Page 14 of Wooing the Wiccan
“You don’t… I’m sorry. I guess I just assumed you already knew about… I mean, with the magic and all.” He flinches just like last time when I say “magic,” and I wish I knew what that was about. Why does that one word worry him?
He takes a sip from his drink, then explains, “My family is a different branch of pagan. You might have guessed from my accent that I’m not from around here. Where I used to live, we didn’t learn a lot about religions and other practices… not recently, anyway. I’ve been meaning to do some reading on the subject since I came here, but time is a commodity that always seems to escape me.” He shrugs. “Some colleagues of mine have talked a lot about Wicca and other hu— religious practices, and it all sounds beautiful. You have gods, don’t you?”
“The god and goddess,” I correct. “Although our relationship with them is different from many other religions, and our worship tends to be a lot more personal and less… communal.”
Raðulfr props his elbows on the tabletop and leans forward. “What does that mean? Less communal?”
He seems genuinely interested and not at all judgy, so I relax a little. “No churches, for one. Some do choose to gather for special ceremonies—solstice or equinox, to name the biggest—and some witches are most comfortable as part of a coven, but not all.”
“Are you?” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry—is it okay for me to ask that?”
“I don’t mind,” I assure him. “I think we’re good enough friends to ask the occasional personal question—don’t you?” My heartbeat picks up as I realize that I could have phrased that better. What if he thinks it means I only want to be friends?
His lovely gray eyes meet mine, and he says hesitantly, “I think we could venture beyond friendship, if we both wanted to.”
Giddy excitement bursts inside me, and I smile so wide my cheeks feel like they might crack. “Me too.”
We sit there grinning foolishly at each other for a moment, and then I pull myself together. “Uh, so… no, I don’t have a coven. I considered it when I first started practicing—most witches come to Wicca through mentorship by another witch, and mine was part of a great coven. They were very welcoming and offered me a place with them, but it never quite fit. I think I’m more of a solitary witch. They still invite me to join them sometimes, and I’ll go, or I meet up with some other solitary witches.” I pick up my mug and sip my coffee—I have some lesson planning to do tonight, so the caffeine is needed.
“I like that,” he muses. “That your religion is something so deeply personal, to be shared only if and when you want, and that there’s no judgment or expectation from other practitioners for your choice.”
I snort. “Oh, we have plenty of expectations and the occasional judgment,” I correct. “But not how you mean. Some people might judge me for not being in a coven, might think I’m missing part of the experience, but it’s their personal opinion and not anything else. We all have our preferred ways of doing things, and of course everyone thinks their way is the right way, but mostly, the only expectation Wicca has—the only real rule—is that we do no harm. We do not use our gifts from nature to cause hurt to others.”
He nods. “That’s a rule I also live by. We have so very much in common. Were you raised Wiccan?”
Shaking my head, I glance away. “No. I came to it when I was already an adult. My family was—is—Christian, and their church isn’t… well, it’s not accepting of anything that doesn’t fit a very rigid perspective.” I stop, because he doesn’t need my whole life story—not yet.
But his gaze is far too perceptive. “They hurt you deeply,” he murmurs, and I nod helplessly.
“Yeah. For a lot of reasons. I don’t have contact with them anymore, and although that makes me sad sometimes, it’s more because I miss having a family than because I regret cutting ties. My phone number and email address are the same, so if they’d changed, they could have reached out. The silence means they haven’t, and I don’t need to be part of something that was so harmful for me.”
Reaching across the table, Raðulfr covers my hand with his, just for a moment. “I’m glad you have the strength to know that, though I’m sorry that you have to.”
It’s the best thing he could have said. “Thank you. What about your family—I know you learned magic from a young age, but have they been supportive of… everything?”
The solemn moment dispelled, Raðulfr sits back. “Oh, yes. I had two sisters, one older and one younger, and my grandfather came to live with us when I was small. My parents were both musicians, and any time one of us complained about lessons or chores, they’d find a way to set it to music. I can’t even remember how many times I tidied my bedchamber to a three/four count.”
A laugh escapes me. “How would that even work? I mean… I’m not completely sure what thatis.”
“Maybe one day I can demonstrate,” he suggests. “Though I haven’t done it for a very long time. It did help to make things fun, though, if only because we were so busy laughing or rolling our eyes at our parents that we forgot to be petulant.”
“I can’t imagine you ever being petulant. Peevish, maybe,” I tease, still excited by the idea that he might help me clean a room in my house someday. That’s intimate—well, it is for me, anyway. I don’t invite a lot of people to even visit my house, much less make themselves at home.
“I can be petulant,” he assures me. “Peevish, too. Though I’m not very often, these days. My life is happy, so I don’t have much call to be.”
“I like to look on the positive side of things too.” Our gazes meet again, another drawn-out moment that makes me feel all the excited tingles inside. I can’t remember the last time I had this kind of reaction to someone, and I didn’t realize how much I missed it. When did my relationships become so low-key and transactional? “Did your family move to America too, or do they still—I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught where you lived before?”
Sadness crosses his handsome face. “They died. My younger sister first, then my mother. My father chose not to continue without her. They loved each other so deeply, you see. My older sister was the last to be lost.” He shakes his head and adds, almost absently, “I tried so hard, but nothing I did stopped it.”
Clearly he blames himself for their deaths, though I can’t imagine why. It sounds like they might have lived in a conflict zone? I’m not going to push for more information when it upsets him.
Repeating his gesture of not long ago, I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine. “I’m so sorry. They sound like they were amazing people.”
His smile returns, sadder and simpler, but still there. “They were. The best. I hope to meet them again in future lives.”
“I’m sure you will. We’re drawn to the souls we loved in the past.”
“We are,” he says, turning his hand under mine so they’re palm-to-palm. “It’s a true joy.”
