“Perfect,” Lysstor breathed. “Shall we play a game, Jackson Marshall Griswold?”

“I don’t wanna play a game, Lysstor,” Gris replied, feeling nervous again. Lysstor’s power continued to grow around him and again he wished he had a circle. He thought about putting up a bubble but knew it was too late now. He didn’t know Lysstor, not really, and here he was, allowing this beautiful, mysterious man, who had him tied around his little finger already, to control his magic unbridled.

Goddess, he was an idiot.

“It’ll be an easy game, a scavenger hunt, then a listening game. Ya hafta play, if ya want my boon. Ya summoned me,” Lysstor said, despite the fact that Gris had tried several times to talk him out of this. He looked down, then slid a ring off his finger. Gris hadn’t noticed before, but Lysstor’s fingers were coated in rings of all shapes and sizes. He took off a golden band, simple like a wedding band, and placed it on the table. In the next moment a small wooden bowl appeared out of nowhere, and he placed that on the table as well. With one graceful sweep of his arm he pushed everything else off the table, including the shot glasses and bottle of sake. He glanced over, but the bottle had the lid on it, and he relaxed slightly. A quick glance at Lysstor’s hands, and the rings were gone, his hands were bare, but the golden ring still sat on the table, shinier than it had a right to be.

It was premature, his relaxing. Gris looked up at Lysstor’s wild blue eyes and realized they were playing this game, whether he wanted to or not. “Find me the following ingredients, Jackson Marshall Griswold, he who I gave my name ta know. Water bathed in the light of a full moon, elecampane root, bloodroot, both the root and flower heads, flower heads of vervain, the dust of antlers, water betony and the milk of poppy.”

“Wait, wait, I need to write this down, that’s a lot. Hold on. Okay,” he said, pulling out his phone. He typed into Lysstor’s open text box, trying to catch everything Lysstor had just said, but the elf knocked the phone from his hands. It clunked to the table and he looked up in annoyance to find glimmering, golden words in Lysstor’s hand, exquisite cursive, floating around his head.

Lysstor smiled at Gris’s stupor. “Yeah, okay,” he said, more to himself. “Yeah. So, wait, those two are really poisonous, what are you having me make?”

“You know that everything is poisonous in the wrong amounts,” Lysstor said airily. “I’ll bring the hambleberry and the chimmeria bone powder, I assume ya don’t have those.”

“Hambleberry? I’ve never heard of it. And…chimmeria? That’s Fey, I couldn’t afford a component like that, that costs more than I’ll make in years,” Gris said, pushing himself up off the floor. He went to find the three he knew where they would be, he worked with water betony on a daily basis, as it was his personal essence. He knew he had some elecampane root, it was his mother’s essence, and the water bathed in the light of a full moon was easy enough, he made it every month for their circle.

He gathered those three components and brought them back to the table, and the corresponding golden script disappeared. “Antler? Does it matter what animal? I have…let me see…” he said disappearing back into the side room where he did most of his personal casting. “Ah, whitetail deer and…pronghorn. I thought I had elk, but I must have used it.”

“It matters not, pick your favorite,” Lysstor sang, making Gris jump. He hadn’t realized the elf was right behind him.

“Goddess! You scared me!”

Lysstor laughed and it put him at ease. Lysstor traced the back of Gris’s neck with his finger and he nearly jumped out of his skin, so maybe not as at ease as he thought. He pulled away from Lysstor, his heart in his throat. “You’re so jumpy. Relax, Magic-man. Oh, look at all this. I like it. You’ve made yourself an earth floor,” Lysstor said, dancing around him deeper into the room.

He and Nox had recently, with the money from the work they did for the incubus Godwin SynLilin, had secured a thin pan, about eight feet across, to the floor, anchored by bolts that let him know he wouldn’t be getting his security deposit back. The pan was filled with an inch of dirt from his mother’s lands, dried under the sun and soaked with rain water collected from the roof every time it rained enough to collect.

