The Wheel Of A Year (1/4)
Title: The Wheel Of A Year
Chapters: 1/4
Pairing: Daniel Agger/Fernando Torres
Rating: (hard) R
Disclaimer: Fiction! So much! Aaah!
Summary: I chased you, caught you, won’t let you go, you’re mine, mine, mine…
A/N: Don't ask. I get strange, strange ideas. :D
Beltane
Fernando Torres was a pure-blooded Spaniard who was completely, utterly and whole-heartedly in love with the British Isles.
It wasn’t like he could explain it. Of course he loved Spain, cherished its culture, language, traditions. It was where he had grown up, where all his family and friends were, but that didn’t make a difference.
It didn’t stop him from spending hours looking at pictures displaying green hills both gentle and rough, small stone bridges over narrow rivers, wide fields under a slate grey, white and dark coloured sky, age-old castles, golden light falling in patterns through tall trees of vast forests, miles of low stone walls dividing unending green, rough coasts, wild gardens, troubled shores under endless rain, waves crowned with white foam, cold lakes between round, green-covered mountains.
From soaking up everything he could find on English, Scottish or Irish culture, the people, the way of life, their history. How William ever got the idea of conquering England. The art of distilling whiskey. St. Patrick’s Day. William Shakespeare, Sir Walter Scot, Oscar Wilde. The origins of ‘Flower of Scotland’ or ‘Loch Lomond’. British Humour. If Scots and English really couldn’t stand each other. Irish Dance and Highland Games. Battles of Stirling, Falkirk, Bannockburn, Culloden. The Industrial Revolution. The Golden Age under Elisabeth I. Haggis, Irish Stew, Shepherds’ Pie. Kilts and whether or not to wear anything underneath. The great legends, King Arthur, Nessie, the Mabinogion. Stone rings and barrows. The mysteries of the Celts, the roots they all shared.
His friends at home didn’t understand him. They grinned, puzzled and uncomprehending, and shook their heads about it. But this wasn’t just an infatuation. There had been a trip to London and Hastings back in school, and once he had managed to convince a friend to come with him to Liverpool for a Champions League match when Atleti had travelled there. But other than that, everyone Fernando knew had no interest whatsoever in travelling north instead of south for their holidays. Why go where it rains when you can lie on the beach all day?
So Fernando had resigned himself to wait, to quell the yearning in his heart the best he could and shut up around his friends. He couldn’t explain to anyone how good it had felt to step off the plane those few times, to have cool, fresh wind in his hair that carried the faintest hint of the ocean, to hear those accents he adored in people’s voices all around him. So he had saved his money over years since his late teens, to make those journeys on his own.
It didn’t really bother Fernando even though he could imagine that it would be much more fun to share such trips with someone who shared his passion, his simple happiness about being there. As it was, he took all the joy he could get from those weekend-trips to London or Dublin or Edinburgh.
But it was only when he had started to venture further from the cities, that something had dawned on him. When he wandered down a small part of the West Highland Way through a green, windy glen, watching the sun setting between two mountains, light reflecting on an ice-cold stream. When he sat on a low stone wall watching the sheep chewing on their grass like they had no cares in the world. When he had his naked feet buried in the cold sand and even colder water of a beach, a warm turtleneck protecting him from the fresh wind, the sky covered in the most spectacular play of clouds his friends back at home would only want to escape from, he knew that some day, he would come back to stay. That there was nothing more he wanted than to experience this more than just in passing once or twice a year… and someone to share it with.
Right now though, those were things Fernando only dreamed of. So he had taken a plane alone again at the end of April, flying up to Manchester this time where he rented a car and drove up to explore the most northern parts of England and maybe the south of Scotland. The beautiful, age-old and history-laden city of York and then from park to park, North Yorkshire Moors, Yorkshire Dales, Lake District, Northumberland National Park.
And after only the first day his heart was soaring.
On the 30th of April, four days after his arrival in England, Fernando had deliberately taken up residence in a small, cosy bed & breakfast in a small village far up north that was fully booked as all the other accommodations in town, and with good reason.
That night to the 1st of May there would be bonfires dotting the hillside just outside of town.
Beltane.
