Between Tears & Wind (and other erotica stories by E.T. Valkyr)

[Pantasia]

Hello! I've been writing erotica for some time but for reasons (mostly Life™) I haven't been publishing. But that ends soon! I write multi-genre pansexual erotica with a focus on story and character development. On Monday I relaunch my Patreon and will be posting my stories in a variety of places.

But I thought I'd give the Ecchi community a sneak peak of a story I'm about to publish! This is the first half of a fantasy story inspired by Celtic, Irish, and Greek mythology.

I hope you like it, and do not be shy to comment! I want to improve my craft, so thoughts and criticism are always welcome!

I'll post the second half here when it's available on my Patreon, two weeks from Monday. All my stories will be available there for free (albeit with a two week early access window for patrons who pledge for that).

Check the spoiler below to get some more info about kinks and themes.

Spoiler

Sex scenes: M/F/M, F/M

Themes & Kinks: fantasy, mythology, slice-of-life, romance, build-up, impregnation, threesome, mythical being (satyr), orgy (in the background)

 

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Between Tears and Wind

(First Half)

The damp weight of her husband rolled off Máire, and all she could feel was relief. There was a time when his stout frame, rugged handsomeness, and shy smile had summoned a tickle in her belly, but beyond the first night of their marriage he had been unable to turn that tickle into pleasure. Colm was no great lover, and he didn’t have to be. They were married, and marriage was for life. He could have from her what he wanted. And apparently what he wanted was to once per week push his stem inside her a dozen times until he groaned and deposited his seed.

She turned to him, about to implore once more that he give her more attention like he had that first night. But he was fast asleep, snoring with his face buried in a hay-filled pillow. May he suffocate on it, she thought.

Though she didn’t really want him dead. She just wanted a husband who wasn’t a heartless oaf. She grabbed a piece of cloth from beside the bed and wiped away his seed as it spilled from her sheath, then turned her back to him.

Sleep eluded her, so she stepped out of bed and pulled her nightshirt back over her head, letting it drop down over her voluptuous, freckled body. When she had been unmarried, men had praised her for the beauty of her fair skin and fiery red hair. They had marvelled at the depth of her bright green eyes. Now, that same praise was instead offered to her husband, as if even her beauty belonged to him. It galled her.

The cool air of a spring night swept over her as she stepped outside, barefoot on the courtyard dirt of their small farmstead. By the threshold to their house stood their offerings to the fae, bread and milk. They were untouched. Colm called it a pointless waste, but it was one of the things she would not yield on. Only a fool could walk through the forest and not believe it was alive and watching.

Some of the sheep came up toward the fence of their pen when she drew near, watching her with slitted eyes. One poked its muzzle through the fence, hoping for a treat, but was satisfied with a few friendly scratches on its snout.

Sighing, she walked through the meadow, dewy grass cold on her feet. She ran her toes through it, savouring the feeling. She’d rather be cold out here than warm in bed with her husband.

***

The next day Máire was at the loom, working the yarn she had spun into wool cloth. She used some of the cloth herself to sew clothes and blankets, but most Colm traded for at the market in Gleann Ofthen, where he would go a few times per year. He didn’t allow her to come along even though her sister lived there, whom she’d dearly want to visit. But ‘trading was man’s work’, he would say, and that was that. At least he traded sensibly, getting good value for her hard work. For all of his other flaws, she could not fault him when it came to running their farmstead.

Late at night she would work her own designs. Wool cloaks mostly, decorated on the hem with intricate interweaving knots and spirals, the way her mother had taught her. The way she hoped she could one day teach her daughter. If Colm would ever give her one.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Colm stepped into her weaver’s cottage, looking more sullen and bitter than usual. It always felt like an invasion to her, him coming here. It was her space. He pushed a hand through his thick, brown hair the way he always did when he wanted to talk about something that he found embarrassing. She turned away from the loom, facing him, and waited for him to speak. The fact that she didn’t greet him seemed to irritate him. He wanted her to be every bit the obedient and respectful wife. But she was done with that. A dowry could buy you a marriage. Respect had to be earned.

“Wife. You must become pregnant,” he said as if it was something she simply had to decide to do, and hadn’t. “I can’t have a wife who won’t give me children.” He dared not meet her eyes.

“I would like nothing more,” she replied coldly. “The weeping of a child would certainly cheer this place up.” Of late, she had become more brazen with her disapproval of his constant sour attitude. After all, what did it matter? When they were first married, she’d played the obedient wife, foolishly thinking it would make him love her. He hadn’t respected her then either, so there wasn’t much of a point in trying.

“Then see to it. I’m doing my part. If you can’t do yours, go see Blathnaid.”

“You always say she’s a witch.”

“Well, maybe witchcraft is what’s needed to fix your barren womb.” Even as he said it, she could see he regretted it. He put his hand to his forehead, sighing. She waited for him to take it back. But he just looked at her, desperate and imploring, as if it was her obligation to fix this, too.

“Out,” she said finally, her tone cold.

“Máire,” he pleaded, but she turned back to her loom.

***

A couple of days later, Máire found herself standing outside Blathnaid’s rickety little hut at the edge of the forest, not quite daring to go in. The truth was, there could be something wrong with her. What vexed her was that it didn’t even occur to Colm that the fault might lay with him. Women bore the children, so fertility must be their responsibility. Or so he had been taught, and what he had learned about women and marriage as a young man were clearly beliefs he held tightly, never to be re-examined.

Máire hadn’t come because Colm had told her. It was because Máire’s mother had trusted the old woman with important matters of love, health, and life—though, she had called her Blossom. Her mother had told Máire a story of young Blossom, who had forsaken her life in the mortal realm to take a fae lover and live in Faerie. There she had spent many lifetimes, and when she returned she was a bean feasa, a wise woman. While Máire didn’t quite believe all of that, her mother had sworn that without Blossom’s help, Máire’s sister Áine would never have been born. Áine, who now lived in Gleann Ofthen with her husband, which might as well be Faerie for how often Máire could see her.

A croaking voice startled Máire from her memories. “Oh ho hum. Do not linger so, but come inside, Máire of Brambleby.”

Máire stepped through the doorway, pushing aside the worn hides that served as a door. The air inside was pregnant with the scent of dried herbs and mushrooms. Next to a small fire sat the crone Blathnaid, looking every bit the witch many claimed she was. Her grey hair was a tangled mess with charms of bone and feathers hanging from it, and it framed a dirty, wrinkled face with sharp eyes.

Máire went over to her and placed a fine wool cloak of her own making at the old woman’s feet. She had meant it for herself, but her mother had always said that to get proper help from a bean feasa, one must bring fine gifts.

The old woman looked at the cloak, eyes narrowed, then nodded at Máire and gestured impatiently with a gnarled, stick-like arm for Máire to go on. “Speak, child.” Then she reached for a bowl that contained a brew or tea of some kind, sipping on it. It gave off a fetid, cloying stench.

“I have come for advice on fertility.”

“No children borne in the house of Colm, so I hear, so I hear. Oh ho ho.” The old woman crooned, like she was reciting rhymes for a child.

“And what—”

“And none there will be, for no seed will grow in your field, Máire of Brambleby. Oh ho hum.”

