Private the Trees and what belongs to them at Spring

[Aarno]

The old grove hummed, a gentle breeze in its branches and patches of dry grass, a sharp chill in the air that enveloped all in a pale haze. The distance trailed off into it, soft like a dream, every which living shape like blots of ink on wet paper. Snow drifted from above in clumps resembling down, a layer of white smoothing out every sharp edge like a celestial dusting of powdered sugar. He watched the deers wander, many of them mingling here peacefully as big sheep amongst the people, their shepherds. Her Kin.

Before one of the great ceremonial trees he stood, almost statuesque against the cold and the importance of the place and occasion he felt a stranger to. The ground creaked beneath footfalls as a child passed him by and though they didn’t meet his look, their curious eyes were upon him beneath the thick mop of hair. Taking in the make of his worn shoes, the woolen garments in washed out earth tones, his loose hair that was in a tangle about his breast from the wind. The little tie of red leather about his wrist and the ribbon he held in that hand, gently betwixt the tips of fingers.

It had words by its length, in small letters that were bound together by practiced loops, the handwriting he’d learned in the academies and halls that would care for such a thing. They had felt important then, flourishes as that, just like the expensive clothes he’d worn, but none of the beauty had gone beyond the surface. The things he had written and done, even if excellently, had never meant much at all, let alone been something he’d care to remember or be proud of.

Until the past couple years, until recently, until now. A weight was in his chest at the thought of it, for how true it was and the fact that for now, he was yet in his lonesome, privacy lending him the ability to feel it profoundly. And guilt stung at him, drawing his stare away from the tree as if in fright it might read him for filth.

The traditions here today were for hope, faith and the fresh cycle begun by the approaching spring and yet— He couldn’t but to feel sad. And what for?

An awful past. An uncertain future. How they coalesced to a complicated present? Glancing about at the sound of bright voices, some of which he recognized, he was drawn to spy whom exactly it was that would’ve brought him here, in every sense of the word. Conversing with family she’d not seen in her time away, together at last as she’d anticipated for months. Or so he had to imagine.

It was great to watch, but he realized just how much it felt like spying the moment their eyes met, half by accident. He tried to smile, muster up something fond or charming, but on the face of one standing about so awkwardly it must’ve looked rather pitiful. Or comedic, if he was lucky.

“ Found your family? “ He asked in way of a welcome back once she was within speaking distance. “ How are they? I haven’t seen Davina yet — do you figure she forewent coming? “

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

"I am fine, Ona, truly." Farren laughed at the deerskin gloves that cradled her face, a thumb rubbing away imagined dirt on her cheek; all an excuse for her grandmother to better inspect for any damage Farren may have sustained on her journey home for the festival.

"I know, onya, but the moons that have passed since last I saw you means I must at least check." A face lined from years of joy and the weight of leadership finally cracked a relieved smile after scanning the rest of Farren. "And it seems that once again, my worry has carried you home safely."

The covered scars on Farren's flesh from her fight at Urbos seemed to flare with awareness and she almost grimaced at the memory. Instead, Farren placed a naked palm tenderly against the back of her ona's hand, her clan's matriarch, who had kept their herds safe for as long as she could remember. Seeing her fair share of battle in those long years. But this was not something that her Ona needed to know of just yet. It was after all, the Day of the Wishing Trees. A time of celebration, of hope, and rebirth.

She just hoped that her cousin, Davina, found wisdom in silence for the time being. At least until tomorrow.

It was part of the reason Farren had opted out of tying her newly bound bell onto the end of her braid. It was something her Ona would have noticed immediately. Especially since the rune that had appeared, glowed black, instead of blue. For now, she kept it tucked safely inside her fur lined parka, pressed close to her heart. Almost self-consciously, she grabbed her black linen wrapped braid and brought it to rest on her left shoulder, her four silver bells tinkling softly.

"Where is Oba?" She inquired to break the silence, noticing a distinct lack of the bulk of their herd milling around the outskirts. Which could easily be spotted in the green woods by the red ribbons that wrapped around their tines.

