[P] only fire and iron and scales

[Boudika]

THIS IS A POEM FOR MONSTER GIRLS WHO HAVE NO STARS IN THEIR SKIN, ONLY FIRE AND IRON AND SCALES


Denocte is a dream to her. It is woodsmoke and incense, street children and Caligo’s statue staring accusingly. More: it is moonstones against cobblestones. It is the glint of magic, of almost-magic, of firelight and embers. It is stars and ribbons and a celebration just slightly unhinged, on the precipice of desperation, of drunkenness. A sorrow-like rage. It is life crying, live, live, live and it is enough, enough, enough. It is crowning forest of masts at the docks, with sails surrender-white, and the smell of the markets, and dancing for a crowd that changes every night. It is ribbons in her cropped mane. It is gold paint chaffing her skin. It is running to the mountains and back, every day. It is a question: do you know what it feels like to be alone? It is a queen that can transform the ground upon which she walks. 

It is the feeling of hunger, and discontent, and how beautiful it is to see such things in a world that would as soon have you feel rage, rage, rage, or ugliness. And although Denocte was many things, it was beautiful most of all. Magical. Especially at night. 

Boudika wanders the streets like a mare erected in the spirit of the place. Restless, energetic, haunting. Her flanks are streaked with the gold of her last dance, and with her mind she turns a card over and over on itself. Her mind is a rush of thought that acts as haphazard as movement, as birds taking flight. She thinks: she had spent the first eight years of her life surrounded by companionship. She had lived with her father, then the academy, and there had always been friends there. Next, barracks. And after the barracks, the prison, where Orestes was only inches away. She had never been alone before Denocte. Boudika had never been lonely before she had boarded a sinking ship, before she had drowned. And now the loneliness was all she felt, and in it was a perpetual question, a what if, what if, what if—it felt as though she were always changing shapes, as if she had somehow become the cobblestones beneath, or the wooden planks of a wall. She is there. She is watching, she is seeing, but no one is seeing her. 

The loneliness of that realisation is unbearable. Boudika is alone and the feeling gnaws on her like a wolf without a pack. How many nights had she lain awake tortured by sinking ships and the cries of ghosts? How many nights had she recollected her undeserved procession through the streets of Oresziah, her condemnation—

And there she stops her thoughts, before they consume her. There are lanterns above her, bright with firelight. Children stream by, laughing, playing with some sort of ball. There are adults shuffling toward the Night markets, and others toward the taverns. She stands outside her destination, a little ways off, for quite some time. It is darker down the street that leads to the desert-like palace; the effect is unnerving, with the pale building and the diverse number of customers that enter. Boudika approaches the false palace, the card held more and more tightly in her mental telekinesis… until she feels compelled to press it against the scarab effigy on the door itself.

It opens to a lavish hallway. Boudika has never seen such brazen colours in her life; royal purples, and crimsons deeper than even her eyes. She enters without hesitation, head aloft. If you only pretend you belong—she thinks, and a voice speaks out from the dimness of the interior. “It is always night in the White Scarab.”

The speaker, a girl, has eyes that are a brighter green than any Boudika has ever seen. But then again—they are almost Khashran eyes, and the effect is unsettling. She cannot find her tongue. The girl continues, her eyes boring into Boudika’s own. “You have come to test your luck—“

Boudika does not mean to interrupt, but she does. “I am here to see August.” 

And the truth is revealed. Her restless, indecisive wandering of Denocte—her feverish pacing. The enchantment of the streets. The aching, clawing loneliness. All of it for this—to find, perhaps, a friend. 

There is a slight narrowing to the brilliant green eyes, which ought to be smooth like jade. Instead, they are sharp. “He’s a friend,” Boudika amends, hesitantly. “Very well.” Her eyes fall to the trident Boudika holds beside her, floating inconspicuously at her side. It glints in the dim light, but somehow does not seem so out of place in its rich gold. Her trident is held tightly against her body, but, perhaps, that is not so uncommon in the Scarab. The girl calls someone, and Boudika is taken away, escorted through intricate hallways toward an upper floor. 

The journey to the towers is intricate and strange, if only due to the contradictory bright-darkness. It is not the lighting itself that is bright, but the undercurrent of colours that strike out vivaciously, boldly, suggesting a more sensual life. Boudika is unaccustomed to such richness. Everything drips luxury and for a girl raised on a stony island, where the wetness seeped into every pore, and the stone mildewed and the colours were forever subdued. 

