Fay Lines

bysheablue©

12 Ianuarius, 496

My Dear Morgana

I am sending my thanks for the small incantation you sent. I hope this bird reaches you before you travel. Mine are not so well trained as your black beauties. I know you intended to remain anonymous, but the raven you sent was quite impertinent, and I could tell he was one of yours. He nipped my finger and drew blood when I took the parchment from his leg. Naughty little thing.

I am honored that you feel this spell is within my reach. I have most of the items needed, I believe, in my stores, except perhaps not the blooming Glory. It doesn't thrive as well here as it does in your Southern Briton fields. It's so rocky and bare, here, some days I despair that I will ever be able to keep full stock of many of the more potent herbs I will need to learn and progress in the arts. Perhaps you could bring me some if you ever have an opportunity to visit. I would so like to see you again.

The Lord here has been quite generous, though I doubt his intentions. He lingers often in my tiny tower room, touching my things, getting his greasy fingerprints on my scales. He all but ruined a beautiful bunch of sage I was drying, nervously picked it all to pieces while trying to look down my bodice. I believe he is harmless, and I did not have so many choices of where I could safely practice my craft. His Lady Wife spend much of her time abed and makes great demands of me and the silliest of potions. Maybe one day, when I've reached a more experienced level such as yours, more choices will open up to me.

I remain your ardent admirer,

Bronwyn

14 Februarius, 496

Darling Bronwyn

Aren't you a dear, clever thing? Spying out my note from just the aspect of my bird, why, I even had one of my acolytes write the inscription so that you wouldn't recognize my handwriting. All this modesty, I'm not sure I believe it.

You letter did reach me before my travels, but only just. I am now arrived at the coast. I have promised my services to Arthur, but I am in ill temper. It was a rough road, and the men he sent to escort me were most vile. There were two that attempted, in a most barbarous manner, to gain knowledge of of one of my maids, quiet against her wishes. I had to deal with them most severely, and it was inconvenient and messy. They call themselves honorable knights, but they are no better than the Saxons or the Picts in their bloodlust. I would not be here at all if Merlin himself had not requested it.

Keep an eye on that Lord of yours, my pretty little Bronwyn. Men like him, most men, truth be told, will look at a woman such as yourself — fair, beautiful, petite — as someone weak willed and easily preyed upon. They will assume either an immaturity or insecurity of the mind, or a lack of bodily strength, and they will push their advantage at the first opportunity. Be on your guard with him, I pray you.

I cannot bear to think of a young woman with your natural talent going without in any way. My influence is far reaching, even all the way to your windswept rocky North. I have eyes and ears in the most unlikeliest of places, I assure you. I will see to it that your cabinets and drying racks are full, you will have one of every bottle and vial that I have, myself.

My pretty little bird was much naughtier than you may suspect. You will see what I mean soon. Keep your eye toward the heavens, and the next full moon.

Yours quite sincerely,

Morgana

30 Martius, 496

My Dearest Morgana,

My heart feels like to burst from my chest, and my hands are shaking as I write you these words. I suspect you know the reason. That sleek raven of yours was much, much naughtier than I would have ever expected, you were right about that. Did he take a few strands of my hair as well as a nip of my blood? Did he hold those few drops in his beak all the way back to you? Your birds are much better than mine, you must teach me how you train them to do these things.

I am not such a novice as to think the moon dream I had last night was merely a reflection of my own desires. I suppose maybe it is rather plain how I feel about you, as much as I try to hide it in cordial correspondence. But how could I have ever thought I could keep secrets from you, the magnificent Morgana le Fay? In the dream you demanded that upon waking I must write to you what I dreamt. I am not going to chance that it was a figment of my unconscious mind, I truly believe you sent me this dream, either by means of a spell, or through projected DreamWaking. Please know that my face and bosom flush and I am filled with a swelling of emotion that I have never felt before, just in remembering my visions of last night.

At first, I thought I had just woken from sleep. The moon shone in fullness, it's white light illuminating my little tower room. In my bedclothes I went to look out the small window, and when I turned, you were there behind me, but Morgana, you were so tall, it seemed you filled up the room with your presence, and though the details start to fade, even now, I could swear you had wings like an angel sprouting from you back. Or, if I may be so bold I will say, if you come by "Fay" naturally, as some swear you do, perhaps the wings are always there, just unseen to a novice like me, and not heaven sent at all.

