~oOo~

Seeing the goblet of wine spill across the table, Queen Mab released from her grip the blood-red crystal housing the image she no longer wished to view. Before meeting the floor, the crystal's color waned, changing from red, pink and then to white; its energy depleted.

The Queen smiled as the crystal splintered. Her plan was playing out perfectly.

~o~

Morgan le Fey watched burgundy waves wash across the table and in languid drops become one with the floor. Thinking of the beads as her own blood, she murmured nonsense to the man beside her, the warm back of his head brushing against her chin.

She was thinking of her escaped kite, the cries of gulls overhead. Her last moments as her former self seemed so long ago and far away, for she was now contentedly engulfed by a blossom opening in her chest. "Take me upstaiws." Her voice was low, almost a sigh.

"You needed only to ask," he replied, half-drowned.

Within an instant they were made to appear in Morgan's bedchamber. Her room was as she had been hours before, puerile, somber, childlike. Beside the bed was a row of rag dolls settled on a trunk, a bowl of half-eaten porridge and a vase of dried wildflowers.

Neither said a word as they drew closer to the heart of the room. Frik's head was muddled. The lavender oil about Morgan's neck, along with the unsung promises of her form, kept his heart and imagination racing. He clasped his hands in front of his waist, his features soft, as he waited for Morgan to act.

Morgan stopped, sensing his need for progression, her features partially shadowed by the faint light of a lantern at her side. She didn't feel any reason to be nervous. She'd been alone long enough. "I don't want Awthuw to be the fiwst man in my bed. I want you."

"Morgan, I'm honored." Frik eased into the bed, one leg tucked under him, and extended his hand for Morgan to take. Clutching his hand, she cackled and threw herself onto the soft unmade sheets.

The transformed woman took hold of the loose cloth at his sleeve, pulling until she came to matter. She twisted the curls of her hair, then the ties over her arms, unfastening her stola without hesitation. Her munsell lips twitched into a lurid smile as his gaze met hers, a bare shoulder exposed. He could smell roses, catalpa pulp, hoary stock; the sun warmed room. Morgan's beauty was arresting; her dark eyes promised things impossible to articulate. A siren with a mischievous past.

The lady of Tintagel knew the man was taking in all the skin she had allowed, as his words came after a lengthy pause. "I will try to make this as painless for you as possible, and prevent a seedling, as it were."

Silencing him, she placed a hand on his chest. She tugged open his shirt before lowering his form, smelling of roots, leaves and pastries, to the sheets. Dust motes passed through the beams of the midday sun.

Losing focus, she saw both man and gnome, but didn't care. Just as he didn't mind that the woman he glimpsed at times was the Morgan le Fey of before, the unpainted.

o

It was only before she went to sleep that she remembered to ask him for his name.

~o~

~oOo~