—
There are many things she does not think of in those last moments, as the waves buffet against her chest and she swims closer to godhood, toward another life. There are many things that try to take hold—doubt, guilt, fear—that she does not allow within the quiet chambers of her heart.
Boudika does not ask, “What is it like?” because Orestes had once told her, it is the meaning of life. There is no question as the stars open like silver dust against black velvet, and the sea pulls her further and further from the shore. “It is the greatest unrequited love of history.” That is what he had said, of his affair with the sea, and he had looked at her with rare joy and smiled. He had sighed then, soft as a star, softer than the night and all things secret. The words flood her mind as she leaves the land behind:
“You are everything and nothing, and at once she will make you the fiercest of creatures and then smooth you, and smooth you, and smooth you until you are as supple as beach stones or sea glass. You are weightless, and pure motion, and more still than you have ever been. She will take your anger and make it joy, and wrench your sorrow from your chest and transform it into fury, into a hurricane, and still—it is not enough. You will always love the sea more than she will love you, but that is what makes her so beautiful—she is the purest form in the world.”
Her skin has smelled of salt and brine for longer than she will admit. Always, always, always there had been something driving her here, to this very moment. Perhaps it has been in her blood. Perhaps it was when her mother gave her the name of a damned water-queen. Perhaps it had been the betrayal of her people, or the way she had hunted something so beautiful, something that she could not exist without, that now she must become it to preserve it. Sacrifice. The word is lightning within her.
This feelings nothing like sacrifice.
They leave the sick island of the magic behind and beneath them, perhaps somewhere far below, churn monsters. But for now, it is only she and him. Boudika is surprised to find it so difficult to break through the surf and beyond, into the still ocean, where there is nothing but darkness beneath her. Her legs kick through the water with an athleticism inherent to a island-borne warrior, but still, still—there is fatigue in doing something so foreign. He is not clumsy, or hesitant, but patient and quiet and the water parts for him as though he is a blade to supple flesh.
Here.
If she were to feel fear, it is too late. Boudika studies him as he studies her, and perhaps they both wonder if the other is worthy. There is a part of her that wonders if this is enough, if she has chosen the right place. Or would it have been better to follow him somewhere north, and further north, until an aurora burst open the sky and he showed her a world she could never have imagined alone? Ice is blooming on his flesh, and the crystals of it are brighter and more clear than the stars.
This is enough, she thinks, and their knees brush, and their breaths collide, and there is just this, this, this. Her eyes tumble into his; and she thinks of light piercing the upper crest of a wave as it rolls over itself, back into darkness. Orestes was in her thoughts. Perhaps she will still try to find him; or perhaps, perhaps, the mother sea has taken him home, and a small piece of him may be reborn into her. But then Orestes is out of her mind, and there is only Amaroq, nameless and strange beneath a spinning sky of stars and god-magic, and the sea goes shush, shush, shush.
Boudika cannot read him. She does not know what transpires in his mind but it strikes her that it does not matter, because what else could there be? It is the cold of the ocean against their flesh, it is the proximity of two predators, it is the promise of no longer being alone. He speaks into her ear about blood, and Boudika wants to say that it is alright. She does not. She left has her voice somewhere on the shore.
The tension is a gaunt thing; it is a quivering violin string, soaring into the night. When he breaks it, it is almost like a kiss.
She expects the press of his lips against her throat to be cold, but they are not. And then, and then--
They are fire and pain.
Her head crashes beneath the pristine surface of the ocean and she is drowning.
She knows there is blood, but she cannot see it—she simply feels it leaving her as her mind alights for a moment with panic, and she thinks, he is going to kill me! It was a trick, a cruel trick—
But his words come back to her. You will have to take my blood. Disjointed, disorientated, she does not know what they mean.
In retrospect, she may look back and think of how unique a thing change is. How painful, how it wrenches from her everything and nothing all at once. She is more herself than she has ever been. In his grip, she is fight and fury and desperation. She is pain and fire and water and blood. She can taste nothing but iron and salt and her mind is purely empty of everything except for this moment, these infinite seconds. She thinks only of the burn of salt in her eyes, the ragged grip at her throat, how she must survive. Her legs kick out into the dark, into the deep, and she thrashes in his grip—break free, break free, break free. She is holding her breath and her mind is star-lighting, her vision black at the edges, pressure building within every orifice of her body—her eyes, her ears, her chest. She is on fire with it, and she feels the thing she had always been so afraid of.
Drowning.
Teeth at her throat.
Pulling her beneath, down, further and further. She is loosing it. Fatigue takes her like a drunkenness. Slowly, and then all at once: everything burns. Is this the drowning she wants? It is not so different from a ship in the sea in a storm sinking to the bottom, carrying her with it, the sound of singing—
She thinks:
I want to die. It hurts more than she ever imagined it would, and she cannot take it, she cannot take it, she has to breathe—water crashes into her lungs and it is sandpaper and fire and alcohol on a wound. She hates him for a moment that is instantaneous and infinite, she snaps her teeth toward him, she knows this is the end, the pain has consumed her--she is sinking. And then, she is struck by a moment of strange clarity.
Her eyes open against the stinging water, and she thinks she cannot see, that this must be death. They focus as ice floats about them like unfurled lace in the water, and piercing stabs of moonlight catch the darkened strings of her blood as they rise. He is there, somewhere at the edge of the chaos, with the last bubbles from her escaped breath ascending to meet the night. The white foam dissipates and she is still, still, still, staring up at the way the silver turns the blood black and the ice catches the light like so many shards of glass.
