your heart and my heart are very old friends
Boudika does not look like herself.No, she is wearing the face of someone she once knew and now remembers as if in a dream. Boudika is seal grey, dark at each point and dappled on the shoulders. Her body is so faded it is almost white and her eyes, well, her eyes are the same shifting shade of blue as the deep sea, just beneath the surface, just beneath the light that tries to penetrate and can only go so far. It is a face she loves, or had loved, once—years ago.
Boudika is in Solterra for the tournaments, or so she says. She participated in a matched fight one morning with a native Solterran; she had not used her magic, and it had ended in a draw. It felt strange fighting in another’s body, and stranger still fighting in one that was meant to be a pacifist.
Then, of course, Boudika goes to the festival. She does not drink or dance, but watches. Not quite from the shadows, but from the fringes; it feels a little like hunting does. The entire time Boudika is aware she is being followed; her trail is not subtle, and the curiosity—and horror—on his face is so thinly veiled. He, too, remains on the fringes. But his place in society cannot deem he become a shadow; and so he dances occasionally, or laughs when a citizen approaches him.
But when Boudika peels away into the darker corners of the citadel, she knows he will follow. The game is ancient; cat and mouse; predator and prey. Only, there is no telling who is what in this dance.
The citadel is massive and nothing like Denocte’s. But Boudika knows if she wanders long enough, she will find exactly what she needs. There is an opening onto a patio that hangs off the cliffside, decorated with various hanging plants. More importantly, it faces the ocean to Solterra’s rear. With the wind blowing right, Boudika can even hear the rhythmic crash of waves. It feels, a little, like home might. But the arid desert could never be her home.
She stands there for an indiscriminate amount of time, waiting; but she knows he will find her and when he does, she will be wearing his face from another life Some of us have not forgotten, she thinks, what it was to be tied to Oresziah, and the Khashran, and the black cliffs. Boudika is surprised to feel… anger. She had been so relieved, at first, when the rumours of his survival came to her; and then that relief had become anger.
At last, his footsteps echo across the marbled floors. She can feel the weight of his gaze, as she has always been able to feel it; the weight of stones, of seas, of the entire world. All in a man.
Boudika turns to him, with his forgotten face.
“Orestes,” she greets him, gently.