At last, after what seems like far too long, she is brought before a door. There is nothing special about the door. Nothing to reveal it as unique, as August’s. But, the more of the Scarab Boudika has been led through, the less familiar the idea of August becomes. Nothing about this place suggests the bread-boy from the market. 

But the door opens.

And Boudika says: 

“Hello.” 

FOR THE GIRLS WHO WALKED ALONE INTO FORESTS AND INTO NIGHTS, DEEP AND DARK AND ENDLESS, IN THEIR EVERLASTING LONELINESS 

@August 

Pimsri@Deviantart

[August]

He is looking forward to tonight.

August had forgotten, in all that had passed since the eruption and the bridge and the island, how good it felt to be home. He can’t manage to be ashamed for the way he’d felt in that god-touched forest - like one of the lost boys, or a pirate like his father, the promise of treasure over every hill - but he is ashamed for what treasonous whispers had flowed through his mind like clear water on those nights alone. The island had sung to him like a siren and pled for him to stay, and if not for the way it had ended -

But it is good to be back. To inhale the sweet smoke of the bonfires and the sharp brine of the midsummer sea and watch the mountains bluing the horizon. To hear the music ringing out through the marketplace, an altogether different symphony than the island. And, though at the time he’d enjoyed playing feral, to bathe.

Now he regards himself in the mirror, his hair half-braided along his back. It feels strange after so long leaving it loose on the island (no stranger, he supposes, than closing his eyes and seeing a cloud of butterflies descend like a rainbow mist). The mirror reflects what little else there is in his room in the dancing light of the fireplace; it is austere, compared to most of the riches of the White Scarab. There is a simple pallet, tidily made up, and a chest faintly gleaming with gold leaf along one wall, and a desk in the corner, guarded by a small slim carving of Caligo. Above the desk hangs his sword, and it is by far the most ornate thing in the room - a handsome sabre with a handle encrusted with barnacles and bits of coral, carefully placed as though they were hand-picked jewels. To August they may as well be.

His window is open and the moon hangs in a pale sliver above the bay. He had requested this room specifically for the view, though he let Minya believe it was only to remind them all of the pecking order. Though the sea is too far to hear, he sleeps with the window open. And in August’s own room, he always sleeps alone.

There is a soft knock. One of the two-year-old valets come to tell him there’s trouble brewing at one of the tables, or Anghavni with some other news of trouble - but trouble or no, he’s smiling before he turns away from the mirror and smiling still as he opens the door.

That near-grin gives way to pure surprise when he finds Boudika on the other side of it. He might have stared longer if it weren’t for her ready greeting; his brows remain arched but his grin returns, broader, and he steps aside and motions her in. August thanks the valet - Finch, he thinks, or maybe Wren - and turns to his guest, softly closing the door again behind them.

“Boudika,” he says. “I’m glad you made it. I have to say, you might make gold look better than I do.” He nods at her approvingly, a brow still playfully arched. The room feels almost too small with the both of them in it - though he wonders if this is only because she seems to take up more space, as though there is a tiger in his room, and not a woman, with painted-gold stripes glimmering against her natural ones in the changing firelight. “Have you come for that spar, or the dance? I’m sorry it’s been so long. Things got...” And here, uncharacteristically, August trails off. When he blinks he sees vines and butterflies, a tree with the face of a crone, Locust and Bexley, birds with gemstones for eyes, and always, always the sea.

When he lifts his moon-silver gaze to hers, his expression is apologetic, but his eyes are searching. They ask a question he can’t find the words to; maybe it is only do you feel it too? The change? “Well, you know.”

August - -

there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same

credits

[Boudika]

THIS IS A POEM FOR MONSTER GIRLS WHO HAVE NO STARS IN THEIR SKIN, ONLY FIRE AND IRON AND SCALES


Boudika has never learned the art of “making friends.”

The academy had practically assigned friendships. They were not forced; no, they grew more naturally than anything she had ever known, borne of shared suffering and brotherhood. There had been no awkwardness involved, no hesitation. It was simply that they had to rely upon one another, and their names stream through her mind quick and like a current, one after the other VercingtorixCianAnaanMiachDagda and with the stream comes memory after memory of laughter, and toil, and tragedy. All of it is broken off as she faces an open door and expression of genuine surprise. Whatever doubts she had, or hesitations, cannot be acknowledged now—there is no turning back. 

Boudika cannot help herself. It is a deeply seated insecurity that has her scouring his face for disappointment, or disapproval. Perhaps he hadn’t really intended for her to find him—she begins to wonder if it was all a mistake. 

