Imbolc night had always been special in Niamh's heart. Following the worst of the winter, in the dark days before the spring dawned across the lands once again, it seemed perfectly placed to lift the spirits. A night of light and renewal, a celebration of hearth and home.
More so this year. With the arrival of this threat to her mind and soul, the crimson demon and his succubus lover, she had been lost, caught between love for her gypsy, and the self-loathing that came with succumbing to the carnal temptation of a dream. A dream in which a demon stalked, but nonetheless, she had succumbed.
No matter how Brishen tried to calm her, she knew she had betrayed him in those dreaming moments, that she had faltered and failed in her fidelity, and that she would never, truly, forgive herself for it. She had made promises to him, and they had been lost in the overwhelming attack on her senses. It was no excuse, not in her mind.
His reaction to her waking, sobbing and angry, had taken her by surprise. Never before had she encountered Brishen exerting control over his power, least of all in a manner so attuned to their needs, both his and hers. This new bond between them, forged of magic and love ... it was confusing, to say the least.
At times, she could feel him, wherever he was, whatever he was at, aware of his presence like a silken rope binding her soul to his. It seemed most often to be when they were apart, when she worked at the little herbalist's shop, and he did ... whatever it was he did that brought in his wages. And yet it seemed, when they were closest, standing beside one another, it was the way they had always been. She couldn't feel the bond between them, nor anything that bound her soul to his that was not evident in spoken and unspoken words. Perhaps he was right - time would be the cure for this confusion of hers.
She felt protective of him, aye, of him and of Lilliana, though neither of them would allow her to stand to the fore and take whatever came at them. Strong-willed, this gypsy pair that had taken her life and shaped it, making her one of their own. But there were still nights when she woke, frightened and shaking, haunted by the Sidhe and the taunting whispers of a crimson foe.
But Imbolc was the perfect time for her to make amends with her fears. Candles glowed around her, the flames flickering in the soft breeze that seemed perpetual to this part of the Glen. Or perhaps it was drawn to her, rather than the home she had made here.
She could feel it in the air, the stirrings of spring, though the ground still froze cold and snow still lingered on the wind. Life was returning to the green things of this world she was still learning, to the bellies of the lifestock that wandered the fields. New life, new hope ... new beginnings.
The knife in her hand faltered as she looked down at the blade, silver sharp, resting on her palm. A sacrifice of blood, to be free of her lingering doubts, the terror that haunted her nights. Perhaps it would work, perhaps not. But she needed to see it done.
The blade sliced the flesh beneath her thumb, a single line from which welled dark blood, trickling over her wrist and down onto the frost-white earth. Lifting her hand over the flame of a blue candle, her lips moved in silent, pained offering to the Goddess she revered, asking forgiveness for her weakness, and strength with which to fight the nagging doubts that tainted her thoughts.
Cold light seemed to flicker over her head, and she glanced up, greeting the dawn with a soft smile. Imbolc had come and gone, and her home was made safe still. Her heart was given freely, entrusted with love. Now all that remained was to keep the crimson wolf's planted doubts from the bolted door of her mind.
More so this year. With the arrival of this threat to her mind and soul, the crimson demon and his succubus lover, she had been lost, caught between love for her gypsy, and the self-loathing that came with succumbing to the carnal temptation of a dream. A dream in which a demon stalked, but nonetheless, she had succumbed.
No matter how Brishen tried to calm her, she knew she had betrayed him in those dreaming moments, that she had faltered and failed in her fidelity, and that she would never, truly, forgive herself for it. She had made promises to him, and they had been lost in the overwhelming attack on her senses. It was no excuse, not in her mind.
His reaction to her waking, sobbing and angry, had taken her by surprise. Never before had she encountered Brishen exerting control over his power, least of all in a manner so attuned to their needs, both his and hers. This new bond between them, forged of magic and love ... it was confusing, to say the least.
At times, she could feel him, wherever he was, whatever he was at, aware of his presence like a silken rope binding her soul to his. It seemed most often to be when they were apart, when she worked at the little herbalist's shop, and he did ... whatever it was he did that brought in his wages. And yet it seemed, when they were closest, standing beside one another, it was the way they had always been. She couldn't feel the bond between them, nor anything that bound her soul to his that was not evident in spoken and unspoken words. Perhaps he was right - time would be the cure for this confusion of hers.
She felt protective of him, aye, of him and of Lilliana, though neither of them would allow her to stand to the fore and take whatever came at them. Strong-willed, this gypsy pair that had taken her life and shaped it, making her one of their own. But there were still nights when she woke, frightened and shaking, haunted by the Sidhe and the taunting whispers of a crimson foe.
But Imbolc was the perfect time for her to make amends with her fears. Candles glowed around her, the flames flickering in the soft breeze that seemed perpetual to this part of the Glen. Or perhaps it was drawn to her, rather than the home she had made here.
She could feel it in the air, the stirrings of spring, though the ground still froze cold and snow still lingered on the wind. Life was returning to the green things of this world she was still learning, to the bellies of the lifestock that wandered the fields. New life, new hope ... new beginnings.
The knife in her hand faltered as she looked down at the blade, silver sharp, resting on her palm. A sacrifice of blood, to be free of her lingering doubts, the terror that haunted her nights. Perhaps it would work, perhaps not. But she needed to see it done.
The blade sliced the flesh beneath her thumb, a single line from which welled dark blood, trickling over her wrist and down onto the frost-white earth. Lifting her hand over the flame of a blue candle, her lips moved in silent, pained offering to the Goddess she revered, asking forgiveness for her weakness, and strength with which to fight the nagging doubts that tainted her thoughts.
Cold light seemed to flicker over her head, and she glanced up, greeting the dawn with a soft smile. Imbolc had come and gone, and her home was made safe still. Her heart was given freely, entrusted with love. Now all that remained was to keep the crimson wolf's planted doubts from the bolted door of her mind.