#oh my god he wakes up on the altar again. mouth filled filled with wine and his hands tied down and he-

[introspectivememories]

well now that we know the cult is back, imma need some heavy bernard angst from the comic. the panic attacks, relapses into unhealthy behavior, pushing people away, imma need all of it.

[antecedentlypod]

EPISODE 1 TRANSCRIPT

-opening music-

Lorrie: [Flipping pages, muttering to himself] There. Ah, alright. The Companionship of the Cat and the Mouse, read by Lorrie Adams. Take one. 

[sighs] take three. 

[mutters, sighing] The Companionship of the Cat and the Mouse. Take fifteen. 

-A cat had made the acquaintanceship of a mouse, and had talked so much about his great love and friendship for her, that he eventually convinced her to live in the same house and set up a common household. 

”But we must get supplies for the winter,” said the cat, “or else we’ll starve. A little mouse like you can’t venture just anywhere, for one of these days you might get caught in a trap.”

They acted on his good advice, and bought a little jar of fat, but they did not know where to put it. Finally, after long deliberation, the cat said: ’I can’t think of a safer place than the church, no one would dare take anything away from there. Let’s put it under the altar and we won’t touch it unless we really need it.”

The little jar was safely stored away, but it was not long before the cat felt a craving for it and said to the mouse: “I’ve been meaning to tell you, little mouse; my cousin gave birth to a baby boy, white with brown spots, and I’ve been asked to be godfather. I’m to hold him at the christening. Would you mind letting me go out today, and looking after the house by yourself?”

“No, of course not!” answered the mouse, “Go for God’s sake! And if you get something good to eat, think of me. I sure would like to have a drink of that sweet red christening wine.” 

Naturally, none of what the cat had said was true. He did not have a cousin, nor had he been asked to be godfather. He went straight to the church, crept to the little jar of fat, and began licking and licking until he had licked the skin off the top. Then he strolled over the roofs of the city and contemplated his opportunities. After a while he stretched himself out in the sun, and wiped his whiskers whenever he thought of the little jar of fat. It was not until evening that he returned home. “Well, you’re back,” the mouse said, “I’m sure you had a wonderful day.”

 “It wasn’t bad,” the cat responded. 

“What name did they give the child?” the mouse asked. 

“Skin off.” the cat said dryly. 

“Skin off?” exclaimed the mouse, “That’s a strange and unusual name, is it common in your family?” 

“What’s there to it,” said the cat, “it is no worse than Crumb-thief, as your godchildren are called.”

Shortly after that, the cat felt another great craving. He said to the mouse: “You’ve got to do me a favor again, and look after the house by yourself. I am asked to be godfather once more and, since the child has a white ring round its neck, I can’t refuse.” 

The good mouse consented, but the cat went clinking behind the city walls to the church, where he ate up half the jar of fat. “Nothing tastes better,” he said, “then what you keep to yourself.” And he was very satisfied with his day’s work. When he returned the mouse asked: “What was this child christened?” 

“Half-gone.” answered the cat. 

“Half-gone? You don’t say! I’ve never heard such a name in all my life, I'll bet it’s not on the list of proper names!”

Soon the cat’s mouth began watering once more for the delicacy. “All good things come in threes,” he said to the mouse, “I’ve been asked to be godfather again. This child is all black and has white paws, aside from that, there’s not a white hair on its body; this only happens once every few years, you will let me go, won’t you?”

“Skin- off! Half-gone!” the mouse responded, “Those are really curious names, I’m beginning to wonder about them…”

“Look. You can sit at home in your dark-grey fur coat and your long pig tail, and you begin imagining things. That’s because you don’t go out during the day.”

While the cat was gone, the mouse cleaned the house and put it in order, meanwhile the greedy cat ate up the rest of the jar.  “It’s only after everything’s all gone,” the cat said to himself, “that you can really begin to rest.”

It was very late at night by the time the cat returned home, and he was fat and stuffed. The mouse asked right away what name had been given to the third child. “You won’t like this one either!” the cat said. “It’s All-gone.”

 “All-gone!” exclaimed the mouse, “That’s the most suspicious of all the names! I have never seen it in print. All-gone; what’s it supposed to mean?” She shook her head, rolled herself up into a ball, and fell asleep.

From then on, no one asked the cat to be a godfather, but when the winter came and there was nothing more to be found outside, the mouse thought about their supply of fat and said: “Come, cat, let’s go to our jar that we’ve been saving, it will taste good.” 

“Yes,” said the cat, “You’ll enjoy the taste just as much if you stuck your dainty tongue out the window.” They set out on their way, but when they got there, the jar of fat was still in its place, but it was empty. 

“Oh!” said the mouse, “Now I know what’s happened,it’s as clear as day! Some nice friend you are! You ate it all up when you went to be a godfather. First the skin, then half, then–”

 “You better be quiet!” yelled the cat, “One more word, and I’ll eat you up!”

“All-gone” was already on the tip of the mouse’s tongue, no sooner did she say it then the cat jumped on her, grabbed her, and devoured her. You see, that’s the way of the world-

[sighs] that’ll do, I guess. 

