22. An Eerie Name #3
It’s not an ability I’ve used in this way before.
Not exactly, and in truth, it’s Pollock I have to thank for helping me discover it.
Labeling me as a witch had been more of an insult, and at the time, I took it as such.
But then I began to give more credence to the ways we were similar and to see them as a bridge to something I had not yet understood.
A bridge of knowledge, as I eventually saw potential where I had previously overlooked it.
In enchantments rather than spells. Invocations that charm the elixir in my blood to come to my aid.
I repeat the one I’ve chosen as I rise, combing my hair back from my face. With more conviction, I cast it his way.
By sight, be drawn. By want, be bound. Come to me—forget yourself.
Thy will be done. In this I seek—
Give his view that of a maiden, soft and meek.
As I blink the water from my eyes, I turn—and still.
Thick thighs cut through the water with ease, powerful and steady. My answer lies there without giving voice to it.
Not a few symbols.
A well-endowed body riddled with them.
They band his arms, trace his broad shoulders, and follow the lines of muscle as he cuts through the surface toward me.
His manhood bobs heavily between his legs, his expression utterly unselfconscious. It’s the same look he wore when battling the demon—determined and somewhat lethal—only now that intensity is decidedly fixed on me.
A healthy dose of fear threatens to take hold, but I wrangle it down.
The water climbs his body, greedy in its ascent, concealing more of him with each step. His gaze, however, never wavers. Not to take in the view. Not to scan our surroundings for danger.
If it moves at all, it’s over me.
Studying.
As if he’s tracing my shape the same way I’ve traced his, wondering, as I do, about the history written into skin.
Seduction slips as recognition takes hold.
Similar beings from different worlds. Same and altogether not.
Closer now, and to distract myself, I ask, “The tattoos… are they—”
“Runes,” he says, his hand moving over his chest, fingers brushing the markings on his left pec. “Where I’m from, we call them runes.” His gaze moves over the few of mine that are visible. “Not only art. Not simply decoration. They carry meaning. Power… if you believe in such things.”
“How is that different?” I ask, genuinely curious. Does he believe mine are benign?
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his attention drifts—to the sigil just below my collarbone. The one granting me swiftness.
“As with most things…” he says, but the words come slower than before, his gaze dropping and lingering where it shouldn’t. “It depends on the one who bears it… and the power wielded by the one who made it.”
His hands lower into the water, turning slowly as if reacquainting himself with it. He lifts them again, letting the water gathered in his palms spill away in thin streams, slipping between his fingers before he extends his arms slightly closer to me.
I note how the water deepens the ink, lending it a kind of life it didn’t possess before. The black is richer like wet ink now, when combined with sunlight and water.
His chin tips as he touches a rune on his wrist—one that resembles a set of steps, or a rudimentary ladder—a single vertical line marked by short notches branching outward, the opposite side left bare.
“This,” he says, “is Saille, or In tsail idir dá shaol.” His fingers brush the mark lightly. “The pathway to the veil between worlds. Between what you consider real… and what lies beyond it. Spiritual. Divine.”
“It looks older than some of the others?”
He nods. “Yes. One of my firsts.”
“And that one?” Recognition dawns on me. “Is that the tree of life?”
He turns his wrist slightly before brushing his thumb over the rune I indicate. Larger than the others, it bears intricate knotwork that climbs the length of his forearm before spreading into the shape of a tree.
The corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “In a sense,” he says.
“But we call it Duir. The door. The threshold between worlds.” His finger presses against the trunk.
“It marks me as one who has access to the gateway and can traverse between the other worlds and this one, mortal and divine, life and death. A guardian of it in a sense.”
There’s a quiet steadiness to him now, something rooted deeper than the words themselves.
“A sacred symbol that also anchors those gifted with it—grants authority as well as a responsibility, and designates us a certain place within the community.”
His gaze lifts, holding mine.
“It comes with a purpose the bearer must accept. To stand between chaos and order. Action and consequence. To take what is wild… and shape it into something more, but not break the laws of nature or corrupt them.”
I think about that for a moment, then point at another. “And these words?”
“Which?”
Taking his hand, I draw my finger down the script written on the side of his forearm.
He pauses, a quiet sound forming low in his throat. In a reverent tone, he says, “Fír na fola—ní bristear. Ionam atá. It means the truth of blood is not broken. It lives in me.”