Máire was stunned. There was no way this old woman could know so much, was there? Yet she spoke not only with certainty, but with the air of a person who cared little if her words were heeded. Like she unburdened herself of the truth, that someone else may deal with it.

“Only one way for Máire of Brambleby to come to bear. So I know. So I know.”

Máire squeezed her eyes shut. Either she left now, taking her cloak with her, or she decided to trust her mother’s faith in the old ways. She opened her eyes. “Tell me.”

The old woman looked up. “On the eve of the summer solstice, to the standing stones of Rathcoiran she will go. Oh ho ho. Leave an offering, she should. Of the thing she holds dearest. Oh ho hum. Step then she must, when the veil between worlds is thin, between tears and wind.”

Máire stared at her. “Must you always speak in riddles?” she said, sighing. “This is madness.”

“Aye, madness. Madness,” the crone crooned, nodding agreement. “Oh ho ho. But naught will put a child into a fruitless womb, save the seed of satyr. Oh ho hum.”

Máire shook her head incredulously “I’ve given you a fine wool cloak. And in return you tell me to lay with a goat?”

The crone laughed then, loud and merry at first, perhaps an echo of the young blossom she had once been, but soon it devolved into phlegmatic coughing, and she was forced to catch her breath, then sip on her foul-smelling tea.

“Fire in you,” the old woman said when she had settled her throat. “Just like your mother.” For a moment, Máire thought there was a fondness in the old woman’s eyes. Then her demeanour darkened again. “It is the only way. The only way. Oh ho hum.”

Máire turned to leave. She had half a mind to take her cloak back, but something stopped her. Her mother had certainly believed this woman had some hidden power. As she stepped outside, the old woman’s voice followed her.

“But leave before the dawn she must. She must. Or stuck she will be, in the land of Faerie. Oh ho ho.”

Máire shook her head and stalked back towards the village.

***

It was the eve of summer solstice. All of Brambleby had gathered up for the great feast in the village green. All except Máire, who had snuck away after telling Colm she had woman troubles, which always made him blush and tell her to go deal with it.

I am a fool, she thought as she stood before the standing stones of Rathcoiran. They stood on a hill overlooking the dark woods they were named for, five huge stones, each taller than a man, raised by their ancestors and carved with ancient symbols that few alive knew the full meaning of. Her mother had come here to offer gifts to the fae, leaving them on the big stone slab in the centre. As she stood there, she realised it had been years since her last visit. By the looks on the offerings on the slab, the same was true for a lot of the villagers. The old ways are being forgotten. The thought came unbidden, accompanied by an inexplicable stab of sorrow.

She hugged her chest. The evening air wasn’t particularly cold, but she was only wearing her feast-day clothes, a green linen dress with a simple belt and a light white shift underneath. The top of her dress was held together with an intricate bronze brooch given to her by her mother, made to look like a scaled dragon biting its tail. She was barefoot, as she always was when she was able. The feast would mean an opportunity to dance, as she so loved to. It was one of the few times when she felt free.

A sudden urge struck her to go back to the feast and forget about the whole thing, but even as she turned to leave, she heard the strangest sound. Music. Faint and distant, accompanied by laughter, cheering, and singing, only it was like no music she had ever heard before. It was gone as quickly as it had come. Her mind immediately went to the feast that was surely in full swing at the village green. Yet what she had heard hadn’t been the usual pipe and drum, but something boundlessly more beautiful and graceful, made by instruments she could not name. And it had come from the stones.

She had to know. As she walked up to the stone slab she removed her brooch. It was, she had decided without much hesitation, her dearest possession. She sighed and put it on the slab. With the release of the brooch, the cut of her dress became a fair bit more generous, showing off the cleave of her ample, freckled breasts. If indeed she were going to the summer solstice feast of the fae, she imagined it would not be quite the scandal it might have been back in Brambleby.

Nothing happened. The wind whistled through the stones. A nightjar churred in the distance. She was getting chilly from standing still.

Her gaze fell one one of the stones.

“These tell of the tears of Banbha, after her love died in battle.” Her mother spoke to Máire through time, explaining the markings on the stones to her young daughters.

“Why are people sad, mother?” asked Áine, not much more than a toddler.

“Sometimes the only way we can find joy is by finding a way through the sorrow.”

“And this one?” said little Máire, pointing towards the next stone.

“It is the stone of the Cailleach, goddess of cold and wind.”

“But those are bad things. Why does she get a stone?”

“Good and bad, Máire, are often a matter of where you stand. Have you not sometimes been thankful for a cool breeze on a hot summer day? And who would carry the seeds of the ash if the wind didn’t blow?”

“I would,” Máire said, just like she had all those years ago. Tears were gathering in her eyes. They should have had more time together.

She stepped closer to the stone of Banbha, putting her hand to it. As she moved, the moon came into view from behind Cailleach’s stone, its silver rays lighting up the space between the two stones in a halo of silver light. And ever so faintly, she heard that music again.

“Between tears and wind,” Máire said, and stepped between the stones.

Everything changed in an instant. It was not night, but day. Shadows cast by silver moonlight changed to the crisp shadows of a midday sun. Warmth crept back into her body like the embrace of a long-lost friend. Instead of a lonely wind in the trees and the call of a nightjar there was cheering, laughing, singing, and that music she had heard, no longer distant, but loud, lively, and chaotic. All around her was the joyous, raucous turmoil of a grand feast. And the revellers were, beyond any doubt, the denizens of the hidden realm of Faerie.

The standing stones among which she stood seemed the only thing unchanged, and the revellers maintained a certain distance to them as if by unspoken agreement. Every manner of creature feasted in the fields around Máire, many she could not name, but some that she recognised from her mother’s tales. She saw a diminutive clurichaun sitting on an oversized toadstool, trying to outwit a couple of redcaps in a contest of riddles. There was a pooka being chased by a pack of howling werewolves, cackling in laughter as it shifted into various animal forms to outwit its would-be captors. Otherworldly banshees wailed mournfully and even a kelpie floated ghost-like in the air, dripping with water and singing its alluring tunes. Faeries of all sizes flitted about, some barely larger than a bee, others the size of a toddler.

And there were the aes sídhe, men and women who carried themselves with the grace of a doe in flight, yet held the barely contained ferocity of a stalking wolf beneath their calm exterior, as if they embodied nature in all its aspects. They strode through the frolicking crowd with a regal bearing, and even as they smiled and danced, there was a hint of disdain on their impossibly beautiful faces.

Máire felt overwhelmed. Though she had no memory of it, she found she had taken a few steps away from the stones. Her daze was broken when a faerie the size of a robin zipped right towards her, giving out a little “whoop!” as it narrowly avoided crashing into Máire’s face.

“Ey! Watch where y’er standing!” the little creature piped as she hovered in the air. She was wearing a sheer dress that glittered like starlight in morning dew, and her wings were those of a dragonfly.

Máire was still only capable of a befuddled stare. It was too much. Her mother had told her all about this, but as an adult Máire had assumed they were childhood fancies. Now, one of those fancies was talking to her.

The faerie took another critical glance at Máire, top to toe. “Oh, hey ho! Not from around ‘ere, are ya?”

Máire shook her head.

