Back to the Shores, Feasting, Doors

I offered devotion to only the Morrigan last night, and she seemed much more Present, but that may result more from less split attention than anything else. Otherwise, She insisted I venture through the Door and into the Shores of the ___, and I headed via T to Ae’s court and estates. It was night this time, and the moon lit the clouds in spectacular ways.

I came to coastal forests and to Ae’s estates, announcing myself to her [guard]—sidhe in rounded helms but lightly armored. They led me in, and she greeted me on her throne in her court where she greeted me warmly. She noted the Morrigan was often quiet in the ___ as the Old Ones—the Tuatha—rarely appeared. She led me to a courtyard and offered me wine and a feast. I accepted the wine, but I begged off of the feast. We kissed, embraced, but I also begged off greater intimacies for the time being. The wine was fantastic, and night and moonlight in the ___ was fantastic and invigorating. I talked of feeling starved on Earth—magic, elthil, and even—just general nourishment, like I hadn’t really drank in ages. We moved to the woods nearby, and I hugged a tree—a tall, thin, white-barked tree—and we sat and cuddled under the tree. I’m still adapting, I told her, to seeing the ___ again, though the experience feels more invigorating than the pining BS I kind of suspected might occur. More like reconnecting with yourself than other things. It feels like it’s easier being here with the Tir than without, and while I want to leave here still, it’s not made me feel heartsick or that sort of thing. This feels easier now because I’ve found and recovered part of myself.

I grew tired and returned home before going to the glade. The Morrigan, I think, tested me with questions of will and divinity, but maybe more so my will about the ___.

I want to develop my vocabulary—the ___ remains a spread of Otherworlds rather than one realm or world. I also feel my recent faerie geas helped me unlock this—-the paths I’ve sensed, but I don’t think it’s just this door.

Image: “Come unto These Yellow Sands,” Richard Dadd

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