"He is bringing in the fell deer. They had wandered far today in search of the last of the sweet ferns. But he should be back soon with the stranglers, we'll need to put them away before we begin."

Her grandfather was a shepherd. As were all the men in her tribe, for they were the only ones to ride the fell deer. As shepherds, they cared for and raised the fell deer. Brought them to new grasses and kept them beneath the great shadow of the Vadyr that her people called home. While the women acted as shamans. Binding benevolent spirits who shared these woods and used their powers to shapeshift and protect their herds and the lands surrounding them. They were guardians, and warriors. A careful balance they were proud to protect.

"That man you brought, he is very quiet." Her Ona suddenly dropped her hands away, keeping one tucked in Farren's grip as she slated quicksilver eyes that saw too much at the man in question, who stood amidst the shuffling chaos as everyone prepared for the festival. "Quiet. But very polite." She hummed in what Farren hoped was approval.

"Yes, it makes him quite good at listening to my stories." Farren's eyes followed her grandmother's. Warmly watching Aarno as he observed the many aspects of her people. She imagined he was overwhelmed, and while she had every intention of saving him, she held onto a gentle hope in her chest that he would find peace here. Amongst the deer. Amongst the songs, and her people. Their stories and their traditions. That he would feel that same awed hope in placing a wish amongst the oak trees. Their pendulous branches reaching out and swooping low like waiting hands. Open and ready to take each wish tied to their mighty branches. When they were done, the woods would dance with ribbons like hundreds of red cardinals amongst the leaves.

This was special and she wanted to share this with him.

"Hmm." Her Ona made another warm hum in her throat, this one of suspicion. Their grey eyes clashed as Farren turned to the noise. But seeing the knowing light in her ona's eyes had her quickly skirting her face away to hide the ferocious blush at her scrutiny. A brief pause allowed Farren to collect herself once more before her grandmother granted her an out. "Perhaps you should go introduce him to the deer. Go. Before the children decide to lure him into the woods and abuse his listening skills with their babble."

Grateful that for now the inquisition was over, Farren squeezed her Ona's hand and made her way to Aarno through the small milling crowd, a series of carved wooden banquet tables were being set out to accommodate the mounds of food that were cooking in the food huts nearby. Meat would be plenty for the shepherds who ate it, while a separate table would be filled with dishes to accommodate the bell keepers mostly vegetarian palettes.

Ignoring the shy eagerness that fluttered in her gut as she approached, she instead answered Aarno with a bright smile as she reached him, "I did, yes. And I am happy to report that I passed inspection. Not a hair gone from where it should be. My oba is apparently out gathering the rest of the fell deer. I imagine my aba is probably with him too. I'm not exactly sure where my brothers are, but if you happen to hear a ruckus and some yelling. I'd bet a bell that's where we'd find them." Her tone colored with nostalgic fondness, memories of their pranks bringing a soft chuckle from her suddenly tight throat.

"As for Davina, I did see her son Etan around. So, I imagine she's here somewhere." Farren had just been about to turn looking for her cousin, when the Dusker noticed an approaching deer come up behind Aarno and stop a pace away, its wet black nose huffing curiously at him. Giant liquid eyes studying him with a keen awareness. The heavy shag of its winter coat catching stray snowflakes as it stared, as if waiting.

Farren's lips twisted with amusement as she stepped around Aarno and towards the fell deer buck. "Ah, he wants to know you. They've never met a people that look like you before." She placed a hand fondly along its neck, shaking free a flutter of fine snow. "Here, put your hand out. He won't hurt you."

​

@Aarno

 

[Aarno]

He merely hummed his attention as she explained, his eye straying from her to around them as if expecting to catch sight of all whom she spoke of. He wouldn’t recognize any of them, naturally, save for Davina’s family, but there was a comfort in averting one’s gaze. Despite how much rather he’d looked at her instead, with that strange little feeling carving out space in his chest as he did, watching her smile and be so terribly cheerful. Here, amongst them all and the collective anticipation that buzzed in the air. Where the heart was, so completely.