From the moment Fernando had heard about the feast and midnight fair up there in the far north of England he had known that he wanted to be there. It wasn’t as big as the Beltane Fire Festival in Edinburgh, not by far, but supposed to be exceptionally beautiful. And as he now walked right through it he knew that it had been one of his best ideas of the year so far.
Against all odds it wasn’t raining as the sun was setting and the hills were starting to light up with countless torches and lanterns. There were people everywhere, walking around just like Fernando, tourists, locals, joining in the festivities of the ancient holiday, the beginning of summer, of awakening life and passion.
All kinds of stalls were set up with a variety of purposes. The majority were those giving out drinks of course, ale, mead or spiced wine, and food that was so good that Fernando wanted to eat there all week just to try everything. There were stone-oven made flammkueche, waffles, stew, roast apples, garlic bread, bannocks, omelette with nuts and herbs, and his absolute favourite of the night, the largest iron pan he had ever seen in his life with a width of about four feet filled with steaming ragout with huge uncut mushrooms and tomatoes and a variety of green herbs and other vegetable simmering in it. It was so good he could have eaten all night.
There were girls with flowers and ribbons in their hair, laughing and dancing, men whirling slim torches around in blurring, breath-taking speed, storytellers, jugglers, musicians, drums and guitar and flute and violin accompanying a female singer with a captivating voice. It was as much a feast to attract as to stay true to itself, a memory of an ancient tradition.
At midnight, the climax of it all, the two big staples of firewood were set aflame, and the bonfires burned high and bright, chasing away the last remains of winter, the traditional gate through which the herds were driven for spiritual cleansing before leaving for the summer pastures.
Watching it all, Fernando’s face was glowing.
Right after the fires were lit and the crowd scattered over the field and between the stalls again he came by a middle-aged woman who was the centre of attention for quite some people who were captivatedly listening to her. Her hair was long, slightly curly and dark with just a few grey streaks already but her face and eyes still energetic and youthful, and the way she told her audience about Cernunnos, the Horned God, and the Great Hunt was entirely captivating.
Fernando was vaguely familiar with it, the old stories about how one man was chosen to hunt down a stag and consummate the Great Wedding, two humans embodying God and Goddess, the joining of Earth and Sun to awaken life. And yet he listened, like almost everyone else, until the very end.
“Those rituals are long past,” the woman finally concluded, “but their essence remains. Just because our society has changed and we don’t blatantly roll around in the hay anymore to cherish the gods and what they grant us -” she smiled and indulgently paused for the chuckles to subside, “- doesn’t mean that it doesn’t happen anymore. Hunter and stag are still chosen, and Earth and Sun are still giving life born from passion. It’s an ever flowing circle of energy that will, let’s hope that for our own sakes, never stop.” And she winked, drawing laughter from her audience and clapping when it became apparent that she was done. Fernando joined in, grinning a little at the spin she had put at the end and watched as she picked up a large mug.
“Thank you all for your attention! As appreciation let me offer you a small free drink to wet all throats I have kept dry for some time now.”
Fernando contemplated moving on, but remembered just in time that earlier on he had heard two visitors raving about the delicious but unfortunately only small amount of spiced wine one of the storytellers was giving out, and so he stayed like most of the others.
Delicious was barely even covering it. The sip of wine running down his throat was refreshing like spring water and its rich taste exploded on his tongue in multitudes of flavours. It settled in his belly and, as he walked on to watch a few fire dancers, took root and slowly but surely spread warmth through his system.
It was getting late and slowly some people, especially the elderly, were starting to vanish from the crowd. But the air was still full of voices, of laughter, and maybe, Fernando thought, some of them were really going to be here all night and celebrate until sunrise.
He wasn’t quite sure what it was because his amount of alcohol that night had been nothing to really justify being inebriate, and yet that was how he felt. A little light-headed, his cheeks glowing with warmth, and at first he didn’t really think much of it. Until his senses were slowly starting to drift in and out of focus, the drums pulsing loudly in his ears, a cool breeze between the warmth of the fires making him shiver, faces and flames briefly blurring before his eyes.
Fernando sat down a little nervously, hoping that it was maybe a brief dizziness that would pass, maybe there had been something in the food or some spice in the drinks he just didn’t react that well to. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, the deprivation of sight only making him more receptive to his other senses. The scent of burning wood. His clothes lying heavy on his skin. Voices and laughter and drums, beats that vibrated somewhere inside of him.
