Page 106 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
Becket stops drumming as we stand before the fire to greet them, but the other drums continue. The air shimmers around the fire, but it shimmers everywhere else too, like the world is an ancient, warped window to somewhere else.
And then everything seems to still and to hush as the wild god, my May King, approaches the edge of the circle.
“Who comes?” Becket asks.
“The May King, here for his queen and bride.”
“And do you bring with you the blessings of the forest?”
“I do.”
“And do you bring with you good health and strength? Do you bring with you the promise to guard your land and your people with your life?”
“I do,” the May King says easily.
“Then you are welcome.”
Becket reaches for a long stick from the fire—one of the boughs Rebecca gathered—and with its smoldering tip draws a line at the circle’s boundary. A threshold. The May King and the other man enter, and then the other man comes to stand next to me. He has a florid bruise on his chest and a dazed expression.
I recognize someone who’s been given exactly what they need. “What happened when he caught you?” I whisper, smiling up at him.
St. Sebastian smiles back. “Everything.”
Becket draws another sparking line where the god just crossed, sealing the circle once more, and then we’re all together again.
“Welcome to our humble feast, my lord,” Becket says. He bows before the May King and then gestures at us standing before the fire. And if we were doing this how it was sketched out in the Record, then Becket would lead our May King to me, we would form a circle with Auden and me in the middle. But we’re not doing this like it’s told in the Record. Instead, Becket comes and joins us at the fire, so that it’s the May King facing all five of us.
Because tonight, all five of us will be his bride. All five of us will be his goddess. His May Queen.
The god steps forward, and the other-drums beat as he looks at each one of us in turn. As he surveys what’s his right to claim.
“Come,” Becket urges. “Anoint your bride with kisses.”
This was the part we struggled with a little—the Record was a little coy in describing the act of the May Queen and King coming together, only going so far as to leave no doubt that their copulation was integral to the Beltane feast. We tried looking for analogs in contemporary pagan practices, and we went deep into some very obscure places on the internet. Saint even managed to fish some pertinent books out of the wider Devon library system. But nothing was exactly how we wanted it, and honestly, nothing seemed to truly fit Thornchapel.
So we decided to do what we do best, and make it up. To hell with chalices and lances and fucking in an empty room where no one can see. We’d all be the bride, and the wild god could do with us what he wanted.
And right now I feel the thrill of that as the god strides forward and seals his mouth over our priest’s. His antlers catch on Becket’s flower crown, and I’m reminded of that day twelve years ago when Auden kissed Saint and me while flower petals fluttered around us. Although that was a kiss for children. There’s nothing childish about how the god kisses his priest tonight. Stomach to stomach, hips to hips. His hungry mouth allowing Becket no secrets, no respite, only surrender.
They’re both hard when the god pulls away.
Saint is next to me, so I hear every breath, every groan, every rumble of promise out of the god’s mouth when he anoints Saint. In between kisses and tugs on Saint’s lip piercing, I hear him tell Saint that he’s his, that he’s going to fuck him, that he’s going to keep him forever, and by the time they finish, Saint staggers back a step, as if delirious. He reaches up and touches his kiss-swollen mouth as the god comes to me.
We’re not in a line any longer, we’re in something more like a crescent, and so I can feel the others’ eyes on me when the god cups my head in his hands—rose crown and all—and brings me to him for a hard, searching kiss. His lips move firm and warm against mine until he parts them and samples the inside of my mouth, giving out a ragged groan as he does, like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted. His tongue flickers against mine, and then strokes deep, all as his hands crush me closer. Thorns from my crown prick at my scalp, giving me just enough pain to send heat singing down my spine; I’m clasped so tight against him that it feels like our hearts are trying to beat against each other’s. His arms and shoulders block out everything that isn’t him, and his bare feet crowd against my own so that I’m arched in his arms and it’s only his hands keeping me steady.
I’ve kissed Auden before, many times, but this is unlike any kiss we’ve ever shared, unlike any touch I’ve ever had. His hands around my head are not the tender hands of a lover or even the unyielding grip of a Dominant, and his mouth is not the mouth of the boy I love.
I’m kissing a god now, and he won’t let me forget it.
His hands move to my back, to haul me tighter against him, and I can feel every hard line of his chest and stomach, I
can feel the rigid length of him against my belly. He gives a low grunt of approval as his searching hands find my ass, my hips, and squeeze, and then I get another approving noise when I slide my hands up his stomach to his chest. All the while, his sensual mouth is moving over mine, his tongue is searching me in a kiss so filthy it feels like fucking. There’s nothing educated about this kiss, nothing well-mannered, or polite—but it’s also more than my body he’s claiming. My body wouldn’t be enough for him. It’s not enough to have me gasp out a surrender if I’m not surrendering everything, and I know that’s what he’s demanding with his hunger.
Everything.
He pulls back enough to slide one hand along my chest until he’s collaring my throat with it. His other hand is at the back of my head, scrunching my hair in his fist. “Well, little bride?” he says in a quiet voice. “Have I earned you?”
I look up into his eyes. They are Auden’s eyes and also not Auden’s eyes—they are the hazel eyes of a rich boy and the ancient eyes of Thornchapel looking out at me. He is both Auden and more than Auden right now, and when I whisper back, “Yes, you have,” I’m whispering it both to the boy I fell in love with and to the wild god who was born today in the trees.
