Nervously, I strolled along the river, looking for the perfect place. He likes moss, so I was looking for something very specific. I would probably have to mold the mists and MAKE what I was looking for if this kept up. It felt like I’d been searching for an hour.
It was a nice river. It rippled along beside me, it had many beachy coves, lots of patches of reeds and steep banks for fish to hide in. He kept his home quite beautifully, and I think that even if I hadn’t been slightly enraptured with him, I’d have been impressed. The river was clean, the water pure enough that you could see to the bottom in the middle of it, the silt fine, the stones polished smooth, and the sound of it flowing was music.
I pushed through some more underbrush, and again, nothing but scrub and reeds. *sigh* Fine. I found a place where there was a small sandy beach, and a cove-like pocket carved out in a bend by the river. I picked a spot of Earth nearby, and sat, facing the river, but turning inwards, and I began to Dream. Carefully, bit by bit, I built it up. It would have a thick carpet of soft moss. There would be old, thick, tall trees to shade us, and they, like the ground, would be covered in moss, so that even their branches hung with strands, like a Southern swamp tree. There would be willows, weeping all around this little nook – he likes willows, and I wanted there to be enough privacy for us both. Most Sidhe don’t care, but… it’s been so long since I spent this much time at Home. Human thoughts have begun to invade my head, and I wanted this to be just about us. I wanted, if it worked, for this to be private.
Even if it didn’t work, making a space like this for him would be a good gift for the treasure he had given me. Once again, I remembered. I had touched him without my gloves, and his skin had barely rippled. The shock rippled through me again, the awe. I haven’t touched someone on this side without my gloves on in over three years. I haven’t taken off the voice-mod collar for even longer. I’ve worn them for so long now that most times, I don’t even notice they’re there… they have become a part of my skin, just another quirk.
But at the height of venom… I forgot that my hands were naked, and I touched him with my bare skin… and nothing happened. At that moment where all control was gone, nothing had happened. There is a part of me that stands on guard at all times. It watches that particular ability like a HAWK, keeping it under wraps as much as possible, though bits still manage to leak through (thus the gloves)… but in that moment of venom, that guard abandoned its post, and I touched him with my bare hands.
The horror of it, the shock of it, the sheer FREEDOM and DELIGHT of it… that I could touch this being with my bare hands and that NOTHING WOULD HAPPEN… I admit, it’s quite turned my head. I don’t know how much is the venom and how much is this… but…
I had to see him again.
I had to.
So… here I was, sitting on the dirt, creating a nest for him.
There needed to be flowers. Oddly, though I’m normally not partial to the color in any way, I rather like white flowers – star flowers and lilies, paperwhites and striped quills, glads, and amaryllis. Hmm… perhaps… some kind of white flowers in among the tree branches? I added, in among the cypresses covered in moss and the weeping willows a few locusts and crabapples, and, for the scent alone, a few dogwoods.
And then, because I’ll admit the scent was just a little bit strong for my sharpened senses, I added a gentle, warm breeze, and a bit of morning sun that sparkled at random through the high branches within the shaded hollow.
Finally, I pressed the image into the mists, and made it whole. Faery truly has no form, except for those of us who Make it have form… but though a lot of fae have no memory at all, Faery Herself has a memory for the ages… once you make a place, it stays. It might change, it might even move to another part of Faery, but it will ALWAYS exist.
I looked at what I had Made, and I knew… it was… Perfect.
With a glad smile at my gift, no matter how it would be used, I glided down to the river, and stepped in. The water was chilly, but not icy – the cool solidness of it rushed around my feet, and the pebbles shifted under me. Carefully, enjoying the strength of the push, I walked deeper in to the cove.
The water flowing over my thighs made me shudder slightly… water against my skin has always been such a tactile thing, such a sensual thing. It’s one of the reasons I don’t swim in public. Humans would think I was being rude.
