Summer is crowning, can you feel it? Do you feel it stirring in your bones? Is it warm and moving within you, like wanting, like lust, like an appreciation of full and fruited things to come? Summer is crowning and this is May Day, it is the first of May, it is the day of maypole dances and braided hair and posies of flowers, and it is Beltane, the courtship of the Goddess and her mate, the night of bonfires and revelry, it is a fire festival in the tall-grass and the western zephyr-wind. Can you feel it?
Not in Denver. In Denver they are clawing their way back out of winter, again, and the snow has dashed all hopes of posie-flowers and sweet-grass and pyres laid heavy with herbs, and bare skin showing in the firelight, and all the other things that scream of Beltane just as surely as the date upon the calendar. The weather has the good sense to be sunny, but the mercury rises no higher than the forties. There are threats of freezing in the night. The ground is muddy-slick with snowmelt, and beneath that hard and yet unfrozen.
Denver is a snowy wasteland that may never see the summer sun. Happy Birthday, Silas, says the weather, and threatens if not snow then rain. Much love. Enjoy. It is not at all a middle-finger for his thirtieth solar return, though it may feel as such.
And so the weather dashes all of her clever plans at flirty hemlines or pleated skirts that hit just at the knee and not above, echoes of course of their first Beltane tryst. It dictates a rarity: Ari in pants. Dark hued jeans at that, which are shapely and accentuate but do not offer him such ready access to her center. And the compromise is this: a flirty bandana style shirt, fitted at her bust and loose and flowing at her middle, with ample space for hands to pass underneath and over skin, if ever the temperature is warm enough for her to shirk her coat. It is just long enough to skim along the same latitudes as the seams at which her legs and torso join, so that it might be the world's least modest dress in other circumstances, so that it might echo faintly other aims. It lessens the blow of jeans, and wide-heeled ankle boots, and a coat that envelopes and enshrouds her curves so completely that it might be Yule and not Beltane they are celebrating.
She knocks twice on his door frame, then returns her hands to her pockets. Her hands seem empty, as they are in her pockets. There is no notable distention anywhere that would speak to his present, and surely there is a present, for this is also his birthday. Her hair is loose, the better for catching up firelight and seeming like flame, and the kohl and color around her eyes only serve to accentuate the exquisite green and shifting mercury-grey of them. Luminous. As if something more than merely human were peering out, and through whatever Bro answers the door in Silas's stead.
This woman their roommate has found is Othered in so many ways. Ethereal, perhaps. Mercurial, most certainly. Regal, she has been so named by an Apprentice of a more primal calling. So perhaps she catches them likewise breathless when they open the door, with the curl of her smile and the sweep of her lashes, though it is well established, somehow, without so much as speaking, that her affection in that realm is for the Hunter and the Hunter alone. However close they dance to her firelight, they will get no more succor than fascination. And then they might burn.
[Silas]
It is Tony who answers the door, Tony the utter and total bro, Tony of the fiancee, Tony of the physical training. "Hey, Arianna! Good to see you." He offers his fist for bumping, and then as if suddenly remembering (as he's already stepping down the hall), "Come on in! Silas and Kate are getting the fire pit ready, in the back. Dante, Alice, and I are getting food ready, and Mark's bringing his man from the airport." The house opens almost immediately into an open area on the right, with the kitchen and dining room a little further back on the left (or something similar to that, the exact details of which the player isn't going to go looking just now, dear reader), and further back there are sliding glass doors to the patio, and beyond that is a substantial field and garden. Silas and Kate (and oh, how that pairing of names may grate in their similarity to things that happened when Si and Ari were considerably younger than they are now) have gathered a significant pile of firewood, and have prepared a depression in the ground (no yuppie smudge pots for Silas) with buckets nearby, just in case they become necessary. They are placing tinder and kindling, and bantering good naturedly about the best way to build this sort of fire when Arianna steps out to join them. Kate's mode of dress is similar to Arianna's, naturally, as dressing much differently would be foolish under these weather conditions. Silas wears a kilt (not a utility kilt, but full tartan), boots, and a white shirt.
