Boudika is struck with a sudden, absolute truth.
All fires die.
Even the sun, the stars; one day they explode and become dark, and black, and cold. The heat of the inferno dims into the chill, desolateness of ash. That is what cools between them, now; the dying of a fire. Not within themselves, no, but the thing they have held so dearly, like kindling, like… well, like embers, or new life. They have sheltered it from the truth, their hesitant love affair. And now the truth is revealed and both of them speak with steeled tongues. Boudika pulls away; the warmth of her skin is gone, and his is wrenched from hers. She steps toward the forest but, uncharacteristically, there is no violence grace to her movements. She does not aim to leave, or tear, or transform; she only stands, bathed in the dappled light of Caligo beneath the forest canopy. It is silent all around.
Is that what you wish? he asks her. Everything about him has hardened, and this hardening saddens her. Boudika only looks at him quietly; her mouth tastes bitter. Is that what she wants, she wonders. To have a lover? But the answer is clear in the expression of her face: No, Tenebrae her grim lips say. I do not want just a lover.
The inevitable question arrives.
Do you love me, Boudika?
The word has always seemed so small to her. Love. She could say it and not mean it. How many times had her father breathed love to his daughter, hidden as she was, with the smell of bourbon on his breath? He had always been so proud of her, when he had been drunk. He had always loved her so, so much, and her mother too. I love you, child, he would say, whiskey-thick. I am so proud of you, of all you are--
But never, ever would he breathe those words sober. Never did he demonstrate “love” to her, in his chilled actions, his bitter soldier’s repose.
Is this like that, Tenebrae? Boudika wants to ask it. Are we saying a word we don’t understand? The distance between them does not last long; Boudika turns back toward him just in time for them to collide, softly, body-to-body. His lips at her pulse, soothing that sudden, erratic beat.
He goes on to say: Because I see you as the waves, the salt, the sea. But my brothers will not. They will see you as an obstruction to Caligo, not part of her magic, her world. Tenebrae’s words are so soft, so coaxing. Does he not know how the blade slips in, quietly, between her ribs? Does he not know the warmth of his mouth against her throat has become nearly unbearable? The honey is poisoned, for both of them; she knows it.
... But am I in your heart, your soul? What you demand of me is a hefty price… but I am willing to pay it. You said everyone leaves you. But I won’t - yet I will only do it for mutual love. Is this love, Boudika, or just animal attraction?
Then, he shows her the scars. They always seem more elegant in the night, she thinks. Perhaps it is his goddess’s way of softening them; of reclaiming what is hers. Do you still just want to claim me, turn me?
Boudika steps away again. “I did not tell you the whole truth, in the cave.” She confesses. Boudika had not even realised it then; that there had been another story within the story she shared, another facet of who she was that must be revealed. “I told you of the Last Prince - the King Orestes of Solterra -” here, she scoffs. “And I told you of Amaroq. But I did not tell you of Vercingtorix, and the betrayal.”
Oh, Tenebrae. So new to love. There is a moment she almost pities him; but pity is not in an animal’s nature. He speaks of love as if it is easy; as if it is as simple as words, or vows, and not a matter of blood and sacrifice and pain. Is that all you wish, Tenebrae? For Boudika to say, yes, yes, yes as if the words are actions too? “I have loved five men my entire life,” she says. “First, it was my father, who used me as a tool for his ambitions. Then, there was Vercingtorix.” It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. She has never spoken of it; not once, since she had lost him. “He began as my best friend, my companion. On Oresziah, we referred to one another as rahterei. It meant ‘right hand.’ We grew up together, and survived many battles at one another’s side. We were indoctrinated into the military together. We defeated the Last Prince together. We… we were going to be commanding officers together, for a new pilgrimage. But when we defeated Orestes, I--he… He fell from a cliffside. I spent months nursing him back to health.”
There is no way to surmise all that they were. There is no way for Boudika to describe the intimacy, to explain: “There had never been anyone else. All that I was was tied to all he was, and vice versa. And as I helped him heal, I could not… I could not continue to live a lie. I could see his feelings for me changing, and mine for him. We had lived in devotion, companionship, sacrifice for one another for years… and those were becoming loyalty, affection, compassion, and yes, love. He loved me so much, I could see it, and when he was healed--he made an advance that I had to reject because… well, because all of it had been a lie. I was not Bondike. I was Boudika. But I thought, if I could just show him they were both the same… perhaps he could love me, still. I told him who I was, truly. About the magic. About the lie. He shut me out, Tenebrae. He stopped speaking to me; he avoided me in the street; at our coronation, he would not meet my eye. And ultimately, he turned me in. He revealed my identity. I became Boudika the Betrayer, and my own people had me arrested.”
There is a moment she cannot decide why she is sharing this. It seems cruel, to detail so explicitly her love for another man; love that has not died, but still colours her voice with a certain pain and bitterness. “I share this with you because you ask me if I love you, and love to me has never been pretty words, or poetry, or what you make my body feel. Love has always been sacrifice, devotion, and action. I tell you that story because I do not regret it, even the betrayal, because it allowed me to experience the pinnacle, the incomparable. You ask me of my heart and soul, Tenebrae, but you expect me to quietly answer your call when it suits you, and to hide on the fringes of your religion. Even now: you shower me with kisses, and demand my love, but what will you give in return? What have you shown me you are capable of? You ask, and ask, and ask... for pomegranates and darkness and love, my heart and soul, but already in your words it is clear to me we have nothing compared to your bond of brothers. You fear their judgement and retribution more, I think, than you fear my loss. You say you will leave if I offer you mutual love, but what do you know of love, Tenebrae? Tell me, and I will listen. But when I give, I give everything I am. And in my experience that does not go well when I am giving to duty, and obligation, and a man owned by an organisation.”
Her lips twist wryly. “No. In my experience, men are always more bonded to what they belong to, rather than the woman they want. And I will not be only wanted. I do not want to turn you, anymore, Tenebrae; but I will not change myself for you, either. I will not accept less, or fit myself into a role that suits your religion. I will let you go, but I will not do that. You speak now as if you want both; my love, and the Order. And if you can prove to me that you can have both, so be it--but… I don’t think that you can, and I will not pour all I am into something that will burn. You say you will leave, for guaranteed love. But will you? Will you pay that price?”
He has already said he would.
But Boudika does not believe him.
And despite the resoluteness of her words, the firm expression she wears, she feels her resolve crumbling. Just say yes, the girl in her whispers. The girl who had always wanted love. Just say yes, you love him, and no, it is not primordial attraction. But Boudika has learned not to give her heart away; not to let the charismatic words of men wrest it from her, so they ought hold it in their palms and lord it over her. The truth is, the truth that cools the flame they have thus far fanned:
Boudika does not yet know. She is fond of him, and wants him, and desperately wishes to believe his words; but she does not know how. Tenebrae says he will not leave, but the recipe for it, the signs of the leaving are already written. Everything he is says: It is easier to leave than to stay. So why would he, she wonders. Why would he stay? For the love she has not yet agreed to give, that nevertheless is written in the softness of her eyes and the way they brim with unshed tears?
"Speech." || @Tenebrae
tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us
these, our bodies, possessed by light