After a while it got better even though not vanishing entirely, a strange tension sitting deep in his stomach and reaching through his whole body, and Fernando decided it was the perfect moment to get to his bed as quickly as possible. So he left the hillside on slightly unsteady feet, the faint music still ringing in his ears when he reached the edge of town. In his room Fernando couldn’t concentrate on more than peeling his clothes off his body, even brushing his teeth was a difficult task. His skin was almost feverish and sensitive enough to make him shudder as he crawled between the cool sheets.
The fires were still burning before his eyes, the drums beating to the rhythm of his heart in his ears, drawing him in, there was a voice singing, and the scent of smoke and forest was filling his nostrils. His muscles were tense, quivering in alert and anticipation, eyes darting between the people watching him, faceless, only illuminated by the brightly burning flames. The wind was whispering in his ears, cool on his bare skin, on the dark, ancient runes drawn on his body only covered by the soft layer of a loincloth, the grass cold and soft under his feet.
And then, there between the motionless bodies, was a glimpse of naked skin, of red golden paint on moving muscles that sent adrenaline rushing through him, his heart racing.
And without even one moment’s hesitation he turned and ran.
The forest was welcoming him like a cherished child as he tore through the trees, no thought, only instinct urging him on, feet flying over the ground, drums like the thumping of hooves, strong, steady, fast, running, running. Dark shadows of trees rushing past him, nimble jumps over fallen wood and a gurgling stream, climbing up slopes, tearing through shrubbery, scratches on his skin, never faltering, never stopping, ever aware of what was chasing him. Senses screaming, urging him to go faster, run, push every ounce of his strength to his legs in another burst of energy, acceleration, frantically beating heart rushing in his ears, drums, only to find that it wasn’t enough. That just maybe, he was never supposed to escape.
At the edge of a pond, moonlight glimmering through the leaves and on the surface, scent of pine trees, at the crossing of earth and water something caught his arm, made him stumble, slammed into him and sent them to the ground. He struggled, fought with all the strength that was left in him, almost got up but was crushed back to the ground chest first, air knocked from his frantically working lungs, a warm weight, naked, sweat-slick skin holding him down, and then lips and teeth on the juncture of his shoulder and throat, sucking, biting, bruising, claiming, and with the last arching struggle and the first soft groan the chase was over.
Their laboured breaths were mingling in the air and he shuddered as it ghosted over his shoulder, one hand threading through his hair, pulling his head back, the other gripping first his quivering flank, then his from exhaustion burning thigh, pushing it upwards to open up the space between his legs. Every nerve, every muscle, every inch of skin felt like it had been set on fire, desperate want licking at his insides, and he sobbed in trembling arousal as, without being given time to prepare, his body was invaded and the Hunter moulded their hips together, groaning deeply against his prey’s bared throat.
Finally…
His vision swam and so he let his eyes fall shut, wanting this union with every fibre of his being, wanting it so much it hurt. To be touched and filled and brought to life.
Neither needed to search for a rhythm as they moved together, sliding against each other, sweat and paint, dark brown and red golden, mingling and blending together, their most basic instincts providing them everything they needed. The air between them brimming with energy, invisible sparks striking, burning, with every thrust he met, every shudder cursing through him, every moan and gasp and cry filling the night. The stabs into him were strong, hungry, possessive, with a force that reduced him to shaking ecstasy, and yet the lips on his neck, his nape, his shoulders and back, the arm holding him were touches of worship, of reverence, undying devotion.
I chased you, caught you, won’t let you go, you’re mine, mine, mine…
And the wind sang to them, caressed their damp skin, the grass and earth under his fingers let him in as he searched for something to hold on to, and then, fingers digging into his hips, deep thrusts so hard they tore a scream from his lips, light exploding before his eyes, it all unravelled around him.
He was carried through shockwaves of pleasure by the shuddering body covering him, driving into him without faltering, holding and guiding and taking from him every last ounce of energy he had to give. A choked, shaken moan in his ear and he provided what he had been given, encouraging, cradling. Then it was over.