[stretches, groans] My back’s killing me though. Gotta get this edit in and sent off. So, listening back to the recording it’s still not perfect. I guess I’ll have to do more takes! But not tonight. [sighs softly] I’ve been stuttering a lot more lately and reading aloud is still stupid hard. Thankfully Fish should be back home soon. She’ll be able to tell me if it’s an okay take, I think. [yawns] Take one of Farmer and the Warbler, read by Lorrie Adams. Once upon a time, in a land closer than any of us might fi- fuck! 

Take six of the Far- take twelve of the Farmer and the Warbler, read by Lorrie Adams. 

- Once upon a time, in a land closer than any of us might like, there was sky. Sky that went on for miles and miles, sky the milky color of cataract, sky you could choke on. There were many things under this looming infinity of clouds, but there is only time enough in this story for one.

  A thicket. More precisely, one comprised of berry bushes. You know the sort, the kind you spot on a long hike or a narrow trail and consider plucking from before your mind gets the better of you, for fear of poison. Picture it, if you will.

 No. Try again. The berries are darker than that, the thorns sharper.

 Right. There you are.

 The thicket surrounds a clearing in a tight circle, with winding trees woven through it whose canopy of leaves block out all but slivers of sun. In this clearing is a woman. She’s curled up there, shrouded by a pair of tattered wings. She’s larger than a woman, or any human for that matter, should be. Beneath her wings lies a bulging sternum, to allow for a set of lungs that would threaten to burst in any chest like yours or mine. Her arms bend at odd angles, her legs short and with a lack of any tailbone. She is curled there, she is ugly, for she is unknown to us, and she wails.

 It is nearing noon, though she would have no way of knowing this. It is at this approximate time, though, that each day she crawls to the thicket and begins to worm her way through. Scratches and cuts litter and linger on her skin from yesterday and many a day before, but she ignores the way they catch on thorn and reopen to the biting air. Ignores the tickling trickle of red everywhere she can still feel. Because today is the day, she’s sure of it. She’s going to make it through. She’ll come out on the other side, torn and tired, but wilted wings still rising to flight. To feel that air beneath them would be to know true bliss. Still, she’s aimless in her endeavour. She can only feel in front of her, cling to the dirt and to branch and swat away the swarming insects that live between these leaves and settle on her skin. She marks them, on occasion, and cannot see the smear of gut and brown they leave upon her. Her sight was long since robbed from her. The thorns had sought her eyes, spiteful for the way she longed to escape the home they’d made for her, and if it hadn’t been the poke it’d’ve been the venom. And yet she pushes on through this impossibly thick jungle of a berry bush.

 She makes it not even to the third’s way mark before she collapses into herself.

 It’s two o’clock, perhaps, when she wakes again and finds herself in the center of the clearing, no further away from this prison than she’d started. She’s glad for the size of her lungs when they allow her the breath to properly scream them out.

 If I might redirect your attention, dear reader, I ask you to imagine with me a cottage. For not far from this thicket, and its accompanying clearing, there lives a farmer. The winter had not been kind to his crops, nor the drought that followed it come spring, and what little livestock he’d kept in the barn out back fared no better. The cabinets are filled only with dishes and the occasional tin can. He stares numbly at the holes in his rotting wooden floorboards.

 Hunger laces every dusty windowsill, every rusty nail, the sparse closet and the achingly bare kitchen as hollow as his stomach. He’d had coin stocked in a great lockbox, hidden in the loose backing panel of a dresser. This had gotten him along, for a while. The prices at the marketplace are forgiving if you know where to look, and he’s practiced enough to bargain if he paints a sympathetic picture. His stomach would be sated with apples that might’ve once been crisp, and loaves of near molded sourdough. But the lockbox is near empty now, and the pit in his belly grows impatient. He can feel it fold and knot and kick at him, seeking satisfaction by eating away at itself with sharp teeth and an ever unhinging jaw. He shudders at the thought, and more to know it will not cease until he’s swallowed himself up completely, throbbing with the wholeness of it, and leaving nothing but a sigh of relief through a house that would then know what it means to be full. 

 It’s when he’s taken his finger between his bared teeth that he hears the weeping song of a warbler from just beyond his door. His gut lurches at the sound of it. Go, it whispers, go and be fed. And so he rises to weary feet, sheep wool shears from the mess of tools upon his table now tucked into the back of his pants.

 To follow this warbler’s cry is to follow the North Star to salvation, it seems, as his hunger reminds him in sweet growls that soon he will remember the warmth of meal-drunk content. How he aches for that small forgiveness, what one last small meal to a dying man might grant him some clear thought. And so he seeks it and nearly sobs with joy when he comes to the source of it. The thicket is foreboding, but no threat which he cannot face with the shears he unsheathes from his belt. He trims for what might’ve been hours or might’ve been days, but no difference is seen to him. Just a sense of soonness, and an excitement that bubbles up in him and threatens to spill out upon the final grinning snip. The warbler’s song stops short, and his eyes fall upon the frame of what he doesn’t dare to call a woman.

 For what feels like an eternity, a heavy silence between them. She sees nothing, but the presence of another is hard to ignore. She reaches out to touch, to feel, to assure herself that this is no dream. She weeps upon the sound of approaching footsteps as the farmer crouches before her.

