Kinktober Day 2: Ritual (yrnz)

(Note: this is not meant to reflect any one real religion or practice and can be classified as “high fantasy”).

Piers had long since marked the day on his calendar, to the point that the notation itself is naught but a formality. The tide of the year began to ebb, the wind over the sea grew chill then cold, and the evening that marked the turn from warm summer months to the depths of winter drew nigh.

And thus he prepared.

The festival that honoured the seasons was not something all Galarians take part in; many of them had let the old ways pass from their minds as newer, more enchanting routes and rituals opened to them. They thought that explaining a thing made it less magical, that knowing the when and why and how meant that none of those things were important any longer. So they disregarded the wheel of life, cursed it even, for they were shackled to it and even knowing of the spokes did not free them from its revolutions.

Yet Piers was one who still believed. It was his duty, and his honour to do so. Perhaps he felt so strongly about it because he was taught by his late mother, and he kept these teachings close as a tie to her. Maybe it was simply because to him, the knowledge of the land felt as true as anything ever could. The ground and sky and seasons, at least, could not be twisted by the greedy words of clever and wealthy men. They simply were. Today, tomorrow, and always. He doesn’t even consider it religion, not in the strictest sense—the old ways are not bound to buildings or tithes or speakers. There were books, yes, but no one book that commanded them all. There was no one chant, recited again and again for eternity. It was about the birth, the growth, the age, the death that all living things experience. It was not the wheel, it was the turning.

So when the cold clear day made itself known, he began the journey south and west to the Stony Wilderness. He doesn’t leave Spikemuth often, but he was taught at a young age that Galar had places which, despite their disuse, retained their old power. Nothing like the false constructed power spots, this was something older, grander, wiser. Not as showy or flashy, yet even to stand barefoot upon the earth there was to feel it thrumming up through the soles of the feet to one’s very core.

He journeyed there as the sun began to set, and felt with each passing mile that the unconsecrated everyday was shedding from him like so many clinging layers, peeling away until only a raw and holy self remained. This was the call, and he could do nothing but obey it. Once, he had fought the state of trance that this place brought, and other times, he had sought to recreate it with substances and chemicals, forcing it when it would not come to him. Now, though, he had no need for such things and felt his very lungs open in welcome for the clean air that brought with them the ecstasy of this timeless, ageless place. No need for fear, when he could open himself and feel the rushing of the tides coming into him, the dark and the cold seeming now like an embrace rather than a damnation. When they entered his body, it meant there would only be a short time before he could meet the one who carried light and fire, and soothe him.

By the time he arrived at the ring of standing stones, the sun was already kissing the horizon in greeting, and falling into her arms. Among them, he saw the wood being piled high, stacked into the ritual fires that would blaze in the night, and those who turned greeted him wordlessly with a bow. He did the same, acknowledging them as fellows and equals on this night. For a moment, he felt a burn of embarrassment that they accepted him so readily as the representative of his home and chose him as the Chalice with little more than a passing murmur amongst them, but he had served this role many times before and put any concerns from his mind.

When he was led towards the small stone dwelling that was abandoned on all other days of the year, yet had been used for such rituals since time immemorial, he went passively. Time had ceased to matter; he was aware the full moon was beginning its ascent to the height of the sky, round with promise, and when its light fell cooly upon his face he turned it up with a quiet, innocent wonder. He was then brought into the house and given a glass of water by an older woman, who was representing Hulbury by her blue-dyed garb and the necklace of shells that sat around her neck. She seemed ancient and youthful at once, and her smile was a kindness that itself was part of the ritual.

He drank gladly, and was shown to a large wooden tub already filled and steaming with a heavy fragrance of dried herbs and flowers. Without question, he obediently stripped down and climbed into the tub, already far from the daily self and the insecurities that would have otherwise fussed and complained about such a thing. The everyday Piers would have balked at this, or needed to make some crass joke, but that person was far away now. This was more than his worries about his scant form or the shame of nudity in front of a near-stranger, and he cast them aside as unneeded on this night of all nights.

As he scrubbed himself slowly and methodically, cleaning every inch of his skin from his fingertips to his belly, the woman came behind him and gently took his hair up in her hands. Delicate as any mother brushing her child’s hair, she ran a wooden comb through from the ends up towards the roots, picking out any knots and tangles and pouring over cool water from a silver jug, until the water and hair mixed and ran all about his shoulders like a river of black and white. It pooled on the surface of the bath and he marvelled at it, feeling suddenly as though all the world had sharper edges and clearer lines that delineated one thing from the other. Colours were brighter, and when the woman circled to begin rubbing a cleansing oil into his scalp, he smiled at her with an almost helpless delight.