I swayed in the water, my hair brushing the surface as I drifted deeper, and the water came up over my waist. I let my hair and my fingers drift, my scent drift, throughout the river…. and then… I Sang.
Faery language isn’t like human language. We don’t speak our language. We use our mouths to speak to humans, and to feed on certain substances. Mouths are useful in communication to SEVERAL other species, in fact, but for ourselves… our language is encoded in our cells. There is a unifying song that sings in every cell of every faery that is.
Humans would call it telepathy, but it’s truly not. Someone likened it to the hive mind of the “Borg” from Star Trek, but again, it’s not quite that, either.
It is a song, but it carries scent, and color, and imagery, and it is not a song that is sung mind to mind, but cell to cell.
In faery, oneness and individuality are the same thing. I am me. I can hear you within me, and you can hear me within you. Your light vibrates with mine, and mine with yours.
It is not a human thing, so there are truly no human words to express that… so if you’re confused, let it go.
So. I stood in the river, and I Called. I Sang myself out to the water, and let the water and the Song carry my presence to him, wherever he might be.
And then… I waited. I sported in the river. I ducked my head under, rolling like a dolphin, I threw droplets into the air to watch the rainbows, I stood and let the river test her might against my own and delighted in the strength of us both.
It was at that moment that I felt him rise up out of the water behind me. His hands slid around my waist, and up, over my breasts. It’s a lovely way to be greeted that I personally recommend to everyone.
I turned to him, smiling, my own (naked!) hands sliding up his spine, brushing every bite I had laid into his back along the way. He shivered in my hands as I did so, and I could see… He knew me. He remembered.
A River God remembered me.
I smiled again as he bowed and kissed my hand. “Hello, Lady.”
“Hello, Lord. You remember me.”
“Lady, there is no forgetting you.” (I admit, I sighed at this compliment.) He drew me closer, and I snuggled into his arms.
“Shh. I know. Come.” And he led me out of the water, and into the place I had made for him.
There is a grief in not being able to touch, a hard knot of knowing that what you taste, you kill. There is a NEED that builds, a need so great that you would sacrifice nearly ANYTHING to have it filled. And I had that need in me, that grief… and he felt like home. A calm strength for the storm of my heart… and so… I came to him, and I made him my gift, and when he led me to the place I had made, I followed.
He did take a moment to admire my handiwork. He even took some time to smell the flowers, and to braid some into his hair, his quick fingers dancing. He offered me a crown, a wreath of white with willow trailing, and gods help me, sanity help me, I accepted.
The whole time, he held my hand, and NOTHING HAPPENED. It was… indescribable, the freedom this Sidhe offered me.
We danced in my little meadow, laughing at the song that the trees sang for us… but as with all dances, we ended breathless, in each other’s arms, face to face. He didn’t wait, and when his lips crushed mine, something in me eased, and I wrapped my hands around him, and I let go of everything in the world but his kiss.
We explored each other now, fingertips brushing skin, lips and tongues and teeth, bodies entwining there in the glade, sighs and cries amid the songs of birds and the river and the creek of old trees. When his teeth caressed my breast, his fingers brushing my opposite nipple, my hands tangled in his hair, I cried out and my knees buckled.
His strong arms brought me to the ground, and he laid me gently on the moss. He ran his hand across my stomach as he looked at me with those strange, black, almond-shaped white-less eyes… eyes exactly like my own. He gazed at me intently, and then, he kissed me again, as his hand slid lower, and his fingers entered me.
As my hips ground against his hand, I moaned against his lips… “Please… please…” He shifted above me, and finally, finally… he slid into me…
And light happened.
It’s called Faery Marriage. It is… almost indescribable. Two beings, made of light, utterly compatible, each needing the other to be complete, each in agreement, slide into each other in a moment of light and indescribable pleasure, and they blend – they blend their energies, their spirits, their power, their minds, their hearts, their souls, their Selves.
It is more complete than any vow, more binding than death. Destruction of one will make the other mad, if it doesn’t kill them.