boudika
i think you will
set yourself on fire
before you realise
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)
set yourself on fire
before you realise
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)
This evening, Boudika’s heart is full.
She has never known peace. Not truly. Not until now. Her peace had always come in halves, impartial and cruel in the way it was just enough to let her hope, and dream, and want… but never enough to be tangible. It had always manifested as a near but distant future, obtainable and somehow, enigmatically, out of reach. It had been the capture of Orestes and the confession of her truth and her love to Vercingtorix. It had been becoming an entertainer in the Night Court, with Raum overshadowing her new home in ways she still has yet to fully comprehend.
For the first time in her life, her city whispers to her: you are safe.
But in Boudika’s mind, there is a toll. A payment to be made. She is her city’s Champion of Community, and the more she contemplates it the more it necessitates her service. Community. Boudika, wandering the streets of the fall celebrations, admiring the city of tents outside of Denocte, finds herself wondering at that word. Community. Does that exist solely within the walls of Denocte, or beyond? Does it exist only between the living, or also with the dead?
Around her neck there are wreaths and wreaths of fall-time flowers. Boudika had found them in the markets, being sold by a young girl with skin like ivory and eyes that were black, black, black. The girl had said, they are for the dead.
Boudika has been wandering, searching for names that have been unattended, unremembered. She searches for those who grieve alone. And she places the wreaths with them, one by one, until there is only one wreath left. The flowers are orange, and vibrant gold, and a purple so deep it looks black.
That is how she finds Bexley Briar. With a wreath of flowers the colour of her dead lover.
Boudika stands far behind the alleyway, in the soft swathe of darkness. The moonstones of the streets do not seem as bright tonight, as vibrant, and the joyous laughter that infects Denocte does not reach this quiet place. The girl places a golden necklace on the earth, but the ground still looks bare.
After a long moment of contemplation, Boudika approaches. She stands a little ways off, so as to not intrude on the golden woman’s grief. At last:
“I have flowers, if you want them.” As she says it, it strikes her, Orestes has no place of remembrance. No shrine, or altar, or name engraved on stone. Only the place he has etched in her heart. Her mouth opens to say more—to say, I know what it is like to grieve alone but she does not.
She does not.
She has never known peace. Not truly. Not until now. Her peace had always come in halves, impartial and cruel in the way it was just enough to let her hope, and dream, and want… but never enough to be tangible. It had always manifested as a near but distant future, obtainable and somehow, enigmatically, out of reach. It had been the capture of Orestes and the confession of her truth and her love to Vercingtorix. It had been becoming an entertainer in the Night Court, with Raum overshadowing her new home in ways she still has yet to fully comprehend.
For the first time in her life, her city whispers to her: you are safe.
But in Boudika’s mind, there is a toll. A payment to be made. She is her city’s Champion of Community, and the more she contemplates it the more it necessitates her service. Community. Boudika, wandering the streets of the fall celebrations, admiring the city of tents outside of Denocte, finds herself wondering at that word. Community. Does that exist solely within the walls of Denocte, or beyond? Does it exist only between the living, or also with the dead?
Around her neck there are wreaths and wreaths of fall-time flowers. Boudika had found them in the markets, being sold by a young girl with skin like ivory and eyes that were black, black, black. The girl had said, they are for the dead.
Boudika has been wandering, searching for names that have been unattended, unremembered. She searches for those who grieve alone. And she places the wreaths with them, one by one, until there is only one wreath left. The flowers are orange, and vibrant gold, and a purple so deep it looks black.
That is how she finds Bexley Briar. With a wreath of flowers the colour of her dead lover.
Boudika stands far behind the alleyway, in the soft swathe of darkness. The moonstones of the streets do not seem as bright tonight, as vibrant, and the joyous laughter that infects Denocte does not reach this quiet place. The girl places a golden necklace on the earth, but the ground still looks bare.
After a long moment of contemplation, Boudika approaches. She stands a little ways off, so as to not intrude on the golden woman’s grief. At last:
“I have flowers, if you want them.” As she says it, it strikes her, Orestes has no place of remembrance. No shrine, or altar, or name engraved on stone. Only the place he has etched in her heart. Her mouth opens to say more—to say, I know what it is like to grieve alone but she does not.
She does not.
@Bexley | "speaks" | notes: text