“Well, you paid your dues, so you can stay for the feast! They call me Tipper. What can I do fer ya, my lovely lass?” She winked seductively and Máire found herself blushing.

“I—I’m looking for satyrs,” she stammered.

“Oh! Lovely folk, if a wee rowdy. They don’t normally hold to these parts, but a few usually come up for the feast. Revelry is their thing!” She flew a little closer and held her tiny hand up to shield a conspiratorial whisper. “I know I shouldn’t speak ill of my folk, but if you like a good party, there’s no better than the bacchanalia.”

Máire stood there, quite unsure of what the little faerie was saying.

“Not a big talker, I see. Well, people do say I’m more than happy to do the yabberin’! Come with me!” She started flying towards the edge of the forest, which had brighter colours here, though it felt none the less dangerous to Máire. But she followed along, not feeling she had much choice in the matter. She had a strong feeling that navigating this place with nothing but her wits wouldn’t end well, so she had to trust someone.

Tipper zipped back and forth impatiently ahead of Máire, calling out to the various people and creatures along the way.

“S’cuse us, your royal bigness,” she said to a haughty sídhe knight in golden armour as she passed by.

“Don’t look that one in the eyes,” she warned as Máire stared at a thin, unassuming man in a tall hat and some kind of darkened spectacles.

“Outta the way, pipsqueak!” she shouted at an enormous bear-man, who shrugged and took a step to the side.

Out by the edge of the forest the crowd thinned a bit, though the music and singing seemed to follow them wherever they went like an insistent lover, refusing to let them out of its hold.

“Last I saw, some of them goat folk were over ‘ere!” piped Tipper and pointed inwards.

“You’re not coming?”

“Nope! I insulted an acorn a few centuries back and the oaks have never forgiven me. Long memory, they have. Best I stay out of the Rathcoiran.”

“Oh,” was all Máire could say.

“Just take care to leave before dawn!” she said. “Bye-ya!” Tipper didn’t wait for a reply, but zipped away, back towards the feast.

It occurred to Máire that she had never even told the feisty little faerie her name. Though she did recall her mother warning her about doing just that when it came to the fae. She shrugged and began wandering into the Rathcoiran forest. The feast suddenly felt much further away, thought the music still hovered in the background, never quite leaving her even as she walked further in. In the Rathcoiran of her world the undergrowth quickly became nigh impassible, but this was a gentler version with grass, mossy rocks, and sun shining through the leaves. It looked welcoming, though she felt it was a deception, for just like with the sídhe, she felt that danger lurked under its surface. Tipper had feared the very trees of this forest, after all.

She had no choice but to wander aimlessly. Once more, it was music that ended up guiding her steps. The wanton revelry of the feast was replaced by the airy notes of a solitary flute, floating to her like they were made by the breath of the wind. She followed it, hesitant at first, but soon captivated by the elegant and simple beauty of the melody. As she drew near, a small stream added its playful burble to the music, and when the musician came into Máire’s view, she stopped in her tracks, letting out a soft gasp.

A muscular man sat perched on a boulder overlooking the stream, broad-shouldered but lean. His head was crowned by curved ram’s horns, and thick brown fur covered his legs, which ended not in feet, but hooves. Without a doubt, this was a satyr. But despite his imposing appearance, she did not feel threatened by him. For he held an instrument to his mouth, several small wooden tubes of increasing length strung together in a row. By moving this strange flute back and forth to blow across the tubes, he called forth beautiful music.

Máire was entranced, not only by the music but by the gentleness with which the satyr swayed with the rhythm, how emotions flowed over his face as he poured them into the music, caught up in the act of creation. It seemed there was no beginning or end, no structure, just a stream of notes in tune with the surrounding forest. And indeed, the trees felt less threatening here, as if his music appeased them.

Máire sat down in the moss and leaves and watched him as he played. His face was broad but kind. Rich brown hair reached to his shoulders and a generous patch of hair grew on his muscled chest. His skin was a colour she had never seen before, as if permanently bronzed by the sun. After she knew not how long, the music finally ended and Máire sighed wistfully, already feeling a pang of loss from its absence. “That was beautiful,” she said, her hands clasped together and pressed to her chest.

The satyr looked over at her, perhaps a little surprised by her presence. “It is a pleasure to play for the forest, and a rarer pleasure still to play for a human on this side of the veil. Your folk do not visit as often as they used to.” His voice was deep and sonorous, touching Máire somewhere deep in her chest.

“My mother often spoke of this place, and from her words it sounded like our ancestors would come and go like it was the neighbouring village.”

“So it was, and not long ago for my kind. But soon we will be but memory and myth to you, and our realms will part ways.” There was a strange sadness in his voice, then he smiled at her again. “But not yet.”

“I was told to return before dawn.”

The satyr slid off the boulder and stretched his muscled body, and Máire was abashed to see that he was quite naked, his generous stem hanging freely from his furred loins. “And wisely so, or you will be stuck here. They call me Katheidron of Nysa. I too am a long way from home.”

“I am Máire. Of Brambleby,” she added, feeling she should match his form of address. Then she remembered. “Though my mother always warned me not to give my name to any fae.”

“And she was wise to do so. But it is your true name you must keep secret, and that you have not given me, or I would know it. For a true name holds great power.”

Máire was about to protest when she was struck by a flash of memory. Her mother, leaning over her as she was falling asleep, calling her by a name she could not recall. It must have been when she was very young.

“Come, Máire, let us go find my brethren,” Katheidron said and slung a small cloth satchel over his shoulder which he placed his flute in, then reached out to offer his hand to her. She took it without hesitation. His thick fingers were warm to the touch, and a shiver ran through her body.

They walked in silence for a while. Katheidron seemed to not speak because he had no urge to fill the silence with words. Máire didn’t speak because she was nervous. How could she broach the sensitive subject that was the purpose of her visit?

Before they arrived at the glade that the satyrs had taken as their refuge, the sounds of new revelry reached them. And not just any revelry, but lewd revelry. For there was no mistaking the sounds of several dozens of people caught in the throes of sexual ecstasy. Máire felt herself blushing even before they crested a small hill and looked down upon a scene of carnal debauchery like she could never have imagined.

Satyrs were engaged in various lewd acts with the local fae folk as well as each other, and Máire was surprised not only to see that there were women satyrs, but that some seemed to be—both? A satyr with big, soft breasts and wide hips was holding a kneeling sídhe noble by his hair, pumping his mouth over her large, erect stem. What looked like a living tree was penetrating a satyr woman on her fours before it. A satyr man stood half-immersed in the little creek that ran through the glade, his face deep in between the legs of a moaning kelpie who was floating in the air, legs parted. There were several faeries rutting with a redcap and a sídhe wrestling tongues with a satyr. There was a banshee with her fingers deep inside herself as a faerie man humped her mouth.

All around the glade, people were naked and rutting. And many more were watching with interest, or drinking wine from clay amphoras, or pouring it onto those engaged in the orgy, while others were simply pleasuring themselves. Everywhere she looked, Máire saw the strangest of sexual unions, and she found she had stopped in her tracks, once more quite unable to process what she was seeing.

Katheidron stopped along with her with a slight grin on his face, but it was warm, not mocking. “So, Máire. Speak to me of why you have come.”

