Work Text:
The first time they try sex-magic, it doesn't work, because they're too uncomfortable. It's too new, is the problem. They try it in the flush of discovery, the giddy rush of we can do this now! which means that the giddy rush collapses into giggles, and they can't concentrate, and it ends up with Eilir signing an apology to Aphrodite while Astrid, face flushed somewhere between hysterical amusement and hysterical embarrassment, gathers up the stones - blue, green and white, for the sea and the sea-foam the goddess arose from - from around the circle.
Eilir mostly gets a sense of amusement. She supposes this probably really isn't anything She hasn't seen before.
It's okay, she signs at Astrid. Really. Everything's grounded. It was, too - Eilir was way, way better at that than Astrid. They were getting the sense of that, better and better: Astrid could pull power, especially with the Goddess' wilder aspects, but she was bendy as an aspen in a wind. Eilir was the one who could root.
"I know," Astrid says, her hands still full of the rocks. She puts them back in their lined box, and signs, It's fine.
Eilir gives her a long look. Anamchara, how about you remember this is me you're talking to, and not my mom or your dad?
Astrid looks really annoyed, like she always does when she's reminded she's human and can screw up (at some point Eilir's going to go through all of those goddamn books and find every time an elf, or a Tayledras, or whatever's standing in for elves in this knockoff, screws up, makes a mistake, looks like an idiot, or otherwise falls flat on their face), and signs, I know, okay? She shrugs herself back into her tunic.
Eilir shakes her head and follows Astrid back out of her room to find something to eat, to finish bringing them back in the world.
The second time is different; the second time has a purpose.
Naming things is important. This was one of the first things Eilir ever learned, second only to don't wish curses on people unless you're willing to take the backlash, which almost no one ever was. Naming things has power, even if it's not straightforward. There is a part of Eilir that knows the names Protector and Protectorate will come back to haunt Norman Arminger, if they aren't already.
She knows this, and she's always made sure Astrid understands it, too. So when Astrid names them, and those that have started to follow them Dùnadain, Mike can roll his eyes until they fall out of his head: Eilir knows it's chosen for a reason. It's a promise; it's the simplest, rawest kind of spell. To take on the name is to take on the meaning; to take on the meaning is to take on the duty, not only to protect but to do it in the face of ingratitude, in the face of ignorance, in the face of fear. To protect, and to take little authority; to defend, without price.
Eilir's the one that modifies that, and grins as she signs, It's like half-socialism. The people that can pay get to pay. The people that can't - well, there are limits to our borders even if they will give us Mithrilwood, and the Rangers only looked after people in Arnor.
Astrid looks thoughtful, and eventually signs assent. Anyone who lives with us will be contributing to the common good anyway, she notes. And we'll keep the land in our borders clear as a matter of course.
Eilir nods firmly. And if they want escort the rest of the way to Corvallis, or in the overlap . . . .
Astrid's eyes almost glow. And she's still half-glowing when she leans over to kiss Eilir, not hard but long and deep and that's about as far as they get talking about it because it's really hard to have a conversation when Eilir's hands are busy.
There's power in the sex, that time. It only builds and then ebbs back down, not exactly wasted but not used either. And that's what brings Eilir back to the idea, and sends her looking through, among other things, the coven's Book of Shadows.
It doesn't take her far. Eilir has by now very definitely come to terms with the fact that Juniper is only outre or licentious or innovative if you're looking at her through cowan, Christian-dominated eyes. The night that led to Rudi was an exception. Not radical, but still: for the most part, Juniper dealt with sex with a man, in a relationship, and (as far as Eilir could tell) pretty damn tame even there. The only time she dealt with sexual magic at all was in the Great Rite, and even that . . . . straightforward, simple . . . .