Perhaps they were there for minutes, perhaps it was hours, but when she flicked her wrist in command he stood and stepped from the tub, standing on a mat of sweet-smelling woven grass as she toweled him off gently and squeezed his hair dry. He trusted her implicitly, raising his arms and legs in turn as she dried them off, and then standing stock still as she began to paint his body with the symbols of the night. Blue for his palms and the soles of his feet, a crescent moon for his brow, finely detailed with a small brush, then the outline of the full moon in a perfect circle at his chest. Finally, just above the dark hair that curled over his sex, she dipped her finger directly into the blue ink and painted in the rough sign of a new moon. As a finishing touch, she unclasped the necklace of shells from around her neck and fastened it around his instead, and he bowed his head in humility at the gesture. Hulbury and Spikemuth shared the sea, and he understood this as the gesture of unity it was meant to represent.

Tonight he would be the Chalice, the receiver, the moon, the waves. All things dark and mystical, opposite the light and land and sturdiness of the Athame. This was an absolute, and he did not question it as he was given a garland of dried berries around his waist, and led from the stone house.

The night unfurled before him in a tableau of revelry and delight that dazzled his eyes. Now the moon hung high in the sky, and the great fire was lit, roaring and licking up towards the exposed belly of the stars. This night was all nights, and at the same time, it was the only night that would ever be. Summer lay down and made way for autumn’s crisp chill, and it was their duty to mark the passing of another half of the year. In the nearby woods, he could sense the dozens of tiny lives of the creatures that lived there as they harvested and made ready, surging and scouring and storing up for the winter that lay ahead. The ground gave up its heavy bounty of crops, the trees bore out the last of their fruit, and the leaves began to change and colour. The world was preparing for sleep, but there was still this night and its final warmth.

For a moment, he saw in the distance beyond the fire the white outline of a great figure made from the chalk of the earth, a creature which strode across the land like a giant. It was older than any of the cities or towns, dating all the way back to the ancient tribes that had once made their homes nearby and were now little more than a historical footnote to most. Yet he was reassured by the symbol, of something older and greater than he could even dream of, primal and comforting at once.

Then a drum was struck, and the scene erupted with music. Dancers emerged from the shadows beyond the ring of firelight and took their places, falling into step as the sounds of flutes, drums, chimes, and other instruments began to rise. Someone sang, in a voice Piers could not place and yet recognised immediately, as though he had known it for all time. Footsteps stamped into the earth, bodies twisted and rocked through the orange light, and their homage to the spinning dance of life was underway. Everyone was to dance this dance, and it was the only thing that happened in existence, even when the rest of the world stubbornly wished to believe it was standing still. The stars wheeled in the sky, dizzying, and he felt the hands of the old woman as she pushed him forward into the firelight to join the others.

Floating, his mind separated itself from his body as his feet began to fall into the steps, knowing them without being told. The circle turned, and through the flames, he saw opposite himself the figure of the man who was to be his consort on this eve. Distantly, a part of his mind knew this face well—Milo, his sweet friend, who never had anything but a kind word for all the folk of the world and permanently wore a smile as kind as a sunbeam. Milo, who had played the role opposite Piers on many an occasion as well, strong and suited for it as he undeniably was.

Yet as their gaze met through the rippling haze of heat, Piers felt a tremor of anticipatory fear flare from the arches of his feet and up the inside of his thighs to lodge in a secret place just below his gut. Tonight, Milo’s strong body was painted as his own, in blue markings of the rising, high, and setting sun. He seemed to glow in the firelight, rosy hair burnished to gold and muscles gleaming with the sweat of his dance. Atop his head sat heavy horns, relics from his own home, wicked things that curved back from his skull and twinkled in the darkness. He was crowned by them, these goat’s horns, made far nobler than any king of silver or gold.

All at once, the drumming stopped. The world was silent but for the crackle and hiss of the fire, and Piers knew it was his time.

Their rituals were now bloodless, where long ago there had been many sacrifices to appease the turning of the wheel of the year; whatever forces ruled them demanded less, it seemed, but still required the symbol of the gesture. Fears faced. The passage from one side of the year to the next must be made literal.

The inside of his legs cramped and shook once more as he sized up the obstacle before him, but then, as though from some force greater than himself, the fear washed away to be replaced with a total acceptance. A confident knowledge as old as the world itself filled him, and that gave him the strength to do what the circle held its breath for.

Every muscle in his calves and thighs flexed, and he swore he could feel each tensing and moving in concert as his toes drove into the ground, then sent him flying forward. The heat of the flames hit him like a wall, sending hot fingers tangling through his hair, but the momentum was already carrying him forward and the world slowed to a dream as his feet hit the ground. Time was lax, flexible, he waded through it like water and had an entire year to plan his footfalls. Closer, closer, and then—then the leap.

Flames kissed his blue-painted soles and licked hungrily at his fingers, tugging the ends of his hair like a greedy lover. Yet the jump was perfect, not a step out of place, and for the eternity he spent suspended above the flames, he was through to the other side in the same instant, falling through now-cold air, breathless, reborn.

