Feast with Abandon

The dancers laughed, shrieking in Mordreaux’s head in dizzying delight. It swept him along as powerful as a riptide, and who was he to fight the tide? The music, the chanting of the dancers who linked hands around the burning effigy, the unified thrill of throwing caution to the wind tonight - all of it intoxicated him far more than a drink ever could. He was powerless to the music, his feet moving to the dance he’d begun with Vilas. 

They both circled the outer rim of the festivities, chasing each other across the ring of fire in slow turns. It’d been Mord’s idea to play this game between them, and he listened with an unbridled grin as Vilas whispered something infuriating into a man’s ear. Quickly, Mord searched the men nearest to him, one practically itching for a fight after falling too deep into his cups, and Mord aimed him at Vilas’ target with something considerably tamer, yet more than enough for the two to shout in outrage and fall onto each other in pummeling fists and a tangle of drunken violence. 

Mord’s laughter joined the cacophony, wild and laced with feral rapture. He wordlessly begged for the next target, meeting Vilas’ eyes across the ring for just a moment, and all of a sudden, Mord was young again, a mortal who wanted nothing more than the unrestrained temptation in his companion’s heart. He could be that strange fae who’d appeared from the dark of the woods again, known to only one. 

The next one was far sweeter, and Mord could hear promises of love given to some poor, unsuspecting soul, and Mord looked for the loneliest heart near him, one who longed for a whirlwind romance to sweep them off their feet. He pulled a girl into a spin, murmuring in her ear that Vilas’ target had been eyeing her all night in longing sighs, and he watched as the two met in the middle as if struck with arrows of love, and Mord and Vilas were mere servants of the divine. 

Servants of Fortune, maybe, as Mord cried for more.

The two new lovers were quickly forgotten in the pursuit of a new plaything, and Vilas surprised him by stopping for the Nine Wives, a tradition Mord was unfamiliar with. Curiously, Mord listened in, catching the themes of mischief the Wives were associated with (and that they were somehow connected to Vilas, as one of them placed a flower crown atop Vilas' head in recognition of the stars he was born under).

Mord caught the idea blooming in his companion's thoughts, and he burst out laughing, startling the people next to him who were cheering on the offering the Wives threw into the fire. Oh Vilas, Vilas, you beautiful devil! As Vilas murmured his challenge to the ladies near the flames, Mord caught the mayor of the little village these townfolk were from and told the scowling man (who moreso feared the consequences than hated the festivities) in no uncertain terms that the Wives were looking to steal his handsome, expensive silk shirt to throw in the fire. With a terrified, shrill cry, he pressed his hat to his head and ran even before the women cackled and gave chase, and Mord urged a couple of onlookers on that there was a prize for whoever captured the Mayor's shirt.

Mord laughed hard enough that tears threatened to spill down his cheeks as a growing crowd hunted the poor mayor down, and he could barely breathe when Vilas came spinning by, stealing a kiss before dancing away. Enraptured, Mord left the mounting chaos behind to follow him, thinking of all the things he would do to him once he caught him.

Behind them, the men who fought had gathered a crowd of onlookers, and some had even been pulled into it, creating a tangled tavern brawl of people who'd had far, far too much to drink. The dancers were growing wilder as the fire mounted, the lovers had already snuck away from the flames (and their family who would never approve), and a comet trail of shrieking, laughing hunters all chased the indignant mayor who guarded his silk shirt with his life, even when he went down in a magnificent tackle by one of the Wives.

This time, he sent someone Vilas' way, enticing him to guess what the theme was. The older woman he sent looked on the verge of tears, desperate for something, but Mord kept his lips sealed with a playful grin.

He watched Vilas’ masterful trick of bumping into his matching target and directing him towards the woman who wanted, more than anything, the hope that some distant relative of hers was still alive. It wasn’t true – all of her kindred had died in that flood she couldn’t forget – but what did that matter? She needed someone to dote on, and Vilas had picked up on her distress and picked the perfect man who needed the attention.

Why was everything Vilas did so entrancing? He was so confident, clever without trying to be, and compassionate enough for them both. It was almost a shame that he had that teasing grin all to himself, that he’d be so free only with him.

Mord closed the gap between them with every matching pair they made in the crowd, till the festivities roared with a commotion louder than the flames themselves. Emotions soared to a fever pitch with every trick they played, and when he finally caught Vilas in his arms, he was just as elated, in an almost manic sense that he could barely keep to himself.

Instead of dancing (the musicians had either joined the Wives’ mischief or the brawl that’s started on the spring grass) Mord pulled him away from the fire and into the dark. He stole him away, stole breathless kisses that tasted like cider and laughter, linking fingers with him as he pressed him against a wide tree.

Lovingly, he pinned Vilas’ hands up above his head with their fingers laced together, and he couldn’t help the kisses he peppered along his scarred cheek, down his throat, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear. He called him love, malizia, apateón, called him sweet names in every language he could recall in the midst of his adoration. He called him petkuttaja, or pet for short.

They left the fire hand in hand, satisfied with the chaos they’d left behind, and all the more eager to see what they could sow on their own, in each other’s arms.