BETWEEN THE DESIRE, AND THE SPASM, BETWEEN THE POTENCY, AND THE ESSENCE
BETWEEN THE ESSENCE, AND THE DESCENT, FALLS THE SHADOW. FOR THINE IS THY KINGDOM. FOR THINE IS, LIFE IS, THINE IS THE--
Sunlight glints off the ocean with the sharpness of broken glass. There is only light, light, light, and light for days. The newfound champion walks dreamlike upon the beach, feeling the radiant heat as though it is not only touching her, but has consumed her essence. The black of her body glistens like ink; her bright chestnut is red as blood. Boudika stands with no breeze to ruffle her mane or chase away the heat; she stares toward the immobile ocean, full of light, and wonders at the magic of it.
The island is crystalline, frozen; a certain, strange beauty inhabits the stillness. But the beauty is the beauty of a good dream which, when lived, seems sharper than the edge of a blade. Enigmatically, that same dream possesses a gaudy shroud, something nongenuine, as though just beneath the surface… lurks a great and terrible truth, or horror. Perhaps it the relic everyone whispers of. Perhaps it is the end of the world. Boudika does not know but, accompanied with that uncertainty is the thought that… Time is still, and there is peace in that promise.
For once, Boudika has managed to force her mind clear of contemplations, worries, or memories. She stares blankly at the ocean without her typical obsessive sentiment. It still stirs something within her belly, a twisting and knotted thing, but the mare does not dwell on the feeling. She turns from the ocean feeling as though she is only walking forward and with only a few steps, she delves back into the heated shade of the jungle. The trees barely cast shadows, for all the radiance of the sun, and she finds her mind languidly drawn to the heat. Oresziah had never been so hot and tropic—the weather was perpetually overcast and chill.
Boudika’s body moves with pure instinct. She reaches deeper and deeper toward the core of the island… searching… Her trident gleams at her side, and somehow she is drawn toward the deepest shade, the only shade. Frozen birds observe her from where they hang on branches, eyes accusing, and she passes by the bedded body of a wildcat with a hide like polished lace agate. Boudika wonders if they are dead, or just waiting to wake up again, to reanimate—do they exist solely as objects of time?
Her knees brush flowers like labradorite, and her eyes feast greedily on the illogical nature of the island, full of fanciful beauties. Boudika has never been one to love or adorn herself with jewellery but, as a soldier, she used to watch generals parade their wives in precious stones so native to Oresziah… and this island shows the same callous face as those women wore, adorned with sharp and precious beauties. Boudika feels the prick of thorns and glances down at a knotting, tangled plant, with roses that look more like polychrome jasper, a plethora of colours that do not coincide. They are bold, and vibrant, and throbbing with their stillness. She has never seen something so beautiful, and the urge to take it overwhelms her.
Boudika lowers her teeth to one branch and rips it with sudden violence. The noise of small, crashing boughs seems as loud as a scream in the silence. Her mouth floods with small pinpricks of blood, and three of the flowers hang precariously from her jaws as she begins to walk again.
Boudika is weaving the brazen flowers in her mane when she hears his voice.
“Who is there?”
The general’s daughter turned warrior turned exile turned refugee turned dancer turned champion. Boudika, who is never caught unawares. She starts, her eyes jerking toward the voice. She does not yet see him and for a moment, brief and fierce, she is flooded with anger at the disturbance. The anger subsides and it is replaced with a sort of chaste embarrassment. He has caught me weaving flowers in my hair, something that ought to be inconsequential but instead is humiliating. Boudika lifts her head and exits the trees, finding herself in… darkness.
The shadows bloom like so many flowers. Her eyes trace them, unnatural and misplaced, until her eyes fixate on his glowing, vibrant face. There are stars in his eyes.
”Boudika." The general’s daughter turned warrior turned exile turned refugee turned dancer turned champion. She ought to say at least one of those things. But she doesn’t. Boudika says nothing else; she simply watches him, with still eyes and bleeding lips and flowers in her hair.
THIS IS THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS
THIS IS THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS
THIS IS THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS
NOT WITH A BANG BUT A WHIMPER
@Tenebrae