 “No bird that’d been, then, but you, wretched creature, whose song had graced my ear?”

 “Not a song, sir, but a sorrow, for I could not free myself of this place.”

 The farmer nods thoughtfully, and rises to clasp a hand on her shoulder. “Come then, to your feet. I’ll fix you up with bandages and salve to soothe your wounds.” She clings to him and limps, wings dragging behind her, as he guides them through the worst of the thicket and along the path back to his cottage, a slow travel for how the thing’s limbs fall so heavy they threaten to sink her through the very crust of the earth.

 “Rest here, on my cot, and I will fetch the bandages.” The farmer says, and so the winged woman lays upon the surface he sets her to.

 How stiff a cot, she thinks, but does not voice, for the farmer had saved her life, and she is in no position to complain for an uncomfortable bed.

 She hears the farmer’s return not long after, and shifts toward the sound of it. “I really must thank you. It had been set in my mind that I would die there, in that clearing.”

 “I should not let that happen.” The farmer replies, “To die there in your state is a fate I would not wish upon the worst of men.”

 “Then it is in your just mind to bring me from it, though I hold you under no obligation to treat what harm it’s done to me.”

 “I should see you taken care of, for it would weigh on my conscience to leave you in this misery.” He says. This is enough for her, and so she falls into sleep as the farmer tends to her cuts and takes a wet cloth to her wings.

 It’s the heat that wakes her. Barely licking at her toes, and then consuming the space around her, hotter every moment than it had been the moment before. If she had not worn her voice from her earlier sorrow she might’ve cried for help. She sees the oven door before her no more than she had seen the table she was set upon, nor the farmer rummaging for dough or seasoning her now searing skin. Where there is only hunger, a man must make do with songbird pie.

 And so the sky waits above for wings that will not part it, a thicket begins to mend it’s shear cut path, and a winged woman howls as her flesh crispens for the chew of a starving man. And you, hiding under blankets from the dark, pretend that this land is far, far away.The end .-

The end. [sighs] Fuck it. I’m tired. That’ll have to do for now. End recording. 

-credits-

[carmenlire]

Where’s My Love

Warning: Major Character Death

read on ao3

He stands tall and the tension in his spine makes him wonder just how long he has before his back breaks.

He stands, staring straight ahead. He doesn’t feel the stares that land on him, a mix of worry and sympathy and distrust.

In the front row, his eyes don’t leave the altar where his love lies under a snowy white sheet. Distantly, he listens to the Silent Brother extol his husband’s innumerable praises.

He bites back a sob until his mouth fills with blood. They could have an eternity and not have enough time to list Alec’s best qualities, his endless successes.

Blinking slowly, he doesn’t feel his glamour disintegrate. Even if he did, he wouldn’t mind. Not today. Alec had always loved his mark and though Magnus never understood it, he finds it only appropriate to give his husband this final gift.

Instead of the icy chill of the Institute, his gaze grow unseeing as he replays a thousand memories in flashes that threaten to bring him to his knees.

Waking up to his love bathed in the warmth of a golden morning. Dancing on the balcony, laughing and tipsy from a bottle of wine. Arguing over what to make for dinner before deciding to portal to Marrakech or Athens or Chicago.

Looking up to see the stranger who saved his life toss a blade in the air with the confidence born of a lifetime at battle. Looking down an aisle with his heart in his hands and stubborn, stupid hope in his heart. Looking up after revealing his biggest insecurities, his most pervasive vulnerability only to be met with fierce eyes and, There is nothing ugly about you.

Magnus doesn’t notice that the hall empties at first but once he does he takes a shaky breath and a halting step toward Alec. There had been some pushback from Clave officials who hadn’t wanted a downworlder at Alec’s funeral. Clinging stubbornly to tradition, they’d made their distaste apparent.

He doesn’t even remember what he’d said only that he’d felt the fire of a thousand suns licking up his spine, a hairsbreadth from unleashing on the whole goddamn world. He’d been granted permission to attend his own husband’s funeral and the depth of the slight still hasn’t penetrated through the fog he’s been living in for the past six days.

Left alone now, he nears his husband’s body. As he does, he feels his face crumble, distorting until his expression betrays his overwhelming grief and anger, all of it overlaid with a lifetime’s worth of love.

His breath is harsh in the dead silence. Reaching out, he clinically catalogs his shaking hands, his wedding ring gleaming dully in the low light. His voice is a harsh whisper that’s scraped from his throat, leaves it aching. “You weren’t supposed to leave me,” he says fiercely. “I was supposed to have years, decades, a lifetime.”

As he rests his hands on Alec’s chest, he’s struck by the stillness. It makes something ugly crawl through him, the knowledge that this is his life-- this is the rest of his fucking life and it’s worst than he could’ve ever imagined.

He’d known Alec would ruin him but by God, not even he had known the devastation waiting for him at the end of his husband’s life.

“Do you hear me, Alexander,” he whispers and his fervor washes away to leave an emptiness that he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from. “You weren’t supposed to leave me.”

His breath shudders out and as his head falls, he looks down at his white suit. In this last regard, he’d followed shadowhunter custom and it makes nausea build sickeningly fast. His only thought is, This isn’t supposed to be happening.

