By sight, be drawn. By want, be bound. Come to me—forget yourself.
Thy will be done. In this I seek?—
Give his view that of a maiden, soft and meek.
As I blink the water from my eyes, I turn—and still.
Thick thighs cut through the water with ease, powerful and steady. My answer lies there without giving voice to it.
Not a few symbols.
A well-endowed body riddled with them.
They band his arms, trace his broad shoulders, and follow the lines of muscle as he cuts through the surface toward me.
His manhood bobs heavily between his legs, his expression utterly unselfconscious. It’s the same look he wore when battling the demon—determined and somewhat lethal—only now that intensity is decidedly fixed on me.
A healthy dose of fear threatens to take hold, but I wrangle it down.
The water climbs his body, greedy in its ascent, concealing more of him with each step. His gaze, however, never wavers. Not to take in the view. Not to scan our surroundings for danger.
If it moves at all, it’s over me.
Studying.
As if he’s tracing my shape the same way I’ve traced his, wondering, as I do, about the history written into skin.
Seduction slips as recognition takes hold.
Similar beings from different worlds. Same and altogether not.
Closer now, and to distract myself, I ask, “The tattoos… are they?—”
“Runes,” he says, his hand moving over his chest, fingers brushing the markings on his left pec. “Where I’m from, we call them runes.” His gaze moves over the few of mine that are visible. “Not only art. Not simply decoration. They carry meaning. Power… if you believe in such things.”
“How is that different?” I ask, genuinely curious. Does he believe mine are benign?
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his attention drifts—to the sigil just below my collarbone. The one granting me swiftness.
“As with most things…” he says, but the words come slower than before, his gaze dropping and lingering where it shouldn’t. “It depends on the one who bears it… and the power wielded by the one who made it.”
His hands lower into the water, turning slowly as if reacquainting himself with it. He lifts them again, letting the water gathered in his palms spill away in thin streams, slipping between his fingers before he extends his arms slightly closer to me.
I note how the water deepens the ink, lending it a kind of life it didn’t possess before. The black is richer like wet ink now, when combined with sunlight and water.
His chin tips as he touches a rune on his wrist—one that resembles a set of steps, or a rudimentary ladder—a single vertical line marked by short notches branching outward, the opposite side left bare.
“This,” he says, “is Saille, or In tsail idir dá shaol.” His fingers brush the mark lightly. “The pathway to the veil between worlds. Between what you consider real… and what lies beyond it. Spiritual. Divine.”
“It looks older than some of the others?”
He nods. “Yes. One of my firsts.”
“And that one?” Recognition dawns on me. “Is that the tree of life?”
He turns his wrist slightly before brushing his thumb over the rune I indicate. Larger than the others, it bears intricate knotwork that climbs the length of his forearm before spreading into the shape of a tree.
The corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “In a sense,” he says. “But we call it Duir. The door. The threshold between worlds.” His finger presses against the trunk. “It marks me as one who has access to the gateway and can traverse between the other worlds and this one, mortal and divine, life and death. A guardian of it in a sense.”
