Chapter 10 #3
I introduced myself to the Dagda, leader of the Tuatha Dé Danann, god of strength.
I greeted Lúgh in passing, but his deep tie to oaths made him rather quiet, lest he say something he didn’t mean.
Balor, Aengus, and Donn were as welcoming as one might hope, though we had no plans for wine, feasts, or chumming anytime soon.
I contemplated taking the form of a white deer and walking amongst their people, but it would serve no purpose, save for my vanity. Besides, I was relatively positive Cernunnos, the antlered god of the forest, would not appreciate the gesture.
I was holding up my end of my father’s bargain, and in return, I was left in peace to lurk in the shadows, lovingly guarding my human as she ate, as she traveled, as she slept.
I’d contented myself with remaining behind the veil for the rest of this earthly cycle. It would have stayed that way, had it not been for the night of her thirtieth birthday.
A ghost in the humble home, I’d settled into a familiar corner and waited for her breathing to change to indicate a peaceful slumber.
Tonight, it didn’t come.
The moment her husband began to snore, Caoimhe slipped from beneath the quilts they shared and tip-toed across the room.
She ensured her son slept soundly before grabbing a tartan cloak and quietly grabbing the lantern from its resting place on the windowsill.
She eased the door shut, stopped by the woodpile propped against the home, removed the top two logs, and fetched a small basket hidden within.
Hastily replacing the logs, she was off before I fully absorbed what she was doing.
She put a safe distance between herself and her home before lighting the lantern.
In my two years with this human, she’d never exhibited deceptive behavior. Was she meeting someone? And if so, how had she made friends, found a lover, planned to run away, without me knowing about it?
I followed silently, brow furrowed.
She stole from the house with muted steps, covering her lantern as she passed the village homes so as not to stir her neighbors. My frown deepened, curiosity growing, as she lifted the humble flame the moment she made it beyond the township.
It was a ten-minute walk to the river, and three minutes beyond that to a flat stone along the softly murmuring stream where she’d once screamed at the mysterious phantom of a man.
My heart clenched.
My hand flew to my chest. I couldn’t explain how I knew she was waiting for me, but I knew.
She lifted the lantern as if it might reveal things unseen to mortal eyes as she peered into the darkness. The crescent moon ducked behind a wisp of cloud, plummeting her into darkness once more.
Maybe it was nerves, or perhaps my reluctance to be the source of her fear once more, but I needed to know for sure before I made a move.
I waited.
I’d only been in Hell for a few minutes that day, but it had been enough to give her time to herself.
Perhaps that’s why I hadn’t known what was in the basket that she gently rested near the river.
The lantern’s buttery glow illuminated one small jar, then another.
She uncapped them and set them on the dry surface of a large, smooth stone that belonged neither to the river, nor to the shore, as clear water ran on either side.
It was large enough for two, should we choose to sit atop it.
She procured two simple goblets and a waterskin, but it was not water that filled the cup.
The vapors of sweet, strong cider popped and sparkled as she poured one glass, then another.
Caoimhe slid one goblet to the far side of the stone and held the other.
She lifted it to the night sky.
“I know you’re here, Spirit,” she said. “I’ve brought you an offering, though I don’t know what you favor.”
The deluge of her acknowledgment did something inexplicable. I understood the urge to drink until drunk. I saw the temptation, were I another. One god might say, “The favor of one feels good, therefore, the favor of one hundred will feel spectacular.”
And for some, they’d be right. Quantity over quality was the preferred method of most.
I sat with a thought I’d had when I knew my human as Shala.
But I was not born to need humans, nor they to need me.
Human prayers didn’t source my power. I had no requirement for offerings or temples or books written in my name. I was beginning to forget what I did need, as I struggled to remember why I’d come into this world, if it weren’t for this indescribable feeling.
It was so novel, so unlike anything in the undying worlds, to possess mortal affection, to put your heart in hands, knowing they would perish, to experience the world on lips that tasted it for the first time over and over again.
Every life with my human was a new form of new after new.
An argument could be made that I was addicted to newness, when immortals so rarely experienced it, but I knew any such defense would be a lie.
This was an intimacy that couldn’t be done through excess.