We were supposed to have more time.

Closing his eyes, Magnus works on his breathing for long minutes. He can’t give into the roiling wave of grief that’s perilously close to the surface, knows that if he does, he’ll destroy everything until the world is as broken and hopeless as he feels right now.

When he opens his eyes, they fall to his love. Sweeping over the figure under the sheet, Magnus sears this moment unto his memory, the most wrenching end to a story for the ages.

Leaning over his husband, Magnus closes the distance between them one last time. He kisses his husband, his darling Alexander, one last time, the sheet an unforgivable barrier between them. Coldness seeps through the sheet and Magnus pulls back, laying his head on Alec’s shoulder. His own shake as he tries to get a grip.

Raising up, he lays an achingly gentle hand over Alec’s cheek. “Rest well, my darling,” he whispers. “I forgive you and I love you and I promise that I will never leave you, that I’ll carry you in my heart until the day that I die.”

He squeezes his eyes shut after the words leave him and then all of a sudden it’s too much and he stumbles back, his hand falling gracelessly from Alec’s body. He turns around, overwhelmed, and it takes all of his power to summon a portal.

He doesn’t look back as he falls through, his only thought, Save me.

Landing in their living room, the portal closes and the silence is insufferable. Magnus stills as it washes over him and in the emptiness, he can almost hear Alec grumbling at the coffeemaker, half asleep and squinting at the offensive sunlight.

He hears his husband’s laughter as he pulls him toward the bedroom with those irresistible eyes.

He sees the ghost of them wandering through every inch of the space and his legs give out. He lands on the floor hard but doesn’t feel the force ricochet through his body. He feels his magic clawing to get out and he hasn’t felt this out of control in centuries.

On his knees, he stares down at his hands with an indifferent gaze before he’s bending over and unleashing all of his grief and rage and despair in a scream that even to his ears sounds inhuman, holding the world's torment.

His nails dig into the wood of the floor and the tension in his spine, dripping into every joint and bone is punishing and unforgiving and he snaps.

Lashing out, his magic rips through the loft, overturning furniture and burning anything in its path.

Magnus doesn’t know how long he spends hunched over the floor only that by the time he comes back to himself, the tears are endless and he half feels like he’s drowning, his throat aching and raw.

Climbing unsteadily to his feet, he takes in the destruction of his loft with blank eyes. Shrugging unsteadily, he stumbles to his drink cart and rips the stopper out of his decanter of whiskey. Not taking the time to reach for the glass, he instead takes a swig straight from the crystal.

He’s three quarters through it when he opens bleary, sore eyes to see the most welcome sight in the world.

His husband, his eternal love.

“Alexander,” he breathes and he’s sloppy as he straightens, blinking furiously to rid himself of the double vision.

His husband, dark hair messy and eyes gently chastising. “You’re a mess, babe.”

Sobbing out a breath, Magnus closes his eyes and feels the ghost of Alec’s fingers over his cheek. “Oh, love, what else could you expect? I’ve always known I’d be a mess without you.”

“Well then,” he hears his husband drawl and it sinks into him, the warmth and fondness in his tone. “It’s a good thing I’ll always be with you, isn’t it?”

Magnus smiles, doesn’t hear the slur in his voice when he replies, “Darling, nothing could make me happier.”

Jarring awake, a wave of nausea consumes Magnus and he doubles over from where he’d passed out in a chair sometime before dawn, throwing up on a priceless rug he’d purchased two centuries ago. Wiping an inelegant hand over his mouth, his eyes frantically scan the loft but while he hears the distant sound of his husband’s voice, the morning light shows that it was nothing but a drunk’s delusion.

The pain is unimaginably worse for the brief flare of hope that had ignited through him.

With a careless wave of his hand, Magnus cleans the floor as he takes in the previous night’s devastation.

Blinking slowly, he dismisses the mess his magic had made and stands on unsteady feet. He makes it to a wall before another wave of sickness laps over him and he throws out a hand until he can lean against rough brick. Looking over idly, grief crashes through him yet again at the sight of his wedding ring.

Swallowing hard, Magnus closes his hand into a fist and pushes off the wall, making his way to the bathroom where he takes a shower that makes him feel at least half human.

Still. He can’t escape the feeling of relief he’d felt for those few hours he’d been asleep. Hair still wet and tying a robe around him with haphazard grace, Magnus pads back to his drink cart that looks so damned welcomed in the daylight, a beacon of hope and possibility.

Not seeing anything stronger than wine, he summons a bottle of vodka and twists it open viciously. Nausea surges up but Magnus swallows it down hard before he brings the bottle up to his lips.

His only thought is that if he can only see Alec in his dreams than by God, he doesn’t ever want to wake up.

[thestarlitcrossroads]

Into the Dragon’s Mouth

On the First Day

This past weekend, the Sidereal Coven took a trip up to Vancouver, BC to participate in the Gathering for Life on Earth, an annual event that most of us have been road-tripping to a little over six years. This year the theme would be Dragons and Dragon Lore, and since members of our coven have been working out of the Dragon Book of Essex since December, we submitted a lecture and a public ritual. 

The trip up was lovely, and we were still making last moment decisions about our talk, and getting all giddy with excitement to see all our friends and loved ones again. 

