The night pulsed, thick with something more than silence, something older than the stars, older than breath. It clung to the air, damp and sweet, the scent of blooming heather and crushed clover curling around Eabha's bare shoulders like the caress of unseen hands. Mist curled low over the earth, slithering between the ancient stones, curling around her ankles as she waited beneath the great tree.

She had felt you coming before she had seen you. Each Ostara, when the wheel turned and the world stirred from its sleep, Eabha had sought the willing heart of a mortal woman. It was by such sacred unions that spring was coaxed into bloom. Their pleasure was not just indulgence, it was invocation.

You had followed the lights, not with reason, but with something deeper, instinct, hunger, a pull you could not name. Now you stood amidst the sacred monoliths, barefoot, your skirts wet with dew, your hair wild and kissed by the wind. You moved with the hesitant grace of a creature between states, caught somewhere between knowing and not, between waking and dream.

Eabha watched from beneath the boughs, unseen but knowing. She did not move. Not yet.

The underbrush stirred, and from the shadows, the rabbits emerged. Small, soft specters in the night, their fur glowing beneath the faerie lights. They watched, unblinking, their presence an omen, a promise. One twitched its nose at the base of the great tree, sensing the shift in the air.

You turned, and your eyes met.

Eabha smiled, slow and knowing, stepping forward, her silver curls tumbling in the wind, her gossamer gown sliding over her skin like water over river stones. The sheer fabric clung to her thighs, to the curve of her belly, whispering against her flesh as she moved. Every step deliberate. Every breath a promise.

A rabbit darted between you, a flicker in the darkness. The land was watching. The land was waiting.

She saw the way your breath caught, the way your fingers trembled at your sides, not with fear, but something else. Longing. Uncertainty.

Eabha reached out, brushing a single fingertip along your wrist, feeling the quicksilver pulse beneath the delicate skin.

"You felt the pull." A murmur, soft as dusk, wicked as desire. Her fingers traced upward, slow, teasing, gliding over the fine hairs of your arm, the warm curve of your shoulder.

Your lips parted, breathless. Eabha took your hand, guiding it to the great tree, pressing your palm flat against the bark. The wood was warm, pulsing, alive beneath your touch.

At your feet, the rabbits did not move. Their small ears flicked. Their round eyes shone, reflecting the faerie lights.

"The land is stirring, it has slept too long." Eabha whispered. She leaned closer, her lips grazing your cheek, tasting salt, tasting heat. Lower, along the edge of your jaw, down to the tender curve of your throat. A soft, trembling gasp shivered against her lips. "The wheel must turn. The warmth must return."

A sharp rustle, another rabbit bounded past, its white tail flashing like a comet. The ancient symbols upon the stones glowed faintly, pulsing with a slow, steady rhythm.

Eabha slid her hands lower, finding your waist, the soft swell of your hips beneath the layers of cloth and leather.

"You must give yourself to me," She murmured, her breath a ghost against the hollow of your throat.

She felt the tremor that ran through you, not fear, but perhaps surrender.

The rabbits watched, still as statues, as Eabha smiled against your pulse, pressing deeper into your warmth.