Máire was so flushed her face must be as red as her hair by now, and she could hear her heartbeat pulsing in her ears.

“T’is nought to be ashamed of,” he said. And indeed, he didn’t look the least bit bothered by any of what was going on before them.

She gathered her courage and looked right at him. His eyes, a deep yellow colour that reminded her of gold, were soft and patient as she took a few steadying breaths. “I am unable to bear children. Blathnaid, the bean feasa of Brambleby, said I must come here and—” she sighed; best get it over with “—and lay with a satyr.”

He nodded. “Old Blossom spoke true.”

“You know her?”

“I know of her. Not many humans spend such a long time in Faerie. Fewer still return to the mortal realm.”

“Blossom. That’s what my mother called her. So the story is true.”

“Most stories are. Now, let me call upon some of my brethren, who I am sure would be more than pleased to help you with your problem.”

Máire frowned, looking over at the gentle satyr, and though she had only known him for the briefest of time, she could not help but feel jilted. “Not you, Katheidron?”

“Not I, Máire of Brambleby,” he said, looking out at the glade below. “I am not like most of my kind, who carelessly fling from tryst to tryst, never setting their hooves down.”

It saddened her. But who was she to lay claim to him? “Of course,” she said. “I understand.” But she could not keep the disappointment out of her voice.

He turned to look at her then, tilting his head as if seeing her anew. She met his gaze and held it.

But whatever he had seen had not been enough, for soon he turned back towards the orgy below. “Babacchos! Nektarios!” he called out with his booming voice. Two satyrs detached themselves from the festivities and came walking up the hill at a leisurely pace.

“This is Máire of Brambleby,” Katheidron told them when they arrived. “She has asked for a gift of seed.”

Máire looked at the two. One was bigger and more muscled, his skin darker yet than Katheidron’s, and his hefty stem already half-way stiff between his legs. He grinned through a full beard. The other was slim and lean and carried a skin of sweet-smelling wine that he was currently indulging himself from by pouring a stream over his mouth, though as much of the golden liquid ran down his chest as down his gullet.

“T’is a pleasure,” said the large one with a deep rumble. “They call me Babacchos. And this is Nektarios, a scoundrel and a drunk.”

Nektarios tilted the wine skin back and grinned. “It’s true, but only because we’re all scoundrels and drunks. Spiced honey wine?” he said and offered the skin to her.

Máire was about to say no. But if she was going to do this, she decided she could use a little extra courage. She took it. “Thanks.” Her inhibitions would definitely need more than a nudge to engage in anything like what was going on further down the hill. She tilted the skin like Nektarios had and gulped down some of the wine. It tasted wonderful, not harsh and biting like the brew she’d drunk a few times at feasts in Brambleby, but smooth and sweet, with a gentle touch of herbs she couldn’t name.

After a couple of gulps, Nektarios took hold of Máire’s arm and gently tilted it back. “Best you let that sink in first,” he said, smiling. “This has quite the bite, brewed by Methe herself. And your folk can’t hold their brew.” He grinned.

Máire opened her mouth to protest when a strange warmth started flowing through her. She felt like she was being gently rocked in the arms of the world, and she had to grab on to Nektarios’ arm to steady herself. “Oh. I see what you mean.”

He nodded. “So. Máire of Brambleby. My oaf of a friend here—” he nodded at Babacchos “— and I are at your service.” He made a theatrical bow.

Katheidron nodded. “For all they don’t seem the least bit trustworthy, I know they will take good care of you.” He eyed the two sharply, one by one, as if stressing the importance of what he had said. Then, to Máire’s disappointment, he turned and walked off. Though he did not go far, but sat himself on the top of the hill and brought out his strange flute, taking up a lively and forceful tune that accompanied the grunts, moans, and cries of pleasure of the people below. And as if it were the most natural thing, the noise of the revellers below began falling into pace with his tunes, creating the chorus for a piece of delirious music.

Máire sighed, wondering again how this particular satyr had gotten to her so. Then she turned to the other two, though she could not look them in the eyes. “I don’t really know what to do,” she admitted.

“Not to worry,” said Babacchos and took a step closer. “We can take it slow. Most humans are so oddly ashamed of this.” He gestured with his arm over the glade and its rutting revellers. “Understand that no one here carries such a strange burden. It’s something we do for pleasure, for fun, and to connect with people. And every now and again, to make a child,” he added and winked. “Just look inside yourself. Find the lust in there that has been caged up. And act on it. You can do what you like with us. We’ve seen it all.”

Máire nodded, glad for the warmth of the wine which was giving her both comfort and courage. Taking slow, steady breaths, she closed her eyes and searched inside, looking for that tickle she had once felt when thinking of her husband. And it was there, plain as day. Had been there for quite some time, caged up like Babacchos said, forgotten and only now coming back to life. She glanced over at Katheidron again, knowing when it had begun to stir. Then she turned back and took a step closer to Babacchos, whose strong furry legs, broad chest, and friendly smile also roused a warm feeling in her belly.

He put an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, and she sank into his embrace, shuddering a bit at his warm touch, his skin tough but smooth. She leaned her head against his chest and sighed, feeling more at ease with each moment that passed. The hair on his chest was thick and soft, and she reached out to run her hand through it. His other hand found her hair and he ran his fingers gently through the red waves that spilled down her shoulders.

Máire looked up at Babacchos, whose deep brown eyes caught her with a look that surprised her, for in the eyes of this man she had only just met, there was so much more care and respect than she had ever seen in the eyes of her husband. What else had she been missing out on? Without hesitation she stood up on her toes to face him, and he lowered his head towards her, placing his big lips against hers. A simple and innocent kiss at first, but soon he opened his mouth a little, and she followed. His beard tickled her chin, and as their tongues met, playing softly, she found he tasted of wine and spring rain. Eager to explore more of him, she opened her mouth and let her tongue delve deeper until it was wrestling with his, which was coarse and strong yet sensuous. Just like him.

There was a warm pressure against her belly and she looked down to see his stem pushed up against her dress, stiffening and growing. It was large and dark, though near the tip it brightened to pink, except the head which glistened purple. Next to her, Nektarios had moved closer, one hand still pouring himself more of the golden wine, the other on his stem, caressing it gently, making it rise.

It dawned on her that this would be her only chance to experience anything like this, and with sudden and powerful resolution she decided that she must commit herself completely. Open the cage and let it all out. Try anything she desired.

She fell to her knees in front of Babacchos, and Nektarios placed himself within easy reach, a big smile on his face as he no doubt guessed her intent.

First, she placed her hand on the head of Babacchos’ impressive stem. It was wet and warm, and he gasped a little, clear fluid leaking from the tip like sap. Her other hand she placed at the root, and she felt his heartbeat through the soft skin. Carefully, she ran her hand along the length of it, calling forth a deep rumble from him. It took her a moment to realise it was a moan. Pleased with the effect, she continued stroking him, spreading some of the sap from his head along the shaft, making her hand move slickly along the length. Just touching him like this amplified the tingle between her legs.

