Midsummer

lake-light
They left their home early, just past three o' clock in the morning, still an hour or so shy of dawn. They took Nick's car, because in a car one of them could close their eyes and let Sleep stroke their brow and take them just a few moments longer. Because a car could hold supplies: water to drink while the day grows long, plaits of ivy ready to be woven into crowns, five discs of different metals cool for how long it has been since they've been in fire, matches, and a great bag of beeswax candles of varying sizes, the makings of torches. They'd consulted what was in them to consult to find their place of vigil. They tumbled into their bed with their skin drenched in it: ardent, hallowed, resplendent, hallowed, daring.

There is something strange about closing one's eyes on the dark and opening them to find that the world is still dark: it is like going under the hill, or to the underworld, and not coming up again. It is like being shaped into a constellation: it is unnatural, and one reason people close their eyes again. They want the light. Midsummer is about the light, the longest day of the year. They left their home early, and Nicholas was already fasting, but Penelope ate honey from a spoon and a pinch of nuts.

The car they abandoned on a side road, nearest to the place they'd hunted down, half an hour outside of the city as Penelope drives or the crow flies, and they'd walked for another half an hour, and that gave them one more hour halved -- perhaps a little less; we will be generous, and Nicholas will time us, since his Timing can be impeccable -- and now here they are.

A tower (a circle of stones, the skeleton of a wall or the memory of a rock-slide, the cresting height of a stone-pile), a mirror-pool (we'll let Nicholas tell us about this), a place for a bonfire.

When they'd found the place, physically set foot in, Pen: she'd put a hand on Nick's shoulder, leaned in press her mouth against the back of his neck, inhaled deeply and breathed out: oh, something intimate and pleased.

"How much longer do we have?"

And it is dark still. In the dark, Pen's hair is not a bright flag.Not in this kind of dark: in this kind of dark, it absorbs the shadows and hides how it will flare out as soon as day break comes -- if day break comes. Of course it will come; this is Midsummer. This is a place where the Veil will be thin enough to reach through, if they played their cards right, if they rolled their dice correctly.

Pen is building the bonfire, bent with her hair loose: just there. The sweep of it curls around her jaw, reveals only an aristocratic slope of nose, the pallor of her skin, the length of her eyelashes.

crow
It is still dark and they are rising to journey to their place of vigil.  Perhaps Pen is merciful to Nick, slow to shake sleep away and famished from fasting the night before and this morning, unable to fuel himself to wakefulness.  Maybe he is the one who gets to cradle his head back against the seat and snatch a half-hour more of sleep as she drives.  Maybe it's not worth the effort of getting him to wake again, and so he drives them instead.

It doesn't matter.  They leave the car behind and with it the trappings of civilization because they've gone out to a place that the world has forgotten, where it could be believed even among normal circumstances that there is something unearthly, otherworldly: those are the places see where the Veil grows thin and gauzy, easy to tear through or lift away.

They draw close to the tower and the place for a bonfire and the mirror-pool (slick and serene as polished glass, see, and protected by a rock overhang cloaked in moss).  Pen breathes in, breathes out against the back of his neck: she can feel him shiver into full wakefulness.

"Until dawn?  Thirty-four minutes."  Can she see, now, how the sky has grown pale and dusky there at the horizon line?

His fingers grasp hers and tangle with them for a moment before releasing.  She has a bonfire to build.

Nicholas is night-illuminated, seems ethereal here in a way that will disappear with the dawn with his hair and eyebrows all pools of darkness, his skin limned in moonlight, his eyes amber.  He brings her wood to help with the bonfire.  His own preparations will be more brief.

lake-light
Thirty four minutes. Fingers tangle.

She is wearing three rings only. Her wedding ring, a ring the color of cold moonlight on her thumb, set with a blue stone, and a ring the color of an excavated sunset on the other hand. There is a steeling resolve there to be noticed in the line of her shoulders: even the way she carries her proud head for a heart-beat. She had to ask. Of all the people she would ask without minding, Nicholas Hyde, but she had to ask, and she is supposed to be learning, and she is impatient with her progress.

Twenty two minutes. Thoughtless: "Thank you."

Her head is bent when she thanks him, but lifts when she directs Nick to make a wood pile over there or over there, whichever there he likes (she is no leader to decide). If they're going to keep the fire burning all the long day, and then through the night until the strawberry moon swallows it whole like a good child tongue out for the Eucharist, they'll need a pile, for they cannot stray from the tower once dawn comes.

