Aether

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I summon the stars to return to me.

Her legs stretched as she pointed her toes, savoring the sensation of the cotton blanket brushing against her bare skin. A soft breath escaped her lips as she felt her muscles lengthen, releasing the tension from her repose.

Morning songs of birds drifted through the open window, carried on beams of early sunlight. The faint crackle of embers in the hearth signaled the end of her slumber.

She thought of the night before. The image of the young men standing at the forest’s edge returned to her mind—bare from the waist up, their bodies adorned with sacred sigils. Each one was a masterpiece, their forms carved as if from wood, every detail wrought with care. Their long hair braided in intracate plaits and their trimmed beards outlining chisled jawlines. She had never seen men like them before.

She and the other maidens stood together, matching white robes billowing in the autumn air, its chill teasing their skin. Goosebumps rose as the cold aroused their nipples, pressing against the thin fabric. Her best friend’s fingers intertwined with her own, offering warmth and solidarity as they awaited the signal.

It had been foretold that Róisín would be the chosen maiden to represent the Moon Goddess this year. Spring had blessed her tall, graceful frame, and youth had shaped her into womanhood. Her long red hair cascaded over her soft, plump breasts, setting her apart from the others. Her body, once hidden beneath her robes, now moved with confidence as the fabric caressed her curves. To Ciara, she was the embodiment of the goddess herself—a flame eternal against the grey stone sky.

And yet, what happened next shocked the entire Sisterhood of the Moon Goddess.

The hunt was a blur of shouts and howls, men moving like wolves closing in for the kill. But only one man would return with the stag, laying its body at the feet of his chosen maiden.

His eyes, green as the misty forest, locked with hers as his chest heaved with exertion. Sweat gleamed on his skin, tracing rivulets over the hard planes of his body, pooling at the waistband of his low-slung loincloth. A hint of curly blonde hair peeked above the fabric. His wild, long blonde hair clung to his body. Grit and war paint melted from the heat of his body into his beard.

But it was his smile that truly held her captive. Just the corner of his mouth lifted—a curve of mischief that sent a thrill through her body.

Now, the memory of that smile burned in her mind, a fire that refused to dim. Wetness and longing throbbed between her legs, a pulse of yearning that quickened as she revisited those fleeting moments. Their interaction had lasted only seconds before he was whisked away to the celebration and she was ushered into a private room for examination and preparation for the next day.

Her thoughts lingered there, on him. She crossed her legs, reveling in the ache it stirred. She stretched again, seeking to deepen the sensation, her breath hitching as the pressure built. Her hand closed, and her fingertips brushed something soft.

Startled, she opened her eyes and sat up. In her palm lay a crushed flower—delicate petals of pink and yellow, their fragrance faint but familiar.

A primrose. How strange to see it this time of year.

“Good morning, maiden.”

Her body jumped at the sound of his voice—low and thick, like the first rumble of thunder in a summer storm.

There, in front of the hearth, her champion crouched, tending the fire. The flames flickered in his eyes, their light catching the deep green like a forest set alight.His cobalt shirt stretched across his broad shoulders as he stirred the embers, and when he turned to face her, it was as though her gaze had drawn him in.

He stood slowly, the motion deliberate. His arm reached for the low beam above his head, his hand trusting its strength as he leaned closer. The motion was casual, confident, yet it left her painfully aware of the thin cotton and fur separating them.

That smile—crooked, teasing, and devastating—was the same one from the night before.

Her body betrayed her, a slow ache unfurling in her core. It wasn’t just lust; it was something deeper, more primal. As if his very presence had unlocked a part of her soul she didn’t know existed, one that yearned for pleasure intertwined with exquisite pain.

“Bjørtin.” The word rolled from his lips, punctuated by a hand patting his chest.

“I don’t…” Her voice faltered, and she shook her head, her messy brown curls swaying.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, deep and rich. “My name is Bjørtin,” he repeated. “And you? What is your name?”

“Ciara,” she managed to whisper.

“Kee-rah,” he repeated, the syllables languishing on his tongue, tasting them. She wished he were tasting her.

“Bee-yortin?” she tried, fumbling over his name. “Why are you here?” Her fingers spread through the fur of her pelt blanket.

“I love the way my name sounds in your mouth.” His grin deepened, lighting his eyes. “Forgive my entry without permission, it is not likely I would have been able to enter your chambers by asking.I only wish to get to know you before we fulfill our honored duties to the Full Moon Goddess and the Horned One. Tonight will be one of great intimacy between us and our duty. With that said, would you be apposed to meet each other in the light before, sharing our skins in the darkness?”

“You’re not supposed to see me yet,” she said, clutching the fur tighter around her.

