Magic in the Electric Eye of Wild Brigitte

Magic in the Electric Eye of Wild Brigitte

Aibell’s magic still burned in my mind when I woke in the wild clover. Driven by the fairy queen’s design, I stripped off my clothes and slipped into the icy, emerald waters of the hidden spring.

Through a veil of ferns, I saw her. She knelt by the water, naked and uninhibited as a wild doe, a cascade of fiery hair spilling over her bare shoulders in the golden light. My pulse hammered against my ribs. Was this the woman who had haunted my visions in the phantom deserts of Africa—the only oasis in my parched past—or a siren conjured to break me?

We lingered in a charged, electric silence as the sun dragged across the sky and gave way to a heavy, star-choked night. The sheer proximity of her stoked a primal heat in my gut, a tension that held until exhaustion finally dragged me under.

At dawn, the invisible tether between us pulled taut. We rose together in the pale light, our bare feet sinking into the wet grass as we moved toward the artesian well. The waiting was over; it was time to break the silence and uncover exactly who she was.

“Is your native tongue Gaelic, or did the Romans get to you?” I asked, closing the distance between us on the muddy bank.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she stuck out her tongue—a flash of pink defiance. I stepped right into her space, pressing my thumb against her lower lip, searching her gaze for a flicker of the past.

I needed proof. I dropped to my knees, scooped a handful of wet earth, and rapidly sketched a desert palm tree in the mud. I looked up. Her eyes were sharp, calculating. Without missing a beat, she snatched a jagged twig and dropped beside me. With a single, fierce slash, she etched the ankh into the soil.

My pulse hammered against my ribs. I grabbed the twig from her and drew the sharp, jackal ears of Anubis.

She let the twig fall. A tear cut a clean line through the dirt on her cheek, but her smile was pure danger.

“I shouldn’t be staring,” I muttered, suddenly hyper-aware of the pale, bare skin of her hips and the cold Irish wind wrapping around us. “I thought nakedness here was just… a local custom.”

She let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “It’s a cloutie well, sugar, not a brothel. I left my clothes in the trees for luck. You’re staring because you know exactly who I am.”

She grabbed my wrist, forcing my index finger into the wet earth beside the ankh. Together, we dragged out the letters: L-U-G-H.

“Lugh,” she purred, the name rolling off her tongue like a promise. “I go by Brigitte now. Egypt, Ireland… you always take your sweet time finding me.”

She didn’t wait for the shock to settle in my bones. She pulled me up and dragged me toward a dense, shadowy patch of clover. The distant, orange glow of funeral pyres crackled on the horizon—a stark reminder that our time in any body was brutally short.

She nodded to a stone mortar filled with crushed, midnight-blue woad. A raven’s feather rested against the rim. “Dye me before we die.”

She dropped onto her stomach, exposing the long, elegant curve of her spine. I dipped the feather into the thick paste. The tension between us was electric, humming louder than the cicadas in the grass. I traced the endless loops of a Trinity Knot between her shoulder blades, the wet dye gleaming dark against her skin.

“You missed a spot on my arse,” she teased, shivering as the feather dragged a shamrock lower down her back. She gasped, arching her back with a brazen smile. “A luck charm right on my backside? Very subtle. It feels as if you are writing a love note, not just upon me, but to me.”

“I brought my book of spells,” I warned her, my voice dropping an octave as I tossed the feather aside. I pulled a weathered leather book from my pack, the scent of old parchment mixing with the woad. “I have spells for this exact occasion.”

She glanced over her shoulder, a wicked grin playing on her lips. “A mage! Mages are a dying breed. Though speaking of dying species, don’t get me started on the honeybees.”

“The hive is so different than our village.”

“They have a utopian matriarchal society, with the queen bee at its sacred center. And they are the key to the pollination of fruits and some vegetables, the very sustenance of our lives.” 

“The male drones,” I added, “meet death before their lives have truly begun.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged, a strange reverence in her tone, “but they do so in ecstasy with the queen, fulfilling their primal purpose.”

“Where on earth did you learn so much about bees?” I asked, marveling at her depth of knowledge.

“I read the book ‘Naturalis Historia’ by the Roman author Pliny the Elder,” she said, her smile returning. “Sadly, that was his last book before Vesuvius consumed his mortal coil.”

Her eyes sparkled with a brazen, undeniable challenge.

“I can imagine the rapture the drone feels with his queen,” I said, tossing the book aside.

Her lips curled into a wicked, slow smile as she shifted closer, resting her chin on my chest.

“This Goddess does not require a sacrifice,” she purred. “You perishing like a drone would be a pinnacle of rock where no birds sing. I must keep you alive so we can lie tangled together in these winter furs. I love you far too dearly for that kind of hex,” she murmured, crawling a fraction closer. “I used to be a keeper of records, you know. Consider me a very exclusive manuscript. You can check me out, take me home, and study me for the duration of this ritual.”

