The Fault in Ourselves

One early spring morning, life as I knew it stopped to a screeching halt.

I was very ill, took to the hospital, was given what turned out to be a bad batch of antibiotics, and sent home with a balloon for a heart. I just thought it was pain from vomiting, so I largely tried to ignore it and be strong. You know, power my way through the sickness. I began losing weight much too fast for a few days, and an excruciating throb resounded from my chest into my back, and kept me from sleeping. I was a comical sight, big breasts, tiny waist, thick hips from childbearing, and I didn't know it right away, but I was dying.

I like to think I'm a good little pagan. I keep my altar, I celebrate my sabbats, esabats, and blotnights grandly. I know the old ways, but seek to bring them to new life. I honor my gods in ways I know they'd appreciate. In the last few months, I'd managed to figure out an implausible, stupid workaround for astral travel, and ended up on a beach, walking alone and naked, until I met the lovely wonder I found to be my patron god. What happened the night the axe fell was nothing like that.

I had been retching and sobbing for a couple hours, completely witless to the pain that was tearing me apart from the inside out. I don't know whether I was really in the right world or not, maybe I had one foot here and one in the Dreamlands. I still don't know. I closed my eyes and retched again, and was surrounded by dark. It was like somebody killed all of the lights everywhere. I am twenty-seven years old and still afraid of the dark. I felt around stupidly, naked and groping, smelling the raw sewage that was my skin during prolonged illness. It was awful.

Out of nowhere, I felt hands under my arms, wet tangled mess that they were, pulling me up against a warm body that I recognized by smell and some sense I still don't know what it is. It was him, thank everything I find holy! Oh thank everything in the world! He'd come to save me!

He'd balled me up in his naked lap and held me. I didn't care anything for the nudity, I was far too focused on the pain. I didn't think the basal sobbing and begging I did counted as praying, but he came, so I figured it would all be okay in the end. I remembered the dogma from my childhood—that troublesome Yiddish boy promised to chase all wickedness from the world and heal the sick. My gods promised no more frost giants.

How many frost giants have you seen lately?

Surely stopping my pain would be little more than a sneeze to this powerful man.

I squalled and carried on, crying and begging him to stop the pain just so I could sleep for a little while. I stuffed my face in his ginger hair, no doubt my wet nose making it unbearable on his skin. The movies have it all wrong, you know. Every damn thing wrong but the smile. Somehow, I knew the smile just wasn't there this time. He made sincere comforting noises, attempted to hold me comfortably, but didn't address the real problem. I hurt so fucking much, though, I couldn't stop myself. The words tumbled out and I couldn't stop them.

"Please, for the love of god, please, please, please, Daddy, help me. Please make me sleep."

I have never even called my own father that. He was Da as a kid, and when I could talk plain, Dad. The deity looked down at me, with this unfathomable expression. I think it pulled something in that undying heart of his. He does so love the damaged.

He sighed against my head and said, "Never let it be said I don't love my children. I'm moving you flat on my legs. Cooperate."

I tried, but moving and twisting my back was worse than leaving it alone. I screeched the entire time. I was too focused on my splitting sternum to be shy about being uncovered, and I wasn't sure if the darkness was only there for me or both of us. He traced a nail down my throat, collarbone, and to the angry knot between my pedulous breasts. It stung like he was dragging a wasp across my skin. I knew a few inches down he would find old surgical scars from years before, but I didn't know why he'd pick now to touch me like this.

"This might hurt." He said, and did not lie.

I didn't understand it. His fingers sank into my skin like it was water. I felt his fingertips heavy against my traitorous bastard of a heart and it was agonizing. I didn't understand what he was doing, was he going to heal me? Was he going to pluck out the organ and eat it? It was pounding and the pain tripled in intensity. I was keening pathetically, I didn't have much energy to do anything else.

Just as easily as he placed them in, he slipped his fingers out and pulled me back up against him even though it hurt. "Please, please stop the pain, Daddy," My voice had gotten so little.

"No." Was all he said.