Nektarios, still with a hand on his stem, reached out with the wine skin towards Máire, his eyebrows raising in question. She nodded, and he tilted it so it poured down at her, some hitting her mouth, some running down her neck and into her cleavage, gathering a moment between her freckled breasts. She swallowed it down, feeling a new rush of warmth that softly emphasised the lust that was spreading throughout her body. Without realising it, she had put a hand to her breast, and suddenly she wondered why she was still wearing clothes. She stood up and lifted her arms, and the two satyrs obliged her by helping pull her dress over her head, leaving her with only a thin, white undergown through which her perky nipples and freckled body was highlighted by the dappled rays of the sun. She undid the string at the back with a practised twitch and tug, then let it slide down over her soft shoulders, holding it up against her chest for a moment of hesitation, blushing a little as she let it drop to the ground, revealing her voluptuous body to anyone who might look her way.

Babacchos smile was warm as his eyes passed over her body, taking in the details slowly. His gaze held none of the possessiveness or raw hunger that she had often seen in the eyes of men as she danced around the fire of the solstice feast. No doubt he had seen hundreds of naked people from all manner of folk. And he too stood naked before her, after all.

Nektarios merely whistled appreciatively. “Máire of Brambleby,” he said, stepping closer with a big smile on his face. “You are a vision of beauty. Surely an unwitting goddess who walks among mortals, with skin like the first blush of winter dawn, and hair like fire.”

 

[Pantasia]

And here's the second half! There's also a piece of flash fiction on my Patreon now, and I'm soon going to post another story into early access. There are some early bird offers available too!

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Between Tears and Wind

(Second Half)

Length: (6200 words)

Though Máire’s nakedness had first made her feel exposed and ashamed, Babacchos’ gentle gaze and Nektarios’ flowery compliments were a fresh breeze that swept away her doubts. She put one hand on Nektarios’ stem and began stroking it, beckoning Babacchos closer with the other, who was not slow to oblige so that she could grab onto his stem as well. While stroking both their erections, she went down on her knees and put her full lips to Babacchos’ slick stem, taking the whole head into her mouth. It had a tangy, sweet taste that was a bit odd but not entirely unpleasant. She pushed her mouth further, trying to mimic what she had seen people doing in the glade below, her lips closing around the shaft as she played with her tongue over the head. Another rumbling moan was her reward.

She felt Babacchos’ strong fingers running through her hair, then his hand laid to rest on her head, a warm comfort as she ran her lips up and down his shaft, taking in a little more of it each time until she gagged a little when it touched the back of her throat, but she quickly learned where she needed to stop so that didn’t happen. Babacchos moaned deeply as she bobbed her head up and down the length of his stem a few more times, smacking and slurping more and more as her inhibitions melted away. Then she pulled away and continued to stroke it while she turned to Nektarios, whose face brightened up at the attention. He offered his wineskin, which curiously never seemed to run out of the golden liquid, and she opened her mouth for him. With a laugh he poured generously and wantonly from the skin so that much of it streamed down her chest, splashing on the roundness of her ample breasts and trickling over the wide, pink circles around her rich nipples.

With the taste of herbs and honey in her mouth, she engulfed Nefarios’ stem with more confidence, taking as much of it as she could into her mouth on the first go, making him let out a grunt followed by a long sigh. Her head moved with increasing speed as she got comfortable with the act, her saliva slobbering onto his shaft along with his juices, now being worked into a white froth. He tasted a little different from Babacchos, not surprisingly a little more of honey, but with an earthy tang.

Nektarios’ moans were reaching a crescendo, and she suddenly realised he was about to eject his seed. She had no idea what to do. But he pulled his stem out of her mouth and stroked it a few times, and soon he groaned loudly as sticky liquid shot out of the tip. Several bursts of the thick, creamy load landed on her chest, warm against her skin, and something made her reach up to massage her breasts, working it into her skin like a healing salve. When Nektarios was done, some of it still clung to the head of his stem, and she leaned in and licked it off, curious of the taste. It was similar to that of his stem, though more bitter and a bit pungent, but she swallowed it down, looking up at him, her green eyes meeting his dark ones.

“Thank you, Máire, o goddess of the mortal realm,” he chanted, eyes half closed, lost in reverie. “The touch of your lips on the stem of my manhood is like the balm of honeyed wine from home to a wanderer lost in foreign lands.” It seemed he had the soul of a poet.

Then she remembered why she had come. “The seed. Isn’t it wasted?”

Nektarios seemed lost in a daydream, but Babacchos only chuckled a little, and Máire turned back to him, scooting a bit closer and starting to stroke his stem again.

“What?” she said.

“We are satyrs. We do not run out of seed,” he said, then moaned as she let her grip around his shaft grow a little more firm. “Aaaahh! Máire of Brambleby, I do believe you’re taking to this like a fledgling bird to the skies. But there are many more ways we can enjoy each other’s company, and some that are much more pleasurable for you. Why don’t I—aaaaaghhh!” he called out as she stroked his stem more quickly and with a firmer grip while taking the tip into her mouth again. There might be more pleasures waiting for her, but for now she wanted to enjoy how she could make this musky, beautiful man feel.

Nektarios had sat down next to them, watching as Máire happily took in more and more of Babacchos’ stem, no longer caring if she gagged a bit when it hit the back of her throat. Babacchos moaned and she could feel the deep rumble of it through his shaft. And as she sucked and slobbered, she felt her own sex growing warmer and warmer in a way she had never known, like it was swelling up and readying itself. There was an empty space in her tummy that needed to be filled. Her hand fell to the lips between her legs and she was surprised to find them warm, soft, and wet. Even touching them made her moan, and she kept rubbing at them, sending tingles of pleasure through her body.

Babacchos called out loudly as he began ejecting his seed, and she held steadily onto his stem when he tried to pull back. As he huffed and groaned in his husky tones, his warm seed burst into her mouth, and though it was sticky and a little cloying, she swallowed it down even as more came flooding out in a thick stream. When he was done, she released him and swallowed a few more times, meeting his brown eyes as he looked down at her with a dreamy smile.

Máire reached out and stole the wineskin from Nefarios’ hand, who merely smiled at her, still only half present. She washed down Babacchos’ seed with some wine, then looked back at him. “Now show me what you can do for me.”

He nodded, looking nothing but pleased at the notion. “Lie down, Máire, and give me the honour of showing me your sheath.”

All her worry and shame were long gone, so she did as he said, laying down on the ground. It was mossy and soft, like it had been made for the purpose. When Babacchos moved closer, she spread her legs for him. A bushel of rich red hair covered the mound above her sex and reached down along the sides of her lips, and when her wet lips parted in front of him he whimpered and fell to his knees. She thought he was going to lay with her, but instead he prostrated himself before her, and his head fell down between her legs. One of his large hands grabbed onto her thigh while the other found its way to her mound, brushing through her hair before gently caressing her swollen outer lip even as his tongue touched a sensitive spot at the top of her entrance, making her shudder.