Seventeen minutes.

The bonfire is made, or at least its cold bed is. It only wants the fire. Penelope visits the stones, moving this one, and then that one, to make the tower more satisfyingly round: to push its boundaries open, just a little. See, this is where the ground dips. She has taken off her sandals, and discarded them. There are five points to any pentacle and five points to any cup and five points to the Divine Man and she slips the metal discs under the earth or under the stone at each of these points. There are those who mock the Order of Hermes and other ritualistic houses for their ritual. It isn't fast. It isn't quick.

But it is sincere, and it is as beautiful as poetry when it is done properly. It is poetry; and poetry can cut truth like a knife; poetry can mend truth, too.

A circle. A tower, a circle. A pool, a stone outcrop, drenched in moss. A horizon that wants to be light. Penelope: dressed for ritual, too, in a robe of silver and pearl, sleek sheer lines: liquefaction of something sleek with a dull sheen over the breadth of her hips, across the slope of her abdomen, broad sleeves, sleeves which billow might as well be fog, sleeves which would fall off her shoulders (at very least give the very pleasing sense that they might just do that) were it not for a little beaded thread across her collar. Ritual.

Ritual: there is a certain slither of metal around her throat, around her ankle, and there is a certain oil copper-flecked brought and a certain brush and a certain metallic chalk and she will use these to paint on herself and then, if he is still game, on Nicholas.

Five minutes.

"I want you to crown me," she warns him: ivy crowns, whatever hour they will be plaited. The flick of her gaze is a whip-lash sting of amusement; of will o' the wisp play.

crow
He is building a pyramid of wood alongside the tower, stacking it high and higher because bonfires are hungry things and it will have to last them all through the day and the night that will be long in coming.  His quest for wood takes him far and farther outside the parameter of their little clearing, but he never wanders out of Pen's sight: he moves along gathering up armfuls and bringing them back, without complaint.

Nicholas too is dressed for ritual, though on him it looks different than it does on Pen.  He discarded his shoes and socks upon their arrival, and in his bare feet he is careful of where he steps, for his feet do indeed touch the ground (and sharp sticks and rocks) even if they do so soundlessly.  His shirt is unremarkable, loose cotton, and unremarkable because as soon as he is done clutching sticks against his chest it will be discarded.

Once he has cleared the area of any stick which could feasibly feed their bonfire, he returns to watch Pen as she lays out the metal discs, one for each point on the pentacle or cup or Divine Man, however one chooses to envision it.  He pulls his shirt over his head and casts it to the side, leaving him in thin white cotton pants, belted with beads of some pale brown wood, hanging heavy over the side of one of his hips, his fingers ringed in stone.

And he watches Pen, because he loves this about her, the way in which she finds power in poetry.

"I'll get started on the crowns," he says, and does.  It will take longer, because he is not practiced at this as old friends of theirs might be, and because he is careful, because he does not want his lack of practice to reflect badly on the quality.  "I want you to paint me."

lake-light
[Some rolls. Dum-dee-dum, Dex + Esoterica/Specialty Enoch. For Nick!]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 5, 7, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 4 ) [Doubling Tens]

lake-light
[Some rolls. Dum-dee-dum, Dex + Esoterica/Specialty Enoch. For Nick!]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 4, 5, 5, 9) ( success x 1 ) [Doubling Tens]

lake-light
[Er, we'll just ignore roll #2, because for Pen +1 diff harder to draw on yourself.]

Dice: 7 d10 TN7 (2, 3, 3, 5, 7, 7, 8) ( success x 3 ) [Doubling Tens]

lake-light
[Hey. Heyyy. Charisma + High Ritual for fire-lighting?]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 1, 8, 8, 9) ( success x 3 )

lake-light
[Woo. Fire: fwoosh! -3 diff, ritual.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (1, 1, 9) ( success x 1 )

lake-light
[Extend the fire: fwoosh.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (2, 4, 5) ( success x 2 )

lake-light
"I'll paint you with seven mysteries," Pen says, her quick smile: witching; lake-light; darkness beneath, for how clean it is, how neatly scribed. "As soon as the light spills, and I've conjured fire. Then I want you to light the first candle, and place it there, at that point."

Pen is conscious of how awake she feels at this moment (at these moments), and she pauses in order to pay attention to the morning air (lightening, lightening) on her skin. Pen is conscious, too, of how she cannot hear Nick's footfalls, how those at least are in some other world. Perhaps on the other side one can hear his footsteps, echoing, without seeing the man who is the cause of the footsteps, just as the other man without the shadow discovered when he went into the umbra that he was attended there by the shadow he'd never met in his awakened life.