She'd run out of words when she was trying to explain it to Aaron Rothman one day, long before working in earnest, because she was in Larsdalen and because he was the only person who seemed to get it. He'd laughed, and said (aloud, because he was much better understanding Sign than managing it and it was actually easier to understand him by lipreading), "The words you're looking for is 'heterocentric and vanilla', honey. I swear straight people exist to make sex boring. Your mom's a sweet lady, but I'm willing to bet she'd hem and haw at so much as a strap-on."
Then, at Eilir's blank look, he'd got the funniest concerned expression, and she'd got a half-hour lecture on all the ways people had managed to figure out to make sex interesting before the change.
She thinks about that now - not so much the trappings, but the ideas. Power and gender and meaning. She thinks about the aspects Astrid draws on, and the ones she does, and what that means. And how her mother uses power for the whole Clan, and how different the Rangers will be, must be: the Clan revolved around the earth, the harvest, and the Rangers would, must, turn around the forest, around the hunt, around war.
Her mother happens to catch a glimpse of her notes at one point, and the look of concern is immediate and obvious. Eilir puts down her pen, pausing in her notes on Sekmet and Ma'at. I know what I'm doing, Mom, she signs, leaves no room for doubt in anything about the way she tells her mother, and Juniper looks conflicted.
"Be careful," she says, and signs, after a minute.
Always, splendiferous Mom-person, Eilir replies, absently, and goes back to work. She doesn't know that Juniper believes her.
In the end, she has to write most of it herself; in the end, she breaks with pattern, with habit more than once. Follows instinct.
Inspiration.
She doesn't actually mention it to Astrid. She has reasons for that, the first and foremost being that first failure: Astrid imprints on these things and it can be really hard to get her to let them go. And when things take time, she gets more and more anxious about them, especially if she's not a hundred percent sure of herself, especially if she can't just push everything into the box of what's-meant-to-be in the way that lets her mow down all opposition by sheer pigheaded stubborn.
(Nobody, but nobody, but nobody understands how stubborn her anamchara can be as well as Eilir does. They think they do, but mostly, none of them have the first clue how to get her to agree to anything in the first place.)
Besides - this time, her anamchara is more of a vessel. They'll do this again (because it will work, this time, Eilir knows, can feel the momentum that builds up when something is just right), differently, when the hurdle is passed, but this time - this time Astrid is lightning-rod, conduit, vessel and center.
Moondark in summer is the right time: she waits until the ungodly heat of July sets in around Dun Juniper before she charts the moon, gathers everything and says, Come with me. I want to do something.
It says a lot - it says they've come a very, very long way - when Astrid's face is only puzzled and curious, and not even a little bit wary.
The sky is clear and the night is hot; Eilir plants the markers near the path that say go away, privacy wanted (an idea, she frequently, sweetly pointed out to Mike, that had been Astrid's and had come out of a book and tended to save him and Signe considerable embarrassment after a raid or a battle when they just could not keep it in their pants); she dismounts and Astrid follows her, still looking quizzical, until they get to the clearing. She tethers her mare, as Astrid does her own, changing bridle for hackamores that let them graze unobstructed.
It's too dark for Sign right there, so she just takes Astrid's hand and leads her forward, and then puts a hand on her shoulder to make her stop, wait, while Eilir finds the candles she placed earlier (in lanterns to keep them from the wind) more by memory and feel than anything else. They mark out the circle. Each candle is thick and has three wicks instead of one; they burn brightly, brightly enough for Astrid to see and for Eilir to see her face. Between the candles are the stones again, white-blue-green; the spell might not call on Her as Aphrodite, but the whole thing fell under the auspices of the goddess of physical love.
In the centre is the wide blanket over the wider leather tarp; when Eilir takes Astrid's hands and draws her in, Astrid's face is still mostly curious - but the wary has started just around the edges. "Anamchara," she starts, her hands still in Eilir's, but Eilir puts a finger to Astrid's lips.
Do you trust me? she asks, and Astrid's answer is immediate, more of a choice than a felt truth.
Of course, her hands say, even if her body doesn't entirely agree.
