boudika
there can be no covenants between men and lions
wolves and lambs can never be of one mind
but hate each other through and through
there can be no covenants between men and lions
wolves and lambs can never be of one mind
but hate each other through and through
The drums were beating in her mind like a heart.
Everything under the sun had a language of its own, no matter how indiscernible, no matter the shape the words took. Some languages did not require words at all. Some languages were fierce, violent action. There was the language of love, poetic and sometimes syrupy-sweet, sad and cold like the stars, quiet and mysterious. There was the language of hate, like cracking coals or simmering, impatient water on the cusp of the boil. There was sadness, the language of a bird singing, unanswered, and loneliness, the way that call echoed over and over into the nothing.
Boudika understood one of these languages better than any other.
That was the language of tragedy.
A younger Boudika, a less wisened, would have said the language of war. But she knew, years past her naivety, the the two were the same language. They were inseparable synonyms, meaning one and the same. War was tragedy. And tragedy was war. But she had not entirely escaped her youthful ignorance; her naivety continued, even now, in her hopeful belief that she would never have to speak that language here in Denocte. Why else be a dancer? Why else spend her nights painted gold and silver upon a stage, faceless and obscure?
But the drums were beating. The drums were beating and she had a general’s blood. The drums were beating, and she was powerless to their call.
Denocte was burning.
The dancer had been near the docks, staring into the sea, sleepless and wondering, still wondering, at the words, I can Make you. Wondering: Could she speak the language of the sea—and then, a sound, almost indiscernible from the lap of waves, growing, growing, intense, and Boudika knew in her bones there had been a disaster, shouting, and a cackling of flames like laughter. The dancer did not hesitate to launch herself off of the dock, into the waves, and just as quickly climb back to shore—she was thoroughly wet, dripping with it, and then she ran toward the light above the city.
You can never be caught unawares, Boudika. The Khashran will eat your heart out. They will hamstring you in your sleep, or attack you when you are at peace.They are the most relentless, tenacious enemy you can imagine—and so, you must be those things and more. You must be merciless. Her father’s voice found her, and suddenly, a snapshot of images: her dress uniform during graduation as she marched to a ceremonial parade cadence, her promotion ceremony, entangled with a Khashran—his teeth drawing blood, and then: one of her best friend’s funerals, the hot summer sun baking the mist from the sea, ranks of sea-grey horses facing her, charging, charging, charging, the drums, beating, beating, beating—
Her hooves became the drums, and so did her heart. There was shouting somewhere in the distance, an alarm raised, but Boudika’s mind became tenacious in its singular focus. They cannot have gotten far. Other concerns did not appeal to her: she did not stop to consider that this was no longer her obligation, she was a dancer, a mere dancer, she ought to have paused to still the flames, to calm the children, but tragedy had struck.
And what did a warrior do, besides act? What language did she speak, besides tragedy?
Due to her location at the docks, she was nearest the food store in the eastern part of Denocte, and it was the store that she sped toward with all the practice and resilience of a mare who ran every day to escape her demons. By the time she had arrived, the flames were leaping, dancing, and she continued to drip water onto the paving stones. Already, the fire had developed a life of its own—a crack from within, and a rush of heat, carried the sound to her:
Someone is coming—
And Boudika was certainly coming. Already, the firelight had turned her devilish, satanic, with her spiralling horns and copper head made almost-black with water. The burn had not made her slow her momentum; contrarily, she sped up, barrelling through the doorway into the hellfire, where the heat buffeted her face, and she only had seconds to react to the scene at hand.
She thought she saw two stallions, but with the rapidity of her movements, it was impossible to tell. The heat would soon become unbearable, even slick with water—and so she barrelled toward the nearest, a bay barred with white which reminded her, incomprehensibly in the moment, of light through prison bars. She did not make a battle cry, simply ducked her shoulder and aimed to make contact clear with his chest.
Something tangled within her, deep and dark, dangerous and forgotten—a piece that she had shielded and suppressed since arriving at Denocte, because, finally,
she was alive again, and the only thing on her mind was murder.
therefore, there will be no covenants between us
