Ink and Steel

“Thou goest to Morgan still, and dost hide it from thy mortal lover, who sports with her quite openly. And yet to me, who was more a friend to thee than ever my mother proved, thou wilt barely speak in passing.”

Kit pushed his stool back and stood as the Elf-knight came to him. The room was growing chill; he thought absently of tending the fire. He lifted his chin to meet Murchaud’s gaze directly. “What couldst thou wish of me?”

Murchaud’s fingers slid under Kit’s hair, caressing his neck. “Tell thou me, O Elf-knight with thy human lover,”

“I’m not.”

“what does he give thee that I cannot?” Murchaud’s breath was warm on Kit’s skin.

Kit swallowed, and considered. “The Fae are very cold,” he said at last, hopelessly.

“And mortals a flame we warm ourselves upon.”

Kit turned his head to avoid the kiss, but did not pull away as Murchaud bowed his face against the poet’s throat. “I’ll be thine again after tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Murchaud said. “I rather think thou wilt not.” There was grief in hiswords; so much pain that Kit shivered in reaction. “Why Morgan and not me?”

“I do not know.”

“Liar.” Murchaud breathed deep, as if fastening Kit’s scent in his memory, and stepped away unruffled, his pale eyes chill. “Is it vengeance upon thy poet, for not loving thee alone?”

Kit shivered and shook his head. The words came strung on knotted wire: each one tore his throat. “Kissing thee does not hurt enough.”

Murchaud chuckled, his hand on the door. “Half Fae already,” he said, and left Kit alone in the lamplight, unkissed.

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,

At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand!

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, from Sonnet 128

Will poured golden wine into Morgan’s glass and then his own. It filled the fire-warmed air with a scent of summer, grape arbors, and clipped grass. He cupped the glass in both hands, leaning against Morgan’s chair, stretching his feet to the fire. “I’ll miss thee.” Without looking at her. “And thou me?”

She leaned forward, knees pressing his shoulders, and took her glass from out his hand. Her lips brushed the top of his head; she sat back. “One becomes accustomed to loss.”

“That is not an answer, my Queen.” The rug beneath him was soft, her fingers kind in his thinning hair. Fine ripples trembled as he raised the wine to his lips.

“I will miss you. If it is important to you to be missed.”

“To be missed? To be loved.”

“You are loved.” Something in her voice reminded him of when she had read hispalm: an assurance like prophecy. “And shall be more loved still.”

“By whom?”

“One can never tell, until it is too late to do anything about it.” A light click told him she set her glass on a low table. Her fingers found his shoulders, sought deep into his tension. Do you regret this, “Master Poet?”

“Regret leaving? Or regret Faerie?”

“If we shadows have offended…”

He laughed, and then her touch made him sigh. “It is rather like a dream. A dream of peace and healing. Is it your medicines or is it Faerie that mends me so well?”

“Both,” Morgan answered. “Time stands still for thee here. And my herbwifery lends some relief. But when thou goest back to the world, thou wilt begin to die again.”

“You still wish me to stay.”

“Thou hast ten years. Perhaps as much as fifteen.” She bent and kissed his forehead, tilting his face up with a hand under his chin. “Go to him,” Morganle Fey whispered. Her lips brushed the heavy earring. He shivered. “Tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow is too late,” she said, and stood out of her chair. She stepped over Will lightly, her kilted skirts sweeping his shoulders. “Go now. Tell him to wear his boots and cloak tomorrow, and his sword.”

Will pushed himself to his knees. “I had written something for you.”

She stood facing the fire with squared shoulders and softened hands. “A sonnet?”

“About your music.”

“I do not need your poetry. It belongs to the mortal world. I have a poet of mine own.”

Silence. Will rose to his feet. The fire popped, scattering coals on thehearthstones; Morgan’s precisely applied shoe ended their escape. “Morgan.”

“I have a poet of mine own,” she repeated. “If you are wise, you’ll go to him now; you have so little time left before I reclaim him.”

The cruelty in her tone left him gasping. His lips shaped her name again, but that very breathlessness kept it mercifully silent. She stood before the fire and did not look at him. He turned and left her presence. The door of the room he shared with Kit was unlatched. Will pushed it open gently and found Kit bent over papers on their table. Kit’s table, Will thought as the poet looked up.

“Forgotten something?”

Will hoped he imagined the chill in Kit’s voice. He latched the door, breathing deep the aromas of wood smoke and cold tobacco.

“Morgan’s finished with me: she couldn’t make me stay. You said that quill was too beautiful to use.”

Kit glanced at the gorgeous alabaster feather in his hand. “I changed my mind. It writes well. You have a play tomorrow: come to bed.”