It is beautiful.
@Boudika "speaks"
Boudika does not ask, “What is it like?” because Orestes had once told her, it is the meaning of life. There is no question as the stars open like silver dust against black velvet, and the sea pulls her further and further from the shore. “It is the greatest unrequited love of history.” That is what he had said, of his affair with the sea, and he had looked at her with rare joy and smiled. He had sighed then, soft as a star, softer than the night and all things secret. The words flood her mind as she leaves the land behind:
“You are everything and nothing, and at once she will make you the fiercest of creatures and then smooth you, and smooth you, and smooth you until you are as supple as beach stones or sea glass. You are weightless, and pure motion, and more still than you have ever been. She will take your anger and make it joy, and wrench your sorrow from your chest and transform it into fury, into a hurricane, and still—it is not enough. You will always love the sea more than she will love you, but that is what makes her so beautiful—she is the purest form in the world.”
Her skin has smelled of salt and brine for longer than she will admit. Always, always, always there had been something driving her here, to this very moment. Perhaps it has been in her blood. Perhaps it was when her mother gave her the name of a damned water-queen. Perhaps it had been the betrayal of her people, or the way she had hunted something so beautiful, something that she could not exist without, that now she must become it to preserve it. Sacrifice. The word is lightning within her.
This feelings nothing like sacrifice.
They leave the sick island of the magic behind and beneath them, perhaps somewhere far below, churn monsters. But for now, it is only she and him. Boudika is surprised to find it so difficult to break through the surf and beyond, into the still ocean, where there is nothing but darkness beneath her. Her legs kick through the water with an athleticism inherent to a island-borne warrior, but still, still—there is fatigue in doing something so foreign. He is not clumsy, or hesitant, but patient and quiet and the water parts for him as though he is a blade to supple flesh.
Here.
If she were to feel fear, it is too late. Boudika studies him as he studies her, and perhaps they both wonder if the other is worthy. There is a part of her that wonders if this is enough, if she has chosen the right place. Or would it have been better to follow him somewhere north, and further north, until an aurora burst open the sky and he showed her a world she could never have imagined alone? Ice is blooming on his flesh, and the crystals of it are brighter and more clear than the stars.
This is enough, she thinks, and their knees brush, and their breaths collide, and there is just this, this, this. Her eyes tumble into his; and she thinks of light piercing the upper crest of a wave as it rolls over itself, back into darkness. Orestes was in her thoughts. Perhaps she will still try to find him; or perhaps, perhaps, the mother sea has taken him home, and a small piece of him may be reborn into her. But then Orestes is out of her mind, and there is only Amaroq, nameless and strange beneath a spinning sky of stars and god-magic, and the sea goes shush, shush, shush.
Boudika cannot read him. She does not know what transpires in his mind but it strikes her that it does not matter, because what else could there be? It is the cold of the ocean against their flesh, it is the proximity of two predators, it is the promise of no longer being alone. He speaks into her ear about blood, and Boudika wants to say that it is alright. She does not. She left has her voice somewhere on the shore.
The tension is a gaunt thing; it is a quivering violin string, soaring into the night. When he breaks it, it is almost like a kiss.
She expects the press of his lips against her throat to be cold, but they are not. And then, and then--
They are fire and pain.
Her head crashes beneath the pristine surface of the ocean and she is drowning.
She knows there is blood, but she cannot see it—she simply feels it leaving her as her mind alights for a moment with panic, and she thinks, he is going to kill me! It was a trick, a cruel trick—
But his words come back to her. You will have to take my blood. Disjointed, disorientated, she does not know what they mean.
In retrospect, she may look back and think of how unique a thing change is. How painful, how it wrenches from her everything and nothing all at once. She is more herself than she has ever been. In his grip, she is fight and fury and desperation. She is pain and fire and water and blood. She can taste nothing but iron and salt and her mind is purely empty of everything except for this moment, these infinite seconds. She thinks only of the burn of salt in her eyes, the ragged grip at her throat, how she must survive. Her legs kick out into the dark, into the deep, and she thrashes in his grip—break free, break free, break free. She is holding her breath and her mind is star-lighting, her vision black at the edges, pressure building within every orifice of her body—her eyes, her ears, her chest. She is on fire with it, and she feels the thing she had always been so afraid of.
Drowning.
Teeth at her throat.
Pulling her beneath, down, further and further. She is loosing it. Fatigue takes her like a drunkenness. Slowly, and then all at once: everything burns. Is this the drowning she wants? It is not so different from a ship in the sea in a storm sinking to the bottom, carrying her with it, the sound of singing—
She thinks:
I want to die. It hurts more than she ever imagined it would, and she cannot take it, she cannot take it, she has to breathe—water crashes into her lungs and it is sandpaper and fire and alcohol on a wound. She hates him for a moment that is instantaneous and infinite, she snaps her teeth toward him, she knows this is the end, the pain has consumed her--she is sinking. And then, she is struck by a moment of strange clarity.
Her eyes open against the stinging water, and she thinks she cannot see, that this must be death. They focus as ice floats about them like unfurled lace in the water, and piercing stabs of moonlight catch the darkened strings of her blood as they rise. He is there, somewhere at the edge of the chaos, with the last bubbles from her escaped breath ascending to meet the night. The white foam dissipates and she is still, still, still, staring up at the way the silver turns the blood black and the ice catches the light like so many shards of glass.
It is beautiful.
@Boudika "speaks"
@Amaroq