“ That is good to hear. “ He spoke in turn as she mentioned her cousin, bobbing his head. “ It would’ve been a shame if she and hers hadn’t— “ The little shift upon her had him trail off, to trace her look that was fixed somewhere beyond him. He drew in a breath but none of the question he did it for left him, the large presence having appeared alongside stealing all intention. So he just stared in turn, blinking.

What was it that she’d called them— Fell deer?

“ Suppose in that we are akin. As neither have I ever met one as him, until now. “ He tried, making a little circle with his heel as he turned to face the great animal proper, that he might oblige to the request and the urging therein. Slowly, if confidently, he offered his empty palm.

“ Do they have names? The deer. “

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

The buck huffed cautiously into Aarno's palm, and finding no treats except for rough callouses, crooned a low bellow and rested its chin in his hand.

Farren laughed as the buck then stepped into Aarno, asking for pets while leaning into her side, chuffing endearingly.

She clapped her hands heartily into its neck before reaching for the red tag that hung off a great antler and scanning the name written in runes. "Yes he does. Looks like this handsome guy is Krenví. It means clown." She made to wrap her arms over the buck's neck, laughing as it now began an enthused search into every one of Aarno's pockets. "Aptly named, no?"

Watching for a moment, she then answered a part of Aarno's question that he hadn't asked. "But they are also called fell deer. Named for the fell flowers they feed upon in the spring. They're excellent little pollinators and it's their favorite treat. And my favorite tea." She reminisced fondly.

A horn calling from the edge of the woods had a cacophonous cheer answering up from all around them and Farren looked to the west. "That'll be the last of the deer they're bringing in."

A sudden coy glance at her companion, "If you wish to brace yourself for the stampede, you can hold onto me. I've been told I'm very steady on my feet." Memories of dancing in a candlelit tavern brought warmth to her snow dusted cheeks.

 

[Aarno]

From the first touch, it was incredibly warm. Earnestly, in every fibre from the bottom of its chin to the tip of its tail, the beat of a greater heart a calm rhythm in the center of it all. Like fond feeling, a genuine smile spread upon him as the fell deer bumped on closer and begun properly demanding attention, with the vigour of a spoiled child who’d never been denied anything in its life. And how could they have?

Properly adorable. He breathed a startled hey amidst the chime of Farren’s laughter as the buck, now introduced as Krenví, suddenly begun tugging at his pockets in ever escalating search. Clown.

“ Quite. “ He responded in half a snort, planting a hand on the deer’s nose to keep it from trying to shove it into any which fold in his garments, the other pulling out the pocket of his tunic as to demonstrate there was nothing there. This was not adequate, naturally, not until he had the courtesy to distract the great animal from the search with some scratched about its chin and proud neck.

“ There you are. Deeply sorry about the lack of treats, friend. Had I known— “ He hummed, noting favourites twice over in the privacy of his thoughts. Flowers, tea. Perhaps day would come yet for the occasion. At the low resonance of a woodsward horn, both himself and the deer stilled a touch, attention hopelessly divided. His look drew to Farren the next moment, met with— that curious expression. The signature playful confidence, or was it a proper tease?

His look narrowed a touch, as if he was being flattered with opportunity to appraise a piece of particularly intricate art. The value of which wasn’t measurable in gold.

“ Noble of you to offer, my dear Syr Lóthlindor — I see tale of my famous bum leg precedes me. “ He smiled his daring smile, wider, chin inclining theatrically. “ And let it be known I’m very inclined, indeed, to capitalize on that offer immediately. However— “ Despite the commotion about them, Krenví relented none of those demands for sustained strokes about its fur, which he hadn’t but to oblige or be prompted to.

“ I do find these hands of mine held a bit of a hostage by our new friend here. Might you challenge him, so I’ll be free to direct them anew where ever I please? “

Why not, perhaps, towards yourself. For support.

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Bum leg.