We arrived on site, and were immediately set to work chopping wood, laying out lights on the trails, and helping to set up the Temple of Aphrodite, an adult private space for intimate time with ones partner(s). I was very excited, as the policy had recently been changed, and men were allowed to be Temple Maidens if the coordinator should deem it so. I set up most of the altar with the Faery Doctor and Mandrake Witch, and was told that this was the first time that the coordinator has not done it by herself. I have never had a very close connection to Aphrodite, but Venus and Aphrodite are one of the many names of the Witchmother, and so She holds a dear place in my heart. 

Upon finishing the altar, we sat around and had some delicious damiana liquor. I also gave a toast to Seb, the Urban Shaman with the Green Hair, as all present were very good friends with them, and I had missed the previous gathering because of grief for my lost friend. We then dressed in our finest white dresses, and processed down to the main site to declare the Temple open for all. 

Strong like the ocean Gentle as rain River wash my tears away Aphrodite! 

Then, all the Gathering campers came together to open the ritual space. We called up the fire with chanting and dancing. We called up dragons of Stone, Ice, Wind, and Flame with toning, dancing, stomping, and stillness. We called up the goddess of the site, Sasamat (Sasamat) SASAMAT ....sasamat.... 

All my wonderful friends were there. The Bear Shaman. The Red Haired Warrior Goddess and her beautiful consort, the King of the Green! The Trickster God was there, too, and the Water Dancer with her little brave goblin. And so many others, and so many new faces. My friends. My family. 

As soon as all ritual necessities were finished, I spied a water nymph swimming around in the lake, and I felt the Lady of the Water call to me. I stripped myself bare to the skin, and ran to the dock, diving into the freezing, refreshing water, laughing and splashing with the Water Nymph. I jumped into the lake at least three times a day, and more and more nymphs joined us there to play and scream with delight. 

I slept early that night, and woke well rested. 

On the Second Day

Then, oh THEN, my friends, the real work began. Little did I know that this weekend would be full of significant magical and spiritual occurrences for me. Confirmations, empowerments, and over all satisfaction. 

...Ritual Without a Rope...

Gathered together, we six witches. 

We called up a circle, surrounded by the Goddess. 

We called up the elemental spirits with dance and song.

We called down the gods by singing their sacred names. 

We sang up the ancestors with laughter.

We played up the Good Folk with a folkish charm. 

We six witches flew down into the caves deep below the earth, there to meet with the Dragon. 

He told me many things. Many things that were to come. He was so sad, so ancient, an ancient grief. His voice came out of the walls of the cave, his black scales shimmering with the names of gods and spirits. 

“Cunning One,” he called me “You shall work from the shadows and create great leaders of men.” 

He showed me a large cup made of white clay with the rim painted blue. “This is the Cup of Promise, the Cup of Community. You must all fill it with what will BE and drink from it in Pact. GO NOW!” 

And the circle ended as it began. 

...Meeting the Four Dragons...

Our main ritual consisted of meeting with the four dragons of Wind, Stone, Ice, and Flame. 

We woke them with offerings of tickles, stomping, listening, and joy. 

They imparted wisdom of how to be free, how to transform, how to be still, and how to dance. 

I wished to be still, so I stood with the Dragon of Ice, that contemplative serpent who dwelt upon the plight of the polar ice caps.... 

...Around the Fire...

I returned to the fire, for I could hear the drums and longed to dance and sing. 

My mind spinning from wine and mandrake, I sang a song of the Faery Queen and Thomas the Rhymer. I was in a deep trance state, and just let the spirit take me as I sang.  

Across the fire, I spied the Green Druid. 

There is a certain something when two sorcerers make love that a non-magical person will never be able to attain (in my experience). Perhaps it’s the fact that they can sense each other’s energies and know what needs to be done: push or pull. Perhaps it’s that they can enflame themselves with a deep desire and hold that throughout the entire session. Perhaps it’s that they know how to be deeply vulnerable with themselves and with others. Any of these ways, love making between two sorcerers is a powerful ritual act, and one of which the Green Druid and I took full advantage under the gaze of Aphrodite. 

I didn’t go to bed until four in the morning. 

On the Third Day

Upon the morn, I attended a divination by tarot workshop. I was very tired, and sucked down my morning coffee, praising Caffeina. I partnered with an equally tired Faery Maenad and we read for each other. The readings we gave were very powerful, and I am still meditating on what was revealed to me. 

When some of the participants had left, I led the remaining six (lots of sixes at this Gathering) in a divination game I had learned previously. The group decides on a question, or chooses to let the question form itself in the answer. We decided to ask the dragon spirits their advice and message for us. 

We followed the journey of a wealthy young man who was never satisfied, and ultimately lost everything by Fate’s hand, only to find himself in the Wilds of the Mountains. He lived happily ever after. 

...Casting Yourself into an Ocean Without a Rope...

We six met with those interested in our ecstatic ritual. 

We hissed as dragons and roared and stomped as we drew up a black, shining serpent to protect us on our journey to meet the Dragon of the Sea. 

We sang up the elements, and stamped to wake up the Earth, and clapped for Fire, and whistled for the Airs, and danced and sighed for the Waters. 