As it were, it could barely be done through one. I certainly hadn’t mastered it.
She loosened her cloak, soaking in the unseasonably warm night.
The fabric made no noise as it hit the soft heather beneath her, all sounds drowned by the river’s steady babble.
The moon reappeared, catching the pale curve of her cheeks, her chin, her collarbone, the curl of her ginger hair, the slope of shoulders.
She lifted the goblet to her full, pink lips, but she did not drink.
“Spirit?”
“Yes, Caoimhe, my love?” But my response remained behind the veil. She wasn’t Love yet. And despite my phonetic struggle with her language, I knew better than to misname someone, even in my own head.
I wasn’t ready. She could neither see nor hear me. I didn’t need the drink she poured. I was intoxicated by the moment.
“I’ve felt you many times since that day,” she said, speaking over the cider. “And I feel you now.”
My staggered inhale did nothing to steady me.
I hadn’t been surviving on crumbs, after all. My hope had been real. My human remained mine.
She lowered the cup. “Will you toast with me, Spirit?”
She was offering me the chance to speak on a silver platter, but trepidation consumed me.
What would I say? How would I explain this?
The pressure on a single moment, particularly after I’d scoured the world for her for twenty-nine years only to blunder our first encounter, was frustrating beyond words.
There was no answer that would appease her, particularly as I had no answer that had satisfied my father, my sister, my kingdom, or even myself.
I was caught in an anomaly, spared only by my father’s obsession with free will that I should be able to follow curious flights of fancy regardless of their logic.
I sighed to myself. Now or never.
I settled onto the stone and slipped my fingers around the goblet. I kept my eyes on the drink, too nervous to see the horror in her eyes, as I peeled back the veil and revealed myself.
She made a noise, scarcely intelligible over the stream, something akin to a swallowed scream, as if she’d choked on pushing down her call for help. I kept my eyes on the goblet as I took a swig. It would be impolite to make a face, but the mortals had not mastered alcohol.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
Should my first words to her be a lie?
“I like that you offered it,” I replied. “The intention means more than the drink.”
She flashed her teeth as if it were the funniest joke she’d ever heard. She wiggled her fingers for the goblet. “Give it, then.”
I held the goblet out of reach. It was mine. She was mine. None of this could be taken back.
She rolled her eyes as if we were longtime friends, sweethearts, lovers. The ease with which she fell into me was sweeter than any wine she might have poured. “I have something else,” she explained. “Cider is the village favorite, but I thought it might not be to your liking. Don’t drink it.”
Now, this was a peculiar turn of events. How odd that even in a life where she didn’t know me, one wherein she was neither spiritually attuned nor romantically available, that she would regard me with such informality. Gods above and below if she wasn’t curious.
My human never failed to mesmerize me.
I held the goblet across the bit of water that separated us as if she were the phantom.
She snatched it from me, draining the cup in two gulps. She procured another waterskin, and a third small jar that I hadn’t noticed before. “Do you like mead? Or would you like to try something wicked?”
It was my turn to smile. The joy at her relaxed nature, the pleasure of her presence, the relief of finally being together, and of course, most immediately, hearing this teasing question on her lips when speaking to a demon. “And what, pray tell, do you consider wicked?”
She opened the jar, and I could smell the spirits from here. The fumes alone could kill a man. My grin was one of open-mouthed shock. Gods almighty, these humans went out of their way to die. I snatched it before she could pour the drops.
“Drink this and go blind,” I said. “Humans have yet to perfect the distilling of spirits. Let’s stick with mead, as I’d prefer you live.”
Her strawberry blonde hair caught on her shoulder as she tilted her head. “It’s no good? I got it just for…”
Just for me? She thought she was letting me down.
“This,” I said, lifting the goblet, “is on the right track. I admire the balls on whoever sipped the liquid and enjoyed the sensation. But it’s meant as a topical medicine.
It will burn through your innards. Your…
” I watched her face. She was neither confused, nor did my words make sense to her.
“I’ll take the mead,” I said. “And please, don’t drink these spirits.
Keep the jar, though, and dab this liquid on cuts and wounds to keep them from souring. ”
“Put drink on my cuts?”