Then let me do this, Eilir replies, and reaches over to undo the ties of Astrid's blouse. She's so fair she burns and never browns - summer means brimmed hats and shirts of linen as light as she can get it, to keep off the sun without making her swelter. This one has ties all the way down the front; it's a clear choice Astrid makes, not to stop Eilir's hands, not to get her to explain further.
Eilir pushes the shirt off Astrid's shoulders, and steps close to start undoing the breast-binding underneath. She gently pushes Astrid to turn, in part to make it easier and in part to see if she will: Astrid does, slow and careful, the way you move when you're not sure what the movement will cause. The binding is damp here and there with sweat; when she stops, when it comes away, her back is to Eilir. And Eilir puts the binding aside, outside the circle with the shirt.
She takes a breath one step away from startled when Eilir wraps her arms around, one hand on the bare skin of Astrid's stomach and one at her waist, half on skin and half on the skirt below. Eilir kisses the top vertebra in her spine, and each shoulder-blade; feels the buzz of words spoken under her mouth at the last.
She steps back around her anamchara, looks up with her head tilted in question, but Astrid just shakes her head, mouth's it's nothing. So Eilir only stands on tiptoe to put a soft kiss on Astrid's mouth, and then undoes the drawstring of her skirt, pushes it and underwear down together to just let them fall, let Astrid step out of them.
Astrid's still self-conscious about nakedness like this, about her body and it being watched; Eilir knows her more than well enough to read that in her body, her posture, even if she doesn't do anything to try to cover up. Eilir signs, Sit down, after she's put the skirt with the other clothes.
Astrid sits on her knees, looking up at Eilir when Eilir comes to stand in front of her; Eilir signs, Still trust me? and waits for the nod before she undoes the blindfold from around her wrist where she had it wrapped to carry. It's pre-Change, made from a wide satin belt, meant to be tied, that Eilir scavenged years ago and waited to find something to use it for. Astrid's hands flinch up, about halfway, when Eilir bends to tie it around her eyes - but only halfway, before she's putting them down, fists lightly closed and resting on her knees.
Eilir steps back out of the circle, for just a second, has to take a second to breathe and make herself calm, something approximating calm; when she gets rid of her own clothes, her underwear are wet and she figures this is a test of her patience, her control, as much as Astrid's trust.
Then she puts the clay bowls - one burning incense for air, one filled with water, one with earth, one burning a thick sage smudge for fire, the final holding the attar of roses - in their place at the head of the blanket. It takes only heartbeats to cast the circle, standing here in its centre, everything about it familiar as breathing, except that it's . . . more, that she feels the settling like the sudden shift of a bone into alignment instead of a steady pressure. It makes her catch her breath, makes her eyes fly open.
The candles are burning bright. Maybe brighter than before. She draws in another breath, deep and slow, before she kneels in front of Astrid and puts her atheme to the right of the blanket.
She takes Astrid's face in her hands to kiss her, first; then takes the oil to anoint her with it, over her third eye and her lips, her throat, between her breasts, over her navel and just above her pubic hair; Astrid is breathing carefully, and Eilir kisses her again, even though the oil is bitter - flicks her tongue at Astrid's lips and then presses in between them, feels Astrid's mouth open for her and accept this.
Eilir puts a hand over Astrid's breast-bone to push her, make her roll off her knees and then all the way down onto her back. Astrid's slow, but she doesn't resist; she rests her arms out from her sides, palms down; for a moment Eilir just looks at her, at the flush on her cheeks and the way her breasts rise with each breath, nipples tight, stomach stretched out flat between her ribs and the points of her hip-bones, legs just spread.
Then Eilir moves to kneel between them, to kneel over her, to catch her hands and put her arms above her head and press them there to tell her don't move and to begin the invocations.
Hecate, when her hand rests along the curve of Astrid's skull, thumb resting on her forehead. Hecate I call you - I who am not your daughter, to she who is. Gatekeeper, night-walker, lady of the dead and teacher in the dark, queen of the edges walked with care, guardian against the enemy wrapped in shadow. Know us, bless us, walk with us.