We called up the gods, and sang to the ancestors, and charmed the Good Neighbors with our laughter. 

Then we journeyed to the seas, the oceans, the mighty grey ocean. 

I was dragged under the waters by a rushing wave. Below, stretched out before me amongst the coral and bubbling waters, was a great, crumbling city. Algae crept over the forgotten buildings. Cars and pots and pans rusted in the salty water. All was ruin. 

A great serpentine dragon twisted her way to me from out the depths. She grabbed me and screamed: REWILDING. 

Suddenly, I felt myself back onshore. 

We flew back to our bodies and began to dance, and dance. Chant, and chant! 

LAUGHTER! One sang.

FREEDOM! One called. 

REWILDING! I bellowed. 

All through all until we were bellowing and wooping and laughing and toning. Then it burst up and back down into our bodies as one great drink from the CUP OF PROMISE. 

The circle was ended. 

So mote it be. 

...A Theme is Chosen...

After a much needed leap into the lake, we attended the yearly meeting where the members vote upon the theme for next year. 

The Dragon of the Sea spoke true: “Rewilding” would be the theme for next year. 

It is done! 

...A Ritual on the Beach...

The Seekers of the Dragon’s Knowledge gathered together on the beach. 

The Dragon Priests invoked the dragons and we entered into the Dragon’s Mouth, the Maw of Azhdeha! 

Each Seeker shifted and changed as they aligned themselves to the stellar body of the Dragon. 

BILO BILO HU!

Mazed and thrumming with the sensuous serpentine power, I returned to the fire to dance and drum. 

The stars finally revealed themselves, and I dove back into the water with the Water Nymphs and swam amidst the beautiful stars. A deep sense of peace and longing for that peace came over me. I was in awe, quite simply, floating on my back. Man was never meant to sit at a desk all day. We were meant for this: Good food, good drink, good sex, good friends, and staring at the stars in wonder. 

...the Witches’ Sabbat...

I returned to the fire again to warm up. Suddenly, holding an hoofed item that I just blessed in the Horned One’s name, I felt a call to go to the woods.  

In a cheerful daze, I wandered away from those crowded around the fire, telling stories and laughing, and away from the ring of firelight. At the docks I could hear, faintly, voices calling. I thought I saw someone out on the end of the docks...but no, the voices weren’t coming from there.... They were coming from the woods. 

Carefully, without light, I picked my way along the trail. In the distance, I could hear the voices getting louder, calling to someone. Calling to me. 

A red light appeared, bobbing up and down between the trees. A wicked, billowing smoke issued up from the ground out of a fiery pit. There was a deep BOOM as one of the witches kicked the pit holding the fire. 

They had called to the other witches, had called for the Man in Black, and I had come. These witches, holding their black sabbath at the end of the woods, away from the lights and joy of the main camp, they had called me here from such a long distance. 

Wordlessly, I took the Lamp from the Mandrake Witch. She read from her Black Book to those assembled: a spell and a curse. 

Bread and Wine were passed around. We shook our fists at the sky at god himself! We laughed and gave a great scream of delight! 

I departed that place, back through the woods, and into the firelight. 

...the Wild and Tender God...

The night drew on, and the Green Druid and I were kissing and massaging each other in the corner. I had given a few readings with my cards, but now festivities were dying down to the more relaxed atmosphere of the early morning. The air was growing colder, and the few of us left were huddling closer to the fire, cuddling and enjoying the pleasure of one another. 

Grinning sheepishly, I pulled the Green Druid up and we wandered off into the woods towards the Temple once again. With me I brought one of the cloven oranges we had used up at the fire. The Cloven Orange is an SCA tradition that’s been handed down to the Gathering. If a clove is taken out with one’s fingers, then the receiver is given a kiss on the hand. But if the clove should be taken out with the lips, then the gifter and the receiver may kiss, or perhaps much more. 

We entered into the Temple and gave the salute of a sensuous kiss to one another. I pressed my body against his, and he gripped my hair, caressing my neck with his lips. Stripping ourselves of our vestments, we fell to the bed to worship before the icon of Aphrodite, Her starlit tresses giving vision to our shining, hot bodies. 

I took his cock into my mouth, curling my tongue about the tip. I could feel his breathing slow. His legs tensed with rapture. His balls twitched and slid up into his body. 

Then he was on top of me, kissing me all over. I screamed and moaned as he bit into the flesh around my legs and thighs. My breath quickened delightfully as his tongue flashed into the depths between my legs. My hair tingled with ecstasy at his sorcererous touch! 

We squeezed the sweet juices of the cloven orange into each other’s mouths, giggling with the honey citrus mixed with the taste of flesh. 

He entered into me. My cock pumped and pounded with heat. I rode upon the God’s cock, panting with holy satisfaction. I could feel suddenly that a spirit had touched him. He was the Green Man kissing me with his leafy beard, and then the vision was gone. 

I gave an almighty groan which I’m pretty sure could be heard down the hill. My cum shot out in wyrm-like zig-zags onto my stomach. 

We fell back satisfied. I gazed in amazement at this wild tender green god laying beside me. Then I passed into the oblivion of rest. 