Arianna is Othered.
Silas is Othered.
The bros (and now Kate, at least) accept them as they are, no questions asked.
Without turning, Silas knows she's there; the other Beltane spent with him, the Hunt wasn't so strong in him as it is now. Satisfied, for now, Silas steps back and gathers the bottle from which he'd been drinking and a second for her, though before it's offered he turns and wraps his arms around her tight, kissing her perhaps deeper than he'd intended, deeper than for which she'd been prepared in greeting.
"Hullo, Stella-my-love," he says, forehead still to hers for a moment after the kiss releases, pulling back enough to hand her a bottle
Hello, Lea-mine, says the Hunt for no one but Lea to hear
of honeyed cider to drink. "This is Kate, Dante's girlfriend - "
"Friend," Kate interjects smoothly, with a smile as she turns to greet Arianna.
"Friend, fine - and outdoor maven. She works with the national parks system."
[Arianna]
Fist bumping. Arianna is not entirely clear on this Sleeper practice, but she is socially fluent enough to play along. Knuckles meet, and her smile broadens to greet the Bro of Physicality, the one who is tethered to another Sleeper's heart, who welcomes her in and so she can cross the threshold and into their home. There is no over-long lingering outside the entrance; the Old Ways are sated with fist bumps and informal language. Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles reduced to knuckles pressed against knuckles. This is magic in the modern age.
Silas and Kate.
If she notices the coincidence, Ari says nothing about it. It doesn't register in her stride on across her features. She doesn't play with her ring, or glance out toward the fire pit to confirm that she has not heard a name from oh so many years ago, because if Katja Smythe were in attendance and Silas had failed to warn her in advance then The Bros would bear witness to a truly memorably bit of Hermetic tantrum throwing. Both Ari and Si have it in their bones to be insufferable and cruel when needs be; both have tempers that are very well kept in check. But all of that is a lifetime ago, and so she offers to help Dante, Alice and Tony in the kitchen, having proved her skills significantly on their first introduction to one another, and there is laughter and merriment and also a bit of mischief between before they even venture out to supervise the laying of the fire pit and building of the pyre.
Of course Silas is wearing something entirely inappropriate for the weather. Even the tall white socks of formal highland dress could combat the chill, so his boots are fighting valiantly a losing battle. Lucky he is warm to the touch; lucky he is aflame with Life. Arianna has no such defense against the cold, and also she is born of more temperate climes. She is feeling a little grumbly about it, all this Winter, Winter bleeding right through Spring, Winter running right over Beltane, when he catches her up in a most thorough kissing and then the burr of irritation is for this overtly public demonstration, it is for the way she is left disoriented and a little breathless just before introductions are made. She meets them with her mouth redden by his kiss, with her eyes a little softer from it.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," she tells Kate, and the formality is mussed a little by the way Silas has boldly claimed her, by also the easy way the neck of whatever bottle he has proffered fits so neatly into her hand, and by the easy camaraderie she evokes in gatherings of total strangers. These are not strangers. None of them, not even The Hunt, who is offered Lea's profile and smirk-smile but not the full of her seeming, are strange to Ari beyond Kate.
"Tell us about work in the parks, Friend of Dante" she cajoles, open interest playing in her eyes as she confirms the assertion and line drawn by Kate. "That sounds fantastic."
In the circle of their gathering, Arianna keeps nearer to Silas than to other points. She holds side conversations in Italian with Dante and Tony. She is solicitous of Silas's friends' attention but does not cross over into flirting. The line is firmly if vaguely held. Once the fire is lit and a few drinks have gone down, the revelry in her nature comes forward. If the fire burns hot enough, she will divest herself of her coat, leaving it to drape across a nearby chair, leaving her shoulders bare to reflect the warm light, to leave her Luminous and fleeting like moon or star light. With this many attendants, though, Silas does not get much farther than chaste touches or kisses before he is subtly rebuked. She has learned a few things about the Rumor Mill since their first Beltane together.
