in your dreams, you are jealous of tragedies; and the truth is, we all want our own tragedy, because life is pale without it. we want the teeth, the screaming, the survival that comes with it
Together, Bondike and I stand on a beach. We are alone, and the last light tips over the horizon. The sea does not sing; does not lull; does not make sound. On the far peripheral billow the silk sails of dream-ships, woven from a thousand incomprehensible colors. Bondike speaks to me, but those words, too, seem incomprehensible:
“You have no right,” he says.
“No right to what?”
“No right to—to take him from me, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s gone.” Bondike says, and I do not know who he means; staring through this veil of dreams, I begin to believe I know.
“He had to leave,” I answer, softly. I mean to comfort him.
Even in the dream it tastes like a lie.
“You can’t stand it,” he says. “You can’t stand that I was almost happy. That I almost—almost, somehow—moved past you.”
And Bondike turns and walks down the beach—not toward the billowing sails of the docks, Denocte’s docks, but toward the untamed stretch of shore beyond. He walks, and walks, and walks and I watch until he dissolves into the sea.
- - - -
I know she left. I feel, with certainty, her absence. I know she left, and I know, too, she left because of me. The battle with Amaroq on the beach has remained with me.
You are only a ghost to her, he had told me. But he had not fulfilled his other promise. I had not become a corpse to him and this, still, feels me with a cool pleasure. I should not consider the sentiment such, the way it settles in my veins.
But I do.
Because, no matter which way I regard my own sentiments, they emerge as pleasure. I took pleasure in his death.
And yet, I still feel a ghost. More now than ever, as I roam the streets of Denocte not as one who belongs, but as one who drifts. I do not feel myself; and perhaps it is because, by every alleyway and through every tavern window, I believe I glimpse Boudika. I believe I see her, painted gold, with ribbons in her hair. A warrior turned dancer. A woman, hidden. A lie, a lie, a lie.
The night has become dark by the time I reach the Court’s docks. The sound, even now, sends apprehension tingling down my spine. The squelching of water and wood; the rut of boats against the docks; the rise and fall of the surf. Somewhere, far off, I hear a creature surface from the depths and then return in one abrupt splash.
I think I am alone, but as I walk to the very end I see a silhouette and, I ask, “Have you seen a woman with a white face and curled horns? She is red, and black, and stripped at the haunches.”
Almost as an afterthought, I add: “She had been the Champion of Community here, once.”
“You have no right,” he says.
“No right to what?”
“No right to—to take him from me, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s gone.” Bondike says, and I do not know who he means; staring through this veil of dreams, I begin to believe I know.
“He had to leave,” I answer, softly. I mean to comfort him.
Even in the dream it tastes like a lie.
“You can’t stand it,” he says. “You can’t stand that I was almost happy. That I almost—almost, somehow—moved past you.”
And Bondike turns and walks down the beach—not toward the billowing sails of the docks, Denocte’s docks, but toward the untamed stretch of shore beyond. He walks, and walks, and walks and I watch until he dissolves into the sea.
I know she left. I feel, with certainty, her absence. I know she left, and I know, too, she left because of me. The battle with Amaroq on the beach has remained with me.
You are only a ghost to her, he had told me. But he had not fulfilled his other promise. I had not become a corpse to him and this, still, feels me with a cool pleasure. I should not consider the sentiment such, the way it settles in my veins.
But I do.
Because, no matter which way I regard my own sentiments, they emerge as pleasure. I took pleasure in his death.
And yet, I still feel a ghost. More now than ever, as I roam the streets of Denocte not as one who belongs, but as one who drifts. I do not feel myself; and perhaps it is because, by every alleyway and through every tavern window, I believe I glimpse Boudika. I believe I see her, painted gold, with ribbons in her hair. A warrior turned dancer. A woman, hidden. A lie, a lie, a lie.
The night has become dark by the time I reach the Court’s docks. The sound, even now, sends apprehension tingling down my spine. The squelching of water and wood; the rut of boats against the docks; the rise and fall of the surf. Somewhere, far off, I hear a creature surface from the depths and then return in one abrupt splash.
I think I am alone, but as I walk to the very end I see a silhouette and, I ask, “Have you seen a woman with a white face and curled horns? She is red, and black, and stripped at the haunches.”
Almost as an afterthought, I add: “She had been the Champion of Community here, once.”