 On the Fourth Day

The final day of camp. I woke up late because of...um...reasons. 

All was cleaned up, and we held our final rituals. 

We processed down to the lake. The sun had finally managed to stick around. A light breezed rustled my white dress as I rang a singing bowl. 

Strong like the ocean Gentle as rain River wash my tears away Aphrodite 

We scattered the rose petals as an offering to Aphrodite and to the Lady of the Lake. Everyone joined us. 

I threw a handful of petals into the air and jumped one last time into the lake. 

Swimming and laughing amongst the rose petals, we spied a goose float gently up to us. They made no noise, but glided across the surface of the lake to one of the Temple Maidens. 

I knew then that the Goddess was in our midst. 

As all things must, our time at the lake came to an end. We dried ourselves off, cried, hugged, and drove home. 

The End

@ioqayin

[thewinedarksea]

a christmas gift for the lovely @eunoiaschaos​, who asked for something “dark and dramatic and makes me love the villain,” ft. “dead gods.” hope you like it! 💕

The statues are coming down.

Veseth, one of their last strongholds of faith, resistance broken beneath the jaws of the Silian empire at last, their temples forfeit. The story spans three pages, bracketed on each side by accounts of the war, lists of casualties.

Grainy black-and-white photographs accompany it. Half of the first page is dominated by a shot of the temple’s interior, the arched ceiling punctured with holes, pale light streaming over the ring of statues. Valehn recognizes only two: Arienrel, goddess of the sea, dark arms outspread, and Daemon, god of the harvest, his head topped with a crown of golden leaves. She searches the temple for a hint of past glory, finds only cracked marble columns, old murals faded with time.  

When she turns the page she’s greeted with a full-length picture of the wreckage, the wood of the altar splintered and snapped, piles of rubble lining the aisles. Daemon’s crown is scattered across the ground, leaves bent and misshapen. One of Arienrel’s hands has broken off, the marble fingers reaching towards the uncaring sky.

With a sigh Valehn flips the paper closed, shoving it across the table, and drops her head back. The quiet of the room washes over her, easing some of the stress of the last few days.

The Agartha Club smells of smoke and whiskey and spilt blood, the air thick and warm, filled with soft chatter and the rustling of pages. It’s more refuge than social gathering, a place where the old gods go to remember and the new priests come to learn, trading secrets and knowledge of arcane rites over cups of coffee and honey. A pale imitation of what was, but it’s enough, sometimes, for her to pretend.  

When she closes her eye it’s Il’lythria she sees: the walls swathed in silk, incense heavy in the air, revelers dancing to the wild music, the crush of bodies turning in the violent light. And the gods high above it all, their lips dripping blood and gold, drinking in the worship. Adahris, with his wine-red mouth and feverish eyes, the dark silk of his robes pooling around his shoulders; Caithe, their hair in a hundred delicate braids, prowling the edges of the room; Elohra on her throne, wrapped in chainmail, dusted with rose petals.

The memory dissipates at the sound of someone settling in the chair across from her, the creak of springs loud in the stillness. A disciple, perhaps, one who has not yet learned that Valehn has little interest in reminiscing on the past and even less in being disturbed. Frowning, she opens her eye, an angry retort already on her lips.

But it’s Elohra she finds sitting across from her, a peach in one hand and Valehn’s discarded paper spread out on the table before her. She’s flipped it open to the story on Veseth, her lip curling at the wreckage of the temple, the shards of ancient statues scattered across the floor.

The words vanish from Valehn’s mouth. She chokes instead, the sound strangled and ugly, her heart tightening painfully in her chest. Elohra glances up at the noise and, finding Valehn’s attention on her, brings a hand down on the picture of the broken statues, fingertips spanning Arienrel’s face.

“It’s amazing what mortals will get up to, if we leave them alone long enough,” she says, tapping one bloodied nail against the page. In the dim light of the club her eyes are perilously bright; they glow in her face, radiant as a collapsing sun. Valehn averts her gaze too late, black dots crawling across her vision.

By the time it clears Elohra has set the newspaper aside. One hand now holds a slender knife, the hilt carved to resemble a wolf, mouth open and snarling. Valehn stills, pulse quickening. Her eye lingers on the silver fangs, the tips stained crimson. It’s Elohra’s favorite blade, a present from Adahris. She’d taken it to Valehn a handful of times; she can feel the phantom bite of it against her skin, on her wrists where the scars never healed right.  

“Why are you here?”  Valehn’s voice comes out rough and low, tinged with fear. The corner of Elohra’s mouth ticks up at the sound.

“It’s amazing what you get up to, if I leave you alone long enough.”

Long enough. Elohra’s been avoiding the major conflicts, a rarity for her; Valehn hasn’t laid eyes on her in half a century. Once any separation would have seemed unthinkable. Now Elohra’s presence feels foreign, dangerous, threatening to drag Valehn back into her orbit.

Valehn says nothing and the light of Elohra’s eyes flicker as she rolls them. She tilts backwards until she’s lounging in her chair, kicking her boots up onto the table, the heels leaving scuffs on the hardwood. Paper tears beneath her careless feet, separating Arienrel’s head from her body. Valehn winces at the sound, and again when Elohra kicks the newspaper to the floor with a disdainful noise.

