a druid’s rite

A short story ready for Halloween

"I mean, what do you even wear for an afternoon hike?" Callie lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The sky beyond her window had faded to a soft bruise of twilight. She hadn’t been on a date since before university swallowed her whole - twoo and a half years of law textbooks and lecture halls. Now she was almost done. Almost free. Yet here she was, against all reason, agreeing to a hike with Dylan— Celtic Studies MA student, dreamer, a voice too soft for the world.

"Just go with your Converse and sweats,” Kate had said. “He’s not taking you up Snowdon, is he?"

Callie tugged at her light blue sweats, hung up the phone, and glanced at the mirror. Mascara? Hair up or down? Her reflection stared back, unfamiliar in its nervousness. It had been so long since she'd bothered. She swiped some Nivea across her lips and settled on "I’ll do," whispering it like a spell.

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Twenty minutes later, Callie sat in the passenger seat of Dylan's car, watching the world slip by in hues of gold and green. Dylan was excited, almost glowing, as he spoke about ancient stones and burial chambers outside Betws y Coed. His words flowed, rich with Celtic lore, Mabinogion heroes, and long-forgotten rituals. He made the past sound alive, more than history. It was as if he felt it beneath his skin, in the wind that tugged at the trees.

The fields passed like dreamscapes—rivers shimmering in the last of the day, village pubs standing still in the amber light, the land ancient and breathing beneath it all.

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They parked in a lonely lot. Three cars sat abandoned; their occupants swallowed by the hills. Dylan grabbed his rucksack from the trunk and smiled, eyes bright with the thrill of adventure.

"Let’s go," he said, reaching for her hand. His grip was warm, almost electric, as if he was connected to something deeper, something older. He led her toward the mound, telling her of Druids, of soil filled with ancient whispers. She laughed softly as he twirled her in the breeze, his joy infectious, his passion almost too much for words.

"Nature," he breathed. "It’s the only medicine we need." They stopped in the middle of a vast, open field, the horizon stretching forever. His breath mingled with the wind, his fingers brushed her face, a stray curl caught in the gesture. She could feel the beat of his heart racing against her chest.

"You are beautiful, Calliope," he whispered, voice thick with something beyond the moment.

She smiled, feeling the weight of the world slip away, just for a second, just enough. His hand tightened around hers as he pulled her towards their next quest.

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The scree rose before them like a jagged wave, and Dylan moved up it with the grace of someone born to the mountains. Callie struggled behind, already regretting not bringing gloves. She glanced up at him as he reached the top, praying he'd throw down a rope, but no—he stood there, hands on hips, staring out at the landscape as if he was king of the earth.

Twenty minutes later, breathless and aching, Callie finally joined him at the top. Dylan laughed, a deep, hearty sound that echoed off the stone. He pulled her close, wrapping her in his arms, the warmth of him filling the chill of the evening.

"Feel it, Calliope," he murmured, his lips close to her ear. "Feel the magic in the land. The voices of the ancients, echoing just beneath the surface."

And she did feel it—something. The land stretched out like a tapestry, fields running to the horizon, stitched together by time, by the hands of those long gone. The rivers shimmered with history; the trees whispered secrets she could almost hear.

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"Beautiful," Dylan whispered again, but this time, it felt heavier, like the word itself carried more than admiration. His hand moved to her chin, tilting her face toward his. When their lips met, it was softer than she expected, almost tender, as if he was tasting something far more delicate.

For a moment, she forgot where she was, lost in his arms, the scent of the earth, the weight of history pressing in on all sides. Then he pulled away, breathless, smiling.

"Come on, I want to show you the chamber."

They wandered down an old, cobbled path, the sky above them aflame with sunset—reds and oranges blending into the fading blue, as if the heavens were painting their story. Dylan talked about Druids and rituals, sandwiches and hot chocolate, his words flowing as easily as the wind. She listened, absorbed in his voice, in the weight of it all.

When they reached the cromlech, it stood silent in the gathering dark, the stones cold and eternal. Dylan told her of the ancient ones buried beneath them, the centuries of history hidden just beneath the surface. He spoke of rituals and bloodlines, his voice low, reverent.

But there was something else in his tone now, something darker. His eyes glinted in the dying light, and as he took her hand again, she felt the change—a shift in the air, the land itself holding its breath.

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"They speak to me," he said, voice soft, eyes fixed on the horizon. "The Druids, the ancients. They’re not silent anymore, Calliope. They’re calling us back. Calling me back."

His grip tightened; his breath quickened. The world around them darkened, the trees whispering louder, the stones watching.

"Do you hear them?" he whispered, his voice trembling now, filled with something that wasn’t excitement anymore. "Do you hear them?"

And Callie, caught between fear and disbelief, could only nod.

