Laughing, my hands numb from beating the bodhran in my lap, I pass it to the eager teenage boy who has been bouncing on his heels for the past half hour, waiting his turn. Grinning, he thuds down into the grass and strikes up a fresh beat, shaking his head so his blond curls fly. My hamper has been well and truly pillaged. As I expected, the apple ginger cake and fresh bread went first, closely followed by the elderflower wine. Not that anyone goes hungry. Wonderful things to eat are passed around the circle, or if you get tired of waiting, just wander over and ask. Music fills the clearing, a thundering, organic melange, never ending, but changing seamlessly from one tune to the other. People are whirling, swaying and hopping around, in couples, trios and circles. I can feel the drums in my solar plexus, through the soles of my bare feet, and I want nothing more than to dance until I fall down.
Swallowing the last mouthful of cold-pressed cider in my wooden tankard, I jump up. Whooping as he skips past, a tall druid with waist length dark hair tied with crow feathers snatches my hands and drags me into the dance. Ciarán. Handsome, cheeky, uncomplicated Ciarán. En pointe to avoid him standing on my bare toes, I laugh delightedly as he mock-waltzes, then bends me over his arm like we're tangoing.
"Been a while, lass," he murmurs, dropping a stubble-scratchy kiss on my cheek.
Kicking him gently in the shins, so he pouts and pretends I've hurt him, I grab his hands and pull him into a whirling circle.
"If would've been much sooner, if that dialling finger of yours wasn't permanently sore, bugger lugs!"
Ciarán guffaws good-naturedly, firelight catching the thick silver rings in his ears, the Awen on his tunic. He's gorgeous, and if he plays his cards right, will get to play God to my Goddess tonight. He slings an arm around my waist as we dance, almost falling in a heap on the trampled grass as we bump into another couple, who whoop, apologising through gales of laughter. Whistling and clapping catches our attention and we peer across the circle. A dreadlocked witch has stripped to leggings and a tank top, pert nose wrinkled with concentration as she furiously spins fire poi. Her slender arms cross and rise, flame streaks and arcs, creating wings behind her and increased applause. Sparks suddenly fly free from the burning poi and coalesce into the form of a raven, which swoops across the clearing and disappears into the bale fire.
"Cool," Ciarán comments enthusiastically, hugging me to his side as he watches the spectacle.
I smile up at him, loop my arms around his neck and stand on tiptoe to speak in his ear. He flinches, rubs the back of his neck and wriggles his shoulders.
"Bloody hell, somebody's giving me the evils," he mutters. "Whatever it was, it wasn't me... Well, I'm fairly certain it wasn't. Can you see who, Ash?"
I peek over his broad shoulder. His tone is light, playful, but I feel the tension in him. Somebody is radiating a depth of hostility that has no place in this circle. Scanning the throngs, I almost miss him, not seeing any faces I don't recognise. My gaze tracks back to between two groups of drummers. Feeling me stiffen, Ciarán's hands settle at my waist.
"What?" he asks. "Your aura's just spiked enough to power the National Grid for a week."
Extricating myself from his arms so quickly I stub my toe against his boots, I pat his chest soothingly and make to walk away. He hooks my fingertips with his, puzzled, arm outstretched.
"Erm, I've gotta go. Sorry. Catch up with you later, hon, ok?" I excuse myself and nip around the bale fire to the far side of the circle.
Flicking firelight painting red and umber across his hair and cheekbones, disguised by a seriously heavy duty glamour, is Nuada. His eyes are a clear, ice crystal blue, hair cornsilk blond, skin lightly tanned and scarification-free. I can't see his lance, but the air above his left shoulder shimmers ever so slightly, virtually unnoticeable in the twilight. He's dampened his aura, the seal at his wrists and belt altered to the Dagda, but is still drawing an equal number of enquiring and lustful glances. I dread to think the pandemonium that would break out, should somebody see him without his glamour.
"You came," I observe, dismayed as I sound pleased.
"I believe that is self-evident," he says, crisply.
Touchy, touchy, Your Highness. Doing the best thing, which is ignoring it, I rescue two clean cups and pour in some of Albert the Cunning Man's moonshine. I'm being a little mean, truth be told. I usually pre-warn anyone who's offered one of his murky bottles or a nip from his battered silver hip flask. Handing Nuada a cup, I raise mine in a toast.
"Lá Bealtaine!"
The Prince echoes the toast, reflexively, and takes a sip. Resting the cup rim on my bottom lip to hide my grin as his eyebrows shoot up and he suppresses a shudder. Gotcha, Elf Boy. I've drank enough of 'Uncle' Albert's special brews over the years to inwardly steel myself and kiss goodbye to my taste buds for at least an hour. Peering into the cup, then at the dancing folk, his lips crimp.
"They consume so much," he notes sourly, waving a hand to encompass the food, the drinks, and the instruments.
Folding into a lotus next to him, picking some grass from between my toes, I shake my head in disagreement.
"That's unfair," I counter. "Everything that lives consumes to some extent. Nothing exists in a vacuum. All the food you see here has been made by the people who brought it. The cups and plates will be washed and used again, or offered to the fire. No rubbish will be left. Come dawn, the only evidence of our presence will be trampled grass and a filled-in fire pit. We tread softly upon the earth, but can't help but leave some footprints. Even you." I grin and indicate the dancers and musicians with my cup. "Besides which, it's a party. You're meant to celebrate."