I listen not only to the words, but to the emotion threaded through his voice. “Most of these aren’t like any I’ve seen before.” I idly consider if that’s because they’re older than written text… or in a language I don’t yet know.
“Record and awareness of them died out long ago,” he says. “Myths remain, but much has been lost to time.”
“That saddens you?”
He nods, and some of the amusement leaves his face. “It’s something that could have done the world a lot of good… in the right hands.”
Jutting his chin, he motions to me. “I recognize some of these. Did you do all of these yourself?”
Looking down, I take in my successes and failures—the skin I’ve come to see more as canvas than flesh.
With a sigh, I reply, “Yes, after much trial and error, as you can probably tell.”
His brow arches. “Maybe after we wash up, you could tell me more about that.”
A soft smile is my answer. “Sure. If you’ll do the same. You have a great many more than I do.”
If he hears the false sincerity in my tone, he gives no sign of it.
I begin to wash in earnest, weaving my enchantment to the best of my ability as I do, rising above the water line as I slide my hands over myself. Then, realizing I left what we’ll need on the shore, I tell him, “I’ll be right back.”
He watches me go—and return—only looking away briefly when he dips below to wet his hair. He begins scrubbing the dirt and blood from his arms and chest with efficient strokes.
When I make it back to him, I hold out an offering of my own. “Soap?”
By sight, be drawn. By want, be bound.
The glaze in his eyes breaks. He blinks once, then looks around as if orienting himself.
“Yes,” he says calmly. “Thank you.”
He reaches forward as I do. Our eyes lock and hold.
Come to me—
Instead of accepting my offering, he knocks the soap from my hand. It disappears into the water with a soft splash.
Before I can so much as blink, his fingers wrap around my wrist—firm, unyielding—and I’m yanked forward. One arm locks around my waist, dragging me flush against him, the other sliding up to the back of my neck, tightening just enough to send a spike of fear through me.
The water breaks around us in uneven waves as I stare up at him—no space left, no time to think—inches from his mouth and the grave expression promising violence.
“Work your magic, witch,” he murmurs, voice layered with warning. “And I’ll work mine.”
Breath caught, I try to speak. “I don’t—”
He pulls me higher, forcing me onto my toes. His hand slides around to the front of my neck. Using his thumb, he tips my chin up—silencing me.
“I know exactly what you’re doing,” he says, his light-green eyes fierce as they hold mine. “And I didn’t ask you to stop. If this is what you want, don’t hide behind magic. Give voice to it and take it honestly.”
His eyes flick downward, just once, to my lips before returning to my face.
“I’m not opposed,” he drawls, tone softening. “But I won’t let you soil the beginning of this with deceit. War with yourself if you have to. Fight me as you take me, if you need to. But don’t draw me in to lie between your thighs while wearing another on your lips.”
Stunned and robbed of speech, I grasp for a coherent reply. The opposite of what tumbles out. “You’re not angry? Why aren’t you angry?”
His hand shifts, cradling my cheek now, his thumb brushing slowly over my lower lip, as though testing the shape of it.
“To tell the truth of it, if I’m upset at all, it’s due to the days and nights wasted. Time spent in needless opposition, instead of touching as we are now.”
I try to pry myself away, but his arms remain firm.
“You measure time as something abundant. A line stretching endlessly before you, yes?”
“Yes, that’s how time works.”
“Not at all.” A faint, almost wry curve touches his mouth.
“Not for you, and not for me. And certainly not for them.” He tips his chin outward, as if gesturing to the world beyond us.
“Our beats and breaths are numbered. We are given moments only to make the most of. With each one, our choices carry weight. The second we forget that, we lose our true sight… our way.”
My throat tightens. “You say that like it’s simple,” I mutter, and the words unpack a wealth of resentment that I hadn’t intended them to. Maybe because he speaks as if he hasn’t had to live with what comes after those moments.
I have, and it’s the very reason I sought to bind his powers.
“This moment, Eridessa, is the one we have. How we choose to spend it, at each other's throats or held in each other's arms, is what matters.”
“You say that now, but don’t truly know me. Therefore, it can’t be that simple.”
“I know more than you think.”
“Not enough.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “More than enough.”
“Because even if this ends badly,” he says softly, “at this moment, it’s what I want most.”
“You might live to regret saying that.”