Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
SALEM
Aurin was excited, and Salem understood why. Salem had been secretive about what tonight’s celebration would entail because he wanted Aurin to experience the full surprise and wonder, and to Aurin’s credit, he hadn’t hounded him for hints.
But he was enthusiastic to help Salem get up and ready after his nap.
Salem had underestimated how much a walk to the stream to bathe would take out of him; it had been a sharp reminder of his injuries and perhaps a warning to take his recovery more seriously.
Aurin had been so wonderful during it all. The battle with Lusca, when he’d been so brave. And here, in the mountain camp, he’d been so attentive, so gentle and caring.
He was Salem’s shining light, his little golden glimmer of hope. In his darkest moment, when he’d thought he was about to truly depart this world, Aurin had been his light home.
Aurin fixed Salem’s shirt. It was a scratchy fabric despite being finely woven and well, it wasn’t Salem’s favourite. It was borrowed, as were the clothes Aurin was wearing, and Salem was truly grateful. But...
Sometimes being a cat, wearing a skin of fur and not clothes at all, was preferable to this.
Aurin flattened the fabric at Salem’s neck and gave him a warm smile. “Soon,” he said, as if he could read Salem’s mind. “You’ll be able to morph soon and stretch out all the kinks; you’ll be more comfortable.”
Salem lifted Aurin’s chin and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “I long to do many things.”
Aurin chuckled, his creamy skin glowing in the soft candlelight of the room. “Yes, soon for that as well. You can have me all you want, but only when you are well again.”
“Not soon enough.”
Aurin’s cheeks flushed like the prettiest peach in the orchard. He tapped a gentle fingertip to Salem’s lips. “I’m very excited to see the festivities tonight, but if you become tired or unwell, you must tell me, and we’ll come back, okay?”
“Yes,” Salem agreed. “But once you see what you are about to see, you won’t want to leave.”
Aurin took Salem’s hand and led him to the door. “Please don’t keep me waiting any longer. I can smell the most amazing things.”
“Okay, my love,” Salem said. “Whatever your heart desires.” Then he stopped. “I should warn you, though.”
Aurin looked a little panicked. “Warn me of what?”
“The mead. It’s potent stuff.”
Aurin exhaled with relief and swatted Salem’s arm. “I thought you were being serious. I thought it was going to be some dangerous thing to keep watch for.”
Salem laughed. “The mead is a dangerous thing.”
“I meant like a dangerous ritual or a weapon.”
“A ritual?” Salem couldn’t help but smile. Then he whispered, “Just what exactly do you think they are?”
“Well,” Aurin said. “This is a Yule celebration, Cern is—” He made a face. “—what he is, and you are what you are, so this is a pagan god thing, and god things have rituals.”
“God things, huh?”
“What else am I supposed to call it?” The gold in his amber eyes sparkled in the soft candlelight. “I don’t want to offend anyone.”
Salem kissed him with smiling lips. “‘God things’ is apt.”
Aurin’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I want to learn about your history. I want to learn about you and how to celebrate your heritage—”
“Oh, my sweetest Aurin,” Salem murmured. He kissed his forehead. “How ever did I get so lucky to find you.”
“You saw me in the cove, remember?” he said with a soft smile.
“You were the prettiest thing I’d ever seen,” Salem said. “I was so taken with your beauty, I forgot to camouflage.”
Aurin laughed. “And your eyes were the same striking eyes that I’d seen on the end of my bed.”
“You knew it was me.”
“How could it not have been?” He smiled up at Salem. “I love your eyes.”
“Just my eyes? Because you quite often beg for another part of my anatomy—”
Aurin swatted him again, flushing the warmest pink right down his neck. “I do not beg.”
Oh, he most certainly did, and they both knew it.
He huffed out an indignant sigh and hooked his arm through Salem’s. “Now please put me out of my misery and take me to the campfire. Whatever they’re cooking smells amazing, and I’ve waited long enough.”
“Yes, my love,” Salem replied, walking slowly out into the dark night toward the roaring campfire. “Are you cold?”
He knew the cold water cephamorphs much preferred the cooler weather, but it was still polite to ask. If he needed a coat, they should get it now.