She pauses to sweep the tower with a measuring glance, because everything must be in order. There is assurance in the marrow of her, but it is an actor's assurance, swept up on the draw of the story; they do not know how it turns out in the end when they are in it, though they may act as though they do. The sweep of her glance snags on Nicholas, sitting cross-legged with the piles of ivy.

He looks so enwrapped. Nicholas and the ivy; one of the names she often calls him rises in her throat, but she swallows it instead.

"How much longer now?"

Pen: she's at Nick's side now, standing rather than crouching, because she wants to stand as dawn finally crests.

And as it crests, the light will fall; it will fall toward the mountains; it will fall toward their stone circle, will fall in a rush on Nicholas's shoulders, will catch out the true color of his eyes and tell the name of it to the world; it will wring the darkness out of Pen's hair, and set her ablaze; set her into an ardent nymph, burning; she will burn; and as she burns she will take Nick's hand, even if she must shake the ivy from it; take his hand and hold it, look gravely in his eyes and speak a phrase. Say it with such affect: raise his hand, slowly;

and the sunlight will leap into the heart of their bonfire bed, and burn, too. And so they'll have their (Nick'll have his) light.

crow
Pen's question draws his glance up from the ivy crowns, strands neatly braided and entwined one 'round the other.  "It's now," he says, and: it is.  Dawn crests over the horizon and steeps the two of them in its honey-light, falls across Nick's shoulders and illuminates his hands and the deep green of the ivy.

She must shake the ivy from his hand at first as she raises it, and then he drops it willingly as he rises to his feet so that he can more readily meet her eyes.  Pen is their gravity today; Nick's eyes are warm or maybe that is just the light; they are touched with a sort of wild joy because they are here and she is here with him and together they are greeting the dawn.

The fire ignites even as sunlight slips into the nooks between the logs Pen has arranged so carefully.  Peace and wellbeing makes him want to shut his eyes, and yet he wants to keep them open.

Their hands lower, slowly, and the dry heat from the bonfire licks any moisture that is there away from their skin.  It's strange how the sun seems to rise so quickly at dawn's beginning: their shadows grow longer by the second, the clearing grows brighter and brighter and more awash in light.

"How long until sunset, Pen?"  There is a glance that he flicks to the side, a sly thing unsure of whether it is more amused or more affectionate.

lake-light
Dawn comes in like a tide: flat, silver. The sort of light which has a seeming, nearly, of weight -- of shape. So light a shawl it can be drawn through a metal ring, and never snag. The sort of light which nearly has a seeming of shape, of weight -- the same that sugar has, dissolving; this sort of dawn: it is mirror-light; it is worn by bird-song like a jewel; it softens, this, before it sharps: you never know you're whetted 'til your shadow's nearly gone. Just now: such softness -- answering spark of her hair a sort of echo of the spark in her eye, gray as and dark, as she turns her head toward Nicholas. First the tilt of her jaw, you see, the angle of her cheekbone prominent: and then, a heartbeat after, the questioning pressure of her eyes. Their expression is lake-light tangled, and deeply felt: on the surface, it's mischief met with something like wry but cleaner, hopefuller. Beneath the surface: well, go on -- try to look and know; see what you can read.

Her mouth has curved; there's the flash of one long dimple. Her eyes switch back to the sky; she wants to watch the light crest. She does, but replies, "I do not know, but maybe I'll know it before it comes. How long, Nicholas? And how long until I have my crown, and you, yours?"

crow
Dawn has the opposite effect on Nicholas: it defines his edges, takes him from chiaroscuro sketch to something more akin to an oil painting whose artist has a good eye for contrast, for how the light smooths itself along his angles and curves and lines and casts the faintest gleam in his hair.  It lingers there like drops of dew, like it has been caught, as he tilts his head down to look at the ivy he left there on the ground.

He does not answer her at first; her eyes are on the sky watching the light crest, and he leans over and places a kiss almost carefully over her dimple.  "A few minutes.  I'd weave yours in your hair, if I weren't worried we'd have to cut it out."

lake-light
There is no urgency, or if there is, it is suppressed and directionless. That's important. It means she does not look his way while he takes his time to answer, only looks into the silver dawn and what does the sword feel when it is splashed with brightness--when it blinds? Is it different than what it feels as it passes through a gut, is dark with blood? Pen's smile widens, generous and sweet, when Nick comes careful in to kiss her, and he has come too close--she reaches out; one arm around his waist. Tugs him in, away from the pile of ivy. Firelight smoulders, orange as the sun will be at the end of the day, but more live-wire, more vibrant: the Sun is old, and weary.