“Do the rules of your covenant forbid a little fun? Or can I tempt you to break them?”

Her lips curved despite herself. His mischief was infectious, and the space between them seemed warmer somehow.

“I suppose the sun is out...”

“Indeed it is.” Bjørtin smiled and put a finger to his lips in thought. “Very well, I shall ask you a question then in turn, you ask me one, eh? Tell me Ciara, what do you think about when you’re alone?”

Curly locks of burning embers against silky skin. Freckles on smiling lips in the darkness reaching to eyes with more blue and depth than the ocean itself. Her laughter warming the darkness of the cold dormitory.

“My friend. Róisín. We do everything together.”

“Ro-sheen,” he repeated, savoring her friend’s name.

“She’s beautiful and kind, and I wonder why I’m here and not her.”

“You don’t think you should represent the Moon Goddess? Why is that?”

She raised a brow, her lips curving into a playful smirk. “Is this not an exchange, Bjørtin?”

His laugh was soft, apologetic. “Of course, maiden. What would you like to know?”

Thinking back on the nigth before of the captivating grin that hauted her body.“What is something that always makes you smile?”

On cue, his cheeks lifted. “I was honored to be chosen as my country’s champion. But now…” His smile deepened. “Now I cannot stop smiling for other reasons.”

A drop of warmth rolled between her thighs, and she shifted on the bed, seeking relief. “What reasons?” she whispered, her voice laced with a teasing edge.

“Is this not an exchange?” he countered, tilting his head. With a playful flick, he tapped the tip of her nose.

A wave of laughter burst from Ciara’s lips, filling the space with warmth. She threw her head back, the sound ringing like a bell. “You’re a quick study!”

His eyes flitted down to her lips before returning to hers, smoldering. “I am learning from the best. And now, I wish to know, what makes you feel alive?”

Her laughter softened into stillness. She paused, combing through memories dulled by time. When was the last time she had laughed so freely, played a game, or tossed pebbles in a stream? Behind her lay days of gray, a monotony bleached of all color compared to the vibrant tones filling this room.

Her mind flashed to the stag at her feet, its lifeblood marking the champion’s body. His muscles had heaved as his breath fogged in the pale moonlight. That night, he had cast a spell with nothing but a smile, one that stirred something deep inside her now.

“I like to win games,” she said finally, her voice quiet but sure.

“Me too.”

A shadow passed over the sun, dimming the morning light and stilling the cool air. Their eyes locked, and in the fleeting gloom, they shared something unspoken—a secret meant only for them. The moment hung suspended in time before the sun broke free, streaming golden warmth through the window.

“It’s your turn,” he whispered, his voice teasing and low.

Ciara bit her bottom lip, hesitating. “Have you ever… been with anyone?” She leaned forward, her cheeks flushing as her voice dropped to a whisper. “I mean, am I not your first?”

Bjørtin’s smile curved slowly, and he moved to sit at the edge of her bed. His weight shifted the mattress as he braced himself with one arm, leaning closer. His fingertips grazed the edge of hers, sending a spark up her arm.

“I have shared my love with many remarkable souls,” he said softly, his tone reverent. “They are among my most cherished moments.”

Her smile faltered, her gaze dropping to her lap as her shoulders sank.

“In my country,” he continued, his voice gentle, “sharing your body with others is a part of ritual, a celebration of life and connection. I understand this must feel foreign to you.”

She nodded, unsure what to say.

“Ciara.” His voice was softer now as he lifted her chin, guiding her eyes to meet his. “Because of those experiences, I know how to bring pleasure to a woman. I’ve been taught by women who shared their secrets with me—how to unfurl their petals with tenderness and savor their nectar. I am grateful for them, for they have led me to this moment. I can share that wisdom with you if you desire.”

She did desire. The pull was undeniable, shameful yet magnetic. Her body longed for his touch in places it had never known.

“Tell me, Ciara,” he said, his voice a caress. “Have you never been with a man?”

Her response came in a frantic shake of her head. “No! Never!” She straightened, her voice firm with recitation. “I am bound to my duty to the sisterhood. I am pure and clean. I walk only in the light. My Goddess guides me to stay on the white stone path, protecting me from the Dark Moon Goddess.”

The words tumbled out like a prayer, etched into her mind since childhood. It was her duty to remain untouched, pure for the incarnation of the Horned One himself, even if it meant she would never feel the touch of a man.

“Of course,” Bjørtin said, his tone even and respectful. “You are a woman of great faith, and I do not question your devotion. Perhaps I can reword it. Have you never seen a man?”