“No, it’s perfect for me. Are you feeling okay? Not too tired?”
“I’m fine. Feeling much better, actually.” They walked to the campfire and sat on the seat next to Cern’s throne.
“Where is everyone?” Aurin whispered. His hold on Salem’s hand tightened as he looked around. The fire was high and its brightness an orange glowing halo that made the forest surrounding them appear darker and closer.
The air was cold, the stars above them a ceiling of pinpricks and glitter. “Look up,” Salem said.
Aurin did, his eyes going wide. “Oh wow.”
“I love Tenebrae,” Salem said. “It’s been my home for a long, long time. But the cloud cover hides an incredible view.”
“Are they brighter than usual?” Aurin murmured. “I’ve seen the stars before, of course. Many times. I don’t remember them being so bright.”
Salem gave him a gentle nudge with his elbow. “They aren’t always. There’s magic in the air tonight.”
Aurin’s wide eyes met his, the firelight glimmering in his hazel irises, making them appear even more golden than normal. “Magic?”
The rustle of leaves and the jingle of metal behind them made them turn to find Cern approaching.
He was in his true form, taller than his human one, and made taller still by the two antlers protruding atop his head.
His face was human, though his ears were more that of a bull.
He wore his ceremonial garb: shirtless but for a cloak made of pelt and moss, his metal torc shining beneath his long white beard.
He wore rudimentary linen shorts fastened with an ancient metal concho belt.
His legs were that of a stag, covered grey fur down to his neat black hooves.
Salem had seen him in this form countless times—though not for many, many years—yet it still managed to take his breath away. He rose instinctively to his feet, and Aurin was quick to join him, both bowing their heads as Cern took his place on the throne.
He smiled widely, eyeing Aurin, which made Salem look at him too. His eyes were comically wide, his mouth open in stunned disbelief.
“Have him sit before he falls,” Cern said to Salem. “You’d think he’d never seen an old god before.”
Salem chuckled and helped Aurin sit. He was still, very clearly stunned. “Cern’s true form,” Salem explained.
Aurin nodded, not taking his eyes off Cern. “But you’re... you’re...”
“Cernunnos,” Cern answered. “Yes. You did not listen to the treaty?”
Aurin blinked then and shook his head as if to clear it. He squeezed Salem’s hand, sparing him a glance before looking back at Cern. “Uh, yes, of course. I knew, yes. As much as your name and the rumours allowed, but to see you now, here, like this...” He sighed. “You are... magnificent.”
Cern laughed, the sound echoing through the trees like the embrace of an old friend. His antlers looked fierce in the firelight, and the metal around his neck gleamed. Salem couldn’t deny that what Aurin had said was true.
Cern truly was magnificent.
Bells began to tinkle, much like a wind chime, gentle at first, then a deep humming that seemed to reverberate from the ground itself.
“Oh,” Aurin said, alarmed. He looked around them, trying to find the source. His hold on Salem’s hand tightened.
“Are you ready?” Salem asked with a smile.
He knew what was coming.
And he knew Aurin was about to witness something he’d never forget...
The humming grew louder, the night grew still, and the fire died right down as if holding its breath in anticipation. Then there was a jostled trampling noise, getting louder, closer...
And the first figures came out of the dark.
It was Pax at the front, as always, his herd following in single file to trot around the fire until they had all joined in, two smaller ones at the rear. They made a constant circle, completing several rotations around the fire, the flames growing tall once more.
Salem glanced at Aurin, wanting to see his face reacting to what he was witnessing, and he wasn’t disappointed. Aurin was transfixed. Amazed, shocked, yes, but with wonder and not fear as he watched the scene before him.
He finally saw them in their true form. He saw them for what they actually were, something very few outsiders had ever been privileged enough to witness.
They were faun.
Half human, half goat.
Their forms varied—some were slender and almost delicate, others broad-shouldered and imposing—but all bore the same unmistakable fusion: human torsos, furred legs, cloven hooves, and horns that curved or branched in intricate, individual patterns.
Their eyes caught the light in a way that made them seem deeper than they should be, as if something older than the forest itself looked out through them.