And in that moment, I was terrified he had forsaken me. I had a few seconds of the empty pain of abandonment, and then there was nothingness. Nothingness until I woke up, in my own bed, in unholy pain again, but rested. I caused such a hideous racket that my husband realized I was serious and took me back to the hospital. My heart was swelling and I should have sought treatment at the first sign of chest pain. The doctors worked their modern magick, deflating my angry ticking clock, shoving water and good drugs in my arms and saving me. My first real deep breath once my chest was free was the most incredible feeling on earth.

I had to thank him somehow. By refusing to help me, he may have saved my life.

I did my time in bedrest, bored but healing. I spent a decent amount of time celibate in bed with my husband, naked for the fever but untouched. I studied my craft and my faith, as I had little else to do. In time, I healed. My body healed, and my astral body healed enough for me to think about pushing beyond the wall of sleep and back to the beach world I visited once. I wanted to wait for the full moon in May, Beltane's moon. I'd store up power, do a strong ritual to boost my odds of success, and make contact again. It was a tall order, but I had absolute faith in my ability as a witch and my dedication as a heathen. I could pull this off, if anyone could.

The night was not a clear one, as I hoped. It was raining long and hard, and it's simply impractical to do a ritual outdoors in the rain when you're planning to be nude and your lawn has but three bits of grass on it.

I decided to commandeer the bedroom for the night. My husband was more than happy to play his video games in the living room and leave me to my worship space. He understood how important it was to me. I usually had my altar to him set up in the kitchen, where I do most of my work, both mundane and magickal, but I moved it in with me this time. I traced the circle in the floor with chalk, lit my candles, and stripped bare, casting my clothes outside the circle. I wanted to put all of me out there, hide nothing. I wanted to come to this thing in perfect trust. It was beyond great able to feel and enjoy my own skin again. My breasts hung as they did every day, the red down between my legs had grown considerably during my recovery, and I had lost so much weight that I had a kind of exaggerated hourglass figure going on. I sat cross-legged on the floor and did my thing. I had a much deeper appreciation for the deep breathing that led me into and out of my trance.

After about two hours of this deep meditation, I drifted back into myself. The rain was still at it. I could still hear Final Fantasy Seven in the other room. Instead of feeling drained like I often do after a ritual, I felt electric. Yes, if I was going to successfully push the wall, tonight was the night. My attempts before had been happy accidents. This would be different.

I cleared the ritual area out and got the bed ready. I left one tea light on in his green oil burner. The tea lights tend to extinguish themselves before they become dangerous, and I needed the scent to keep me in the correct mindset. The sensual vanilla and sandalwood reminded me of whatever his skin and hair smell like, and there is something under that scent, patchouli maybe, that makes the mind open up the parts that are otherwise inaccessible during mundane activities. I laid down and got comfortable, careful not to snag my nipple barbells in the sheets, and thought hard of my ritual for astral travel.

Buy the ticket, take the ride.

Buy the ticket, take the ride.

Buy the ticket, take the ride.

I watched myself board the plane and light a cigarette before sleep took me.

My body felt it before my eyes opened. Warm sand, warm surf curling up over the sand like a giant duvet on a bed. I had taken great pains to look nice in my regular body, and it had gone over to this one as well. Clean-shaven legs, though underarms and cleft left mostly alone, nails all pained gold. Though I knew it wasn't a good habit, I'd gone to bed with my makeup done. The steroids took a toll on my complexion and I was sensitive about that. I hoped I'd be pretty enough, but that's kind of like saying you hope clay is enough to build a storm shelter.

I wandered the shore as I always did, looking for him. I always found him in the end, lounging somewhere watching crabs scuttle around. This time was no different.

"Hail," I said, a little ways off from him.

He waved.

My first instinct was to rush forward and full-body tackle him, but I was still so shy from years of repression. I still didn't know how okay I was at touching the divine, especially the naked divine. It felt weird and wrong in that oogling the little fellow on the crucifix was weird and wrong. We had actually addressed it during one of our little talks. He found it both quaint and unnecessary.

"Look," he said. "I can look like whatever I want. My body is really just a thing to me," Right in front of me he cycled between my husband, my best friend, the actor that plays him in the movies, and a caricature of the Jewish carpenter himself because he knew it would both shock me and make me laugh.