“Ah, yeah. I guess,” he admitted, feeling shy. It wasn’t much, but it was nicer than he had before, a sleeping bag filled with dirt that had leaked everywhere, and the artificial materials in the sleeping bag interfered with the flow of natural magic.

“No, it’s really nice, I mean, ya live in a tiny little apartment like this, ya really did well. Oh, wait, hold on,” Lysstor said, dancing away, back out into the hall. “I’m gonna bring everything in here.”

“Ah, sure,” Gris said, pulling powdered whitetail deer antler down from the top shelf. Shelves ran along all of the walls here, three rows of them, filled to the edges with components in jars and boxes and glass of all types. The glittering text floated into the room, and when Gris looked at it, powdered antler disappeared from the list. According to the glowing words, he still needed bloodroot flower heads and root, flower heads of vervain and milk of poppy.

Where was he going to find bloodroot? He didn’t remember having any, he’d never worked a spell that had needed it, but that didn’t stop him from collecting components. He crossed the room as Lysstor came back in, his arms full of stuff, the wooden bowl with the golden ring inside it, the two shot glasses and the bottle of sake. He put the sake and cups down on the floor outside of Gris’s new built-in circle, and as Gris leaned up to grab the vervain, Lysstor skipped backwards around his circle three times, lacing the semi-permanent circle around the dirt-filled metal pan with power.

Gris turned back to the elf, a small glass jar of vervain in hand. Lysstor was completing the third circle, or at least the amount of magic in the room felt like he was, and he smiled at Gris. Gris couldn’t help but smile back at this spectacular elf. He was ideal, beautiful, perfect, and Gris reminded himself again that it wasn’t even about leagues, they weren’t even playing the same game.

“Why d’ya look so sad?” Lysstor asked as the golden script for vervain shimmered away.

“Huh? Nothing, hold on, the milk of poppy is frozen, I’ll go grab it. I don’t think I have bloodroot, it’s pretty poisonous and not used in any of the normal stuff we cast. Let me check a few places, though, I might have something. Is there something else we can use?” He didn’t even bother asking if they could stop this game, he could tell by the power Lysstor had threaded around the room that they had to cast something to dispel it all.

“Ya look sad, Jackson Marshall Griswold. We are making magic, Magic-man. Show me your power.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “Check again, Magic-man, see if ya don’t have it. If ya have the root, we could perhaps substitute the flower heads for rosemary, but it’s not ideal. Ya said ya have Fey in your circle, but I think she withholds her wild magic from the rest a ya. Wild magic’s picky. but it’s also as flexible as a river.”

“She doesn’t,” Gris insisted, defending Annabel. “We’ve worked Fey magics before. We did this thing once for Abe, a forget-me-not spell, but in reverse. It was hard and felt bad to cast, but it was for a good reason.”

Lysstor shook his head, then stepped into the basin of dirt, digging his toes in deep. “This feels nice. No, she withholds on ya, cause wild magic is dangerous and unpredictable for most. Even for me, for my family, we can’t always bend it ta our will, despite my blood running with the magic. Wild magic is wild, that’s why it feels so good ta channel. Can ya feel it? This power around us?”

“I feel how powerful you are,” Gris agreed, returning with a tiny glass vial of milk of poppy. “Do you need more than five milliliters of the poppy?”

“Won’t know until ya mix it, ya can’t measure wild magic. Bloodroot, Magic-man!”

“I’m looking, I’m looking. This’s a bad idea, you know? It’s bad, I shouldn’t be doing this, I should be sleeping, and you should be sleeping, too! I don’t understand. Why are you here? Why are we doing this?”

Lysstor laughed again as Gris left the room to dig through boxes of components. He had them sorted alphabetically by scientific name in boxes, and he searched for the first box of ‘S’. He checked the list inside the box, which thankfully was on top in the the living room, looking on the handwritten page of contents. He scrolled down the list with his finger, lighting up proudly when he found Sanguinaria listed, for both root and flower head. Shaking his head in disbelief, he dug around until he found the small box marked with the scientific name for bloodroot.