Nuada grunts, conceding the point, but says nothing. The drums fall silent and everyone looks up expectantly. Old Alice gets to her feet, levering herself up on her stick. White haired, gnarled with arthritis, but a mind so sharp her grandsons joke she sleeps in the knife drawer, she is the eldest woman here. As such, it falls to her to choose the May Queen. All the young women shift, hushed with anticipation. Alice rubs her protesting hip, makes a show of pretending to think, then points to a willowy, poppy-cheeked girl in her early twenties who has not long passed her final initiation. The girl gasps, looks to her mother, who pats her shoulder, filled with pride and love. The assembly breaks into whistling, cheering and deafening applause as she is crowned with creamy pink apple blossom and white ribbons. I see one of Alice's grandsons, nervously preening his hair before cantering over with a handmade token. Bless.
At Alice's gracious nod, the music strikes up again, livelier than before. Perhaps it's the fumes from Albert's moonshine, but I'm feeling brave as I scramble to my feet and hold out my hand.
"C'mon, don't just sit there. These are your people too, if a little removed."
Nuada clears his throat. "I do not dance."
I cock my head. There's so much he's forgotten, that he needs to re-learn. What's it going to take for His Royal Seriousness to loosen up?
"I notice you didn't say can't dance," I observe mischievously.
Anyone who has such a complete mastery over their movements as Himself can surely bust a move or two. Seeing he's dug his hooves in, I shrug and slip past him, outside the circle and toward the tree line, the grass cool beneath my feet. He twists to see where I'm going and I beckon to him.
"I want to show you something," I reveal.
I don't look back as I find the narrow trail, trodden by countless feet, weaving through the trees and past sinuous outcroppings of sandstone. Squeezing through a gap too small for the Prince, I emerge in a large, flat plateau, dominated by a towering sandstone monolith. The shape of a collapsed anvil, it is entirely covered in runic carvings, a channel barely wide enough for a single foot winding up to the summit. A small, cat-like thud behind me and to my left heralds Nuada's arrival. I look round as he straightens from his leap over the top of the surrounding stone.
"This is Thor's Rock," I announce. "Well, that's what the locals call it, anyway. What d'you see?"
He drifts past me, still glamoured, and lays a palm on the rock, worn smooth by the wind and rain. Chin tucking in, he slides his palm in an arc, and then turns to me.
"It's a portal to the Unseen Realm," he frowns. "But damaged, corrupted... there's something within... old, destructive."
I nod, step to his side and lay my own hand on the rock. "Yes. Who d'you think keeps it sealed up? Stops whatever the hell's in there getting out and destroying everything in its way?" I tap my knuckles to by chest. "We do. We maintain the runes, re-energise the surrounding woodland so it doesn't die from etheric poisoning. We have done for generations. Are we really so hollow?"
Removing my hand, shaking the fingers to rid myself of the unpleasant tingle, I drop it to my side. Nuada appears deep in thought, chewing at his illusory human-pink lower lip. Hesitantly, I reach out and clasp his arm.
"Do we disgust you that much?"
He straightens away from the rock, blue eyes silvered by the emerging stars, impassive. Stepping into his personal space, I move my fingers to his cheek and meet his gaze. Cards on the table time.
"Do I disgust you that much?"
The last syllable has barely left my lips when he virtually lunges at me. His kiss is fierce, demanding, not in the least gentle, tongue plundering my mouth. He tastes of moonshine and something that makes me think of iron and altars. I'm crushed to his chest, his fingers gripping the back of my neck, the other arm pinning my pelvis to his. Suspended on tiptoe, completely vulnerable, I make a soft sound of surprise against his mouth, and melt like every pathetic female stereotype I've ever mocked. I can feel every glorious muscle I've admired, a spreading heat igniting in my belly as I thrust my leg between his. The Prince's hands are at my waist, slipping lower, lifting my right thigh, caught behind my knee. I lean into him, hands questing across his collarbones, shoulders lifting, pulling him to me. I need more, I want more, give me more.
Suddenly, he pushes me away, so hard I stumble back against the rock. The breath leaves me in a startled whump and I know I'll have bruises come the morning. The glamour fizzles away, and he is bone white, ember-eyed and scarred again. Filling my lungs, I'm about to speak, but he turns on me and I can't help but cringe away. He's furious, chest heaving with the force of his temper.
"No!" he snarls, gesticulating at himself. "This is the truth of it! This!"
Dear Goddess, he thinks I've been beguiled by his industrial strength glamour and the Beltane energy. Stupid, short-sighted elf!
"I know!" I cry, my voice rising. "D'you really think I'd make a move on you purely 'cos of a bloody glamour?"
Elvish epithets hiss from between his teeth, his hands clench and unclench at his sides as he stalks back and forth like an enraged cougar. Planting myself in front of him, I reach out.
"Nuada, please, I-"
He snatches my wrist before I can touch him, moving so quickly all I see is a white blur, and I cry out with sudden pain. I'm sure I can feel the bones grind. Only marginally releasing his vice grip, he stares coldly down at me.
"You are not worthy," he states, in a tone of voice I presume he reserves for Royal proclamations. Charcoal lips twist as he sneers, "Polluted by your impure human blood. You are not noble, you have no right to my attentions."
Throwing down my wrist, which wrenches my shoulder, he draws himself up. This time I refuse to show he's hurt me, my own temper boiling, words rising like bile from the pit of my stomach.
"You haven't learnt anything I've tried to teach you!" I fume before he can let off another salvo, feeling the wind skirling through the furrows of Thor's Rock lift the braids at my shoulders. "How can I guide you, when you behave like this?" Gritting my teeth, I growl at him. "Sort your shit out, and never touch me again!"
Then I turn and storm away, not caring about the sharp stones and twigs beneath my bare feet, flipping two fingers up over my shoulder, which is admittedly, rather childish. Risking a glance back when I get to the threshold, the plateau is empty. He's done the disappearing act again.
