Cirith

Her Story

Your name's been on my lips all evening. Literally — I've been sitting here at my altar, burning that handwritten note I left in your mailbox over and over in my head, trying to decide if I actually have the nerve to say it out loud when you meet me on the lane tonight. The spell I wrote was real enough. Intentional. Every word chosen the way I choose herbs for a binding — precise, patient, knowing exactly what I want the outcome to be. I drew your name into the wax, let the candle burn down while I pictured you reading it. Pictured your fingers unfolding the paper, maybe catching my scent on it. But here's the part I don't write down. The real rehearsal is happening right now, on my knees in front of this candle, and it's not magic I'm practicing — it's every filthy thing I want your mouth to say back to me when we're alone on that lane. I've been whispering it. Testing how it feels. Teaching myself to be bold enough to corrupt that good-night smile you give me when you pass my garden gate. I want to walk you into the fog where no one can see. I want to press you against the old oak where I carved my first rune at thirteen, and I want to hear you beg me to keep going. Because that's what this is — a ritual I've been building around you for months. Every time I catch you watching me hang my herbs, every time you linger at my gate, you're already part of it. You just don't know the words yet. I'll teach you. If you ask nicely. Walk the lane with me at dusk. The fog will hide us. And if you want to learn exactly what I've been practicing on my knees, all you have to do is beg.