Never had she felt anything like that first touch, but she soon found out it was merely the beginning, for he started circling his tongue around that spot as his finger pushed a little bit inside of her wetness, pressing against the wall. His beard tickled against her thighs and she grabbed onto his horns. Her back arched a little and she pushed her sex right up against his face and used her grip on his horns to press him closer. He chuckled merrily before his tongue dove into her. He kept a steady grip on her thigh to make sure she couldn’t slip away as he explored deeper with one finger, then two, massaging against the fleshy walls firmly, rhythmically. Each touch of his tongue, each press of his fingers sent waves of pleasure through her whole body, her sex clamping down on his fingers instinctively, her muscles tensing and relaxing, her body twitching under his grip. And as ecstasy washed over her, she felt the skein of worry and pain that she had carried in her chest for years finally starting to unravel.

It did not take long for her to find out that she too could be brought to the peak of pleasure, for Babacchos’ tongue uncovered something just above her sex that when touched by its roughness made her release all her tension in powerful spasms, her whole lower body quivering, her legs locked around his head and holding him fast while clear juices burst out of her onto his face and beard. He roared with joyous laughter as she slowly relaxed, sinking back to the ground, and feeling like all her worries had been swept away.

Babacchos dropped down beside her and she rolled up to snuggle against his warm, strong body, laying her head on his offered arm and feeling his soft fur against her skin. She reached out to run her hand through his chest hair as she lay there in blissful relaxation.

“Thank you,” she said after a while.

“It was my pleasure, Máire of Brambleby,” he replied in his rumbling voice.

After a while she sighed, recalling why she had come. “I still need the seed.” As she said it, her mind moved to the lively tunes of Katheidron’s flute, still skipping playfully through the glade, accompanying the sounds of the raging orgy.

“But not mine,” said Babacchos, his voice gentle, untainted by jealousy or disappointment.

She shook her head. “No.” She rolled to lie on her back again and craned her neck to look at Katheidron as he sat there, lost in his music. “There’s just something about him.”

“There is that,” agreed Babacchos. He withdrew his arm carefully and turned over, placing his elbow on the ground so he could rest his head in his hand and look down at Máire. He was unabashedly admiring her, his gaze on her breasts, which had flattened a bit and were spilling to the sides of her chest as she lay on her back.

“But he said he’s not like the others of your kind.”

Babacchos gave a small shrug. “So you won’t even try?” He raised his eyebrows.

Máire blinked at him, taken aback. Then she pushed herself up so she could plant a kiss on Babacchos’ cheek, which he accepted with closed eyes. She stood up.

“Good luck,” Babacchos said and laid back, apparently satisfied with watching the revellers below for now.

Máire walked past Nektarios, who had begun stroking his stem again as he watched a sídhe lady on all fours spreading herself open for what looked like a troll, whose stem was of a prodigious size.

Katheidron was lost in his music, and Máire didn’t want to disturb him, so she walked up and sat down next to him on the mossy ground. Only when she felt the soft texture of the moss against her skin did she become aware of her nakedness, but she found it didn’t bother her at all. She leaned back, putting her arms behind her head. The animated melody of Katheidron’s flute whirled through the verdant crowns of the ash and oak that stretched out above her, leaves bright green and shaking gently in the breeze. The impressions floated together and Máire felt like she was a part of that whole, flying away on the breeze accompanied by the lively tunes, caressed by the wind, and cheered on by the trees.

Máire didn’t know how long she just lay there, melting into the strange and beautiful world, but when her awareness shifted back to her surroundings, darkness had come. The patches of sky she could see through the foliage were scattered with stars in a multitude of colours that cast a dim, surreal light over the forest. And she was lying right next to Katheidron, the side of her chest pressed against the warm fur of his leg. He was no longer playing his flute, only sitting there quietly, looking up towards the sky.

From the sound of it, the revelry was still going strong in the glade below. Others had taken up instruments, playing cheerful tunes and beating a heavy, primal rhythm on drums.

Máire looked up at Katheidron, who turned towards her like he had felt her gaze on him. The otherworldly light of the stars gave his twisted horns and broad face an alien beauty. He smiled at her, though she detected sadness in that smile.

“I want it to be you,” was all she said. But she meant it with all her heart. He would father her child, or no one would. It was something she could not explain, other than that it was the most obvious thing in the world.

To her surprise he nodded, though that sad smile stayed on his lips as he reached out to put his hand on her cheek, caressing it gently with his thumb. She leaned into his touch. With a little impatience, she raised herself so their faces were close, her nose brushing against his. When she laid an arm around his back and pressed her chest against his, he returned her embrace, his chest hair tickling her nipples as her breasts pushed up against him. She could feel that tingle of lust rising from the depths of her again, even stronger than before. But she held it back. This would be something more than the lustful romp she had enjoyed with the other two, and Máire wanted to savour it.

Katheidron leaned back into the mossy grass, pulling her gently along so that she rolled over to lie on top of him. His fur was warm against her legs and the touch of his soft, thick stem against her thigh made her shiver with desire. She smiled and looked down at him, his face locked in an enigmatic expression somewhere between melancholy and devotion, while a dappled kaleidoscope of light from the strange stars played over his features. If he had doubts, he must finally have been rid of them when she leaned in to kiss him, and he rose to meet her lips fully, closing his eyes and letting out a low moan. His hand moved to the small of her back, stroking it lightly as their kiss deepened, tongues meeting in a soft, slow dance. Even though Máire felt a more immediate urge building up inside her, she took the time to relish each new sensation, each movement of their bodies against each other. It was only as Katheidron began relaxing that she understood how tense he had been.

They broke away from the kiss and she ran a hand through his hair, then found one of his curled horns, tracing its pattern with her fingers while he looked up at her, his expression finally having changed to one of reverent desire. His hand moved from the small of her back to her rear, carefully running his fingers over the smooth skin, almost like he was unsure if it was allowed. Máire smiled down at him and took his other hand in hers, kissing it fondly before guiding it to her full breast, pushing it up against the soft flesh.

“You needn’t hold back,” she said as she pulled back to straddle his groin, keeping his hand on her breast until he began squeezing it himself. Then she lowered herself against his stem, finding it somewhat stiff as it touched her swollen lips, making her gasp.

“Oh, Máire,” was all he said as he kneaded her breast and moved his other hand to her waist, pushing up against her as she slid the wetness of her sheath against the length of his stem. She was desperate for it to fill the emptiness in her. But she held back, getting more aroused with every moment of anticipation.

His eyes were hungry as they locked on her breasts. Unable to resist any longer, he raised himself to sit up so he could place his warm lips over one of her nipples, sucking it into his mouth to run his tongue over it as he kept fondling the other breast. Máire giggled as she felt his tongue tickle her nipple, but was soon moaning at the new sensation, never having suspected her nipples could be so sensitive. The shift in position had made her slip back into his lap, his hard stem sliding along her sex and up her thigh, then stopping to rest pressed against her mound and tummy, warm and wet against her skin.

While Katheidron suckled her breast with wanton, almost desperate desire, she wrapped an arm around him and pushed her body against his, trapping his stem between their bellies. He let out a long muffled groan into her breasts as his manhood slid along their bellies, leaving a wet trail of his sap. She kept grinding herself against him, his soft fur tickling her buttocks. His hand found her rear again and his strong fingers dug into the flesh. The desire burned in her now, her sheath aching from the absence of his stem.

Máire reluctantly detached from him so she could roll to the side and lay flat on the moss. Her fiery hair spread out around her in a halo and her breasts slid a little to the sides as she looked up at him. “Now,” she said.