Pen says (and now she looks at Nicholas, directly rather than side-long; searches his face): "Weave it into my hair if you wish; it wouldn't be difficult to get out."

She means, of course, by magick. Or," a flashing grin, "I'll wear a boy's cut, and see how it suits me."

Almost abrupt: "Go," make the crowns, she means; but she tightens her hold. Stay.

crow
She bids him to go, tightens her hold in the same breath: and he stirs and takes a half step, though his arms have found their way around her.  Maybe she steps along with him?  If so he'll take them over to the ivy pile.  His skin is already warmer where the sun has touched it, where it has reflected the light back just as the moon will.

"I'll weave it in then," he says, perhaps with a touch of surprise because: using Matter is often not a thing he thinks of.  In some ways they are still learning to Work together, aren't they?

"Sit with me.  You can help me put them in mine, after."

lake-light
Penelope nods, gravely. He can lure her over to the ivy pile; it is not difficult. She loosens her hold on his waist; she sinks to her knees, kneeling: also grave; as any one who ever bent their head for anointing oil; for awareness of a moment's grace.

And she'll try for patience as Nick weaves the ivy crown he's built, begun to plait, into her hair; she'll try for patience and the day is young so patience is still in supply, and she watches the bonfire and the dawn brightening from silver to a light so clear it has no color but falls on everything impartially and breaks the heart of every one and seems to vanish, and perhaps her gaze is so still, so carefully alert, that she is serene.

crow
Nick's fingers plait the ivy into her hair with all the clumsy tenderness of a brother who grew up with two sisters, who perhaps grasped once or twice how this should be done and was asked to do it but never quite mastered the art.  This was before he was an unruly teenager, when he was a young boy perhaps, and young enough that braiding a girl's hair, any girl's hair, would not be looked at askance: it was many years ago.

The day is young and so Pen is still patient and that is a fortunate thing.  He is careful not to tug or pull and careful to artfully arrange braid and ivy both, and so it takes time.

This time comes to an end though as all things must, and he leans into her then chest to back, his arm crossing over the front of her.  "Will you crown me?"

lake-light
"What is the ivy, to you?"

Pen asks; her voice is clear; aware. She leans back when he leans forward; she feels a pang, his arm crossed so; she rests her palm over it; follows the line of his forearm to his elbow; it leaves his elbow for his ribs. Then she breaks:

turns, still on her knees, and reaches for the ivy crown; she brings one leaf to her lips; watches Nick across the green. When he begins to speak, she holds it over his head; watches him with an air of attention, judgment in reserve, and see how the ivy curls around her wrists? How thick one side is? Thickest; thicket.

crow
Nick watches her back through the shine of leaves, through the light that filters between the vines.  His features have taken on a somber cast now: because for all its joy this is a somber holiday, too.  This is the other half of the winter solstice, the day that marks a turning.  From today forward the nights will grow longer and darker, from here they begin the descent.

"The growth at the height of summer," he says.  "And...I remember the way ivy would climb up the sides of those old homes back in New England, and how it made some of them beautiful in their disrepair.  It makes me think of old gods and old ways, the way that today echoes."

A beat.  "Usually when I see my guide, it's a woman and she is...she takes.  But sometimes it's a man wearing an ivy crown or a cloak."

lake-light
"Ivy is a symbol of fidelity, one to the other, and devotion; it also cures drunkenness; Kissokomês, Kissobryos, Kissos. The Ivy-Crowned, the Ivy-Wrapped, the Ivy:"

and as if she is invoking; she rests the crown upon Nick's curls. Then settles it; then settles it further, and pulls this leaf that-way, then pulls this curl that-way: there is solemnity, of course; and ardency; and urgency; a watchful sort of - is it pleasure? It is celebration, at least: it is this moment, clearly felt; it is reverence, in its way.

" - all names of the god Dionysus. I've always liked Dionysus: he seems kind, in spite of being trailed by savagery. And besides: the part of our nature which is divine springs from Dionysus, if you follow a Grecian model for your universe. He's a very useful symbol."

Penelope cups Nick's jaw in her hand; looks at him; that's all.