“Do I get renewals?” I asked, my pulse pounding.

“Unlimited,” she whispered, “so long as you don’t ruin the spine. Now, bind me, Lugh. Give me that spell.”

“You were forged in fire,” I recited, my voice dropping as I pulled her against me. “Destined to be shaped by the anvil of fate.”

“And?” she prompted, feigning impatience.

“And love, for a man like me, lasts longer than the stars.”

She giggled, a breathless, intoxicating sound that chased away the shadows of the encroaching night. “I must be drunk. Not on ale, but on your ridiculous, bookish charm. Just remember, woodsman… when we consummate this, you owe me a pinch on the backside. A penalty for catching an Irish girl not wearing green.”

The fireflies flickered to life around us, throwing frantic, golden shadows across her painted skin. The scent of woodsmoke and damp earth closed in as I pulled her against me. She was fire and iron. Our reunion wasn’t a gentle fading into the twilight; it was a collision. She arched into my touch, her breath catching fiercely as my hands mapped the familiar, ancient curves she had worn a dozen lifetimes ago.

“You forgot one thing,” she murmured against my neck, her nails curling into my shoulders with a demanding little tease.

I knew exactly what she was waiting for. My hand slid down, and I caught her bottom with a quick, wicked pinch. It was a playful nod to her missing green, but that sudden, sharp nip landed like a spark on dry kindling—a flash of summer lightning that pulled a breathless, greedy laugh from her lips as she arched right into the sting.     

Brigitte let out a wild, feral howl that tore through the Irish night, a sound that belonged to the wind, the earth, and the centuries we had conquered just to burn together once more.

The next morning, the sun baked the dew from our clover bed, and Brigitte stretched like a contented feline, her skin bare to the morning light, the blue woad designs I had painted upon her only adding to her breathtaking, unbridled wildness. We were sharing a simple breakfast of berries and fresh spring water when the heavy thud of marching boots shattered the tranquil chorus of the forest.

Three men emerged from the treeline. They were heavily armored, their faces scarred and their beards tangled with the dirt of a hundred battlefields. Warlords, by the look of their furs and plundered steel. They halted, their hard eyes immediately fixing upon Brigitte, who sat entirely unclothed upon the moss, thoroughly unbothered by their sudden arrival.

“Well met, travelers,” the leader boomed, though his gaze never left the curve of her hip. He offered a wide, insincere smile that showed half-rotted teeth. “We caught the smoke of your fire. The road is long and lonely, and we thought we might share a meal with such… friendly folk.”

They sat themselves down without waiting for an invitation, sprawling their massive, unwashed bodies around our small camp. They ate greedily from their own rations, tearing at salted meats, but they dined with us as though they were just a jovial group with no desire to do harm. Yet, every word out of their mouths dripped with heavy, thinly veiled desire.

“It takes a brave man to camp so close to the borderlands,” the second warlord grunted, tossing a bone into the fire. He leered openly at Brigitte. “And a very fortunate man to have such… spectacular scenery to keep his blood warm at night.”

“Indeed,” the leader purred, leaning forward. “Such rare beauty is wasted in the wild. A queen of the forest, surely. Tell me, lovely creature, does your protector share his treasures, or must a man barter for a taste of paradise?”

Brigitte’s eyes flashed with a wicked, iridescent light. She leaned back on her hands, proudly displaying the full, unashamed glory of her form, a sly smile curving her burgundy lips.

“You flatter me, fierce warriors,” Brigitte cooed, her voice dripping with sassy confidence.

“Let me consider your proposal. First, I must speak in private with my lover man, and then you shall get your prize.”

She rose gracefully, unabashedly naked, and took my hand, leading me a short distance away behind a cluster of thick oaks.

“Brigitte,” I whispered, my hand moving to the hilt of my blade. “I do not like the look of these beasts. I should run them through before they try to take you by force.”

She laughed, a mischievous, sultry sound that sent a shiver down my spine. She pressed her bare, warm body against mine, her fingers tracing a teasing path down my chest. “Hush, my fiercely protective wolf. Leave your sword in its sheath. I have a much more entertaining weapon in mind. Did you see how they salivated over me? I am going to seduce them with this boundless beauty and trick them into a humiliating defeat.”

“By offering yourself to them?” I asked, bewildered.

“By offering them a fantasy their swollen heads cannot resist,” she purred, her eyes dancing with risqué delight. “Just watch your clever fae work her magic. They think I am merely soft flesh, but I am going to leave them wallowing like the muddy swine they are.”

She kissed me deeply, a promise of later rewards, and strutted confidently back into the clearing. The three warlords practically tripped over their own swords standing up to greet her return, their eyes devouring her every step.