He turned around to kneel beside her, his thick stem hard and glistening in the starlight.

Máire opened her legs for him, her lips swollen and wet, ready for him, her desire for him torturing her, every second without his touch a sweet, painful void. He put one of his knees between her legs, and just the skin brushing against the inside of her thigh made her gasp and push herself against him, the touch of her moist lips against his skin sending a shiver through her chest. With his hands on the ground on each side of her, he lowered himself over her, more and more of their skin touching as her breasts pressed against his chest, her tummy against his soft fur. She wrapped her arms around him and he used one hand to guide the tip of his stem to her opening, his golden eyes never leaving hers as he pushed into her slowly.

The way he slid his manhood into her wet entrance with such deliberate care was maddening, and she shivered and moaned, pressing her groin up towards him to take more of him inside. He smiled at her impatience and pushed a little more, his stem caressing her lips and pushing into her depths at the same time, and she groaned loudly, her whole body begging for more, fingers digging into his back, eyes meeting his with hunger. He held himself deep inside her like that for a few moments, filling an emptiness that she had carried for a lifetime, until she whined at him for more.

When he rocked back the tip of his stem nudged something inside the top of her wet cave that sent another wave of pleasure through her, and then he began thrusting into her, slowly at first, but he too must have been impatient, for soon he picked up the speed. Each thrust made her moan as he drove into her, filling her up, and she reached a hand to his furry rear, desperately grasping at its taut muscles as if to push him in faster, further. His shaft was slick with the sweet sap of their union, and his grunts became long groans as he thrust all the way in with wet squelches.

The revelry in the glade below faded into the background, the lustful noise blending with the primal rhythms of the beating drums and setting the pace for their lovemaking. They only had eyes for each other, yet they were united with the revellers below in the rhythm of the music as Katheidron drove into Máire over and over. The two of them moaned and called out louder and louder in unison, whatever inhibitions they might have had being washed away by the euphoric joy of the moment, their minds clear and reaching for each other as their bodies joined.

When Máire felt as though the pressure was about to burst inside of her, Katheidron put his hands on her waist, grasping her firmly as he shifted positions, getting up on his knees and lifting her lower body along with him so that her shoulders and head touched the ground while he drove into her at a new angle. Her breasts bounced and she cried out with each thrust as it released wave after wave of rapturous ecstasy through her body, each merging with the next until she could barely take it anymore, her mind slipping away. When the release came it was an unstoppable torrent, her whole body convulsing from the pleasure so that Katheidron had to grip her waist tightly as she thrashed under him, her arms reaching out to grasp the moss below as she screamed out in unbridled joy.

He continued to thrust into her with wet slaps, seeking his own peak even as he intensified hers, pushing her back towards the edge. And finally his lower body twitched and his fingers dug deep into her waist, his face twisting up in pleasure, groaning loudly as his potent seed flowed into her, his stem pulsing inside her when the sticky warmth surged out in one, two, three generous loads, filling her canal with the creamy sap.

They both breathed heavily as he gently lowered her back onto the ground, then he sank into her embrace with his stem still inside her. He kissed her lips again, softer this time, and she responded in kind, reaching out to caress his hair fondly. His weight pressed against her and their skin clung together with sweat and juices. When he pulled away, his wilting stem slid out of her hole, and she could feel his warm seed slowly running out of her sheath and down her soft skin to drip onto the moss below. Máire grabbed his hand as he shifted to lie down beside her. He placed his other hand on hers and drew it close, holding it to his chest like it was precious. The soft night breeze felt welcome on her skin, cooling her a little as they lay there, breathing and watching the stars. She felt younger, like the release had washed away some of the years spent in toil and cheerlessness.

They lay there in silence for a long time. Any words between them now would inevitably lead to a place neither wanted to go. And though time passed differently in Faerie, it did still pass, and soon a faint orange glow heralded the coming of the sun.

“Dawn soon,” said Katheidron, his voice husky with emotion. Máire turned towards him, the sadness in his voice stirring her deeply. But he did not turn to her.

There were so many things she wanted to say to him, but none of them came out. Back at home, she had a life she knew and people she loved, and if she did not go she would never see them again. And she would bear a child now, of that she was certain. There was hope in her heart that it would change things between her and Colm, and even if it didn’t she wouldn’t be alone anymore. She’d have a daughter to raise. Yes. It was a daughter, she decided, whom she could teach all the things her mother had taught her. And when she returned, she would remind the villagers about the fae, and how they must not be forgotten, lest the bonds between their people be broken forever. And she would go visit Áine—to the depths with what Colm thought of it.

She pressed her eyes closed and felt tears spilling out. She squeezed Katheidron’s hand one more time, and he squeezed back. Then she slipped her hand out of his grasp, though he clung to it for a moment before letting go. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t hurt them both, so she walked away, finding her dress and shift on the ground nearby. She put them on hurriedly, straightening them best she could. Then she looked back once more at Katheidron, still lying there looking up towards the fading stars, their light reflecting in the tears forming in his eyes.

With a tremendous effort, she tore her gaze from him and walked away, setting off at a brisk pace in the direction she had come. For a short while, she worried she might not find her way back, but soon she heard the merrymaking of the other feast in the distance, and she followed the noise until she stepped out of the Rathcoiran forest and onto the meadow below the standing stones. The revelry was still going, though perhaps with a little less fervour than before. Many who had passed out or fallen asleep lay strewn about in the grass.

The sky was still dark, but a sliver of orange from the sun about to rise adorned the distant horizon. Above, the strange stars still shone in the sky, so many and so bright that they came together to form a colourful wreath across the heavens. Máire gazed at it wistfully for a moment before she sighed and walked up to the stones. After taking one final look around, she stepped between the stones of Banbha and Cailleach.

The scene on the other side was similar, yet painfully different. The hint of orange on the horizon was the same, but the stars hung cold and lonely in the sky. The air was silent and cool. She shivered, putting her arms around her as she began walking towards the village. Her brooch and the other meagre offerings on the stone slab were gone. The villagers needed to be reminded of the power of this place.

She walked down the hill humming a joyful melody. It was a strange tune, she realised. Where had it come from? It felt familiar, yet it wasn’t something she could have heard back at the village. The feast in the village! Had she missed it? She stopped and looked around her, feeling like something was thoroughly and irreversibly wrong. What was she doing wandering near the Rathcoiran in the early morning hours?

“Máire? Is that you? Oh, thank the gods you are safe!” It was Colm, running up to her from the path ahead. He scooped her up in a desperate embrace.

“What—?” Máire tried to recall the events of the evening and found she could not. “What happened?”

“That’s for you to tell! You were gone, and Rós said she’d seen you walking down the path towards the old stones.” He let go of her enough that he could face him, though he still held her like someone might steal her away. “What have you been doing?”

“I—” but she could not remember. What had she been doing? She’d come here on Blathnaid’s advice to do something to help her bear a child. And she had done it, though she had no memory of it. Her hand fell absent-mindedly to her cleavage to thumb her mother’s brooch, only it wasn’t there. “Oh, no. My brooch. It must have fallen off.” She turned to look back towards the stones.