You said not a word, your DreamWaking self, but just stared at me, and it gave me such a delicious shiver throughout my body. Something glinted in your hand, and I saw it was your shaped-edged, seax, that deadly blade I commented on when first we met, and you told me you had taken it directly from a dead Saxon invader's hand.

Before I could take a breath the blade was at my throat, and I wanted to scream in terror, but couldn't, and that's when I knew I was dreaming, or that we both were, you were too real to be just the misty stuff of a typical nightly vision. With a swift downward stroke your seax cut through my thin bedclothes, they dropped soundlessly to the floor, and I stood there before you, nude and shivering.

I blinked and felt your warm hands on my shoulders, your blade now abandoned on my wooden apothecary table. I felt a rush of heat spread from your hands to my breasts down to my belly, and pool between my legs. I felt liquid on the inside, malleable, pliant.

Oh, Morgana! How can I even describe what I experienced next! Especially when I am so sure that you know exactly what transpired. Why do you wish to torture me by making me relate it back to you?

I blinked again and was on my narrow mattress, breast heaving, breathless, and you over me, hovering, weightless, your beautiful wings making a canopy above us. The shivering continued to wrack my body, but now it wasn't because of the cold, it was because of your intent gaze, and your mouth, so close to me I could feel your breath on my face. How could I resist those rose colored lips? I reached up and wrapped my arms around your neck, brought your body down closer to me. I pressed my mouth against yours in a kiss so exquisite I can still feel it now, upon my lips. Your fingers traced trails of pleasure down my sides and up again, circled my tightening nipples, danced down the front of me, buried themselves in the downy hair between my legs.

Oh great mother! As the moon looks down upon me! I've never known such pleasure. I've lain with men, willingly and not, I've no need for false claims of honor in your eyes. But even when it was willing, there was never such softness, such keen focus on the responses of my body, my desires, my needs. Absent were the rough hands, harsh words, jabbing penetration, ready or no. In your arms, Morgana, I was transported, your arms were the Mother's arms, your kisses the sweet Maiden's breath, and with the wisdom of the crone you knew exactly where to touch me. When I wrapped my arms around your waist, and you dipped your fingers into the hot, wet center of me, I melted into you and became yours.

There, I've done it. My face is burning with remembered desire. But you demanded I recount this moon dream to you and I obey.

I must be as impertinent as a certain black raven and tell you this. Count yourself lucky I lack the recipe for such a spell, or the talent for DreamWaking. If I carried such skill within me, I would haunt your dreams every night, Morgan le Fay.

Yours in body and spirit,

Bronwyn

30 Aprilis, 496

Bronwyn my sweet,

I was awaiting your raven after the last full moon, and had quite despaired of ever receiving it. The poor thing must have gotten lost along the way, I've been moving around so much, following Merlin who is following Arthur. It's all quite tedious. I feel there is no rock in all of Briton that has not felt my sweet bottom sit upon it. Next time, dear Bronwyn, you must fortify your casting spell, help your bird find me more quickly. I've written some instructions on the back of this parchment, and I trust you spied the small vial of dirt attached to my raven's other leg.

Darling, darling, it was no spell that brought us together last full moon. It was indeed DreamWaking, a skill it has taken me years and much sacrifice to master. It is a skill you could learn as well, Bronwyn, under my watchful eye and careful tutelage. There is more to our sorcery than the powers of healing and simple location and future telling spells. I sense in you a great welling of natural power, such immense potential. It draws me to you like moth to flame, it sparks in me an attraction that I rarely feel without there being some distasteful ulterior motives, on my part or that of my lovers.