“Come to me, you big hunks of men,” Brigitte announced, striking a pose that made the leader swallow hard. “After all that marauding and pillaging in the company of hairy, unwashed male brutes, you must be simply ravenous for a woman’s softness. Your armor looks so heavy, so… rigid.”

She walked toward the edge of our camp, where the land dipped into a wide stretch of dark, uninviting muck—a bog that looked deceptively like a shallow pool of rainwater. She stood on our side of it, gesturing for them to approach the opposite edge.

“If you cross the mud, I will give you pleasures you have never known,” she promised, her voice lowering into a husky, irresistible register. She ran a hand slowly through her fiery hair, her body swaying with wicked intent. “But you must cross the puddle before you to prove you are worthy of my most wicked charms. A woman like me requires a man of unyielding action. The first man to cross gets me at my freshest, before having been pillaged.”

The warlords shoved each other, practically foaming at the mouth, but the leader held out a hesitant hand, looking down at the dark sludge separating them from their prize.

“But my lady,” the leader said, his brow furrowing. “It may be a bog. We could be swallowed by it, never to gaze upon your breathtaking beauty again.”

Brigitte let out a theatrical sigh, putting her hands on her bare hips, her eyes sparkling with sassy mockery. “A bog? Oh, you towering pillars of masculinity, it is but a puddle no deeper than a frog’s leg! Fear not, my steely warriors. You have no doubt been through many bloody battles and faced obstacles much more daunting than a tiny puddle of mud! Do you conquer lands merely for gold, whose cold, hard value pales in comparison to the warm, forbidden treasures of a woman?” She playfully bit her lower lip, arching her back. “Or are your spears just for show?”

That was all the provocation their fragile pride could withstand. The leader puffed out his chest, his eyes locked onto her swaying hips. He walked just a short way into the bog, the mud barely splashing his shins. He looked back and summoned his men with a victorious grin.

“She is telling the truth, you cowards!” he barked. “No deeper than a newt’s leg! Accompany me. Then you too will experience her unparalleled charms!”

The other two let out a guttural cheer and plunged in behind him. They all moved forward into the bog, their eyes entirely fixed on Brigitte’s unclad, mesmerizing form.

But as they progressed, the mud quickly thickened. The dark sludge rose to their knees, then their waists. They began to struggle, their heavy armor weighing them down, the suction of the bog gripping them like a vise.

“My lady, the ground… it vanishes!” the leader grunted, his face turning red with exertion.

Brigitte laughed, a musical, tinkling sound. She stepped right up to the edge, kneeling so they had a perfect, maddening view of her bare breasts. “Be not afraid, my brave little soldiers! If you desire to know my female magic in its fullest, most wicked pleasures, you must do this to prove yourselves! Push harder! A true lover never quits halfway!”

Driven mad by her risqué teasing and the tantalizing proximity of her naked flesh, they surged forward, abandoning caution entirely. They moved faster, thrashing violently, until they stepped right off the hidden shelf into the deepest part of the bog.

With a collective shout of panic, they sank straight down, the thick mud rushing up to their shoulders. They were utterly trapped, their arms pinned beneath the sludge, looking like three furious, dirty heads planted in a garden of filth.

Brigitte stood up, roaring with laughter, slapping her bare thigh in delight. “Oh, my poor, fierce stallions!” she taunted, pacing along the edge in a sassy, feline strut. “Look at you now! I was fully prepared to let you explore every secret curve of this body, but I do prefer my lovers to at least wash behind their ears! What a tragedy! So much great pleasure you might have known, and now all you have to keep you warm is the muck!”

“Witch!” one of the men spat, sputtering as mud splashed his chin. “Get us out of here!”

“Me? Get my hands dirty?” Brigitte gasped in mock offense, tossing her fiery hair. “I think not! I am a lady of refined tastes, and you gentlemen look positively filthy!”

Just as they began howling curses, the thunder of hooves shook the ground. A courier, adorned in the crimson and gold crest of the Queen of the Warlords, burst into the clearing. He pulled his steed to a halt, staring in absolute disbelief at the three elite warriors buried to their necks in mud, being gleefully mocked by a stunning, entirely naked woman painted in blue woad.

The courier quickly dismounted and called out to the trees. A dozen of the queen’s men poured out of the forest with ropes.

“What is the meaning of this?” the courier demanded.

Brigitte stepped forward, radiating mischievous innocence. “Oh, kind sir! These three naughty boys came to my camp, stared at my bare flesh like starving hounds, and boldly demanded to taste my Irish charms! I told them they needed a bath first, and they eagerly jumped right into the mud to impress me!”

