B
etween them, many differences become evident. Their emotions. Their expressions. The way they deal with their hostilities. They are connected, irrevocably, but a man that they both loved—and in that, there is another difference. Boudika does not love easily. Boudika still cannot even say the words. She knows this apprehension comes from Vercingtorix and how, when she loved him, it broke her. Fundamentally, her love changed who she had been and would become. His betrayal did not turn her callous; but it turned her weary, and afraid. Boudika does not love Tenebrae.
But she wants to. Oh, she wants to. If given the chance. If he were to only give it the time, the hope, to grow—
And now?
How she ever be able to? If Elena fills with shame, Boudika fills with embarrassment. They turned her into a fool and Boudika’s pride flares too large, too hot, in her breast. She has never been a fool and will not allow it, will demand—more from them, from them both. They cannot hold themselves accountable, that is clear. Someone must. The casualty they created in the crossfire of their poor decisions. Selfish, she thinks. So, so selfish.
The sea shushes in the background. The day might have been beautiful, if not for the way loved has turned to something cruel and painful. The day might have been beautiful, if not for the hate and pain and shame.
Boudika watches Elena’s valiant effort to keep her expression clean. There is something in it that reminds her, inexplicably, of Vercingtorix. This is how he had looked, she thinks, when she told him. This is how he looked when she had said, I am in love with you—but there is something I must tell you. The way he had gone impassive, the way his eyes had wanted to trust her and then tightened around the edges with something that was not quite grief, but a more intimate kind of pain.
She does not care she hurt her. Boudika wanted to. She wanted to and she hopes the truth destroys Elena, as it destroyed her. The malice surprises her, but she cannot take it back.
Stay as long as you like in Terrastella, Boudika.
Boudika’s expression tightens again. Her brows furrow, and her lip twitches. “Coward. You are a coward, Elena. Do you not want to face the truth? You can’t even answer my question—” Boudika turns away as Elena does, and the contempt she feels has not faded. If anything, it grows. She cannot understand how, even when confronted, she shies from the truth of her actions—she cannot apologize, she cannot answer, she can do nothing but speak inconsequentially.
Coward, Boudika thinks again. She does not care for the West—and she turns back to the sea and slips quietly inside.
She had thought that she would feel at least a semblance of closure. She had thought if she confronted the other woman, something would release within herself—the pressure would escape. Instead, she feels empty and that emptiness echoes within her.
Boudika is still alone. Nothing has changed.
Time, time. It's time.
The business of Troy has long been done.
Achilles in lreuke has come home.
And soon you too will be alone.