Your message has brought me such sweet distraction, my precious Bronwyn. Your enthusiasm and passion, in our dream and in your words, are a balm to me in these trying times. I've worked so hard to convince Merlin to take me on as his prime acolyte. He has power that I crave, and I would learn everything I can from him. But he is so consumed with the dolt Arthur. Quick of sword and a keen strategic mind, I suppose, but outside the pursuits of war he has a completely empty head. I swear to you he couldn't refasten his trousers after taking a piss without Merlin thinking the thought for him. They are calling him Arthur the Invincible, now. War leader of twelve battles and not a scratch on him. They think he is special, that he can't be killed. But he's not. He's just a man. I don't know what game Merlin is playing, but I will find out, and I will benefit from it. And so you will, too. If I can get past those repellant roundtable Knights and his harpy wife, the fair Guinevere. She has poison running through her veins, does Guinevere. She looks at me with such hatred, because I know her deepest secrets and she can't bear it . She once spat the words "dirty fairy!" at me during a banquet. Mother moon save me! I almost laughed in her face. Of all the "dirty" names I could rightfully call her, Fay is not one of them.

I dream of your soft undulating hips beneath my knowing hands. I remember the taste of your sweet lips on mine. If it weren't for the anticipation of your messages, and knowing that before long I will make you mine in more than a waking Dream, I might consider throwing myself into the sea.

May the mother protect you,

Morgana

29 Maius, 496

Oh, Morgana! I am in such distress, I hardly know what to write. Or if I should write at all, for what can you do, now that the horrible deed is past. I don't even know when my raven will reach you. I've put all my power into the new incantation you sent, the poor bird is hopping like mad to find you and I haven't even set this scroll to his leg.

It was horrible, Morgana, and I was powerless to stop him. My fat, stinking Lord, rendered all but insentient with the drink, falling on top of me in my tiny room, ripping my gown, his horrible greasy fingers, his breath like rotted meat. Thank the moon and mother that the mead rendered his tiny pecker useless, but his nasty fingers left me bruised and bleeding.

Of course I've had to endure unwelcome and often rough advances of drunken men who think everything in their path is theirs to take, but this was different. I depend on this awful little man for my livelihood. This is my home, desperate as it is, and I've got no where else to go. I dared not use even the most cunning of spells on him. But now that he has gotten up the nerve to abuse me as he wants, what will stop him in the future? What recourse is available to me? There is no one here would would stand for me. No one to whom my honor is sacred.

I thought, in one dark desperate moment, of you, my beautiful Morgana. I wished you would come and spirit me away to your fabled Island of Apples, or that I could run away to you, but I don't know where you are. Or how I would get to you. Alas, I am no enchanted raven, just a sobbing, foolish novice healer, and I am stuck here in my meager little tower.

Bronwyn

11 Iunius, 496

My dearest Bronwyn,

Please do not fret. You are as precious to me as the mists of Avalon. You, Bronwyn, your body and spirit, not some ridiculous notion of your honor. Take heart, for I am no dim-witted man, quick to anger and seek red hot revenge. No, my vengeance on your behalf will be the ice cold blue of your Northern frozen shores. It will be patient, it will be thorough and it will be painful. This I swear to you. When I said to you that my influence runs far and wide, I did not exaggerate. I have all manner of terrible friends at my beck and call. I have the eyes of the invisible, the ears of the unseen, the teeth and claws of beasts more horrifying than you could ever imagine, and they are all desperate to do my bidding. Even now, they seek to carry out my demands. Avoid your so-called Lord as best you can until I have avenged this most grievous assault upon your sacred flesh. He will never see it coming, but you will know when it is done. This I swear to you, Bronwyn. Upon my life, and yours, the moon mother above and the earth mother under my feet. Hear me now, it will be done.

20 Quintilis, 496

Morgana my love,

I am still reeling from the shock. When I read your words of cold-served revenge, I could not imagine what you might do. I half thought your message was one of just words, that your rage on my behalf was meant only to bolster my confidence, to show me support from wherever you are.

I see now that was foolish.

I received the package even before his lady wife got word he was dead. A hunting incident, or some such, mauled by wolves, or maybe Picts, it matters little to me. I've felt nothing but cold on the inside since he attacked me, so cold, Morgana. Every day I could feel his eyes on me, every day my muscles felt achingly tense, not knowing when enough drink would bolster his nerve once again.I imagined what he would do if I fought back. By spell or steel, it would be my end, I was sure, I would either be killed or sent out, which would amount to the same thing.

