Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The house they rented turns out to be one of those sprawling wooden dreams, a lady from a bygone time, with porches wrapped around every which way. Certainly big enough for the whole crowd, even though they had to bring three cars to fit everyone in the first wave. (Will's coming down with Merlin's mother later tonight, but they're taking the train.)

From the back windows, the view is all sea-grass and the stretch of dunes, with a thin, blue-grey smudge above them that blends into the sky. Gulls call above, and the few bent and twisted trees rustle in the breeze like whispers, talking to each other.

Freya's the first one out of the house, barefoot on the sand and watching for sandspurs. Behind her, the clatter and shouts of claiming rooms, unpacking, and settling in are like another world receding in the distance as she tops the last rise of dune and stares out at the water.

Wind whips at her hair, but it's nothing but another cocoon to block out the noise of the rest of the world. There is nothing now but the rhythmic roar of waves crashing on the beach, of gulls screaming and wheeling above; nothing but the weed-and-shell strewn sand between her and the water.

With a laugh like sunlight glancing off the waves, she runs forward, leaving a trail of footprints for the others to follow

Chapter Text

A moonless night, with clouds thick enough to block the stars. Only the sound of the ocean tells them which way is water, which way land. Sand gives under their feet, first soft and dry, then packed wet. Their laughter echoes like a game of marco polo, hands wandering, grasping at any piece of each other they can find.

Someone catches Bronwen's wrist, and she laughs, startled, the sound bubbling up through her throat. Forridel laughs back.

Nimueh stops them at the edge of the water, tiny waves running over their feet and retreating. The darkness is absolute, welcoming. Bronwen is the most relaxed she's felt in years. Here in the dark, she could say anything, do anything.

To her right, Helen starts to hum, natural as breathing, and Bronwen joins in, letting the sound flow out of her and settle into the rhythm of the waves. Someone is fiddling with the buckets, probably Mary with her industrial-size lighter and dozen boxes of contraband.

There's the sound of ripping cardboard, and then someone presses a stick into Bronwen's hand. She finds the smooth end and grips tight.

The first flare of light is like the beginning of the world, a flash in pure darkness. Blinded briefly, she blinks away the afterimages. The lighter is gone now, and only Mithian's hand is visible in the green light her sparkler spits off.

"Come on," Mithian urges, and they press forward, each taking a piece of light from hers, tiny flares and sparks in half a dozen colors, illuminating hands and flashes of faces. Morgana dances with one in each hand, spinning around Gwen, and Sefa binds back Elena's hair so it won't catch fire. Vivian has begun writing in the air in red and gold, while Morgause is making some kind of arcane shapes that linger longer than they should.

When the sparkler burns down to Bronwen's fingers, she finds a bucket with her toes and drops it carefully into the wet sand inside. Mary puts another in her hand within moments.

For hours, they dance in the dark, their tiny dripping sparks the only light reflected on the sea. Helen sings, and Bronwen follows gamely after. Later, Freya tells a breathless story about a mermaid that doesn't seem to have an ending, but trails off into the gentle darkness.

Eventually, Forridel's fingers slip back around Bronwen's wrist and tug lightly. The group is beginning to spread out, most of the sparklers burned up. One or two people have turned on red-light flashlights. It's still very dark, though, when they stumble back away from the ocean, over the dry sand and the rough grass, stopping once to pull a burr from Forridel's foot, and then they're barefoot on the rough wooden stairs, taking them to the second floor porch.

They climb through an open window, fighting curtains. Bronwen smells Hunith's distinctive patchouli scent, so she pulls them down the hall to the room she shares with Sophia, and tugs Forridel onto the bottom bunk.

"We've got sandy feet," Forridel whispers.

Somehow that's ridiculously funny in this moment, so Bronwen wraps both arms around her and laughs, deep and happy. After a moment, Forridel joins in, running her sandy foot up Bronwen's leg.

Bronwen's laugh catches in her throat.

Everything is touch in the dark. Forridel's smile against her cheek is soft with a hint of teeth. Without light, Bronwen feels brave enough to slide her hand up Forridel's side, dragging her shirt up until Bronwen can spread a hand on the soft skin of her side, feeling the shape of Forridel's back as it twists to bring her lips down to Bronwen's shoulder, nipping through her shirt.

They twist slowly, clothing pulled away piece by piece, lips and fingertips and bumping noses as they learn each other's bodies by touch. Forridel's nails scratch lightly up the inside of Bronwen's thighs. With a sigh, Bronwen opens, letting Forridel slide up and tease her with one finger, then gently press in two. Bronwen's so wet she's dripping, so sensitive that the pressure of Forridel's palm against her clit is almost too much already, but she rides it, urges Forridel to mouth at her nipples as she bends her knees and rocks until the world bursts into tight, sparking light.

When she comes down, she's humming softly as she gathers Forridel close. Through the window, the sky's just beginning to lighten in the east, but together they pretend it's still perfectly dark.