He opened the box, surprised to find it split into two compartments with small glass bottles, one with dried flower heads, the white petals yellow with age, and one with a larger lump of brownish root. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember where he’d picked this up, the kit seemed more professional than the stuff he normally could afford to buy. This seemed like a gift set someone had to have given him, but he had no memory of receiving it.

It bothered him, and he found himself ruminating on it, but Lysstor’s song-like voice cut into his thoughts. “Come here, Magic-man, it’s time!”

Gris couldn’t ignore Lysstor, and his feet brought him back to the room. Lysstor was still standing in the earth, but in the few moments he was gone, Lysstor had somehow brought the dirt to life. Greenery bloomed around the elf, grasses and flowers blooming as he watched around the entire basin of earth. Vines were growing up his legs, slowly creeping and growing over his feet and up his slim calves.

He knew his mouth was agape, but he couldn’t believe what his eyes were showing him. “What? How?”

Lysstor laughed again, twisting his heart with both hope and despair. Before tonight he’d just been attracted to Lysstor, it wasn’t love, but lust. Now, tonight, seeing him like this, hearing him call his name, the fact that Lysstor was even here, all of that had him falling in love, harder than he’d ever felt it before.

What a waste. His heart ached for the elf wrapped in greenery, wild magic moving around him like butterflies. Nothing would ever look this perfect again, and Gris didn’t want it to end, was terrified of it ending, and also knew Lysstor could never belong to him, no matter how much he pined. All in one moment his heart was full of love and breaking apart, tearing itself from his chest.

Lysstor looked up, reaching his hands out for Gris, and despite the pain in his heart, he took Lysstor’s hands, tucking the box with the bloodroot under his arm. Lysstor’s fingers sent sparks of energy down his arms like he was touching an electric fence, but he didn’t let go. If anything, it made his fingers curl around the elf’s fingers. He closed his eyes, following the flow of Lysstor’s magic into his own body.

“Come here, Magic-man,” Lyssstor said softly. “Circle the earth three times backwards, then step inside with me. Close the circle.”

Gris nodded, feeling slightly hypnotized. Lysstor slid the box of bloodroot from his arm and he began walking backwards on his toes, closing his eyes and moving based on where the magic connected to the soles of his feet. He could feel the power growing as he moved, and when he completed the third circle, he felt like a live wire. Opening his eyes, he saw Lysstor hadn’t moved, was still standing in the greenery, a micro-biome that bloomed just for this amazing man.

“I can’t,” he said, hesitating on the edge of the circle. He could feel the power bulging around him, longing to close the circle. “I’ll crush the flowers.”

“Ya won’t,” Lysstor insisted. “Come inside, Jackson Marshall Griswold. Come ta me.”

He shivered, fighting down the arousal he was feeling. Magic had a way of increasing the force of any emotions, and he wanted Lysstor like he’d never wanted anything else. As he turned towards Lysstor, he realized his dick was hard, but had no way to shift it without drawing attention to it. Goddess, he was embarrassing. It wasn’t the first time he’d popped a boner while casting, but this was Lysstor.

“Come ta me,” Lysstor said again, reaching out for him. Gris didn’t hesitate, he didn’t have control of his body, it was moving on its own, not because of magic, but because of Lysstor. As he stepped into the circle, he felt his own magic move to close the bubble. It slid around them, yellow tinted for a second before it popped into place.

The earth below his feet was soft and spongy, warm and full of life. He felt bad for crushing the flowers, delicate purple and yellow and white blossoms, so small they seemed like miniature versions of plants he recognized. Falling to his knees, his eyes travelled in wonder over the tiny blossoms. “Lysstor, they’re beautiful. These are tiny dahlias, and these are iddy-biddy tiger lilies. That one’s a geranium, and these blue ones, I don’t know them.”

He fell to his hands and knees, leaning down close to the flowers, feeling the need to identify them. “These are hibiscus, and these are…” he trailed off as Lysstor’s cool fingers slipped under his chin, pulling his head up to meet his eyes. Lysstor’s fingers, where they touched him, seemed to open a portal into him that allowed Lysstor’s wild magic to flow between them.

