Porcelain
Are you wasting away in your skin?
Are you missing the love of your kin?
Drifting and floating and fading away.

He moved his fingers in a wave-like motion; up and down. He started with the smallest finger – his pinkie – and moved in rhythmic motion to his thumb. Merlin just loved the way the gloss looked in the soft candlelight. He had left most of it on, to be able to stare for longer. He had used it as a distraction during Frik's lectures and as a fantasy during the time he should have been using to read. He used the trace print of her lips as a toy.

The remnants of glitter reminded him of her eyes. You see, those eyes – her eyes – as hard as one tried, they could never dare be captured in something as impractical as a painter's canvas could never capture the color, or the light held in her jade irises. Whoever had attempted the stone carving had been close to matching the curve of her eyes in their catlike wonder, but had not come close to retaining their luster. No one could in stone, unless one used real jade. No; not even actual stone would make a fair match.

The very fact that her lips had graced his skin was enough to make the hairs on his neck stand in recognition of her presence. The image of her carven form - moving under the surface as the water rippled in wake of his breath – was still burnt into his mind. He remembered reaching into the pool and gently tracing his fingers over the ridge that formed her lips; her two perfect lips. He had thought at that very moment oh how sweet it would be to touch those lips as feel the warmth of skin; of being. Merlin had longed (he still longed) for the sensation of her faultless lips to his warm flesh. For he imagined, one could compare her kisses to the giving of gold. Beautiful, rare, priceless . . . once you have hold of it, you never let it go. Only the best of the best are granted with it; only her champions. One kiss, just one, would be enough for him. Even the thought – the dream; desires – of a simple touch of flesh to flesh made him stiffen in more ways than one. Oh, how she took his breath away.

He smiled to himself at the memory of the stone image; so unreal and yet so beautiful. But she had been real. She had been touchable even chiseled from rock in a pool half filled with moss and leaves. Half lost in a forest. His smile then reminded him of her own smile. He loved to watch her lips grow bigger; her perfect cheekbones becoming more pronounced and those eyes (damn those eyes) shining with pleasure. Not pleasure meaning happiness, but silent, secret malevolence at her inner thoughts; desires. That's right, she had desires too. He was one of them. She had told him; and of that he was sure. He had made himself sure. His success, and his presence in her world and everyday being was one of her desires. His hear pounded at the thought, the very thought of Mab, dear Queen Mab – beautiful Queen Mab – wanting him at her right hand. And what a lovely hand it was.

Porcelain
Do you smell like a girl when you smile?
Can you bear not to share with your child?
Drifting and floating and fading away.

Fingers long and slender molded like feathers; the color sure to have been extracted from lily petals or snow-crystals or tears. Her hand, the bones slim and fragile, curved in his grasp. Her ring, in its blood-drenched glory, shimmering in his hand.

Merlin opened and closed his hand. He could almost feel her beside him if he tried hard enough. He could envision them, hand in hand, and content, forever. He could picture her with him always, for he would always please her and he would always be there for her; for her to be pleased. What reason had he to leave?

How could one being be responsible for so much chaos? How could one woman be the source of such turmoil in a young boy's heart? But his heart beat so when she was around. He so wished she would never notice his pace quicken; the rubbing together or his palms, and the thin trail of sweat that appear on his brow. Every pore was excited at her entrance into the room.

Her sway. Her gentle, breezy sway over the threshold of the door and into the same space as he was what sped his movements and slowed his concentration. The way her body glided over to stand beside him and how perfectly he imaged her body would fit next to his; skin to skin. They would be like two pieces to the perfect puzzle and by the gods! Their bodies would mesh.

Merlin shuddered at the thought of her silken hair brushing his cheek. He shivered at the image playing in his head of her beside him. He flinched whilst trying to create her voice saying his name over and over in coy whisper; or perhaps in a desperate cry of pleasure. Perhaps, the feeling – the noise – he wanted most was that of her crow's voice barking out his name in delight. Just hearing himself breathe her name made him jump, but to watch her mouth form the word 'Merlin' would drive him to madness. It would be his end.

Was it wrong to love her so? Wicked, was it, to sit and think hour after hour of her long black fingernails tracing his spine on his bare back? It couldn't be evil of him when it gave him so much hope; so much joy. In fact, he could find nothing out of the ordinary in loving someone. There was nothing horrible about being passionate. She wasn't his mother. She wasn't. He had had a mother. He had two. And Mab, Mab wasn't one of them. Because she was different. She was one who he could eternally see himself loving. He could picture himself inside her, and she close enough to be inside him. He could picture himself loving her.

Little lune
All day
Little lune

Merlin allowed his fingers to make that rippling motion once more, this time pretending he had buried his hand deep inside her hair; covering his fingers with silk. What a blanket of night the strands of black would make while fanned out on his bed. Ah, she would look so nice wrapped in his bed sheets; her body contorted to fit his needs in love-making. She would be lovely. His hand gripped the arm of the chair he was sitting in. The fantasy was too real.

He would grab her close, and kiss her with unmatchable passion. She would melt. He would whisk her to his bedchambers – or hers; as long as beds were involved. He would take exceptional care in removing her dress, being sure to put her in a state of un-knowing before ripping the fabric along the seams. He would tear it off piece by piece, kissing flesh as it emerged before his eyes. He would be the royal in this situation. She, his subject. He would be in command. She would bend to him. When he took her, he would apply the exact amount of roughness, taking special care not to bruise her porcelain skin while at the same time not letting her think he wasn't strong enough for her. His desire was not to hurt her - she was never to cry out in pain – his only desire was to claim her. She was to be his. After their union; their becoming one, Merlin would gather her close and kiss her lips in silent, unspoken understanding. He was to be gentle. She was to belong to him.

- - - -

How naïve he was to think he had all the time in the world. If only he had been told he was the one to take her; not in the ways he dreamed, but take her from the world. Take her, and allow her to trust him, allow her to begin to love him, and then rip her apart. Take her and bend her and drain her and remove her from where she had once been in this world. Take her and destroy her place of power, annihilate her hopes . . . all over someone he had never met.

If only someone had told him then, while he dreamed of seeing her bare, as she was meant to be and how she was, that he, Merlin, would be the one to drive the blade through her heart in the end. It would be he, Merlin, who would see her last breath, her last glimpse of the world. And yes, his name would be last. His name would engulf her last breath and devour her being. Yes, in essence, Merlin the wizard would get everything he had dreamt of in Queen Mab's castle. Total control. If only Frik had taught him irony.

Porcelain
Do you carry the moon in your womb?
Someone said that you're fading too soon.
Drifting and floating and fading away.