boudika
In the story of Patroclus no one survives, not even Achilles who was nearly a god. Patroclus resemble him; they wore the same armor. Always in these friendships one serves the other, one is less than the other: the hierarchy is always apparent, though the legends cannot be trusted--their source is the survivor, the one who has been abandoned. What were the Greek ships on fire compared to this loss? In his tent, Achilles grieved with his whole being and the gods saw he was a man already dead, a victim of the part that loved, the part that was mortal.
There is something complicated building within Boudika; it is something as knotted, as uncertain, as roots must look beneath a forest. She feels it pushing through her, digging deep. She feels the way it is something that drains her. There are tangles and knots and the feeling of not enough and she knows that if she traced the threads of that feeling, they would lead back to three people, all of them dead or as good as dead. Her father. Orestes. Vercingtorix.
Even before Boudika asks it, she knows it is a mistake. It is a question from a younger, more naive version of herself.
Do you wish he hadn’t been a hero?
There are no heroes, and Boudika recognises the empty resonance in her soul as anger, as burning as the gold the stranger spits onto the cobblestones. She has no right to steal a stranger’s grief and let it become rage; but somehow it burns in her like embers, and she listens to the other woman. You are not wrong to wish that, Copperhead. The alias is like an accusation, but softer, sweeter. It was the name she had danced under, before she became one of Isra’s Champions, before she tried to become someone that is enough. In this moment, Boudika does not know why she wants so desperately to reach Bexley; nor can she identify why she feels anger, soft and sweet and poisonous, fill her heart and mind.
She thinks of how Orestes was the closet man she had ever known to a hero; she thinks of how he was everything and more, more, more, but perhaps it was easier for him because he may have well been a god. And, besides—he had always been portrayed the monster, and Vercingtorix the saviour. Her people sang a different story than the one she remembers now and, perhaps, the only reason she remembers it differently is because the way she suffers for the sins of her forefathers, and theirs. It is history that wrote the heroes, nothing else, and she almost says as much. But she does not--not yet--because she has seen the darker forms Isra’s magic takes, and does that not have a little to do with the tragedy that is Acton? Is that not why Boudika loves it?
There must always be a scapegoat, she thinks.
But he was not a hero.
No.
Perhaps not.
The golden mare turns her eyes to Boudika at last, and they are a battle in and of themselves. Blood gone bad. Cold, grey ice on the verge of melting.
“You’re right.” God-girl, you are right. “But being a hero doesn’t have to make someone good. That isn’t how history remembers it, anyways.” Boudika steps forward just enough that the flowers are crushed underfoot; forgotten. She says, “He will always be the man who saved Denocte’s Queen. Haven’t you heard the story of Achilles and Hektor?” There is nothing but candlelight, the distant noise of a crowd, the way the fire dances in their eyes. It is not hard to imagine battle, and blood, and grief. Her mind is still alight with the image of Bexley's gold-spit and the way it was, for a moment, ferociously bright. It is dead now.
“Achilles gave up everything in his life for the promise of honour and glory in the greatest war of his time. His best friend sacrificed himself to save their people, because Achilles refused to fight on an account for being dishonoured by their commander—but then Achilles returns to battle to avenge him, and kills the most prestigious man among their enemies, Hektor. Hektor is by far the better man. A defender of city and state… but Achilles is the one hailed as a hero, because their people win the war, because Hektor’s are slain one by one." It is a story her father told her, always with elation, always with passion, as if Achilles were truly heroic. As if he were not a coward, in his own way. As if it were not Patroclus who had been the hero, or Hektor.
“In some versions the friend, Patroclus, is Achilles’ lover.” Her mouth moves as if to smile; instead, she grimaces. “The tragedy is the story belongs to the survivors, not the dead. Maybe in that way we’re already dead in our grief. We’re already twisting the thing into fable… and the greater tragedy of that, is really, no one survives. Some of us just have to bear the grief a little longer.”
It could have been condescending. It might have seemed that way. But Boudika’s voice is not consoling; it is not light, or comforting. No. Her voice is the sound of whispers at a funeral pyre. It is the sound of the look in Bexley’s eyes.
It is the memory of black cliffs and two bodies entangled as they fell.
It is the way they sounded already-dead when they hit the water.
It is the way that sometimes she wishes they had been.
It is the way she remembers prison, with a little love.
It is the way she still dreams of running on the black beach.