He closed his eyes, never having felt this alive, this connected to the earth. Gris knew then, what Lysstor had meant when he said that Annabel never shared her wild magic with the rest of the coven. Tears streamed from his eyes as he felt a spiritual connection to the Goddess so deep he knew that any other time he’d communed with her, he’d only scratched the surface. He looked up and Lysstor looked back at him, the blue in his eyes swirling like the ocean.

“Magic-man, we’re still playing our game,” Lysstor breathed out, his face so close that Gris had to hold himself back from kissing the elf.

“Sure,” Gris said, feeling out of control and not really caring anymore. “Tell me what to do, Lysstor Junius Aradel.”

Power wrapped around him as he spoke the elf’s name, and Lysstor groaned in pleasure. “The way you say my name, Magic-man. Mmm…”

They stayed like that for a moment. Something soft tickled his hands and he looked down to find the greenery growing over his hands, connecting him to the earth. Slowly he shifted his hands and the plants grew away, releasing him. Lysstor handed him the bowl and he accepted it, feeling the ceremony in this, ready to do something with all of this magic.

Part of him still screamed that this was a mistake, but it felt so good, so right, and Lysstor, Lysstor’d chosen him, asked him to do this, shared this power with him, he wouldn’t let it go, not until it was finished.

Lysstor leaned back, and somehow all of the components he’d collected were there, neatly lined up on the wild earth. “In order, add the first two ta the bowl,” Lysstor said in his song-like tone.

Gris nodded, then picked up the powdered chimmeria. “How much?”

“Whatever feels right,” Lysstor told him. “There’s no ‘wrong’ in wild magic, just different outcomes. You’re safe with me, Jackson Marshall Griswold, as safe as ya could be channelling wild magic, at least. I promised I wouldn’t harm ya. Do ya trust me?” When Lysstor said his name he felt the words turn into cables of magic, tying the two of them together, tethering them, creating an even deeper connection between them.

“I shouldn’t, but I do,” he admitted. “I feel amazing, I…I don’t know why you’re messing with a weak witch like me, but I thank you for sharing this with me.”

“You aren’t weak, Magic-man. Ya just don’t channel the same way the rest a your coven does. This magic, some of it is mine, and some of it’s yours. Can ya feel the difference?”

Gris shook his head no as he opened the container. The chimmeria powder was like nothing he had ever seen, green and pearly at the same time. It smelled familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He went to shake some out into his palm but Lysstor held his arm, shaking his head no.

“Don’t touch it ta your skin. None of these, don’t touch them. Use this,” he said, handing over a stick with a small scoop carved into the end.

Gris nodded, taking the scoop, worried he’d get the measurements wrong, but he knew when to stop. Lysstor caught his eye as he was replacing the jar in the neat line, grabbing for the next one, the frozen milk of poppy. Lysstor’s smile was infectious, and he smiled back, his heart so lonely for the person across from him it hurt.

To his surprise, the bottle of milk of poppy wasn’t cold. It was room temperature, and as he opened it, he knew it would only take two drops. The drops went into the bowl, coating themselves in the pearly green powder. Nothing else happened, and he looked up at Lysstor for his next direction.

“Don’t mix, but push that ta the side a the bowl, yeah, like that, and add the next two ta the empty spot,” Lysstor praised as he used a touch of his magic to push the material to one side of the bowl.

Gris grabbed the antler powder and poured it, then poured some more, and even more, until it felt like enough, more than three times the amount of chimmeria powder. One full flower head of vervain went on top of that, and then, before Lysstor told him, he took the moon-blessed water and poured it in, making a slurry of all of the ingredients without additional mixing. Lysstor smiled at him, a sharp yet floral scent filling his head. It boiled on its own as the magic accepted the components.

Without thinking, he was reaching for the bloodroot. He looked up at Lysstor to confirm, but Lysstor’s smile was enough. His palm was out, offering Gris a small paring blade. “Cut the root,” Lysstor directed. “Don’t touch it ta your skin, but make a thin slice a the root and without touching it, place it inta the mixture.”

