he was a victim of the of the part that loved, the part that was mortal
Torix she says, and it is the first time she has called me by a name that matters. We both look like newborns when we attempt to stand; there is no strength in my legs, or in hers, and although her collapse is no surprise it does take me aback when she presses her forehead against mine after her fall.
I might have flinched, had I the strength. But I do not. I freeze, a fawn in the underbrush,
The gesture contains comfortable, foreign intimacy. It is a gesture of lifelong friends or lovers or siblings. A gesture that belongs to those who are bonded. I cannot help the way I turn away hesitantly; almost with shame.
My mouth is too dry. My head is aching.
“Yes,” I answer. I am relieved Damascus took us from the island; I am less pleased with his methods. “It is only a mild sedative and hallucinogen.” I speak more loosely, more honestly, then I intend to. It seems unwise to share with her Damascus’s powers—and yet, she had experienced them firsthand.
There is no denying the continued stupor; the slowness not only of body, but of mind.
And then:
“No, Elena. I don’t think we are.”
There is a cold within me I cannot escape; even within her cottage, I feel freezing. A god, somewhere, is laughing. I am certain of it; and perhaps it is even Damascus, with his strange knowledge of things and his innate cruelties. Perhaps it is no god at all, but fate, or destiny, or the simple passing of time.
(I do not even understand the whole of it; the threads of what we are, of the intimacies we do not understand, are tangled by unseen hands. How could I possibly know, or understand, that the man she loves is the one that Boudika loves, too? How could I possibly understand that her daughter will cause me joy, and the only person I ever loved agony?)
My mouth is dry. My heart is aching. And behind her I see, with perfect vision, Boudika standing watch. She is there with her red eyes and her shorn mane and her flicking, leonine tail. She is as wild, as vibrant, as I remember—
And when I blink, she is gone.
My lips carry a half-formed word—and then the shape is gone, and the recognition gone, and I am glancing at Elena again, wondering—
How did we get here?
And why am I staying?
I might have flinched, had I the strength. But I do not. I freeze, a fawn in the underbrush,
The gesture contains comfortable, foreign intimacy. It is a gesture of lifelong friends or lovers or siblings. A gesture that belongs to those who are bonded. I cannot help the way I turn away hesitantly; almost with shame.
My mouth is too dry. My head is aching.
“Yes,” I answer. I am relieved Damascus took us from the island; I am less pleased with his methods. “It is only a mild sedative and hallucinogen.” I speak more loosely, more honestly, then I intend to. It seems unwise to share with her Damascus’s powers—and yet, she had experienced them firsthand.
There is no denying the continued stupor; the slowness not only of body, but of mind.
And then:
“No, Elena. I don’t think we are.”
There is a cold within me I cannot escape; even within her cottage, I feel freezing. A god, somewhere, is laughing. I am certain of it; and perhaps it is even Damascus, with his strange knowledge of things and his innate cruelties. Perhaps it is no god at all, but fate, or destiny, or the simple passing of time.
(I do not even understand the whole of it; the threads of what we are, of the intimacies we do not understand, are tangled by unseen hands. How could I possibly know, or understand, that the man she loves is the one that Boudika loves, too? How could I possibly understand that her daughter will cause me joy, and the only person I ever loved agony?)
My mouth is dry. My heart is aching. And behind her I see, with perfect vision, Boudika standing watch. She is there with her red eyes and her shorn mane and her flicking, leonine tail. She is as wild, as vibrant, as I remember—
And when I blink, she is gone.
My lips carry a half-formed word—and then the shape is gone, and the recognition gone, and I am glancing at Elena again, wondering—
How did we get here?
And why am I staying?