A laugh choked out of Farren, and she recovered with a pert hand on her hip and a mocking glare that assessed Krenví critically. No, no, this just wouldn't do. And as someone who could not be left without the last word, she shrugged one shoulder impishly and quipped, "Well, we can't have that can we? As far as I'm concerned, you've already got your hands full with one rack of antlers."

And without giving Aarno a moment to register what she meant, she clucked into her cheek and began waving her arms at the buck who suddenly found his manners and obediently pivoted away from them at the same time that a wave of trotting fell deer emerged from the treeline. Shepherds on the back of saddled fell deer tracked them along the sides, bell keepers in the shape of proud dogs trailing at their heels, moving them through the woods and the clearing, a loud rabble of deer bugles and hup hups from their shepherds that pushed them along and through. All aimed towards an enormous section of the grove that was fenced off on three sides by thick red rope, large brass bells the size of apples hanging off at intervals. The deer were carefully trained to respect the boundaries marked by the deep tones of these bells. And it was here that they were kept safe at night and for events like this festival.

Farren spotted her Oba on the back of his favorite doe, Lute, her bridle hanging with bundles of woven colorful yarn and beading that he had sewn into the leather. He had made it for the doe's mother, and having pulled Lute from her mother with his own hands, had bestowed the bridle onto her after the mother had passed peacefully in her sleep one spring, surrounded by the pearlescent flowers they were named for.

The Dusker waved enthusiastically at her grandfather when he finally saw her. Well really, he saw Aarno first, the man towered over her after all. A look of brief confusion furrowed his normally genial expression, but it lit with joy after a moment and he turned to the shepherds riding beside him, his hands gesturing as he gave instruction. They nodded deferentially and her Oba clucked to his doe, splitting from the working men and bounding towards them.

She heard her grandfather trill softly between his lips at Lute and she slowed to a stand before them, watching Farren with black intelligent eyes as her rider dismounted with practiced ease.

"My onya, you made it! Everyone look here! My granddaughter is home!" His broad and sun-baked hands grabbed her shoulders and shook her briefly, sweeping his arms around them as people watched and laughed good-naturedly at his enthusiasm. He looked back at Farren and she couldn't stop an answering smile at the red apples of his wide cheeks and the gap in his front teeth.

While the bell keepers of her tribe all shared the same grey eyes of their magic, her oba was a fell shepherd—therefore his eyes were unchanged, and the deepest green of a moss-covered weathered willow—and oh how they danced when they looked at her. Finally, he pulled her into a crushing hug, and suddenly, she felt a girl again. And her spirit anchored. The safest she had ever been, wrapped in her grandfather's arms, despite the fact that it had always been her job to protect him.

"How I have missed you." He whispered into her ear, the subtle scruff of his unshaved beard on her cheek, a comfort. But Farren was too overwhelmed by emotion to answer, so when her Oba stepped back and finally addressed Aarno next to her, she found she couldn't yet find her voice.

"And who might this handsome lad be? He is your Dawnling half? Is that right? I remember ya told me once that that's how your Knights did things. But you know me, I don't have a mind for anything outside the deer."

 

[Aarno]

Not long had he the opportunity, at her obliging, to return to any sliver of his leisurely standing around, when already something else stirred the grove. A whole band of shepherds and their charge, amongst them who quickly would approach further by the mere sight of his fellow knight. Her grandfather.

He watched the heartfelt reunion sidelong, careful to not stare too intently lest he be taken for one fond of intruding. It helped his awkward general appearance probably not at all, but what else was there to do but hover, somewhere at her shoulder — give space and whenever he did look, to do so fondly. The faint smile about him evaporated as attention wantonly turned to him, pure amusement in the snort that left him at handsome lad.

He’d not been called anything of the sort for a while now. But suppose for a man properly aged it was only appropriate to deem anyone younger a mere lad — just as to a parent a child remained as such, no matter their years. The questions had him glance at Farren, for any indication that she might desire to take on responding herself as for her close relation and therein better situational judgement, but uncannily she seemed at a loss for words.

Truth it is, then.

