. Her hair was disheveled and her skin sweat-streaked from her run. In the cool morning air, it was chilling fast. His question caught her off guard and immediately made Boudika question if she should know him. Frankly, she was uninvolved enough in the court that she did not know many people, even those who were important. And so she said, ”No.” And added, ”Should I?” Some five seconds too late Boudika realised how rude it may have sounded to ask in such a sharp way and, abashed for, probably, the third or fourth time… she amended herself. “I mean, do you know me? If you don’t, you do now. I’m Boudika. I’m an entertainer in the Court. I dance.”
The introduction felt awkward on her tongue, too heavy and too light all at once. In her homeland, she would have said, “I am Bondike,” and they would have known her as the general's son, and they would have complimented her on her father’s strategic maneuvers against the Khashran at the battle of Bashide Cliff. Here, she was a dark presence, a dancer without a name who performed on a firelight stage.
Boudika moved, a little more seamlessly, into the next line of thought. ”I’m, uh, I’m sorry about your bread. I’ll gladly buy you some more.”
ROLLING OVER THE WAVES WILL SHOULDER ME UNDER. EVERYTHING FALLS IN A TREMENDOUS SHOWER, DISSOLVING ME.
@August