A pair of strong arms wrapped around his midsection, and Milo caught him out of the air without even staggering back. Piers’ feet barely brushed the ground before he was being held, and instinct made him fight back, hands slapping against the broad shoulders that held him. Yet this, too, was a symbolic gesture; the Athame held him inescapably, not budging an inch, and the fight left him as quickly as it came. Up close, he could smell the beckoning scent of grass and skin and the woad ink that painted both their bodies, felt the steel muscles beneath his hands and saw the absolution in those familiar eyes.

Wetness flooded between his legs, uncontrollable, even as his heart hammered like a little trapped animal in his chest. It was time.

Milo turned and bore him effortlessly to the raised pallet of animal skins that was to serve as their place of union, and laid him back on the furs. The part of Piers that would have been shy of this, that would have thought it barbaric and beyond understanding was gone now as his body was bathed in the splashing light of the full moon, and he saw it reflected off the great gleaming horns that rose over him as Milo came to kneel at the end of their small bed. He felt nameless, the very last of his self peeling away, until he was one creature and all creatures and truly a part of this timeless ritual. Old as the skies, old as the seas, old as life itself.

The ocean meets the shore, the cold meets with heat, the Athame must plunge into the Chalice, for this is the way of things. The person and body mattered not at all, and so he was free to leave both behind, and felt himself embody the role entirely as his legs spread in primal welcome for the hunter and harvester who slid between them. Beneath his hands, Milo’s shoulders felt warmed as though by the sun despite it being the dead of night, and Piers gasped when he felt the tickle of the garland which matched his own brushing against his belly.

That gasp turned to a moan as two fingers probed his wetness, spreading open the folds and twisting inside to make him ready. Lips met his own, tempting and playing sweetly, in contrast to the rough fingers that plied more slick from his cunt and rubbed the hardness of his clit until his head fell back to loose pleasured cries. Above, beside Milo’s shoulder, the moon watched their union lovingly and Piers sang his ecstasy to her as his hips rolled and pleaded with the teasing hand until it was drawn back suddenly.

Milo knelt above him, lit from the side by the fire and above by the moon, like a god. He awaited, and Piers rose to meet him. The thick cock was already stiff between them and pointed directly at his sex, but he took it in his palms anyway, caressing the length and feeling it throb with wanting for him. Huge, fat, promising the pleasure of life itself, and Piers pumped it with both hands while looking up at his consort, licking his lips to show his readiness to please. The scent of sex filled the air between them and Piers grew impossibly wetter still, until he could take it no more and lay back on the softness of the furs and guided the shaft between his thighs to where it was most welcome.

The blunt head wedged itself between his folds, lined up and waiting at the entrance of his pussy until he squirmed with the need for it. Emptiness ached, and he felt a desperate urge for it to be soothed, yet hadn’t the tongue to beg for it. All he could do was arch, needful, until strong hands pinned him down to the bed and a steady thrust speared him open, sliding nearly to the hilt in one slick motion. Piers wailed his delight to the moon and the ritual fire, instantly feeling their bodies blurring into and out of one another; in a moment, he was looking through Milo’s eyes, seeing himself thrust down into his own body and knowing the same experience was happening in reverse. Then another, again, pushing his walls apart and laying him utterly bare in their union.

Distantly, he knew the other celebrants were pairing off, finding places on the ground or beside the stones to unite in their own tributes. Bodies disappeared under one another, cries filled the air, skin and mouths and breaths united as their harvest was reaped and sown anew. Milo’s own groans drew him back to himself and he moved his legs up to hook behind that muscular waist, encouraging the rut into the relief of heat and wetness. It was autumn; in spring, the sun would conquer and the land and warmth would press in and take over, but now as the leaves turned, it was time for the moon and the cold to provide solace. He received, as was his due, and kissed soothingly at the face above his own, mapping the starry freckles with his lips.

Steadily, the tide of pleasure built between them, with each thrust of Milo’s hips and the clever fingertips that tugged gently at Piers’ dick and made him clench tightly around the shaft within him. Perhaps they were united for hours, years, minutes, neither could tell. All they knew was the rising sensation that built upon itself, a flood of energy shared back and forth between them and poured out into the ground and the air until it snapped back into place. Piers felt his fingernails bite into Milo’s shoulders and leave streaks of red in their wake as the orgasm rocked him, and then a brutal thrust lodged Milo’s cock deep and heat flooded within.

They shook together, until every drop was wrung out and they could only pant in satisfied exhaustion. Around them, the cries of other couples rose to crescendoes, and Piers felt Milo’s calloused hand skating down his back once more. Massaging, gentling him onto his side until they lay together, bodies still linked. A kiss was pressed to his shoulder, and he buried his face into a strong chest, smelling woad and sweat and contentment all around. Perhaps in another short time they would come together once more, with Piers riding above his horned prince, or perhaps with his face pushed into their makeshift blankets.

For now, though, they listened to the thrum of the music and felt the earth accept their offering and the wheel continue to turn.