“ Aarno Latva. And no, not a Dawnling. “ He started by formal introduction, smiling pleasantly. “ We share the Sanctum. It isn’t as close of a partnership as that of Dawn and Dusk, not to mention devoid of any such dualist symbolism, but we collaborate. And have, plenty. “ Blabbing on, he dared not glance at Farren for fear he might read something upon her, a regret or other.

Gods below, why had he come here. Friendship, so professionally forged? As natural as the many moons in the sky.

“ Grounds for friendship, though I can’t personally take much credit for it. I dare say I do not measure up to Syr Lóthlindor in the slightest when it comes to charm. “

Or swordsmanship. Resilience. The works. He smiled a little wider, all in good humour.

“ Like yourself, she has a knack for compliments. “

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

"Syr Lóthlindor, eh?" Her Oba said, eyes gleaming with a mischievous light. "Now that is a name that carries weight in this tribe, but don’t you worry, lad. Charm isn't the measure of a man’s worth here. Not by a long shot." He patted Aarno's shoulder with an easy grin. "A man’s heart, his strength, his spirit—that’s what counts to us. And Farren," he said, his voice growing softer, with an affectionate glance at his granddaughter, "has always had an eye for those who measure up in that regard. If you’ve earned her respect, that’s enough for me." He gave Aarno one last assessing look before nodding with approval, and then with a sharp clap of his hands, he shook of the moment as if the matter were settled.

"Alright! Now that we are all acquainted," Oba continued, his tone shifting to one of eager excitement, "you’ve arrived just in time for the Dance of the Bell Keepers! It's the start of our little festival. The Keepers, like Farren, dance with all the different spirits they've bound, and throughout the festival, they’ll hand out ribbons to the people. The red ribbons are for all, but the ones with the golden ends?" He leaned in slightly, voice dropping in playful secrecy. "Now those are for the truly special, whose wishes we most want to see come true.”

Farren’s heart skipped at her grandfather's words. She had never quite thought of it like that, especially not in front of Aarno. Her eyes shifted nervously to him, a quiet excitement bubbling inside her. The thought of dancing, of joining the Keepers again in their dance, felt different now. Because Aarno would be watching. Would be witnessing this part of her. This part that tied her so deeply to the land and to her people.

Would he understand the weight of the ribbon if she gave it to him? Would he take it? Would he even want it?

“We believe that the spirits guide us in our wishes, granting them if the heart is true." He continued, his steady tone breaking through her uncertainty as he turned his gaze to the lush trees surrounding them, tracking the last of their people's preparation and to where the women began to gather in the center. "And then, of course," her Oba said, turning back to them with a smile that knew no woes, "the feast! As much as you can eat, and even more to drink. It will be a grand affair, I assure you." He chuckled warmly, as if there was nothing more he enjoyed than the coming festivities.

He paused, his expression thoughtful, but not without weight. “And then finally, we venture into the woods together. And tie our wishes to the trees and offer them to the spirits, who bless us in return. It is our way of honoring what has come before and what is yet to come."

Farren stood a little straighter— her Oba’s presence always had that effect on her. The deep sense of purpose in his words filled her with an emotion that had her swallowing hard through a soft smile and the brief squeeze in her chest.. A pang of homesickness? Longing? Pride? She wasn’t sure. But her heart kicked up with anticipation, the presence of her spirits thrumming like eager phantoms beneath her flesh.

Silver bells chimed softly, heralding the voice that followed—smooth, warm, touched with fond exasperation. "Belric, dear husband, are you talking their ears off?"

Farren turned just as her Ona approached, her long dual braids woven with eight silver bells, whose runes glowed a soft blue. Her grey eyes, as ever, were bright with love when they rested on her husband, and her smile was knowing as she looked between him and the Knights.

"Just wait until he’s three tankards into the fell wine," she teased lightly, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "I've never known a man who can spin taller tales than this one."

Oba scoffed, though amusement crinkled his eyes. "Bah! You wound me, woman. I am merely setting the stage."