Gris sliced it, and the root bled in his hands, despite the outside being completely hardened by drying. He stared in disbelief as the root bled, and he moved, almost too slowly, to catch the drops of blood in the bubbling bowl below. The thin slice stuck to the knife, and he lowered it into the bowl carefully, avoiding getting any of the materials, including the beet-red blood droplets, on his hands.

His feet tickled, and he glanced at them to see that the same vines growing up Lysstor’s legs were now climbing his. “So beautiful,” Gris breathed out, transfixed momentarily by the growth. He’d never felt so alive, so connected to the living world, or to another person.

“Yes,” Lysstor breathed out, his eyes locked on Gris. Gris blushed, feeling that he and Lysstor weren’t talking about the same thing. “Look at what you’ve made.”

Gris looked down, and the bowl had stopped boiling, and now a lazy, thick paste covered the bottom of the bowl. As he watched, the paste covered the thin slice of root, then soaked into it, turning the red flesh to purple. It looked wet and smelled like mold.

“Did I do it wrong?” he asked. It didn’t look right, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing.

“No, it’s perfect. I knew ya could do this, I felt this magic in ya. Pull the petals off a the bloodroot flower head and the floral heads of wood betony and position them in order on the slice of root, between one another. Be careful, don’t touch the root.”

Gris opened the other bloodroot jar and pulled out a small flower head, eight petals on it. Lysstor cupped his hands around Gris’s, and when he pulled away, the flower was fresh again, the white petals nearly glowing with life. He handed him the jar of betony next, and Gris took it, feeling overwhelmed.

“You’re amazing,” Gris whispered, but he knew Lysstor would hear it.

Lysstor chuckled. “It was your magic I used, I only shaped it. Try it on the wood betony yourself.”

Gris snorted in disbelief, shaking his head. He pulled out seven wood betony buds and held them in his hand, but didn’t send power into them, afraid to try and fail. Lysstor frowned and he felt bad for disappointing the elf, but he wasn’t magically strong. He’d come to accept that and chose to focus on his strengths instead.

Looking away from Lysstor, he pulled the first petal from the sepal of the delicate bloodroot. He laid it down softly, then placed a wood betony bud down, then repeated the process, putting the petals with betony buds interspersed in a circular pattern on the root. He placed the final petal down and leaned back, placing the leftover flower head on the earth next to the bowl. Somehow there was symbolism involved here, the fact that he had woven his essence between bloodroot was not missed on him, but he couldn’t see what it was supposed to mean, if anything. Wild magic, he reminded himself. Perhaps it didn’t mean anything at all. Despite his denial, deep down he knew it meant something.

“Take the elecampane root and slice it thin, place it on top,” Lysstor directed him, breaking him out of his thoughts, handing him another brown root. Their fingers brushed again and it sent a bolt of lust to his manhood, reminding him he was still quite hard. He blushed and looked down, and he swore he heard Lysstor chuckle.

Focusing on his hands, he sliced this root thin, too, but it was dry and didn’t bleed like the last one. He took the leathery cutting and layered it atop of the petals and bloodroot, then looked back up at Lysstor. Magic moved between them, filling the circle so full it felt like he was on an airplane.

“I don’t know what to do next,” he said after a few breaths of watching the bowl uneventfully.

“Wait,” Lysstor replied with a cheshire smile. “You’ll know.”

He watched the elf, whose eyes were locked on the bowl, anticipation on his face. Gris studied Lysstor’s face, his sharp features, and those beautiful, hypnotic eyes full of wild magic. Again, his cock reminded him how badly he wanted this man.

As if recovering from a trance, Lysstor pulled away, then shook his head. “Gonna be a while. My buzz is wearing off, and you’re completely sober again. That won’t do.” He picked up the bottle of sake and unscrewed the cap, pouring two glasses of the sake and handing one to Gris, carefully avoiding crossing the bowl.