Boudika sometimes does not know which one she loved more; Orestes or Vercingtorix. Sometimes she does not know which one she resents more, for leaving her, for abandoning her, for letting her live. It takes her this long to realise her anger is not at Bexley. Her anger is for the fact she never had a funeral for either; there was never an opportunity for goodbye.
There was always just the feeling of a heart breaking.
Even before Boudika asks it, she knows it is a mistake. It is a question from a younger, more naive version of herself.
Do you wish he hadn’t been a hero?
There are no heroes, and Boudika recognises the empty resonance in her soul as anger, as burning as the gold the stranger spits onto the cobblestones. She has no right to steal a stranger’s grief and let it become rage; but somehow it burns in her like embers, and she listens to the other woman. You are not wrong to wish that, Copperhead. The alias is like an accusation, but softer, sweeter. It was the name she had danced under, before she became one of Isra’s Champions, before she tried to become someone that is enough. In this moment, Boudika does not know why she wants so desperately to reach Bexley; nor can she identify why she feels anger, soft and sweet and poisonous, fill her heart and mind.
She thinks of how Orestes was the closet man she had ever known to a hero; she thinks of how he was everything and more, more, more, but perhaps it was easier for him because he may have well been a god. And, besides—he had always been portrayed the monster, and Vercingtorix the saviour. Her people sang a different story than the one she remembers now and, perhaps, the only reason she remembers it differently is because the way she suffers for the sins of her forefathers, and theirs. It is history that wrote the heroes, nothing else, and she almost says as much. But she does not--not yet--because she has seen the darker forms Isra’s magic takes, and does that not have a little to do with the tragedy that is Acton? Is that not why Boudika loves it?
There must always be a scapegoat, she thinks.
But he was not a hero.
No.
Perhaps not.
The golden mare turns her eyes to Boudika at last, and they are a battle in and of themselves. Blood gone bad. Cold, grey ice on the verge of melting.
“You’re right.” God-girl, you are right. “But being a hero doesn’t have to make someone good. That isn’t how history remembers it, anyways.” Boudika steps forward just enough that the flowers are crushed underfoot; forgotten. She says, “He will always be the man who saved Denocte’s Queen. Haven’t you heard the story of Achilles and Hektor?” There is nothing but candlelight, the distant noise of a crowd, the way the fire dances in their eyes. It is not hard to imagine battle, and blood, and grief. Her mind is still alight with the image of Bexley's gold-spit and the way it was, for a moment, ferociously bright. It is dead now.
“Achilles gave up everything in his life for the promise of honour and glory in the greatest war of his time. His best friend sacrificed himself to save their people, because Achilles refused to fight on an account for being dishonoured by their commander—but then Achilles returns to battle to avenge him, and kills the most prestigious man among their enemies, Hektor. Hektor is by far the better man. A defender of city and state… but Achilles is the one hailed as a hero, because their people win the war, because Hektor’s are slain one by one." It is a story her father told her, always with elation, always with passion, as if Achilles were truly heroic. As if he were not a coward, in his own way. As if it were not Patroclus who had been the hero, or Hektor.
“In some versions the friend, Patroclus, is Achilles’ lover.” Her mouth moves as if to smile; instead, she grimaces. “The tragedy is the story belongs to the survivors, not the dead. Maybe in that way we’re already dead in our grief. We’re already twisting the thing into fable… and the greater tragedy of that, is really, no one survives. Some of us just have to bear the grief a little longer.”
It could have been condescending. It might have seemed that way. But Boudika’s voice is not consoling; it is not light, or comforting. No. Her voice is the sound of whispers at a funeral pyre. It is the sound of the look in Bexley’s eyes.
It is the memory of black cliffs and two bodies entangled as they fell.
It is the way they sounded already-dead when they hit the water.
It is the way that sometimes she wishes they had been.
It is the way she remembers prison, with a little love.
It is the way she still dreams of running on the black beach.
Boudika sometimes does not know which one she loved more; Orestes or Vercingtorix. Sometimes she does not know which one she resents more, for leaving her, for abandoning her, for letting her live. It takes her this long to realise her anger is not at Bexley. Her anger is for the fact she never had a funeral for either; there was never an opportunity for goodbye.
There was always just the feeling of a heart breaking.
@Bexley | "speaks" | notes: i still have no idea what's happening in this thread LOL