[Silas]
Kate is, for the record, a little on the short side, and the buxom side, and the blonde-with-a-hint-of-
Through this conversation, Silas keeps contact with Arianna as much as he is allowed, and while that segues into something else that ebbs and flows, Alice and Tony bring out the food, with Mark and his boyfriend's (Ted, a shy, considerably older and portlier than the rest gentleman - by which the writer means that he is pushing his mid-to-late-40s hard and fast, rather than hovering somewhere in his 30s like the bros, and even Alice and Kate), but once the food is out and everyone is introduced, Silas has some things to say.
"Where I'm from," he announces but doesn't specify which point of origin he means, and there's an authority in his voice that doesn't often creep there, "more people still keep to the old ways than you might think. Dancing they Maypole -" here, he indicates a caber erected in a back corner of the yard, "- is a tradition that's thought to be tied to male virility, but now is largely just fun and makes a pretty display. Usually that's done earlier in the day, but we've a bit of light left; shall we?"
Assuming agreement, he shifts the music that's been playing quiet in the background to something more raucous and Celtic in bent, heavy with drums and pipes (less bag and more reed), and explains how the dance is done, how they weave the ribbons around the pole as they weave through each other. He, Kate, Alice, and (perhaps oddly) Ted are quite natural at this sort of celebration, laughing and calling too each other and the others, reminding one to duck here, or to swing to the outside there. It takes perhaps half an hour (and a long track, or several woven together without break) to complete the weaving, and when it's done Silas steps back to admire it; the antlers that always leave an impression are, perhaps, a bit clearer to those with the right sort of perception to see them, now. The bros, if they have any Sight to them, are far from indicating it, while Ted and Kate keep eyeing him curiously.
"I'll admit, we're compressing what should be two days of celebration into one; traditionally, the celebration should have begun last night. But I've other reasons to want to begin today."
Mark, amused, confirms, "It's his birthday! I saw a card from someone."
"Hush, you," Silas admonishes, but it's playful and teasing. Once upon a time, he'd kept his birthday from most; now, he doesn't seem to mind this gathering knowing. "Anyway, Beltane was about celebrating virility, and fertility, and the marriage of the sun god, Lugh, to the earth mother. Beltane eve, couples - not necessarily married or together, as the rules were bent for the Rite, went out into the fields and did as they would. Sunrise on Beltane morning was thought to be a symbol of the birth of the god-child."
Through the explanation there are echoes and interference, and things are different; looking at any of those present for too long is a confusing, slightly dizzying thing. Everything appears as one of those art works where one position shows one thing, while looking from an angle shows something different. Silas' kilt becomes something different, something less Irish or Scottish in bent and more historically English. The lights of the house, flicker more than they should, and the flames of the fire rise higher. As he speaks, Silas' accent, English and Othered, deepens. Things are afoot in the circle, it seems.
[Arianna]
It is different to take an academic study of old and bygone practices than it is to studiously re-enact them on your own back lawn. This may be how Arianna and Silas's Praxes differ, even within keeping of the narrow focus of their shared House. Though, to be fair, the Robinson boy was always more Primal than any House would rightfully allow and Arianna's choice was as much legacy as simple fit. It surprises no one that there is a nearly colorless ribbon at the maypole, or that she catches it up. It takes on the colors of the setting sun, cast in pale pinks or peaches or even dusky grey until the night falls and then it is most brilliant among them, standing out against the woven colors and patterns of the pole. He can see here and there where she has skipped a stitch in her dancing, and perhaps it was intentional; perhaps everything his Star does is intentional in one way or another.
There is laughter in her eyes as she looks at the taller-than-wide erect member in the yard and then back to Silas in his retelling of the custom. She says without saying that he is not the sort of man she imagined would require a totem to virility as a backyard fixture. The insinuation in that side-slipped smile is knowing, but still good-natured teasing.
