THIS IS A POEM FOR MONSTER GIRLS WHO HAVE NO STARS IN THEIR SKIN, ONLY FIRE AND IRON AND SCALES
Boudika is again taken aback by his ease with which he interacts with her and she wonders, briefly, if it a sort of warrior camaraderie. Perhaps it is because they both know the supple feel of a blade—but even as she thinks it, she feels as if the thought in and of itself is ridiculous. It is only that he is charismatic, and she is not, but he is not so cruel as to make her inadequacy a thing of notice. Instead, he offers her a drink, and Boudika gives a grateful smile.
They both have their merit, although I fear we have room for neither. If Boudika were more versed in friendship, she might have laughed and said, We can always make room. But to her then it sounded too flirtatious and, rather than speak, she said nothing. Despite the drink and the chiseled glance now in her firm telekinetic grasp… Boudika wonders if this is not, after all, a kind of mistake.
“I’m sorry to hear that—a weapon not used is both a happy and sad thing.” The words are tense on her lips. Why does she feel so unsettled? Boudika does not have an answer for that, and is thankful when he moves on to toast their newfound friendship. Boudika raises her glass as well, and takes the drink—it burns, more than she likes. She rarely drinks and rarely has, and it is a struggle not to hide a grimace as it surfaces. But she remains extremely thankful for the gesture, and even hopeful. To new friends—
But then there is something else.
Speaking of, I ran across a friend of yours. Or someone asking after you, anyway. Huge fellow, with horns rather like yours. Walked with a limp.
Boudika almost laughs at the incredulity of it. Her immediate thought is so pointed that it nearly covers the distress that has already begun to build within her belly like a bed of worms. That is impossible.
But is it?
And she knows it is not.
She swallows. The room is not quite spinning, no, but there is a sudden and building anxiety within her. Boudika is lightheaded, and her limbs shake slightly; the delicate tremble of an aspen’s leaf. It is only the regimented life she has lived, her experience with her father, the impossibility of Orestes and the rejection she has already once felt so acutely at the hand of the very man August references. Yes. It is only those things, that keep her from breaking down.
Boudika feigns a smile. “Thank you for telling me. I am very sorry, August… and I thank you for the drink… but that is very distressing information, and—“ her thoughts are wheeling. “And I think it would be better if we rescheduled our dance, or our spar. Have a wonderful evening.”
As quickly as Boudika had appeared, she was turning around and leaving. Do not be frantic. Do not be frantic. Everything is a whirl of colour and fragrances; she passes by a large crowd and out the building, into the cool street.
The unrest follows her there. She leads herself to the nearest ally and leans against it, her face turned into the stone. With her eyes closed, it very nearly reminds her of the feeling of prison.
Why is he here? Why is he asking about me?
She wants to be angry. Boudika wants to be filled with righteous fury. Instead, there is something tumultuous in her, nearly childlike. And as much as she hates him, she wonders:
What if he has decided he loves me?
Even as she thinks it, Boudika hates herself for it. The weakness of the sentiment, the way the mere mention of him causes her heart to flutter in her chest like a fledgling bird. She thinks of his name, and the way it had always felt against her lips:
Vercingtorix.
Her best friend.
Her most severe betrayer.
Boudika inhales sharply and opens her eyes. It is only then that she walks home and realises that there is no one she knows well enough to share her newfound struggle with; there is no one to open her heart to and say,
I have never felt so alone as this moment.
FOR THE GIRLS WHO WALKED ALONE INTO FORESTS AND INTO NIGHTS, DEEP AND DARK AND ENDLESS, IN THEIR EVERLASTING LONELINESS
@August
Boudika is again taken aback by his ease with which he interacts with her and she wonders, briefly, if it a sort of warrior camaraderie. Perhaps it is because they both know the supple feel of a blade—but even as she thinks it, she feels as if the thought in and of itself is ridiculous. It is only that he is charismatic, and she is not, but he is not so cruel as to make her inadequacy a thing of notice. Instead, he offers her a drink, and Boudika gives a grateful smile.
They both have their merit, although I fear we have room for neither. If Boudika were more versed in friendship, she might have laughed and said, We can always make room. But to her then it sounded too flirtatious and, rather than speak, she said nothing. Despite the drink and the chiseled glance now in her firm telekinetic grasp… Boudika wonders if this is not, after all, a kind of mistake.
“I’m sorry to hear that—a weapon not used is both a happy and sad thing.” The words are tense on her lips. Why does she feel so unsettled? Boudika does not have an answer for that, and is thankful when he moves on to toast their newfound friendship. Boudika raises her glass as well, and takes the drink—it burns, more than she likes. She rarely drinks and rarely has, and it is a struggle not to hide a grimace as it surfaces. But she remains extremely thankful for the gesture, and even hopeful. To new friends—
But then there is something else.
Speaking of, I ran across a friend of yours. Or someone asking after you, anyway. Huge fellow, with horns rather like yours. Walked with a limp.
Boudika almost laughs at the incredulity of it. Her immediate thought is so pointed that it nearly covers the distress that has already begun to build within her belly like a bed of worms. That is impossible.
But is it?
And she knows it is not.
She swallows. The room is not quite spinning, no, but there is a sudden and building anxiety within her. Boudika is lightheaded, and her limbs shake slightly; the delicate tremble of an aspen’s leaf. It is only the regimented life she has lived, her experience with her father, the impossibility of Orestes and the rejection she has already once felt so acutely at the hand of the very man August references. Yes. It is only those things, that keep her from breaking down.
Boudika feigns a smile. “Thank you for telling me. I am very sorry, August… and I thank you for the drink… but that is very distressing information, and—“ her thoughts are wheeling. “And I think it would be better if we rescheduled our dance, or our spar. Have a wonderful evening.”
As quickly as Boudika had appeared, she was turning around and leaving. Do not be frantic. Do not be frantic. Everything is a whirl of colour and fragrances; she passes by a large crowd and out the building, into the cool street.
The unrest follows her there. She leads herself to the nearest ally and leans against it, her face turned into the stone. With her eyes closed, it very nearly reminds her of the feeling of prison.
Why is he here? Why is he asking about me?
She wants to be angry. Boudika wants to be filled with righteous fury. Instead, there is something tumultuous in her, nearly childlike. And as much as she hates him, she wonders:
What if he has decided he loves me?
Even as she thinks it, Boudika hates herself for it. The weakness of the sentiment, the way the mere mention of him causes her heart to flutter in her chest like a fledgling bird. She thinks of his name, and the way it had always felt against her lips:
Vercingtorix.
Her best friend.
Her most severe betrayer.
Boudika inhales sharply and opens her eyes. It is only then that she walks home and realises that there is no one she knows well enough to share her newfound struggle with; there is no one to open her heart to and say,
I have never felt so alone as this moment.
FOR THE GIRLS WHO WALKED ALONE INTO FORESTS AND INTO NIGHTS, DEEP AND DARK AND ENDLESS, IN THEIR EVERLASTING LONELINESS
@August
