Romells' Ride

The land was still steaming from the day’s rain. The smell of sodden leaves and black loam rose about him, clinging to his clothes, insinuating itself into the flesh. Romells rode bare-headed, letting the night wind lay its cool hand along his hair. It felt good — so bloody good — to be out from under stone ceilings, to have the sweat on his skin drying under the stars.

Except there were no stars. Only the heavy, soaked dark, swelling like something about to give birth.

He had not meant to ride this far. His thighs gripped the mare’s flank in that easy, animal way, and the motion of the horse was like a lover shifting beneath him. A man could get lost in such rhythm.

That was when the sound came — hooves, but not on earth. In the sky.

The first of them tore through the cloud like an orgasm breaking in the blood — a fierce shiver blooming in his veins from scalp to groin. Black helms over faces of firelight, steeds shod in flame, bodies sheened with sweat and mist. Romells felt the pulse in his throat jump, and his loins answered it.

They were beautiful. God help him, they were beautiful. Not the clean beauty of a church statue, but the raw, salt-slick beauty of two bodies finding each other in the dark. Male, female, in between — all taut muscle, gleaming skin, and eyes lit from within by some wild, lawless fire. Their mouths parted in cries that made his stomach clench, as if every shout was the breaking point of pleasure.

The cry came, flooding into him as sure as any hand:

Hey-nonny-ho!

Hey-nonny-hie!

The Wild Hunt rides the sky!

One drew near — a woman, or perhaps a man, the curves and angles mingling like shadow and flame. Their hair clung in wet locks to their face, their lips were soft and swollen, and the breath from their mouth smelled of blood, milk, and rain.

“You’ve felt it, haven’t you?” they said, voice low and thick. “The life leaking out of your days. The animal in you starving for the chase. Ride with us. Be the hunter, be the quarry. It makes no difference when the wind is under your skin.”

Their hand touched his chest — through his shirt — warm, almost unbearably warm, sending a surge straight down into the core of him. For a second Romells saw it: himself stripped of human time, his thighs gripping a steed that breathed fire, his mouth open in an endless cry, his body forever in the moment before release.

The rider’s eyes held him until the host swept them away in a whirl of muscle, mist, and heat. Yes, I’ve felt it every damned day I’ve been alive.

The night was quiet again. The mare trembled beneath him, and so did he. He knew he ought to ride home, back to the damp stone and the quiet garden. Instead, he loosened the reins, letting the horse wander in the direction the Hunt had gone. The air still tasted of brine and sweat.

So this is what it is to live without end. This is what it is to burn. The walls will close in again, and the wind will die, and I’ll be empty once more. I’d give anything to be in that sound. To belong to it.

He kicked his own horse into a trot.

And far off, he thought he heard it again—or perhaps it was his own mouth shaping the words:

Hey-nonny-ho!

Hey-nonny-hie!

The Wild Hunt rides the sky.