"Want to see what he keeps under the cloth? Come on, you know you do!" He grabbed at me, but I ducked him and looked away. Sometimes he did go a little too far. I could definitely see how his pranks could get out of hand fast.

Today he was quite himself. He hadn't been in the water yet, as his hair was still dry and hanging loose and thick down his shoulders. Usually I hate that on men, but it worked for him. It helped that he could be a woman whenever he wanted to. I'm more of a bright auburn where he's more of an umber-red. It sets off his green eyes and light skin well, especially in Beach World's lighting. He knows I think he's very handsome, even though it's not really my place.

I plonked down next to him like always. "Good to see you in radiant health, little human." He said. I always thought it was funny that he called me that, considering my age.

"You as well, dearest father. Or whatever you are. We never did talk about that." I said.

"In time, stupid darling. Why have you come?"

"Why do I ever?"

"You have questions. You need to talk. That sort of thing, I expect."

"Not this time. I wanted to thank you."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You probably saved my life. I was confused and hurt and thought you wanted me to die, but I see now you had nothing but good intent."

"Story of my life, isn't it?" he chuckled.

"But seriously. I never meant to be cruel to you. If you didn't feel the pain, you'd have ignored it and it would have burst your delicate little parts. I like you. I don't want to see you destroyed so quickly and so...savagely."

"Well, I am grateful."

"Show me, then."

"What?"

"Show me. You know I like strong scents and spicy home-cooked meals and sweets. You know I love green for my own eyes and gold for the mead hall and red for fire. I watch you make your offerings and tidying my altar every day...love the black cats, by the way, unconventional and very me...but I want to see the full extent of your devotion."

"What do you want me to do?"

I sat back on my haunches, not a ladylike position at all, but comfortable. I have never been much of a leader, but I'm an excellent follower and I suspect a good submissive. And right that second, thinking really unclean thoughts about what a mythological figure might or might not want me to do to amuse him. Mythological...how could I say that? He was right in front of me!

He looked me over and I was happy to see his smile return. I'd do anything for that smile.

"Let me play with you."

I quirked my brow, curious as to his exact definition of "play".

"I want to use you like my own little mortal puppet," he mimed pulling strings with his fingers. "But here's the thing, you have to invite me in and trust me."

I thought about this hard for a few seconds. I owed him a great debt for saving me, even if it was in a roundabout way. At the same time, I was afraid of him. I didn't really know the boundaries of his power. I mean, I'd read the lore, but all lore exaggerates. I also feared something very specific, and I thought maybe it would be okay to set some ground rules, considering he'd still be a guest in my body.

"You know, I've heard about the Greek's god, Zeus," I started, unsure of how to start without being accusing. He held up his hand.

"I would never, ever disrespect your person like that without your express permission. Trickster I am, but rapist, I am not."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you. You've been nothing but good to me."

"We'll see, little human. Do you want to repay me this way?"

I nodded.

"Oh, this will be lovely."

For a minute or so, I felt nothing, He stretched and rose, exposing everything. I took this chance to steal a glance at his full body without being a creep...a little taller than my husband, maybe six-foot or so. He was never meant to be the human tank like his frenemy Thor or perfect like Balder, but he had his masculine grace. Lean but sturdy, with a thin trail of dark brown leading down to a red tangled mess that obscured what I really wanted to see. Damn it.

In an instant, he was still nude, but coloured completely wrong. Everything went much too dark for his skin.

"Kneel!" Came the wrong voice, followed by that raucous laughter I've come to love. My body levitated up off the sand, and twisted me onto my knees, then pushed me down into the sand a little too hard. My breasts hit the sand, then my face tilted up to look at my normal vision of him again. I laughed a little with him. He loved taking that form to mess with me and make me giggle. It just wasn't him, though.

"You do look gorgeous like that," he said, pacing in a circle around me. I tried to straighten up my back, but couldn't move. "You're hurting me a little," I said. "Please fix me."

"Done."