Thank you…
All-consuming exhaustion was taking hold, and the trembling body above him slid to the ground next to him. And when he wearily blinked he finally, finally looked into tired, spent, green-brown eyes of his Hunter, his Lover, his Consort. They quietly drank each other in, too tired to utter a single word. But it took just the smallest of movements towards each other and their lips were brushing, a touch so small it was barely deserving of the name, and yet the final seal to an ever renewed circle.
And exhaustion finally took its toll and claimed him, eyelids falling shut to a sense of completion, and when Fernando opened them again it was to the white of his room’s ceiling in the morning sun.
He gasped for breath as if emerging from deep, dark water, his body shaken by tiny aftershocks, fingers clenching rhythmically in his sheets. His muscles weren’t burning anymore and he wasn’t sore, only feeling weak and disoriented, drained as if he hadn’t slept at all and even the slight brush of the sheets against his oversensitive skin made him shudder.
What a fucked up dream, Fernando thought half distressed, half intimidated as he struggled to get to his feet, searching his bottle of water and taking large gulps, the cool liquid soothing to his burning insides.
The memory was still so vivid that it made him over-aware of his body, his every movement as if he was feverish, as if… as if…
Fernando stilled, staring off into space as another thought hit him. As if he had woken up from some kind of intoxication.
“My God,” he muttered, drawing a shaking hand through his hair, and then haphazardly searched for his clothes. He had to go back, the sun had only just risen, maybe people would still be there… maybe he could see if anyone else was in the same state, maybe he could find that woman who had given out those free drinks… stupid, stupid…
When Fernando hurried out of town, shivering in the cool morning air and drawing his jacket closer around him, his legs were still wobbly, partly from aftereffects, partly from wondering if there really had been anything in the wine that drugged people or was like an aphrodisiac, could induce hallucinations. No wonder he had felt so strange when he had left…
He still couldn’t quite believe someone would really do that, and for what purpose? In the hopes that it would inebriate people enough so that they started rolling around in the hay again as she had put it? Was she one of those people who just wanted to bring back the past?
Fernando angrily shook his head and strode on until he reached the site of the festivities.
The fires had burned down, only leaving two small piles of burnt wood, glimmering faintly on the inside, the torches were out, the stalls closed. There were still a few people milling around, sitting or standing together, talking, coming down from the night before taking off into town for breakfast, or already starting to clean out the stalls and take them down. Fernando walked around slowly, studying, searching, but not finding anyone that looked as if anything out of the ordinary had happened. He even saw the young woman who had drank the offered wine just before he had, and she looked perfectly fine, laughing with her, as it appeared, boyfriend.
Uncomprehending Fernando looked after her, confused, suddenly uncertain. Maybe it really had affected only him after all?
He still wanted to try and find that woman and at least talk to her.
Trying to shake the confusion off Fernando turned around to look on, and stopped dead in his tracks.
There a few paces away right next to a stall was a young man talking to what seemed the owner of it. Frustration and agitation was radiating from him in waves as the man he was talking to just shrugged and shook his head, and when he turned around and froze as his gaze fell onto Fernando there was just no doubt anymore.
The same eyes in shades of green and brown, the same dust of freckles, the same dark hair, exactly the same face, and it sent a stab like an electric jolt straight through Fernando, rooting him to the ground, and suddenly it was all back. The drums vibrating in his chest, hunter and stag are still chosen, the night air rushing past him, a strong body holding him down, brown and gold, Earth and Sun, breath-taking and all-consuming ecstasy, born from passion.
And he did the only thing his trembling body, his shocked mind was capable of.
He turned and ran.
Fernando wasn’t aware of the curious glances that followed him, he could only hear his wildly beating heart as his legs, unsteady but shot through with adrenaline, carried him down the hill. He didn’t even know where he was running, just away…
And then a hand was closing around his wrist, tugging him back, slowing them down to a fast stop. Fernando instinctively tried to break free but couldn’t, and then there were hands on his face, lips on his own, and even though he was scared and confused, the gentle, passionate touch brought him right back to that place where it had only been them, where the moon had shone on clear waters and the fragrance of fires and pine trees had carried them through every breath and every heartbeat.
So much life.
And with a soft sob he drew his arms around his Hunter, let himself fall into the kiss and be carried right back to where everything had started.
~ TBC in Lughnasadh ~