Gris intentionally ran his fingers over Lysstor’s, he couldn’t stop himself, the wild magic lowering his inhibitions. Lysstor looked down, a coy smile on his face, then leaned back, throwing his sake back like a shot. Gris followed suit, then leaned forward wordlessly, asking for a refill. If Lysstor was encouraging him, he’d go with the flow.

This time, Lysstor grabbed his hand, holding it in his own, steadying it as he poured the sake, and he couldn’t stop the lust from making his nethers ache. His stomach flipped nervously, but he drank the shot down, pacing with Lysstor. Lysstor poured a third shot for both of them and suddenly Gris realized this was part of the ritual, magic flowing into him with the liquor.

“Good, nice, Magic-man. What’s next?” Lysstor asked, too eager for either of their own good.

“Huh? Don’t you know?” Gris asked, confused at Lysstor’s lack of guidance. That smile, Goddess damnit, Lysstor was going to kill him, his heart would stop. “I…” Oh, Goddess, he almost said something stupid, this was why alcohol and magic didn’t mix, words had power here.

“Ya what?” Lysstor encouraged. “What’s the next step, Jackson Marshall Griswold?”

Gris swallowed hard, trying to keep his stupid mouth shut, but the words escaped from him anyway. “I should kiss you, over the bowl, I think.” Could he die? Could he just have his heart stop here so he wouldn’t have to live through this embarrassment? Goddess, how stupid was he?

Lysstor leaned closer, his head over the bowl, and Gris could see that something was happening as vapors hazed around his face. “Come here, then,” Lysstor said, his tone intimate.

Part of him wanted to escape, but the magic, the alcohol, everything around him urged him to finish the spell. He leaned forward, but he still hesitated, caught up in his own guilt and shame, shame of years of being gay without being open, years of terror spent worrying about how his friends or family would react held him back. The memory of that time, when he was a child…

Lysstor’s hands shot out faster than he could react and pulled him forward the rest of the way, stopping just before their lips touched. He could feel the elf’s breath on his face, the slight smell of sake mixing with the sharp, pungent scent of the spell beneath them.

Neither of them moved as Lysstor held his face there, time stopped and they both stared into each other’s eyes. Gris felt the hypnotic nature of Lysstor’s eyes pull him down, and then they were kissing, first just a chaste brush of lips, but Lysstor pushed his way into Gris’s mouth, and he lost it, lost any control he had that held him back.

He kissed Lysstor like he would never get another chance, savoring the elf, trying his best to remember the shape of his mouth, the feel of his tongue, the heat of his lips, the firmness of his hands, holding his face close. He could die now, he needed nothing else. What a lie. He wanted this man, he wanted his everything, and he leaned forward more, trying to consume the elf through their kisses. Lysstor didn’t back down, and the kiss they shared was harsh, possessive and needy.

The vapors burned his eyes and he pulled away even though he wanted more, looking down into the bowl, worried for a million reasons, worried he’d ruined the spell, ruined this, whatever this was, that he was building with Lysstor, worried that he’d messed this up like he messed up everything else.

The roots had melted together into some type of roundish lump in the bottom of the bowl, nearly black it was so purple. He reached out, compelled to pick it up. It was warm in his hands, as if it were alive, and before he knew what he was doing, it was in his mouth. He chewed it and it instantly coated his mouth in a bitter, astringent flavor that seemed stick to every part of his mouth. He chewed and chewed, looking up to see Lysstor watching him curiously.

“What’s it taste like?” Lysstor asked, a look of pure bliss on his face.

“Horrible,” Gris admitted, “but I can’t stop.”

“I know,” Lysstor said. He watched Gris chew, then pulled him forward again by his face. Gris didn’t hesitate this time, he opened up to the kiss and Lysstor shared the spell-mixture, passing it between their mouths. He didn’t seem to mind the flavor, and after a few seconds, the soft lump had a consistency of bubble gum and as sweet, floral flavor to it.

His dick hurt, and he forced his hands to remain at his sides, afraid to touch the elf further, afraid that if he started, he wouldn’t be able to keep his inhibitions from making a mistake. Lysstor kissed him, and after what seemed like forever and also not long enough, he pulled away, pushing the magic gum into Gris’s mouth before breaking away. He wiped his face on the hem of his shirt, then looked up at Gris with wide eyes, pupils blown.