My body stretched out straight and I rolled in midair onto my back. Ankles snapped together, arms spread wide like Isis. I levitated there, head downcast. He did so love to poke fun at the faith I came from. I gave him a little laugh, but it was getting really uncomfortable now. He walked around me again, inspecting his work.

"This is more fun than I thought it could be!" He said, gleeful. "Though my mind does wander." He pushed his hand up the side of my face, clearing the hair from my eyes. "You're beautiful, little human. Don't think I didn't notice." I shivered at the touch.

He strung me along a bit longer, testing poses that would be more suited to rope acrobats than me, but I did allow it. The whole time, I caught myself staring. He had this lively, almost hungry look that I hadn't seen before. Usually, we would talk idly about life's problems and the dubious accuracy of the eddas, and I sought comfort in his presence. This was so different, though. One thing I have always loved about my gods is that they are first and foremost imperfect, and they understand those faults in us. They get angry, jealous, full of lust and the need to wander. It makes the thought that we are little shards of them believable.

My last pose was probably more elegant than I could have pulled off on my own. It was like I was tethered to an invisible rope by one ankle, the other bent at the knee. I hung down straight like the Hanged Man, but with my arms tied behind my back with nothing. Gravity forced my breasts up and nearly on my face, but my more shapely midsection was exposed and not covered by them for once. I really was thinner than I thought. He became seated in the sand a while ago, and I wondered if he might be trying to conceal something embarrassing from me.

"I'd love to see you like this sometime, if you'd only let me," he sighed. He did a complicated motion with his fingers and I slowly came right-side up and lit softly in the sand across from him. I didn't know how to respond. We'd spent the past however long staring down each other's bodies, more directly than we had done up to this point. I struggled with the thought that this could ever be attainable, that I could actually do the impossible.

"Can I touch you?" I blurted. I hadn't really thought I would say it, but I let my guard down for a second and out it came, and it was too late to take it back.

"It won't hurt either of us," he said, feigning indifference, but I could see that little spark of mischief light up his face. I scooted closer, displacing sand all over. It frightened me immensely to feel my heart banging so hard in my chest, but I knew for sure I was alive and it didn't hurt. I reached out and laid my hand against his thigh, just above the knee.

Smooth skin under light hair. Feels just like a man to me.

"Do what you want," he said. "I'll just turn into a snake and hide if you annoy me."

I thought about this for a second or two. Then I realized what I could do to truly repay him, and it wasn't parlor tricks in midair.

"No," I said, moving up to my knees again. "I'm yours."

"Pardon?"

"I'm yours. I owe you my life. Since I can't give you anything else, take the thing you saved."

"Not under duress, I won't."

"I'm not. I want you to have me. I mean...I've heard I'm good."

"We'll see, won't we?"

There's that smirk.

For a breath, nobody did anything. I stood on my knees in front of him, waiting for whatever would happen next. He mimicked my posture, and he on his knees was still taller than me. He pushed me down and moved between my splayed legs, looking. Really looking this time, not the idle wandering eye because of proximity. I instinctively tried to close my legs, but he clapped his hand between them, stopping that.

"Be gone with that false virtue, modesty." He said. "I'd like to think we know each other better than that."

From then on, I relaxed.

He ran his palm flat up my thighs, over my hips, completely missing my mound on purpose. I didn't quite know what to do with myself, mostly my awkward hands, so I laid back and enjoyed it. It's not every day somebody can say they've done this, so I thought I might as well savor the experience. I was secretly thankful that the sand never seemed to adhere to much of anything.

Call it the religious flavour of starstruck, but I couldn't make myself do what I knew I was supposed to. I was afraid of touching him, of doing anything I would normally do, and I don't know if it's just who he was or what. He noticed, though. His hands are small for a man's, and he had my breasts completely spilling over his fingers as he examined their density and feel, when he just stopped. "Is there a problem? Having second thoughts?"

"No. I don't...I don't know what it is."

"Treat me like you would any mortal lover. Like your husband. I know you have one of those where you come from. I'm a man all the same."

Hesitant, but curious, I ran my hand up his arms to his collarbone, to his throat. Those were the first sounds I could wretch from him, low, gutteral things, primal and raw. Everything about this was. I was very pleased with myself.