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--
His darkness is greedy.
It comes for her with the hands of a lost lover. It softens the red of her copper, caresses the brightness from her face, and enviously draws the sun from where it kisses her. No, the shadows seem to say. Only I can have her light. She does not flinch from it. Her head is high even though as she nears him it feels as if a great cloud passes overhead, casting them into a different realm, somehow cooler, somehow quieter. There is a privacy in the unnatural darkness; an intimacy; it is a chamber of shared secrets, and truths, and religions, and she thinks of how it reminds her too much of the way the sea caresses, caresses, caresses and then takes.
The shadows begin to form a sword and her eyes devour it as it forms, with all the reverence of a warrior preparing their battle dress. Her trident gleams defiantly—the burnished gold tries to remain the gold of fire and things of her past, but even that becomes dim and tarnished in his non-light.
Boudika has never seen anything like it, and it strikes her in a way few things in Novus have. She wants to ask: why not become the darkness if you love it so? But her lips remain fastened shut, the blood dripping now to her chin. The sword is pointing at her now and she feels the familiar weight of her trident. Boudika does not aim it, however; she knows it too well. And it remains at her side, real, much realer than the things he fabricates. Her eyes nearly goad him, nearly dare him, because do they not possess a light of life that cannot be taken, except for in death?
“It is a warrior queen’s name.” Boudika affirms. She might have told him, then, how it was the one thing her mother left her with. She may have told him it was a name that came from the sea. But she does not, as the blade touches her. She stays very still, save for the movement of her trident. It is slow, and curious, as she attempts to catch the blade between two tines and push it gently from her throat. Can it be touched? she wonders, or would it just dissolve against the metal?
His face is close to hers. He names her Denoctian.
“I am one of her Champions.” The statement is hard, and clear. Boudika does not show emotion when she says it, but she does begin to move, nearly dismissively, to trail a tight circle around him. How do his shadows not devour him? He is the pale of moonlight, with sigils of it on his flesh. The hunger of his darkness is too much like the hunger she knows of her homeland; it is too encompassing; too pure. How does it not consume him, too? She feels it like a shroud, an abrupt and dangerous shift from the bright, bright light of the sun.
“And who are you, to demand so much and give so little?” Boudika asks. He bares remnants of the same scents, but he speaks as though they are enemies. There is something of him that is other, so much so that Boudika doubts for a moment if he is Denoctian at all. But only for that: a moment, Boudika wonders if he is perhaps some servant of Caligo sent to right the wrongs of an endless sun—but to walk among gods is still a foreign concept to Boudika, and she dismisses the notion readily, easily. It is more likely he is some demon, or fever-dream conjured up by the island that seems too alive, too thoughtful, to be only an island.
There is a familiarity to him, however; one that she is well-practiced in discovering. His body is composed of the hard lines of a warrior, a fighter by trade and by purpose. His body is a utilitarian one, with no spare flesh and muscles that cut and tighten even through his shroud of shadows. His eyes burn, she notices again, and it unsettles her. But not enough for her to feel fear; Boudika does not allow it. His techniques are all of intimidation, and she wants to say:
I have seen worse.
Yes. There are things worse than darkness, or she would not be among Caligo’s Court. Her expression is hard as she comes to rest in front of him again, too close, too close. Do you know the darkness of the deep sea, Boudika nearly asks. Do you know how it will not only consume, but crush you? A darkness that you can drown in?
"Do you want to scare me?" Boudika asks at last, and her voice is a sweet and quiet whisper.
It does not betray fear.
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
