3. ÉIRE 9th Century #8
The Romani witch smiled and snuggled tightly into his beloved’s strong embrace. “No, that is not it. I am simply tired. There is so much wild magic in the air that it verily saturates my body. It is a lot to contend with. And so I think I will retire for the night.”
“But my love, you will miss the further celebration in town!
The dancing, singing, wine drinking, and so much more merriment shall go on into the light of morn.
The wisdoms will have brewed their special tea made from thyme and rosemary for remembrance of those departed. It is an honour to drink a cup.
“And the ghost stories I shall tell, ones told to me as a child by my parents, may the Goddess bless and keep their souls. We lay out such a feast, my love, and though we set some aside for the Old Ones, I promise to make sure there will be oat cakes for you. I know they are your favourite. Will you not share the remainder of this night with me?”
The Romani witch pulled back from the embrace and gazed lovingly into Aodhán’s eyes.
“I would like nothing more, and know that I mean no disrespect, but I am tired. And forgive me, but I also feel this celebration should be for the followers of the Goddess—and the Horned God.” Those last few words erupted out of his mouth like a curse rather than a statement.
“I will pray to Hecate and my ancestors and go to bed. Please, do not worry about me or pressure me to stay. I feel this is best.”
Aodhán sighed deeply, disappointed but accepting the situation.
“As you wish, my love. I am glad you were here. I felt your presence with me tonight, though there was a brief moment when your essence seemed to vanish. I looked for you, but you were gone. But then I saw you emerge from the woods and assumed you went to relieve yourself.”
The Romani witch laughed, though it was somewhat forced. He kissed Aodhán full on the mouth, his tongue forcing its way in, though the red-haired man put up no resistance.
“Are you sure you are alright, my love?” Aodhán looked at the Romani witch’s aura, and though he saw patterns of distress, he stayed quiet, waiting, hoping his beloved would willingly reveal his feelings.
“Just tired. Please do not fret. Come, I will walk back with you.”
Taking Aodhán’s hand gently in his, the Romani witch turned and began the journey back to the quaint little village nestled just beyond the lush expanse of the open field where they performed the rite.
There was sufficient distance to deter curious children from trying to spy on the sacred event.
This mischief had previously been attempted when the rite was conducted closer to the village.
Upon arriving at Aodhán’s cottage, which had become the Romani witch’s home, the two witches embraced once more and kissed passionately.
“Good night, my love. I pray you only have blessed dreams filled with the magic of this glorious night.”
“As long as I hold you in my dreams, beloved,” the Romani witch declared with a serene smile, “I will count myself among the truly blessed. That is all I seek, all that stirs my heart’s deepest longing. You and I entwined in this most perfect love until the end of all that is.”
Aodhán let out one of his trademark hearty, booming laughs; it echoed through the cool night air.
“Perhaps it is the enchantment of this auspicious evening, the pull of the Hunter’s Moon, that stirs such fervour in you, compelling you to speak so poetically about me.
I can hardly believe I deserve such adoration. ”
“You absolutely do, beloved!” the Romani witch stated passionately, capturing Aodhán’s face in his hands.
He gazed deeply into the warm, rich depths of Aodhán’s soulful eyes as if seeking to share in the very essence of the man, as if speaking directly to Aeneas.
“You are everything to me, and I swear, nothing will ever come between us or tear us apart.”
Without any more words needing to be spoken between them, the two witches kissed passionately once more before saying their goodnights. Aodhán quickly departed to fulfill his obligations as coven leader for the remainder of the sacred night’s festivities.
Upon entering their home, the Romani witch tentatively approached the hearth, grabbed a few wood logs, and started a fire.
After several hours of sitting in front of the roaring blaze, alone with his turbulent dark thoughts, the Romani witch realized that the witching hour had passed.
And within less than ten minutes of that realization, Aodhán stumbled into the cottage, claiming a terrible headache and a feeling of dizziness.
The Romani witch sprang to his feet with an air of urgency. He gently took Aodhán’s hand, feeling a tremor in his grasp, as if his beloved were a fragile leaf in a gusting wind. He guided him across the dimly lit room toward their bed, their heavy footsteps creaking on the wooden floorboards.
Stripping Aodhán of his robe, the Romani witch laid the naked man upon their bed, where he quickly fell asleep. Yet by the strain upon his beloved’s sleeping face, he could tell it was neither restful nor peaceful.
As he walked toward the fire, the Romani witch moaned deeply, for a sigh was insufficient at this lamentable moment. He extinguished the blaze gently and carefully to ensure the smoke left up the chimney and did not escape the hearth into the house in a suffocating, billowy cloud.
As the last of the flickering embers of the hearth died, the Romani witch cast the Spell of Footprints.
After it was done, he retreated to bed, seeking solitude amid the darkness, the glow of the Hunter’s Moon barely visible behind the window’s plain curtains.
The Romani witch nestled close to a restless Aodhán, drawing the thick woollen blanket over their bodies, cocooning them from the chill of the night now that the fire was out.
Yet, despite the slow warmth enveloping him, he knew sleep would elude him under these dire circumstances.
When the first light of dawn finally filtered through the cracks of their rustic dwelling, the Romani witch delicately slid from the bed, careful not to disturb Aodhán, who thrashed about restlessly in a nightmare-laden haze. He padded softly along the cold stone floor toward the hearth.
His heart sank when he saw the footprint in the gray ashes, one larger and deeper than any that could belong to him. The realization of what this dark portent meant struck him like a sharp slap across his face.
Driven by despair, the Romani witch slipped quietly outside into the crisp morning air, the dew-kissed grass softly yielding beneath his bare feet. He walked a few paces away from the cottage, where the world was bathed in a soft golden hue, yet all he could feel was the weight of doom.
Crushed by immense guilt and heartache, the Romani witch finally sank to the ground. He buried his face in his hands and cried an unending stream of tears, his profound sorrow echoing the pain he had felt so many times before as a part of him died inside.
Along the shore of the lake where the two seemingly star-crossed witches first met amid the embrace of the great forest trees, the Goddess, inconsolable, wept; her divine tears cascaded into the cool, calm waters like shimmering pearls.
In the distance, the mournful wail of the Horned God could be heard echoing throughout the great Curragh.