24. God Giveth and Taketh Away
Chapter Twenty-Four
God Giveth and Taketh Away
Orán
Eridessa’s shyness reveals itself in stages after we part. It’s subtle at first. A kiss cut short. A detachment to her gaze. Then, when I stand and offer her my hand, she lifts an arm to cover her breasts, as if only now remembering herself.
The instinct strikes me as endearing.
“Come now,” I say gently. “None of that. There’s no shame in how you were made, nor in enjoying one another. What we shared is as natural as birth and death.”
Her arm lowers, though the reluctance lingers in her posture.
She glances toward the lake. “Should we… clean up?”
I follow her gaze, then nod. Instead of releasing her, I curl my fingers around hers and pull her toward me.
She stumbles, surprised, and collides softly with my chest. Her breath leaves her in a quiet gasp.
I feel it. The way her body reacts before her mind catches up. The faint increase in her heart rate.
I smile to myself and lead her backward toward the water, keeping the distance between us minimal.
We wash in silence, but the quiet is heavy with awareness. The water laps against my back, cool and steady. I watch her as much as I wash myself, noting the way she moves, the grace of her limbs, and the way she keeps stealing glances at me when she thinks I won’t notice.
I notice, and I like her gaze on me more than I should.
When she dips beneath the surface, I follow, eyes open despite the sting, studying her through the wavering blue. Her hair fans around her head, pale and drifting every which way like silk in the wind. Her skin glows faintly, almost luminous, as if the water cannot quite dull her.
But it’s her eyes that undo me when they open beneath the surface. Bright. Curious. Uncertain of the man before her. And her mouth, tilting faintly to one side as she catches me staring. Peering at me in a way that feels unguarded.
We rise together.
Water streams down her lashes, gathers at her lips, and traces slow paths over her breasts. Droplets cling, then fall. The sight tightens something low in my chest, an urge to pull her closer and remind myself she is indeed real.
I note something peculiar. The water is quite cool, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it. “Does the temperature of the water not trouble you?”
She looks down at the marking on her collarbone, above a small star-like birthmark, and touches it absently. “It used to. Not so much anymore. It feels good, actually.”
“These markings,” I say, reaching forward and caressing my thumb over a few on her bicep. “They carry meaning… like my own?”
She looks up sharply, as if taken aback by my ability to understand what it is she’s not saying. “Yes. Most do. Some are only decorative. Botched attempts, from before I understood how to give them purpose.”
Some are precise, laid with confidence, and fine lines that hold their shape. Others rise unevenly, the edges blurred, the pigment blended as if the ink didn’t hold. Silver dominates, but traces of other hues are evident. They shimmer where the light touches them.
Lifting my arm, I point at a small rune under my ribs. “It’s the same with this one here. My uncle gave it to me, and still to this day, I’m not sure if he meant to curse me with clumsiness or just failed to give me stability.”
My smile fades as I stare at it and remember a time long ago when life was much simpler than it is now.
Stone halls warmed by firelight. The sound of boots and laughter echoes through the keep.
Long tables crowded with family, townspeople, warriors, and servants—no separation between blood and loyalty.
We ate together. Trained together. Grew up believing the land itself had claimed us, and that we had done so in return.
Back when my father’s voice carried easily through those halls, and my mother’s laughter even more so. Strength and gentleness existed side by side. A household that knew its place in the world and held it with pride.
Until unrest sowed its oats from within.
Whispers first, the quiet disagreements spoken behind closed doors. Old beliefs dragged back into the light. Old powers coveted. My uncle’s counsel turned, his devotion no longer to kin but to something darker. The moment when trust began to rot, slow and unseen.
By the time swords were drawn, it was already too late.
A time best forgotten, it would seem. Especially those near the end when battles waged, and it became clan against clan—brother against brother—leaving the land we so blessedly loved scarred.
I shake my head to clear it and focus on her and the present.
That past no longer matters. Besides Pollock, all those who once lived and loved me are where they belong, awaiting our return after finishing our tasks here.
I look back at her.
“They’re different from mine. Aramaic?”
“Some.”
She steps closer, her gaze moving over the runes across my chest. “These are…”
“Celtic,” I tell her. “My uncle was a Druid.” I hesitate. “He trained me for a time.”
