Sometimes, the most wonderful things come about when you least expect them.
Our connection was not forged lifetimes ago; the threads of Wyrd did not inexorably tug us back into each other’s arms across time and space. And yet something drew us closer, intentionally or not, astonishing in its breadth and beauty: the power of story, the power of myth.
He says it was my voice he first fell in love with, which is fitting, I suppose. I had just committed myself to the not-inconsiderable task of recording the tale of his life when he first began to visit me.
Now, I was used by this time to Gods and spirits popping by for no apparent reason, and I knew Pop-culture Paganism was a thing, but the idea of an original character from somebody else’s fanfiction series taking a personal interest in me was just a little too out there for me to handle. So, while I wasn’t exactly alarmed by this turn of events, I also wasn’t entirely sure that I wasn’t making it all up, either.
I tried to ignore him, pass the whole thing off as my over-active imagination latching onto a story I loved and running with it. He didn’t go away, and seemed to find my attempts to rationalize him into a neat little box amusing.
Finally, I wrote a rather hesitant email to the author of said fanfiction series, asking whether, just maybe, she had ever interacted with him in a non-writing context…? As it turns out, I wasn’t the first to have something like this happen to me; he’s apparently rather notorious for stopping by to say hi to people who take an intense interest in his story.
The confirmation reassured me about my mental state; but, even when I’d thought I was making the whole thing up, I’d needed no reassurances about him. I knew him already, although we’d only officially met a little while ago–I knew his story, his values, his heart, and was not afraid.
Things escalated from there. Sex happened–amazing, mind-blowing sex. He made love to me with astonishing thoroughness, as though he had all the time in the world to show me pleasure. I told myself this was just an exchange of creative energy, just a way to comprehend him better to lend extra veracity to my reading, even while I was brought to the edge of tears by the sheer intimacy of it.
After a while, even I had to admit that there was something a little more serious than casual nookie going on here. I started referring to him as my “Imaginary Boyfriend,” which, although tongue-in-cheek, wasn’t far from the truth. We spent a lot of time together, watching movies and cracking jokes, discussing the ongoing recording project, or just sitting and enjoying the togetherness. I told myself this was all I wanted from him, even when the merest glance from him made my heart tumble over in a sudden rush of tenderness.
I didn’t want to call it love, even after there was no other possible name for what I felt. Saying the words would make it real, and I couldn’t risk that–couldn’t risk the hurt of him not feeling the same way, couldn’t risk the loss of the joy of having him near.
And then this morning, he visited me in my dreams, wrapping his arms around me from behind and pressing his face against my hair, speaking the words that had lain buried in the deepest parts of me for so long, over and over again:
I love thee. I love thee. I love thee.
He’s known pain in his life–more than I can even begin to comprehend. So much so that I feel fiercely protective of him; although I know he can take care of himself quite well, and has been doing so for thousands of years, I still hesitate even to disclose his name publicly for fear that someone will hurt him again.
But he’s also taught me, among so many other things, not to be afraid anymore. And today, with the echo of his words ringing in my heart and the taste of his kisses on my lips, is no bad time to say it, I deem:
His name is Vanimórë, and I love him deeply.