Ciara tensed, the memory surfacing vividly. It was a summer day in the temple during the annual inspection of the sisterhood. The girls were herded into the temple, their cotton robes clinging to damp sweaty skin as they knelt shoulder to shoulder. The air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, musk, and faint incense. Their heads bowed, eyes closed, lips whispering prayers as the men of the cloth observed them, their presence heavy and invasive.

Curiosity betrayed her better judgment. Against the stern teachings she had followed all her life, Ciara dared to peek. Her lashes parted, revealing a sight that froze her breath. A monk, round-bellied and bald, had lifted his robes. The shrunken head of a pale, shriveled mushroom hung grotesquely between his legs. His finger pressed to his lips, his smile a conspiratorial secret she wanted no part of.

She winced at the memory. “Yes,” she said, her voice tinged with a mixture of horror and indignation. “It was a monk... and it was quite dreadful.”

Bjørtin threw his head back, a deep, hearty laugh rolling from his chest.

“It was!” Ciara protested, but a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “I feared for my life that the champion might also be a monk.”

His laughter deepened, resonating warmly between them.

“Well,” he said, his grin wide and disarming, “are you pleased I am not?”

Her lips quirked in a teasing smirk. “I believe you’ve had your turn far too many times already, Bjørtin.”

His expression softened, his thumb brushing the back of her hand in a slow, deliberate motion. “My apologies, Ciara,” he murmured, his voice a soothing caress.

She took a steadying breath, her cheeks flushed with anticipation. “What are you going to do to me tonight?” The words came out in a breathless whisper, her voice trembling as she braced herself for his reply.

His eyes gleamed with a knowing light, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “That is why I came here,” he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip before drawing it between his teeth. “To tell you... exactly what I plan to do tonight.”

Her knees drew up instinctively, squeezing together as a wave of longing pulsed through her. She curled into herself, her heel brushing against the aching heat that begged for release.

“I will track your scent in the dark,” he began, leaning in, his breath warm against her skin. “And I will find you lying on the altar.” His voice was thick with promise, each word dripping with intent. “With my tongue, I will trace the delicate skin of your thighs, stopping only when I reach this spot—” His finger ghosted over his hip, sliding just beneath the waistband of his pants.

Her heel pressed closer, the motion slight but enough to spark a flicker of forbidden pleasure.

“And then,” he continued, his voice a husky whisper, “I will part your legs with my hands and taste your bliss.”

Her breath hitched, her body trembling as the vivid image he painted consumed her thoughts.

“I’ll press my lips to your clit,” he said, his gaze unwavering, “and move my tongue just so, softly, until you unravel beneath me. Do you know what that is, Ciara?”

She shook her head, her innocence plain in the gesture, her cheeks blooming with a deeper shade of scarlet.

A small, amused smile tugged at his lips, though his eyes softened with understanding. “It’s the tiny bud hidden between your lips,” he explained gently. “The part that aches to be touched, to be kissed.”

Ciaratraced a finger around her mouth.

“No,” he chuckled softly, a low sound that hummed in her ears. “Not these lips, love. The ones between your legs.”

Her voice faltered, a whisper tinged with both shame and curiosity. “I’m not allowed to touch there,” she admitted, her cheeks burning. “It’s only for the champion.”

His brows furrowed briefly before his features softened again. He looked up, murmuring something in his native tongue as if offering a prayer. When his gaze returned to hers, it held a quiet intensity.

“Ciara,” he said, his voice low and steady, “your body belongs to you. If you wish to touch yourself, it is your right.”

Her lips parted in disbelief. “It is?” she whispered. “But... they told me it was bad.”

“They usually do,” he said, his voice steady yet laced with tenderness. “But if you choose to, then do what feels good.”

Ciara swallowed hard, her pulse quickening as his gaze followed her hand. It slid deliberately down her chin, her fingertips dragging softly along her neck and dipping between her breasts. The touch left a trail of goosebumps in its wake, like a cool breeze sweeping over her heated skin. Each movement sent tendrils of electricity surging to her core. The room fell into an expectant silence, broken only by her shallow breaths.

Her blood raced, carrying a tumult of sensations—fluttering butterflies sending pleasure to her loins, and dark, insistent crows urging her to stop. Yet another voice whispered louder: Don’t stop.

Her hand slipped beneath the pelt that barely covered her, skimming down her belly until it reached the curve of her hips. Her heel, sticky with the evidence of her desire, brushed against her swollen folds, sending jolts of heat racing down her thighs. She exhaled a shaky gasp.

Leaning closer, her lips hovered near his. Her trembling finger paused at the arch of her lower lips. “Then what will you do?” she whispered.

His smirk ignited her already burning need. “I believe it’s my turn, love,” he murmured, his voice a husky caress. “Are you touching your clit?”