Her brows knit. “To become one as well?”
“Yes, but war came and changed things.” My fingers drift over the older markings, the ones he carved into me with deliberate care, each line placed as if it mattered beyond the flesh it marked.
“What exactly is a Druid? I’m not sure if what I’ve learned is fantasy, myth, or based on real history.”
“Essentially, a learned keeper of law, ritual, and memory—one who upholds the proper order between people, land, and the divine. Not simply wielders of magic, but stewards of it.”
She listens quietly, eyes attentive, so I go on.
“A Druid believes the world—and everything in it—is alive, and he works in concert with it. Not metaphorically. Truly. The soil, the rivers, the wind, plants, all living things—even the ground beneath our feet. He works beside nature, coaxing power from it, guiding it, and never forcing it without consequence. When he’s at one with it, he doesn’t command it to do his bidding—he converses with it.
Power shared, shaped to serve the greater good. ”
I gesture vaguely to the land around us. “Everything you see, and don’t. The air, the spirits within each tree, and even the weather, like fog and frost. There’s respect for all of it. There has to be.”
Running my hand over my chest, I add, “These are reminders. Of the training I endured, the oaths taken, and the knowledge I earned under my uncle’s tutelage. Some mark what I was taught. Others… what I paid to learn.”
Dropping my hand, I let her take in the ones covering my torso.
“Not many people know that when we master ourselves and that power, we may borrow its forms. Walk as the wolf, take to the air as a hawk, slip beneath water as a fish. Not to escape ourselves, but to understand what it means to live as something else.” I glance back at her.
“To feel how the world presses differently on fur, on feathers, on scales.”
There is no pride in my tone, only reverence. My chest tightens because this was what I’d wanted most, and the chance to learn it was taken from me.
There’s a slight part of her lips as her eyes trace my features as if in awe.
“Your uncle… he could do those things?”
“Yes. For a time. Until he began to believe more power was owed to him. Then nature stopped answering his call and turned its back on him, in a sense. Or answered in ways he didn’t like.”
I look skyward, watching the dead drift through the thinning ash. It lingers, as if to remind the world what power in the wrong hands can do.
“Power doesn’t come from domination or prayer. It comes from understanding where you stand in the cycle and knowing you are never at its center. A Druid is a bridge, a conduit by which to use it.”
Her fingers begin to skim the surface, tracing patterns, disturbing it just enough to give her something else to look at. “And your runes… they don’t trouble you?” Her eyes hold mine. Her stare is too intent to be idle curiosity. “Do things they shouldn’t?”
Sometimes,” I say, thinking of one in particular. “But never without reason.”
The tension in her doesn’t ease. If anything, it sharpens. The water around her grows still, her fingers pausing.
“Magic doesn’t turn on its bearer without cause,” I continue, keeping my tone even. “When it behaves strangely, there’s usually a specific reason, or it could be responding to something out of balance. The issue would not be of its own making.”
She turns just enough to put a bit of space between us, her body no longer as open as it was before.
Without quite deciding to, I step closer.
Close enough that I can feel the warmth of her skin despite the water.
I don’t touch her. Not yet. But my presence is there, steady, unmistakable.
“You seem troubled by the thought,” I add quietly.
It’s not an accusation but an offering to share her burdens with me.
She deflects at once. “It’s nothing. Just a nuisance. Not worth worrying about. Should we dry off and head inside?”
I pause, studying her a moment longer. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
She turns and wades toward the shoreline. Grabbing her towel, she swiftly wraps it around herself, as though to put a barrier back between us.
I see it not so much in her action, but in the guarded expression she wears.
After drying myself, I rake the towel through my hair.
She glances over and laughs awkwardly.
“What?” I ask.
She steps closer. “Your hair is…” Her fingers lift, hesitating only a second before she rakes them through it, combing it back from my face. “There.”
I return her smile, and then deliberately take her off balance. Bending, I hook her legs in one smooth motion, lifting her easily into my arms. She lets out a startled yelp, hands flying to my shoulders. Her eyes go wide, shock flashing there before something warmer follows.
My intent is to eliminate any wall, mental or otherwise, she intends to put between us.
“Guide me to your bedroom,” I say. “There is so much more I wish to show you.”
She protests halfheartedly, breath uneven.