Then, the surprise gives way to a smile. It is as bright as she remembers and his expression stills her nerves. 

When did you become so unconfident? she wonders, as she enters his room. Boudika assesses it, briefly, and finds it satisfactorily utilitarian. It reminds her of her own room, in some ways. She smiles, but it is a surprised expression; she is taken aback by his compliment, and it takes her longer than she would have liked to respond. The chestnut mare finally, awkwardly, settles on: “Thank you.” Boudika does not believe it, however; the gold he wears is natural and unassuming. She might have returned the compliment, if she had only known what to say—she moves her mouth as if to speak, decides against it, and transitions into something less awkward. Her eyes roam his quarters once more, and the time they settle on the sabre, taking note of the interesting arrangement of sea ornaments. Boudika chooses not to comment on it immediately, but her eyes linger. 

They return to him after a long moment. Things got… Well, you know. Were they not still that way? There is something quiet between them, nearly strained, and she wonders. Was it the discontent of Denocte that he spoke of? Their Queen and her dragon, crying for blood? Raum in the desert? Or was it something even more strange?Perhaps, even, the bridge to the center of the ocean, and the island where time did not seem to exist, and all manner of strange things inhabited the suggestion of reality. After a moment she remembers the collapse, the twisting snake and the relic so close, nearly in reach… Almost there. But not close enough.

“I do know.” And she smiles again, rousing herself from her thoughts. For the first time, the expression truly reaches her eyes, and she answers, “What would you prefer? A spar or a dance?” There is something mischievous that crosses her face and she gestures with her chin toward the sabre. “I like your decor.” 


FOR THE GIRLS WHO WALKED ALONE INTO FORESTS AND INTO NIGHTS, DEEP AND DARK AND ENDLESS, IN THEIR EVERLASTING LONELINESS 

@August 

Pimsri@Deviantart

[August]

The room feels too small with both of them in it.

It is not a large space, but with Manon or Agnhavni or any of the others who blur staff and family it feels cozy, or at least serviceable. August is as nonchalant as he had been in the marketplace the day that they met, but there is an energy between them almost thick enough to hum. They are strangers enough that their awareness of one another feels like its own kind of intimacy.

After a moment of standing like a simpleton, August crosses to a cabinet in the corner, and pulls a bottle and two glasses from a mostly bare but dustless shelf. He takes his time pouring and the sweet-thick smell of the bourbon rises around him; when he glances over at Boudika she is looking at his sword, and something in him eases, his nerves dissipating like fog.

He doesn’t remark on it yet, but he’s almost grinning when he steps toward her, the glasses with him. They are cut crystal, heavily textured, and the light in the liquid leaves amber-colored diamonds on the floor.

I do know, she says, and he hopes his eyes don’t show the way his thoughts touch on the Relic like fingertips might worry a barely-scabbed wound.

The palomino is grateful for her question, then, and when he laughs the memory of the island feels a little further away (he wonders if it, too, will ever vanish below the surface of his subconscious they way it had been swallowed by the sea). “They both have their merits, though I fear we have room for neither,” he answers, and follows her gaze to the sword. His mouth is grinning, but his silver eyes are not.

“Thank you. It was my father’s. I don’t get as much opportunity to use it as I’d like.” For the first time, he wonders if that’s true. The idea of violence has always been…complicated for August, but sparring and swordsmanship never has been. It’s as much an art as practical defense, and he has never had to use his skills for more than convincing a drunken loser that he had better take his hard feelings elsewhere.

He wonders if he could use that beautiful, supple blade to kill.

Once more he wrests his thoughts away, turning back to Boudika, to the firelight glancing off the planes of her face. August offers her one of the glasses, and holds his high to meet it. “To new friends,” he toasts, and is glad to drink; the bourbon burns clean and warm down his throat. The last time he’d drank from this bottle had been on the floor of the Scarab, talking with Charon, their heads bent together as they spoke of Solterra. And that memory brings up another, from earlier that same day, of a stranger with strange questions in the square.

He hadn’t spoken to him, but he had heard him asking shopkeeps after their new Champion of Community - asking after the woman beside him now.

“Speaking of,” he says, and his eyes are light and watchful on her face, “I ran across a friend of yours. Or someone asking after you, anyway. Huge fellow, horns rather like yours. Walked with a limp.”

August - -

there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same

credits

[Boudika]

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 

Pimsri@Deviantart