He leaned over her, his lips crashing down, forceful and insistent, his breath hot as it spilled over her skin, tracing her neck like some feverish wind. His fingers found the zipper of her hoodie, pulling slowly, as if the air itself could be torn apart, unravelling something more than fabric, something hidden beneath.

"Don't..." Her voice was a thread in the storm, fragile and lost. "I want to go home."

His eyes, wide and blazing, bore into hers with a ferocity that had no place in the boy she thought she knew, the boy who brought flowers and poems. "You arehome, Calliope. This—this place, this moment—is where we were always meant to be. The Druids... they came to me, Callie. In dreams, in whispers. They’ve drawn maps in the darkness behind my eyes, sung to me their spells. Their power... their pain... I’ve seen it, felt it. But this, right here, is the last test. The trial I must complete."

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Callie felt her pulse quicken, though time itself slowed. The cairn beneath her was hard, unyielding, just like his grip on her wrists. Where had he gone? The kind Dylan, the one who had sent her poems, brought her chocolates wrapped in quiet affection? This was someone else, something else, staring down at her with a hunger that frightened her more than the cold stone beneath her body.

His hands tightened around her wrists. His knees pinned her in place as he rummaged through the rucksack, pulling out an object heavy with history, as if the centuries clung to its edges. A cup, green with rust, its sides adorned with birds that seemed to flinch in the fading sun. “Merddyn’s cup,” he breathed, his voice low with reverence. "They don’t even know what they have in the University’s collection. Merlin’s cup. The one from which he drank power, wisdom, eternity.”

His fingers trembled around the object, as if it were a live wire. “And this,” he continued, pulling out a curved blade, bronze, its edges darkened by time. “This sickle. It once tasted the flesh of men, women—sacrifices. The Romans called us savages, but they didn’t understand. They couldn’t. The blood was the key. Still is today."

The sky above them was dark now, the stars cold and distant as Callie’s tears rolled silently down her cheeks, mixing with the dew on the ancient stone. His eyes, wild with purpose, held hers as he poured water into the cup, swirling it with the sickle’s edge.

“Mistletoe,” he said, voice hushed. “Sacred. It binds us to them, the ancients.”

He lifted the cup to his lips, drinking deep. The world around them seemed to shiver.

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Leaning towards her, he pressed the rim of the cup against her mouth, the cool metal clinking softly against her trembling lips. “Drink, Callie,” he whispered, coaxing the liquid past her lips. “It will make everything easier. It will dull the pain.”

But she couldn’t.

The fear in her throat wouldn’t let her swallow, even as her body shook beneath his.

His voice, once gentle, had a new edge. “Don’t you see? You are the key, Callie. You—innocent, pure. Your blood... it’s the final piece. The one that will bring the Druids’ power back into the world. It won’t hurt. Not for long.”

She wanted to scream, to run, to push him away, but he was too strong, too driven. With a sick smile, he placed the cup aside, reaching for the sickle. Its ancient blade stark, menacing under the dim light of the rising moon. His hands pinned her tighter, pressing her into the cold, unyielding stone.

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“Gwrando hen Myrddyn!” he shouted, voice a fevered cry to the heavens. The wind seemed to still as his chant filled the night air, echoing through the silent woods.

He raised the sickle high, the moon catching on its edge,

“Gwrando hen Myrddyn!

Llyma Weddi'r Orsedd,

a elwir Gweddi'r Gwyddoniaid

Duw dy nerth, ag yn nerth Dioddef;

A dioddef dros y gwir, ag yn y gwir pob goleuni;

Ag yngoleuni pob Gwynfyd, ag yngwynfyd Cariad,

Ag ynghariad Duw, ag yn Duw pob daioni.”

Time stretched thin as a whisper between worlds, until the blade came down.

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For a moment, there was nothing. No pain, no sound. Just the surreal sensation of her body slipping into something otherworldly. Then came the warmth, a torrent of it, spilling from her neck, her life flowing onto the stone as if the earth itself was drinking her in.

Dylan’s hands were there, catching her blood in the ancient cup, his lips moving in frantic whispers of forgotten tongues. He drank, eyes wild, lips stained with her life, and he smiled, drunk on power.

Every part of her pulsated, her head to her toes; colours more vibrant, noises clear, she could even make out the slow stream of ants across the cairn. The moon seemed to hum, a lulling serenade accompanying her through death, she tried to return its call, a sweet vibration upon her lips, lamenting at the loss of her life.

Dylan took the cup, Callie’s blood trailing down the outside, dripping onto her exposed chest. He drank deep, whispering poetry of yore in a language most indistinguishable, he sat with her until the last glimmer of light had disappeared from her eyes, gorging on the ichor of life, of power, drunk on the premise of power.

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I hope you enjoyed this story!

Thanks for reading!

Love and light 🖤💀🖤