The Mother’s words echoed like a warning bell in her ears: “Only unclean and sinful girls touch themselves before the champion.” But here he was, undoing those teachings with a single phrase. It’s your right.

Her clit pulsed with need, her body drowning out the doubt with its primal plea. Her fingers slid lower, parting the wet, sticky folds to press against the soft flesh. Warmth flooded her as her touch offered a fleeting relief, only to stoke the fire further.

A soft moan escaped her lips. “Ah,” she breathed, her fingers circling the aching bud. The pleasure spread like ripples, pooling in her belly and radiating up her back.

“Then,” he continued, his voice thick with desire, “I will rub my tongue on your clit. Slowly, gently, savoring your taste. I’ll take you into my mouth, dragging my tongue from your entrance to your clit. Mmm.”

His eyes fluttered shut, his head tipping back as his hand moved to the bulge straining against his pants. His hips rocked forward, a groan escaping him as he opened his eyes again, locking onto hers. The heat in his gaze sent a fresh wave of longing coursing through her.

Ciara’s body ached for him, her mind lost to the vision of his hands spreading her thighs, his mouth fulfilling every promise he had whispered. Her fingers moved deeper, sliding into the slick, sticky warmth, her hips instinctively rocking to match the rhythm.

“Then?” she whispered, her voice trembling as she bit her lower lip, the sharp sting only heightening her pleasure.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest as he stroked himself. He shifted closer, placing a knee on the edge of the bed. His lips brushed her cheek, his warm breath fanning against her neck.

She tilted her head toward him, her body arching to meet his, desperate for the heat of his skin against hers. Her fingers continued their dance, gliding in and out as her hips rolled in slow, deliberate motions.

“Then,” he murmured against her ear, his voice a low growl, “my mouth will find your belly, then your nipples. I’ll taste every inch of you. I’ll press my lips to yours, then wrap your legs around my waist.”

His lips hovered near hers, and her breath hitched.

“I’ll slide into you,” he continued, his voice thick with hunger. “Feel your warmth tighten around me as I push… and push… and push until your body quivers, and you see flowers blooming behind your eyelids.”

The vivid promise sent a shiver rippling down her spine, her body taut with anticipation. She gasped softly, her heart pounding as the air between them grew electric, thick with unspoken need.

A trembled sigh pushed from Ciara’s chest as her eyes fluttered closed. Her breaths came shallow, each one stirring the heat pooling in her core.

His groan slipped through her ears like a melody, deep and resonant, sending a fresh wave of longing coursing through her. She ached for his touch—for his fingers on her throat, his tongue exploring her clit, his hands worshiping her body.

“But before I have the pleasure of touching my tongue to your body…”

“Yes?” she whispered, her voice trembling with anticipation.

“Before I taste your nectar,” he continued, his tone like velvet, “and graze my teeth along your inner thigh…”

The mounting energy inside her begged to be unleashed, her body trembling on the edge.

“I will ask you one thing,” he murmured, his lips brushing her neck.

The heat of his breath, the pull of his skin, and the intoxicating scent of oakmoss and the sea drew her closer. His lips hovered near hers, tantalizingly close.

“What path will you choose?”

Her eyes opened slowly, her heart pounding against her ribs. He lingered for a moment, his lips hovering near her forehead, before pulling back and sitting on the edge of the bed.

His hand slid from his pants, though the bulge beneath the fabric remained evident. He exhaled deeply, the intensity in his eyes softening.

“I have a great calling,” he began, his voice heavy with conviction, “which is why I came here. Something larger than myself calls to me—and it calls to you, if you can feel it.”

Her eyebrows furrowed, her head tilting slightly in bewilderment. “I don’t understand.”

“I knew it was you from the moment I saw you,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “That we are bigger than this. And I ask you to come with me—only if you choose.”

The weight of his words sank into her chest, pressing against the yearning that still pulsed within her.

“I am the Moon Goddess’s maiden, and you are the champion of the Horned God,” she replied, her voice steady though tinged with uncertainty. “Together we will create a holy child to continue the tradition. To follow the white path of stone is a great honor. What higher calling could there be than this?”

“Perhaps it is the one you find on your own,” he countered softly.

Her lips parted as if to protest, but no words came. She inhaled sharply, her resolve wavering.

“No,” she finally whispered. “There is no other path.”

“Yes, I see,” he replied, dropping his eyes. A faint, knowing smile touched his lips as he took her hand gently in his. “Then it will be my pleasure to serve as your champion.”

Something shifted within her—a subtle pop, like a taut string being cut. A flood of conflicting emotions surged through her, threatening to spill over.

“What is the meaning of this?” a voice thundered from the doorway.