“To the depths with you’re brooch, Máire! As long as you are all right.”

“To the depths? You know it was my mother’s,” she said, turning back to look at him, the anger and frustration from all their years of marriage flowing back into her. For a moment she wondered where it had all been.

Colm’s eyes narrowed. “And how did you lose it? You always look after it so. Unless you misplaced it while you were undressing. What were you doing out here, Máire?”

She wrangled herself out of his grip and narrowed her eyes, stepping back from him. “What do you mean, Colm?”

“Don’t you think I notice how every man in Brambleby makes sheep’s eyes at you? Surely one of them could have snuck off tonight, too! It doesn’t take much to figure out the rest.”

His stance was defensive, but he looked frightened. He had always been possessive of her in front of the other men in the village, yet she could not help but remember the insecure young boy she had once fallen for. Suddenly she understood that it was that same boy who stood before her now. Who she had always shared a bed with. Nervous, uncertain, afraid. She felt a pang of sorrow and regret for the life they could have had. Colm wasn’t a bad man. He’d never meant to hurt her. It was just that he clung to what little knowledge he had of women and relationships like a drowning man, stuck in what he had been taught by other insecure men, having nothing else to grab onto.

Once again, he failed to see past his own worries, taking the meaning of her silence as something else. “So if your belly grows now, what am I to think?”

“No,” she said, surprising herself.

It caught him off guard. “No? What does that mean?”

“No. I will not have this anymore, Colm. You do not trust me. You do not show me love. You do not care for how I feel. I went to Blathnaid as you said. As you told me. And I came here on her word that there was yet a way for me to bear a child. For us to have a child.”

Colm’s face went bright red. “I won’t—” he started, anger flaring in his voice, but just as quickly as it had risen, it fled with a sigh that seemed to deflate his whole countenance. “No. You are right. I do not know how to do this. I try, but I know nothing. I thought—I thought a child would make you happy.” His eyes glistened with tears. “Please. I will be better.”

His words tore at her heart, and she began to take a step towards him, wanting to embrace him and tell him everything would be fine. But the anger from all those years rose within her again and would no longer be denied. She stopped.

“The time when you should have been better is in the past,” she said, biting the words off.

“Máire. Let’s just go home. We’re both tired. We can talk in the morning.” He looked towards the growing light in the east. “It’s nearly dawn, for crow’s sake.”

Máire started, jolted to life by some urge she could not understand. Nearly dawn.

Colm reached his hand towards her, and she wanted to go to him. To try and fix things. To help him be better. But something else pulled at her, and it was stronger. She turned around and ran towards the stones.

“What are you doing?” Colm called after her.

She didn’t know what she was doing. Only that she had to hurry. She ran, picking up the pace when she heard Colm’s heavy steps behind her. When she was among the stones, she stopped, looking about in panic.

Between tears and wind.

Just as Colm reached out to grab her, she threw herself between the stones of Banhba and Cailleach.

“Máire!” Colm called out, but his voice was already fading away.

***

She fell and tumbled and ended up splayed in the grass at the bottom of a small hill. The first impression beyond the confusion and pain was the sound of a flute, playing a haunting melody filled with sorrow and regret. It was like nothing she had ever heard before, yet so familiar it made her chest hurt. Without words, the music spoke of the crying moon and the forgotten stars, of love lost, of people leaving and never coming back. Tears formed in her eyes. She had left people behind. Colm, Blathnaid, and everyone else in the village. And Áine, her sweet sister. She would never see any of them again.

She sat up and looked around. The hill with the standing stones was behind her, but the sun was high in the sky, and the grass and flowers in the meadow seemed impossibly vibrant. The whole place was sharper, more intense, more alive. It was strange, yet it didn’t scare her. There was a funny sense of recognition as she stood up, though she knew this was not the place she had left behind. Colm and the path back to Brambleby were in another world.

When she finally gathered the courage to walk, it was towards the tune. Her feet refused to take her anywhere else. It came from the Rathcoiran, with its old oaks and ashes looming over her as if they watched her every step.

“Mind your own business,” she said to a gnarled old oak in a stern voice, and it shuddered in the wind as if affronted by her reprimand.

She came upon a stream flowing delightedly through the mossy undergrowth and stopped abruptly to gape at the creature responsible for the sad melody. He was perched on a large boulder, and he had hairy legs, hooves, and horns. Yet strangely, she did not feel the least bit threatened by him. She stopped to listen to him play. The satyr—yes, that’s what he was—was so absorbed in his music that he didn’t appear to notice her. When he finally put his flute down, his eyes were closed, and there was a tear running down his cheek.

“What a haunting tune,” she said, and he was so startled by the sound of her voice that he nearly fell off the boulder. His eyes opened and then went wide, like he was surprised not only by her presence but by her mere existence.

“Máire?” he said, his voice shuddering. He looked incredulous.

“How do you—?” she said. But there was something about this strange man that tugged at her. A memory, a dream just out of reach.

Tears were streaming down his face, but now his expression was one of pure joy. He jumped off the boulder and crossed the distance between them in leaps and strides and caught her in a strong, warm embrace.

At first she was startled, but as soon as she felt his arms around her and smelled the musk of his body, she melted into his arms, as if this were the one thing she had been looking for.

“I—I know you, don’t I?” she whispered. Fractured memories were flashing through her mind, not quite there, not quite gone.

“You do. They call me Katheidron.” He pulled back so he could lock his golden eyes with hers. “But my true name is Katakos,” he said, and the words of her mother came back to her, and she knew it was a precious thing he had just given her. Yet he had done so freely and without hesitation. As she looked into those golden, tear-filled eyes, other memories came flowing back in fragments, memories of passionate lovemaking and an inexplicable bond she had with this man. Memories of her childhood, her mother leaning over her crib when she was nought but a child, whispering her name.

“They call me Máire of Brambleby,” she said. “But my true name is Niamh.” When she spoke that name, more of her memories came flooding back, putting tears in her eyes, both from the joy of finding her way back and from the sorrow for what she had left behind.

He pulled her into a fierce, loving embrace, and she rested her head on his chest. Máire would stay like that forever if she could, with the world around them forgotten. They were bonded by their true names, and whatever the future might bring, they would face it together.

They eventually managed to let go of each other for long enough that Katheidron could fetch his satchel and sling it over his shoulder. Then he immediately reached out to her. She took his hand, kissed it, and stood there looking up at him, her green eyes radiant with new life. Unconsciously, her other hand fell to her belly, and he smiled broadly when he noticed.

“Come,” he said. “There are others who will be pleased to see you.”

And so they walked into the forest together, hand in hand, about to set out on a long and adventurous journey back towards Katheidron’s home in the mountains of Nysa. But that is a different tale.

The End

[Pantasia]

Hullo! I have some new erotica stories on Medium (no paywall, just go ahead and read):

Pro Bono

An F/Fx, slice-of-life story about office voyeurism. Part 1 of at least 2.

Ghosted 

F/M, horror. Flash fiction based on a social media prompt: "Going to a glory hole for the first time but there is an unexpected surprise!"

Thornwood Drive

Group sex, comedy. Flash fiction based on a social media prompt: "A clown, a delivery person, the next door neighbor, and a bucket of chicken”