And then I received the mysterious package, wrapped in linen and stamped with your sigil. What could it mean, I wondered? Something for my stores? Something special to boost my spirits?

It was a bone. It was the right arm bone of my cowardly Lord, helpfully identified to me by the sigil ring included in the package. A bone, boiled clean and sanded smooth. But you know that, don't you?

I confess I sat on my mattress and held the bone in my lap, not a thought in my head about what I should do next. Or how I should feel. I turned the smooth bone over and over in my hand, noticing how the shoulder joint was larger than the one of the elbow, though both had been made quite round and smooth, by what means I do not know.

Then it overcame me, Morgana. Such rage! At first I tried to break the bone in half with my bare hands, but of course I could not do so. Then I laughed. Such a mirthless sound bubbled up from within me, and I felt again his greasy fingers on my skin, savaging my most delicate parts. I felt the trickle of blood running down my thighs.

Then I thought of you, Morgana. I thought of the moon dream we shared, and the feel of your delicate hands on me, your long tapered fingers stroking between my nether lips, opening me slowly like a precious flower, searching only for my pleasure. I remembered how my hips had pushed up towards you, as if of their own accord. I once again felt that I would rather die than never see you again, never feel your arms wrapped around me, never smell the spicy aroma of your skin.

My mind and my body became so aroused with longing and desire. And still the bitterness and anger lurked under the surface. My face is suffused with hot blood as I write this to you, my beautiful Morgana.

I grasped the hated bone and ran it up under my skirts. I pushed the smaller round joint against my sex, pushed until I felt the joint enter me, and I moaned aloud at the sensation. I felt the rush of heat and wet as my carnal desire grew. I leaned myself back on my bed rushes and spread my bare legs. I thought about how my pathetic Lord had never penetrated me with his man sex. I laughed out loud that the only bone he would put to me was the dead one in my hand. I laughed so loudly Morgana, and it was such a frightening sound, but the laughter soon turned to gasps and panting breaths as I thrust the arm bone further inside me, in and out, vigorously, until the juices of my swollen sex ran down its length and covered my hand. All I could think of was you, Morgana, your dark hair, your bright eyes, your power ... and when I reached the dizzying heights of climax, I screamed your name.

I'm breathless even now, as I write this to you. Words can not thank you enough for what you have done for me. My timid Lady depends on me more than ever, for her draughts and potions, to minister to the children. I am safe here. More so than ever.

I am entirely and willingly in your debt.

Bronwyn

2 Sextilis, 496

Dearest Morgana,

I know I only just sent my best raven to you with my last message, but I had to write to you again, and relate to you the interesting happenings here at the keep.

Arthur is here! I was staring moodily out of my tower window, and saw his banner approach. At first I was filled with such joy, thinking you would be with him, and dreaming about how I could run away with you. But alas, it was just Arthur, his lady wife, and a handful of knights. No Merlin, no beautiful Morgana. I was quite sad, but the thought of a welcoming banquet boosted my spirits a bit.

I crept around the keep, before the banquet, and tried to ascertain why Arthur was here. It had something to do with the savage Picts to the further North of us, but whether to attack them or befriend them, I could not discover. There was much talk of Arthur's defeat of the Saxons at Mount Badon, but such glories bore me.

You were right about Guinevere! She is beautiful, but bitter. She never smiles. She turned her nose up at our every aspect, from the food and drink to the gowns of the ladies sent to assist her. Calling her a harpy seems an insult to the harpy, ask you me. She looked like she had swallowed the head of an arrow when I told her that you and I were acquainted, and that I sincerely desired to become your acolyte before too long.

I had no interaction with Arthur beyond the formal introduction, but during the banquet the knights who accompanied him were quite attentive. Especially the one called Lancelot. I took it as no real interest, beyond my age and looks and my knowledge of the base level of magic that most people clamor for. I could not even count the requests for a reliable love potion.

But this Lancelot, he was nothing but respectful, but he held both my eye and my hand a little too long. He kissed my hand and called me a temptress. On my way back up to the tower, he followed me unsteadily, put his hands on my waist and kissed my cheek. He murmured something in my ear that I could not understand. It was all harmless flirtation, he seems a truly honorable knight and I did not feel in danger from him.

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