Athena, when she rests her hand at Astrid's throat and feels Astrid's breath catch when it stays there. Athena I call you - your daughter to another. Queen of Just War, queen of Wisdom, life-giver, grey-eyed. Know us, lead us, hear us.
Morrigan, when her hand is over Astrid's hard, beating fast and hard where Eilir lays her hand. Great Queen, I beseech you, yours as we all are on the field, to one whom you cherish. You who are named Badb, Macha, Nemain. Dread-queen, war-queen, lady of prophecy, guardian of death, lady of the cross-roads and of the bloody ford. Hear us when we call; walk with us before death.
And then, finally, her hand resting at Astrid's abdomen, over womb and all the viscera there, covered with skin, Sekhmet. Lioness. Queen of War and mother of warriors - hear us, and come to us.
And everything is shivering, everything is bright and shining in her head, and for herself she calls Brigid - and cannot find more, does not need more, as it all catches her up and shakes her and she thinks for a moment, in her head, she might know what the voices of so many women sound like, laughing bright and fierce.
It doesn't really matter. Astrid's mouth opens under hers again, and Eilir catches Astrid's hands to lean on them, keep them down with one of hers; she feels the buzz of Astrid's moan where her fingers close around Astrid's throat, close but don't press, just for a heartbeat before she draws her fingers down, presses her palm flat against Astrid's breast and cups it, presses her thumb over it light and then harder, feels the sound at that and the way Astrid's body arches up.
And there is a litany in Eilir's head, less words than the same thought, the same shape, over and over again - names and aspects, love and the will of what she wants. She bites at the corner of Astrid's jaw, lets Astrid's hands go so she can kiss her way down Astrid's neck, over her collar-bones and flick her tongue at the breast her hand isn't working over.
Astrid's hand falls on Eilir's head, tangles in her hair; Eilir smiles against skin and draws her hand down. Moves so that one of Astrid's legs is between hers, so she can grind down on it while her fingers slide down, between Astrid's legs and the slickness there. To curl two fingers in, and rub at Astrid's clit with her thumb, and feel the moans, her body against Astrid's, one arm holding her up, her mouth at Astrid's neck as Astrid bucks up and clings to Eilir's waist, other hand still in her hair.
(But not to tug, not the signal that something is wrong - only holding, like she's afraid she'll drown.)
Another time she might tease, might find the edge and stay there, but that isn't the point; she feels it, when it's now, when power and weight and the point of everything is now and she's caught up enough in it when Astrid comes that her own orgasm takes her by surprise. Leaves her gasping, wide-eyed and shuddering, still.
They lie there for a while, circle still closed, Astrid clinging to Eilir and Eilir staring into the dark, while sweat dries on their skin, until there's a sudden need, like a nudge in Eilir's mind and she pushes herself back up.
She pushes the blindfold off Astrid's eyes; when her anamchara goes to speak, Eilir puts a finger over Astrid's mouth and shakes her head, pushes Astrid's hands down flat: no words.
Eilir doesn't stand. Does something she never does, opens the circle from above and not from the boundaries. Feels the energy go through her like a shock to the ground. The stillness breaks, and suddenly it's only night, with the air moving restless and soft, and she is light-headed, tired, and starving.
The smudge is burned through, consumed; the incense is only a residue of ash. Eilir drags herself to her feet to take the water and the earth, scatter them outside the circle, dispersing them to the air and the ground and the night.
Astrid's sitting up when she comes back, wide-eyed, leaning on her hands. Eilir grins at her, signs, This time, it worked.
Astrid sits forward to free her hands. Warn me next time? she says, weakly, and Eilir grins, laughs, drops to her knees to kiss the corner of Astrid's mouth.
Somehow, Astrid pulls her back down onto the ground with her again. The tired doesn't seem so much, and Eilir doesn't protest.