"Setting the stage, indeed," Her Ona murmured, shaking her head before turning her gaze to Farren. There was a softness there, an understanding. "I’ve come to collect you, my heart. The Keepers are ready and the dance is beginning soon."

Farren swallowed, hands briefly curling at her sides before she smoothed them over her skirts. She felt her spirits stir at the summons, eager to stretch, to move, to become something more than flesh and bone within the rhythm of the dance. She met Ona’s eyes, then Aarno’s, and for a heartbeat, the rest of the world faded away.

"Are you ready?" Ona asked again, gently.

Farren drew in a steady breath, her fingers tightening just slightly before she exhaled. Then, with quiet resolve and the hint of a smile meant only for Aarno, she nodded. "I am."
@Aarno

 

[Aarno]

A dance, a feast, offerings to the spirits. It didn’t sound half bad at all. While he wasn’t entirely inexperienced with the last, he had to figure perhaps they did things differently here than he was used to. Belongs to woods’ witches, were his customs.

Just take it in stride — they’ll understand. She’ll understand.

Glancing at Farren, he found her smiling, thought it was bereft of that lopsided mischief and spark she usually had. That little bit of tease that easily turned to laughter when he humoured it. Was she nervous? Had they been alone he may have taken her hand and assured it away, but for lack of the luxury he merely nodded, attention promptly torn away by the arrival of her grandmother. She’d come to claim Farren for the dance, a grand affair to itself.

My heart, she’d call her. What perfect words.

The exchange betwixt her grandparents had left him grinning, endearment and some sort of knowing in it, the expression relenting only slightly when he caught Farren’s look. This is where they would part, for now, but he was no stranger to standing awkwardly by himself or amongst people he barely knew. It’d be fine, assurance in the wider smile he mustered just for her.

“ Well, don’t delay on our account! “ He gestured at her grandfather, shifting on heel with new animation. Something to remedy his own nervousness, a loud if irredeemably surface-level confidence.

“ And don’t forget about me, out there — “ He added wolfishly, just to Farren, one hand on his hip as the other swept back the windtousled lengths of his hair. “ I’d much like to enjoy the feast with you, later. “

A little more direct, he suspected, than the presence of her kin may have warranted. Still, their close friendship ought lend plausible deniability, surely, both to him and to her. He had no need for it, personally, but perhaps she would.

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

The sun had begun to sink beneath the trees, painting the clearing in long shadows and golden light as her Ona approached, arms laden with fell deer pelts. Without a word, the elder woman wrapped her in them, the weight comforting, grounding. A belt of small bronze bells was cinched around Farren’s waist, another fastened at each wrist, the bells delicate and worn from generations of use. Red paint, rich as ochre, was smeared over the dotted tattoos on her face and hands, darkening the marks into symbols of rite and ritual.

The Bell Keepers gathered as the last light slipped away, silhouettes haloed in twilight. A bonfire blazed high in the center of the clearing, its wood dry and piled deep, flames beginning to crackle and hiss as the last of the kindling caught.

Drums sounded, low and deliberate, a thrumming beat that settled into the dancers’ bones and blood. Around the fire, the Keepers’ bell runes lit up faintly, glowing with a pale blue light that pulsed in time with the rhythm. Their hands trembled, just slightly, the motion making their bells whisper beneath the drums.

And then her Ona’s voice rose.

A low, winding cry throaty— ancient and twisting into a chant. Her voice cracked open the silence and poured through it, primal and raw. The Keepers began to move, circling the fire, each step in perfect time, their bare feet stirring up ash and dirt. The chant rolled on, in the old language, the kind that was spoken to spirits and bones and storms.

The drums quickened. Louder now than her own heartbeat. Louder than the story spilling from her Ona’s lips: of death and rebirth, of sacrifice and return.

Farren didn’t know when she stopped being herself.

Somewhere between the pounding of the drums and the burning flames of the fire, her skin stopped feeling like a boundary. She moved with the others, no longer just Farren, but one of many and she danced with the flickering forms of wolves and foxes, the grace of deer, the heavy tread of a bear. The air shimmered with the wings of hawks and the darting blur of swallows. Black fur and silver eyes blurred past her. The flames leapt higher, licking the sky, the coals below glowing an unnatural blue that swallowed the fire and ate the last of their shadows.