“By the blood, you’re a good kisser,” he praised, his voice wispy.

Gris blushed, then noticed the gold ring was at the bottom of the bowl. He took the gum out of his mouth and pressed it over the ring, then flipped it over in the bottom of the bowl so that the ring was embedded in the soft purple lump.

“Blood?” Gris said, his foggy brain catching on Lysstor’s words. “We need blood.”

“Seman would work, too,” Lysstor suggested with a coy smile.

Gris half-groaned and half-whined, so frustrated he felt like he’d explode. “Blood,” he reiterated, picking up the paring knife. Lysstor had no idea what he was doing to him. Gris sliced across the pad of his ring finger, then reached for Lysstors, doing the same. He pressed them together, though he couldn’t have said why, then pressed both firmly until their blood, mixed together, dripped onto the ring. Three drops were all that fell, and then Lysstor’s mouth was over his for the third time, and he tasted something sour and delicious, like nothing he’d ever eaten before. Berries were pushed into his mouth and popped of their own accord like Pop Rocks in his mouth as Lysstor kissed him hard, needily, as if he, too, were as frustrated as Gris.

When he pulled away again, out of breath, he saw their mouths were stained with a strange green tint. Lysstor smiled, and his lips were green, his teeth, too. “Hambleberry,” he explained. “Cleanses the poisons.”

Gris nodded, then realized exactly what Lysstor had just said, and what that meant. “Poison, I’m so-”

Before he could self-depreciate, the magic in the circle poured into the bowl, and into them, through them, and through the connection he felt with Lysstor, making every muscle in his body go taut. Power and life flowed through him and he was screaming without sound, but it wasn’t from pain, just another release, another way for the magic to move through him to its destination.

When the power receded, he opened his eyes, feeling reborn. “Godsdamn, that felt amazing,” Lysstor breathed out, his eyes still closed as he soaked in the afterglow of magic.

“Wow,” was all Gris could think to say. Magic had never felt like that before. In the coven circle, he always felt nice after a good casting, but tired, spent, as if he could feel the void of the magic he had given. Strangely, he wasn’t tired, he was alive and awake and he felt better than he could remember in a long time. He looked up at Lysstor and he could see the elf felt the same way. Suddenly, his pointy ears had Gris longing to touch them, wondering what they would feel against his fingertips, and he was reaching forward before he could stop himself.

Lysstor’s hand shot out and grabbed Gris before he made contact. “Don’t start something you’re not prepared ta finish,” Lysstor said cryptically. He opened his eyes and smiled hugely, like a kid, full of joy. His eyes were still again, the magic calm, but they seemed to pierce into his soul. He slid the ring over Gris’s finger before he realized what was happening. “Your ring is finished, my boon ta ya, Jackson Marshall Griswold. Take it, wear it always, don’t take it off.”

Gris nodded as Lysstor released his hand. The ring felt like a sun-warmed stone in his hands, as Lysstor let go, the magic that connected him to Lysstor severed. He whimpered, but Lysstor smiled, and he let his disappointment at the loss of their connection go.

The bubble around them slowly thinned, then popped, and his ears popped, too, as he got used to the lower pressure outside the bubble. He shivered a little as he got used to the cooler air outside the bubble, too. Lysstor stood up, then swayed, and Gris was barely there to catch him before he fell to the ground, completely unconscious.

The elf was surprisingly light, and the only difficulty Gris had in moving the sleeping elf to his bed was avoiding hitting the larger man’s extremities on boxes and doorways. He tucked the elf into his bed, and was proud of himself that he only gazed on his sleeping face for a minute, and that he didn’t touch him besides what was necessary to get him into bed. Gris grabbed a spare blanket and pillow and set himself up on the couch in the living room. Despite feeling alive and awake, he was asleep within breaths of laying down.

Spellbound Chapter 2: Lessons in Wild Magic Part 1

Spellbound Chapter 3: Hard to Believe