Summer Solstice

Murdoch breathed in deeply, the air fragrant with desert flowers. The air was thick with heat, but not oppressive. The normally opressive summer light was now pleasant, as if an encore was building up.

Murdoch loved Pride Month, and loved that his celebration of his sexuality matched the celestial tides, as well as his birthday. The sun would soon be at her apex, light triumphing over darkness, if only for a moment before the days withered and the nights grew longer again.

It was a beautiful symphony for him, the many divine forces at play, the many Celtic gods his grandma taught him alight with splendour.

It had been more than a week since his birthday, his official signature into the world, but to him that paled before this witching hour.

And so he had a moment of quiet, of contemplation. He lit some incenses, gave some prayers the Grian and Aine, and laid down on the couch, breathing in the flagrant smoke into a relaxed sturpor.

“Can I come in?” Cliff asked.

Murdoch craned his neck, and waved his lover over. They laid together on the couch, kissing each other and nibbling each other’s ears.

“Why don’t you make us a painting?” Murdoch said.

“Already did” Cliff chirped, “See, I know you. And I can research paganism online pretty well.”

Cliff left, and Murdoch felt a small hollow in his chest. Cliff’s light was as bright as the sun’s. And when he returned, that light seemed to eclipse that of the goddess. It was an pastel painting, depicting a solar celtic triskele.

“That’s beautiful!” Murdoch said.

“I knew you’d like it.”

So the two lovers laid beside again, and saw the sun set.