The drums climbed faster. The chant fractured and multiplied, voices rising and overlapping until her people seemed to sing with them in one voice. The Keepers danced faster still, their forms blurring, flesh slipping into spirit, into claw and fang and feather and horn, until they were a storm of blue light and silver fire, a tangle of snarling mouths and sweeping antlers and wingbeats.

Then, suddenly, all stilled.

Only her Ona’s voice remained. One last, sharp cry like the wind over ice.

The spell shattered.

Every Keeper dropped, prostrated before the now dead fire, breathless and trembling, into human flesh again. Their bells fell silent. Not a breath stirred.

And then the clearing exhaled.

Cheering, laughing, and whooping erupted. Her people surged forward, lifting the fallen Keepers, clapping them on the back, pressing hands to their faces, weeping and grinning all at once. Farren was swept into it, hugged and kissed and held, spun around, her name in a dozen voices—Farren, Farren, my heart, little one, Keeper’s blood—until she was guided, pushed, spat out from the crowd’s edge.

Her chest heaved from the exertion, limbs still tingling with residual magic. She staggered slightly, vision swimming and struggling to orient herself, until her gray eyes snapped to an anchor in the dusk.

Aarno.

Farren grinned, slow and feverish, wild with the afterglow of spirit and celebration and the ache of breath. There was no coyness left in her now, only a joy that felt no cares of the world in that moment, and instead shined at him.

“Well?” she called out, cheeks flushed, eyes alight, “What did you think??”

@Aarno

 

[Aarno]

With the drums, begun the dance and a song. The anxious weight in his mind and his stomach fled, burrowing away into the skin that tingled. The percussion was in the air, every vibration electric, her grandmother’s voice reduced to sounds as the word’s and their meaning eluded him. Like birdcalls in the woodland at night, the crowd but the trees that stood and watched, breathless.

They probably felt as one, as a people with their customs and sacred traditions did. A little forest that’d connect in ways unperceived, the roots and the fibers in the soil and the wind that made them all hum and shift. Standing in the midst of them, it mattered less every second that he was but a stranger here — nature had a way to welcome and embrace, in the gentle manner that a smile and hospitality did. What an insult it would’ve been to feel out of place and timid, when all he’d received was an invitation to belong. To tread the paths and to observe, appreciate, and learn.

The fire died and just as the rest of them, he held in a breath. All was still, with the most visceral collective tension he’d ever felt in his life, until it wasn’t. A great grip opened, letting go. A stone in a river, he remained as the people surged forth to shower each other in graces and spontaneous joy. A smile tugged his face, genuinely fond as he watched and listened. Her name was in there, a chime sheer as that of silver bells that’d call for attention even if her small figure was lost in the commotion.

Once she finally did reappear, with her grin and a glow to rival all the moons at once, his heart jolted. And like her, he smiled a little wider. Overriding his nerves, he approached faster than he’d meant and reached for her hand, like she had so many times before. Where he’d failed.

She’d asked him something. What was there to say, when one hadn’t thought much at all, caught with but a strange feeling in the chamber of one’s chest. He held on, inspecting her face and the disheveled tresses framing it, free hand reaching to brush them aside. For his nerves, he made an effort at softening the gesture with a inspectorial tilt of his head, like he meant to seriously judge the performance.

“ Well. “ He repeated, playing time for excavating some sort of coherent assessment. There wasn’t any, besides—

“ It was a thing to behold. “ He tried, landing a hand on her shoulder. It felt so— insufficient. The bit of mock mischief fell from his face, softer, as were the pelts about her shoulders, his fingertips trying the fur in absent effort of mooring.

“ You’re so incredibly beautiful. “

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

“You’re so incredibly beautiful.”

The words landed differently than all the others— Like a stone sinking through still water. For a beat, Farren just stared at him, the edges of her vision still rimmed in blue fire and memory.