“There have been rumors,” Elohra says. Her knife bites deep into the peach, carving out a generous slice. “About Adahris.” She pops it into her mouth and chews, juice trickling down her chin. “About Caithe.” The blade points at Valehn. “About you.”

“Adahris.” The name fits strangely in Valehn’s mouth, her heart catching again at the mention of him. Cruel, beautiful Adahris, with his cold eyes and clever hands, trailing violence in his wake. Apparently today is the day for reopening old wounds.  

“I haven’t seen him in decades.” Not since the Battle of Navera, where he had retreated into the mountains, wounded and beaten, forces routed and stronghold overrun. Recent whispers placed him in Istane, a remnant of his former self, gathering his followers in a desperate bid for power. Harmless enough on his own, but if Elohra entered the war on his side… Velahn tucks that thought away for later consideration, out of the reach of Elohra and her burning eyes.

“And Caithe?”  Elohra’s mouth twists around the name, eyes flickering dark and molten with hatred.

“We worked together, once.” They’d seen much of each other in those long centuries after Il’lythria, when the world continued on and Elohra was nowhere to be found. “We still keep in contact.”

Elohra’s grip on the knife tightens. The next cut she makes is ragged, tearing at skin. Silence settles over the pair of them, thick and choking. Valehn doesn’t dare to break it, settles for stealing glances at Elohra through her eyelashes, careful to avoid her eyes.

Elohra is beautiful still, and that hurts in a way Valehn hadn’t expected. Most of the other gods have became less than as their temples crumbled and their worshippers dwindled, skin hardening to stone, beauty peeling away to reveal the monster beneath. The only mark time has left on Elohra is in her bearing: her arrogance threaded with exhaustion, the weight of centuries pressing down on the sharp line of her shoulders.

“Are you planning to betray me, Valehn?” Elohra’s voice is flat, the words dropping into the space between them with the finality of a thrown gauntlet. Valehn jerks at the question, her gaze darting upwards.

She is met with the implacable burn of Elohra’s eyes, her face smooth around them. Valehn cannot read her expression. It’s disquieting to think that she can no longer decipher Elohra’s emotions, that there is a part of Elohra that Valehn is not privy to. In all of their time apart it’s the one skill she’d never thought she’d lose. Elohra has changed so much. Or perhaps it is Valehn herself who has changed, shaped by a merciless world into something more than Elohra’s shadow.

“Are you?” Elohra repeats, still flat, still unreadable.

Valehn’s chair protests as she rises to her feet, skirting the table to stand in front of Elohra. Elohra watches, expectant, the knife spinning lazy circles in the air.  

The carpet is thick and soft as Valehn sinks to her knees, the accumulated warmth from the fire soaking into her leggings. When she tips her head back Elohra’s eyes catch on her mouth and linger, the knife going still in her hands, eyes subsiding to a deep flicker.

“I have always been loyal to you,” Valehn says, careful to keep her voice steady. The words ring hollow in her ears. She has not stood by Elohra’s side in decades; the space between them can fit empires. She raises one hand, pressing it to her heart. An old soldier, playing at a loyalty that had once consumed her entire soul.  "Always.“

Elohra softens at the sight of her, something dark and complicated flitting across the blank expanse of her face. Valehn does not dare dwell on it.

“Yes,” Elohra muses at last. “You have been.”

She stands in one violent, fluid motion, tossing the remainder of peach over her shoulder to land on the rug. Her fingers are still sticky with juice when they reach out, trailing along Valehn’s cheek in a parody of a caress, ghosting around the empty hollow of her right eye. They track a path down her face, nails drawing blood where they catch at the skin, coming to rest on the curve of her neck.

“Oh, my love,” Elohra sighs, and Valehn can read her face now, an ancient fury trembling across the whole wild breadth of it. There’s love there, too, raw and aching, unbearable in its intensity, and Valehn shuts her eye in the face of it. Elohra’s grip tightens, and Valehn shivers, desire igniting in her veins, white-hot and hungry. “It is a dangerous path you tread. Take care to remember your place.”

The centuries had killed Valehn’s love as surely as they’d driven a knife into its heart; she’d buried the remains beneath the ruins of Il’lythria, laid it to rest alongside whatever monster she’d once been. But in this moment, with Elohra’s hand wrapped around her throat and the scent of blood thick in the air, she remembers what it was like, thinks that if Elohra asked she would follow her to the ends of the earth and over the edge into the star-speckled nothing beyond.

She doesn’t ask. Her hand falls away, smearing golden juice across Valehn’s skin. When she walks out of the room, the silk of her coat fluttering behind her, she leaves behind the sickly smell of peaches and Valehn, kneeling on the floor, trapped in place by old memories.

It’s a long time before she lets out a shaky sigh and stands, legs weak beneath her. The blood on her face is drying in sticky lines and her neck itches, the weight of Elohra’s hand still vivid, threatening to drive her to her knees once more.

But there is work to be done. Caithe needs to be informed, her network of spies prepared. Valehn knows Elohra, knows the difference between a threat and an inevitability. Elohra is planning a war, and she won’t stop until she’s burned the world or broken it, no matter the consequences.