There’s a quiet steadiness to him now, something rooted deeper than the words themselves.
“A sacred symbol that also anchors those gifted with it—grants authority as well as a responsibility, and designates us a certain place within the community.”
His gaze lifts, holding mine.
“It comes with a purpose the bearer must accept. To stand between chaos and order. Action and consequence. To take what is wild… and shape it into something more, but not break the laws of nature or corrupt them.”
I think about that for a moment, then point at another. “And these words?”
“Which?”
Taking his hand, I draw my finger down the script written on the side of his forearm.
He pauses, a quiet sound forming low in his throat. In a reverent tone, he says, “Fír na fola—ní bristear. Ionam atá. It means the truth of blood is not broken. It lives in me.”
I listen not only to the words, but to the emotion threaded through his voice. “Most of these aren’t like any I’ve seen before.” I idly consider if that’s because they’re older than written text… or in a language I don’t yet know.
“Record and awareness of them died out long ago,” he says. “Myths remain, but much has been lost to time.”
“That saddens you?”
He nods, and some of the amusement leaves his face. “It’s something that could have done the world a lot of good… in the right hands.”
Jutting his chin, he motions to me. “I recognize some of these. Did you do all of these yourself?”
Looking down, I take in my successes and failures—the skin I’ve come to see more as canvas than flesh.
With a sigh, I reply, “Yes, after much trial and error, as you can probably tell.”
His brow arches. “Maybe after we wash up, you could tell me more about that.”
A soft smile is my answer. “Sure. If you’ll do the same. You have a great many more than I do.”
If he hears the false sincerity in my tone, he gives no sign of it.
I begin to wash in earnest, weaving my enchantment to the best of my ability as I do, rising above the water line as I slide my hands over myself. Then, realizing I left what we’ll need on the shore, I tell him, “I’ll be right back.”
He watches me go—and return—only looking away briefly when he dips below to wet his hair. He begins scrubbing the dirt and blood from his arms and chest with efficient strokes.
When I make it back to him, I hold out an offering of my own. “Soap?”
By sight, be drawn. By want, be bound.
The glaze in his eyes breaks. He blinks once, then looks around as if orienting himself.
“Yes,” he says calmly. “Thank you.”
He reaches forward as I do. Our eyes lock and hold.
Come to me?—
Instead of accepting my offering, he knocks the soap from my hand. It disappears into the water with a soft splash.
Before I can so much as blink, his fingers wrap around my wrist—firm, unyielding—and I’m yanked forward. One arm locks around my waist, dragging me flush against him, the other sliding up to the back of my neck, tightening just enough to send a spike of fear through me.
The water breaks around us in uneven waves as I stare up at him—no space left, no time to think—inches from his mouth and the grave expression promising violence.
“Work your magic, witch,” he murmurs, voice layered with warning. “And I’ll work mine.”