As is the way she winds the wide satin ribbon around her wrist and watches him on the other side of the may pole before the dance is clearly begun. As is the way her fingertips barely skim his skin whenever they pass, or how she dodges fleeting kisses when she ducks under or swings wide.
More and more the Sleepers with Sight may feel that he is a thing to be wary of, to be cautioned of. That Silas is a Hunter, and the horns he bears and the amber to his eyes may make a prey-thing feel uncomfortable. But even as he inspires caution, she undoes it. She is a thing to be followed, the glimmer of moor light out in the shadows of the night, the siren call that dashes ships against the rocks; Arianna is the promise of fellowship, beyond that of intimacy, and the cant of her cheekbones and sharp of her chin are so accented by the firelight that she seems otherworldly. Kate and Ted are drawn into it more than the others. While she may lavish the same sort of social attention on them as the others, Arianna's eyes are only for Silas.
In the firelight, her hair is rowan, she is again his salamander queen. Whenever they are pitched at extremes of the circle, when he stands as summer and she in the space of Air and Darkness, then does The Hunt catches glimpses of her Other through the medium of the firelight, of that pyre burning high into the sky, high beyond reason or safety, and the crackle and split of the wood become whispers of far off times. She cups her hand and whispers into Kate's ear something the fire has told her, whilst Arianna's eyes remain on Silas who is also seen through this medium of fire. There is a devilish glint to her smile, and the green of her eyes is indiscernible through the light, only the way that they hold to him is seen. Only the intensity of them. Kate laughs, and Arianna laughs, and Dante asks What? and the women-folk laugh harder. Hard enough that Arianna has to wipe a tear from her eye before drinking, again, from whatever spirits have been set within the circle.
Later, she may think twice on the wisdom of drinking within unfamiliar circles. For now, though, her clever mouth shapes something he cannot quite hear and the sound of laughter rises, then, freely from all three of them: Kate, and Dante and Arianna. It dapples the night.
[Silas]
The night is dappled with firelight and laughter, and the circle is growing; they are dressed in different clothes, now, but that doesn't seem strange at all. It's a matter of course that they should be dressed appropriately for the weather (spring-like and a bit warm, smelling of green wheat and other growing things, but with a nip of night's chill in the air all the same) and the festivities. Arianna's dress is of something homespun, as is the clothing of Dante and Kate . . . and Silas, there, too.
For a moment, as things shifted, Arianna and Silas were cognizant of both times, overlapping and weaving together when the veil was thin. Now, though, there is only this.
There is a draw between them, between Silas and Arianna, and still those with the Sight may well see a stronger impression of antlers than others, may see a stronger blessing from the god he takes as patron than others. Those same might see a brighter, colder glow about Arianna. She is there, on the opposite side of the maypole, until they finish, and all the participants (more than eight, now, but there always were, weren't there?) tumble down into a pile of pleasure at each others' company, of pleasure at the shifting of seasons. This group is, for the most part, quite free with each other; there's the squeeze of a breast here, a pinch of a bottom there, a kiss between those two. Pairings (not couplings, yet, though everyone knows there will be that eventually - to bless the fields and the livestock, to celebrate the coming summer) are fluid, though Silas' eyes now ambered are for Arianna alone.
"Time nears for the hunt, star-born. Will you be my willing prey?"
The question is heavy despite the surface amusement, despite the offered mead. Everything is honey, here - honey and the remains of winter's apples, honeyed wine, a honey-sweetened preparation for the remnants of winters preserved meats. And the Fae are near, so say the early-dancing fireflies and the electric charge in the air.