They continued to trot around the fire. The humming was loud, even above the trample of their hooves, the sound building and building until they stopped in unison, as if adhering to a cue only they heard, leaving a profound silence. Not even the fire dared to make a sound.
One stepped forward toward Cern. It was Pax, of course. Salem expected nothing else.
He was taller in this form, his horns sweeping back like polished wood, his posture calm but deliberate. When he spoke, his voice was low and textured; it sounded like the feeling of running your hand over an old tree trunk.
“Our offering to you,” he said, his head lowered, arms outstretched, holding a bowl to Cern. “May this winter be merciful, and our bounties fertile and fruitful. May we know only peace, and above all, our secrecy kept.”
Cern took the bowl in both his hands, and with deep gravitas, he held it up. “Mercy, kindness, prosperity and peace are yours.”
Everyone watched as he drank, then almost theatrically, he gestured to Salem and Aurin. “And for our honoured guests,” Cern said. He rose from his throne and strode toward them, offering Salem the bowl. “Drink with me, kin. To time, past and present. To the future and what she brings.”
Salem took the bowl. “May she bring what our hearts desire,” Salem said.
Everything stilled. Even the fire held its breath as Salem drank.
The honey mead was sweet and cold yet somehow warmed his chest as it went down.
He handed the bowl to Aurin, who took it with a gracious nod.
He sipped the mead, his eyes lighting up as he tasted it, and once he’d swallowed, cheers went up and the fire roared, its embers joining the stars in the sky.
Fyn put his flute to his lips, and the music he played was light and poetic, filtering through the trees like magic. One by one, the fauns began to move. They danced around the fire, smiles wide and proud.
The ceremony had truly begun.
At first, the motions were slow—measured steps that traced the perimeter of the circle.
Hooves pressed into the earth in deliberate rhythm, each impact aligning with the strange pulse Salem felt in his core.
The flute’s melody seemed to dance as well, twisted and doubled back on itself, never quite repeating.
Then Zaq joined in, also playing a flute, but his was low and resonant, vibrating through the ground and up into Salem’s bones. The fauns kept dancing, their movements grew faster, more intricate, their bodies tracing arcs that seemed to bend the firelight itself.
Then, abruptly, they stopped.
Silence fell—not empty, but dense, expectant.
Aurin sucked back a breath, not knowing what was happening. He reached over and gripped Salem’s hand.
Drawn from a pipe, thin and reedy, yet impossibly clear, a high note drifted through the trees as if answering a call from the faun. It wove through the night like a thread of gold pulled taut.
And out of the trees, emerging from the darkness like a vision, emerged a female faun. She was smaller, daintier, with a pretty human face and long brown hair covering her breasts. Two more came in behind her, each playing a flute. The music softened into silence.
Pax met her by the fire and bowed, lowering his head toward his hoof, and she responded in kind. Neither one of them spoke. Everyone watched and waited.
Aurin was transfixed.
Then one of the female fauns stepped forward, lifting the instrument to her lips. The music was serene. It told a story in a language all its own.
Then Fyn stepped forward, his flute to his lips, and he replied in harmony.
Cern clapped in sheer joy, and the herd of female fauns filed out, and both herds began to circle the fire, dancing and rejoicing.
Such a sight never failed to take Salem’s breath away.
The fire responded as the rhythm sharpened, orange flames high and embers meeting the starry sky.
Hooves pressed into the ground in deliberate patterns.
Circles within circles. The ground seemed to reply, the mountain itself joining in, a subtle trembling that travelled outward.
Salem felt it through the soles of his feet, a steady thrum that matched the beat in his chest.
As the night went on, they drank more mead, laughing and clapping along, eating roasted sweet potatoes and candied berries. They celebrated life and time, the wonderment of nature, and the marking of a new season.
Salem was renewed, his purpose restored.
And the last thing Salem remembered, as the dawn of a new day was breaking over the mountain, was taking Aurin to bed.
Enamoured and amorous, drunk on love and far too much mead, they made love.
Aurin gave himself so willingly, eagerly, and Salem took him the way they’d done so many times before.
But not like this.
Nothing like this.