Then, slowly, she let the pelt slip from one shoulder, shrugged it down enough to reach her bare arm, and pressed his hand against her skin where her heartbeat thudded, fast and real beneath the paint and sweat. “That’s not the rite talking,” she said, just above a whisper. “Not the bells, not the runes, not the fire. That’s you, isn’t it?”

She tilted her head, grey eyes searching his face with something like hunger. Whatever she saw there, her smile came back, smaller this time, but raw and steady.

“Good. Because I’d really like to be beautiful to you.”

@Aarno

 

[Aarno]

He held her stare, his own words growing louder betwixt them. And yet, he couldn’t even feel regret for what he’d said. Because it was true.

A breath grew hot in his lungs, staying overlong as her hand urged his over the skin, to feel for the veins and the rushing blood. And he did without trying, for how much closer she invited the touch than he’d ever dared on his own. Her words were feather light, just about brushing who would listen, but landed like lead. An exhale left him a stifled huff, too heavy to be just relief.

“ Do you think— “ He started carefully, hand leaving her heart to cradle the side of her neck. Softly, but unafraid. She was so warm and alive, so close and so far, having said so little and yet so much. Mirroring hers, he kept the tone confined betwixt.

“ It’d be too much if I kissed you? “

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Farren didn’t answer. Not right away.

Instead, her gaze lingered on his. Searching, searing, soft. And then, slowly, she stepped in, as if the gravity of him pulled her forward. The clamor of the clearing fell away, the press of watching eyes erased in the shelter of his embrace. Just the two of them now. The fire behind, the tension ahead.

She rose to her toes, the movement smooth but trembling, the space between them shrinking with the deliberate ache of the inevitable tide rolling in. Her fingers found his wrist, where he still cradled her neck. She wrapped around it gently, grounding herself in the warmth of his skin, her thumb brushing the fluttering pulse she found there. The other hand drifted higher, slow as a leaf caught in a breeze, until it cupped his cheek.

Their mouths hovered, not yet touching. She felt his breath falter across her lips, warm and wanting. Her own shivered against the space between them, lips parting, then stilling.

And then, soft as a secret, she leaned in, brushing her lips to the corner of his mouth, where tusk met lip. Not a kiss, not fully. Just the hint of one, placed with aching intent. Her thumb tracing the edge of his bottom lip, memorizing the stoic shape of his mouth.

He exhaled against her hand, hot, trembling, and she drank it in. The scent of spice and smoke that was him. The coarse and familiar texture of his calluses at her neck. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she tipped her forehead gently to his, her nose brushing the blade of his.

"It would never be too much," she whispered.

For a heartbeat, they stayed like that. Suspended.

And in that trembling space between want and restraint, she whispered against the warmth of his mouth, hoping he would understand—

“But not yet.”

Art Credit: @kristofer

@Aarno

 

[Aarno]

He met her just so as she reached up, coming closer, cradling in turn. The touch claimed him victim to it, his head tilting lightly to press against her soft palm. They lingered, but not uncomfortably or anxiously, and he may well have been satisfied with that alone.

What was there to say? He’d felt it and she’d told him.

“ Not yet. “ He repeated, low into the inches of air, recited carefully and impassively like from a script. Their foreheads touched and through it, inspecting her hot skin, he felt but the slightest jitter. Something like a wish, a want, a touch that wasn’t. It would be enough.

“ Whenever that is proper, then— “ He continued, keeping the reduced distance for a another second both to assure her and steel himself, before withdrawing just enough that they might see eye to eye. He tried the side of her jaw and trailed a touch down her neck, hand landing on where her shoulder begun.

“ You’ll let me know, hmh? “ While the other remained, his free hand planted against that of hers that’d cradled his face, pressing her palm against a kiss. With that he withdrew it, but wouldn’t let go.

“ I’ll be keeping this though. “ He promised, a little haughtily, that old jest coming to tone.

“ Lest it becomes outrageously inconvenient, of course. What with the feast — I know better than to get betwixt a beloved and her food. “