The courier’s face went pale, then flushed with rage. He glared down at the trapped men. “Fools! You have shamed the Queen! You know the decree—flirting with an Irish lass is strictly forbidden, punishable by the lash! And you have let yourselves be defeated by a puddle while trying to break her law!”

The queen’s men threw the ropes, hauling the warlords out like oversized sacks of wet grain. The three men, once boastful and terrifying, now stood dripping with black, foul-smelling sludge from head to boot. They coughed and shivered, utterly humiliated.

“Take them back!” the courier barked. “They will face the wrath of the Queen back home in the castle for this disgrace!”

As the men were marched away, shamefaced and trailing a river of muck, Brigitte blew them a highly exaggerated, sassy kiss. “Better luck next time, you big hunks of mud! Try not to slip on your way to the dungeons!”

She turned back to me, her eyes dancing with triumph and wild, uninhibited joy. She wrapped her bare arms around my neck, pressing her warm skin against mine. “Now, my Lugh,” she whispered playfully, “where were we before we were so rudely interrupted by those swine?”

We grew old on the Irish cliffs, the rhythm of the tides dictating our final years. But Brigitte had always yearned to face the deep water. One afternoon, we rowed the currach far past the safety of the bay. The sky abruptly bruised purple. A fierce squall slammed into us without warning, churning the ocean into a frenzy. A rogue wave crested and crashed, shattering the hull and plunging us into the freezing Atlantic. I fought the churning black water, reaching for Brigitte, but the sea dragged us under.

Instead of drowning in the dark, I gasped for air and found myself standing on the soil of a sunlit farm, Brigitte suddenly beside me. It was a fleeting, impossible haven. Before we could even catch our breath, the sky shattered. Two shadow-draped enforcers dropped onto the grass, their presence extinguishing the light. They delivered a cold, absolute decree: our time in this realm was void, our lease expired. They raised their hands, and a freezing wind ripped through the farm, tearing Brigitte from my grip and hurling me into a blinding, swirling void.

I fought the chaotic currents of the in-between, terrified of losing her forever, until the scent of crushed heather cut through the mist. Queen Aibell materialized, her emerald sprites pushing back the shadows. With a commanding sweep of her hand, she carved a path through the dark and pulled me into a glowing, ethereal glade.

There stood Brigitte. Her spirit was vibrant and unharmed. I rushed to her, our raw, ethereal forms colliding in an embrace so profound it chased the freezing terror from my bones.

Brigitte stepped back, looking at our bare, glowing forms, then turned to the Fairy Queen. “You do conjure the loveliest dream, Queen. To be here with Lugh, gazed upon by the watchful eyes of you and your band of merry makers, is a delight beyond measure. But tell me, why is it that being garbless with Lugh, witnessed by your troupe in bedroom sport, doesn’t feel immodest at all? It feels… utterly natural.”

Aibell smirked, a secret mirth playing on her lips. “Chalk it up, my dear Brigitte, to your wild Irish spirit. It is a flame that cannot be vanquished by the cold hand of physical death. It demands truth and unvarnished joy.”

Brigitte’s eyes sparkled. “I am an Irish lass after all, what need have we wild women of the moor for such a gratuitous thing as garb when love is true? Yet, Queen, are you not embarrassed to witness our intimate moment?”

Aibell’s silvery laugh echoed through the glade. “My dear, I am the friend of lovers everywhere. I have not only witnessed thousands of such amorous rendezvous, but have often been their gentle guide. How could I feel ashamed to be the marital aid, the rekindler of spirits, for lovers in desperate need of that sacred connection?” Her playful gaze swept over us both. “What will be our next destination, then? Where would you like to go?”

Brigitte’s joyous laughter rang out. “One more life in Ireland, pretty please, Queen Aibell! Just one more chance for the green lands and the misty mountains!”

“Yes,” I enjoined, stepping closer and pulling Brigitte against me. “I vote for Ireland too. Our souls remember it best.”

Brigitte giggled, leaning into my warmth. “Oh, Lugh! We can go au naturel by a pond, just like when we first met in our last incarnation, before even the thought of farms and leases existed!”

“First impressions are lasting, my love,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “And yours was carved into my very soul.”

Aibell nodded with a slow, majestic gesture. “Then the Emerald Isle it is. Shamrocks and heather for you two, and the ancient spirit of its wild heart to guide you.”

“And mead!” I interjected. “Plenty of mead, Queen!”

Brigitte beamed at her. “Aibell, you truly are such a dear, giving us our choice, making our deepest longings real.”

Aibell’s eyes twinkled like distant stars. “My dears,” she purred, a knowing smile gracing her lips, “I always was the torch singer of your dreams.”

With a rapid, shimmering swirl of mist, the fairy queen cast us forward, plunging us out of the glade and hurtling us back toward the wild, green earth.