[Arianna]
She feels the shift, how the silk of her top becomes the rough textured homespun, how the crowd blurs and multiplies until the distinct clear voices of the few become a jumble of the many, and how the fire-warmth is filtered through the layers of dress, and the green-smell is sharper. The Leananshidhe is not groped or squeezed or tweaked by just anyone; Arianna finds her way out of the tangle of bodies to where the mead is served and before even the Hunt can find her there is a chalice in her hand -- even the basest vessel is raised to chalice when she takes it up in revelry, and it is a symbol of her dark and sacred spaces, and it is an ark of emotion and of longing, and as she drinks of it she meets the amber in his eyes.
There is the taste of honey on her lips when he questions her, and in reply she hands that vessel over, that sacred, deep and darkened place; she puts in in his hand and with her eyes she dares him drink. His mouth to the lips of it; its taste spread across his tongue, the shape of it within his hand. This is the most of her answer, but there are words to seal it.
"Only if you can catch me, Horned One, and then only as a thing caught and never as woman kept." She is kept just far enough from her that he will have to step forward to touch her, and she might lilt away, but there is a pull between them that cannot be mistaken. In truth she pulls at them all, but only Herne is bold enough to make a mission of it.
[Silas]
"Of course. Anyone who thinks they could keep either of us would have to be a fool." With this, and eyes met and held, Silas of the amber eyes drinks deeply from the offered chalice. And if his tongue toys over the rim in the process? Well, that's just teasing, isn't it?
There are plenty of places to hide, when the horn sounds to indicate the beginning of the game - a copse of trees there, a jutting, rocky outcrop there, the quickly growing fields there. Both Silas and Arianna know these things, just as they know that bathing happens once a week or when one goes swimming in the nearby pool, or that leeches can draw the poison from blood, or that the cows will be taken to their summer pasture in the coming days. This is to say, they are unburdened by things of other times, and are well versed in the things of this when.
Fingers brush when he hands back her chalice, and the smile he gives is wickedly crooked. "Go, love. And you will be well and truly hunted."
[Arianna]
"First, you must turn around and close your eyes," she says, with a sing-song lilt to her voice as if she were speaking some ancient rule well-known between them. Before he does, though, she drinks deeply again of the chalice, draining it, and sets it aside. Then when he has hidden his eyes from her escape, she reaches out to tweak his cheek, where it is hidden-not-hidden beneath his tunic and tights, and there is laughter as she takes her flight.
Something in Arianna's breast does not feel playful at all about this Hunt. It is alarmed and a little frightened. This thing takes her bonnet and lays it on a table at one edge of the circle, then hies off on quick footfalls in the opposite direction, heading for the stand of trees where she might throw her voice among the shadows of the upright trunks; where she may employ a measure of misdirection. This thing is not under the impression that she will somehow escape, but it thinks that it might try.
And the Star-born one, also within the rattling cage of her ribs and chest, laughs at the girl who thinks she is clever. Laughs as she leaves her scent at one margin, laughs as she thinks there is safety to find in the wood. This one feels the rhythm of the drumbeats and anticipates the moment when the Hunt catches her up and claims her. She will not make it easy for him, but she will relish the ravaging. It has been too long since someone caught her at her own game.
Both are of a mind to dart between trees, and her skirts are held up so that she can go more quickly between them and her hair is uncovered, now, but still bound up in braids. It does not catch on low branches and leave strands of her like breadcrumbs to follow. And of course this harried dashing through the woods is like their first (now future?) Beltane together, and the Echoes please the Star however wrinkle-rumpled Time may be. But she cannot run forever, and so the task turns to hiding, within a stand of close-grown trunks, with her hand covering her mouth to damp the sound of her breathing. She draws the sigils of her rote on the tree trunks around her, speaking the syllables in her mind, building it up until the last: when she can hear him moving in the woods she lets it fly, and her voice echoes from a place distal to her hiding, and it teases and cajoles (O where is mine love, mine Hunter? why hast he left me so long alone in the woods...)
And she waits to hear if footfalls track toward her scent or the sweetness of her voice. One she can send and the other she cannot. But it is an effort; a chicanery both simple and intent. Her heart pounds in her chest; her eyes are green with lust and longing.
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