Ruined
"What a night, honey. Dinner was wonderful, and the dancing...! Now you go wait in the bedroom, I'll just be a moment..."
Firebrand collapsed onto the bed, wondering if it was really going to work this time. Experience, and the warnings of the other Fairest in the freehold, had taught him the futility of trying to form a long-term relationship with a mortal woman, but this time, it really seemed to be working. Angie was special - sharp as a tack, lovely to gaze upon, and willing to accomodate his mood swings without letting him walk all over her. They'd been together for three months now, with no signs of trouble. Maybe it was really going to work.
As they lay in each others' arms, he breathed in her scent, running his fingers through her soft, golden hair, musing on how much he loved this woman. Perhaps she could truly be his salvation, he thought, as sleep came for him...
He woke beside the radiant form of his beloved Contessa, breathing deeply of the scent of lilacs and sandalwood that rose from her heartbreakingly lovely form. He smiled as he brushed a strand of gleaming golden hair back from her face, and kissed her cheek before rising to prepare their morning meal. He drew forth the substance of their island home and spun it into their perfect repast - honey-dew and the Milk of Paradise. Soon she awoke, and as they dined, their eyes met and her hand brushed his, her touch gentle but speaking of the transcendent passion they had shared the night before. After breakfast, he would sing his songs for her, all for the sake of seeing her smile once again, and hearing her sweet voice praise him...
"Honey? Wake up. I made your favourite breakfast - French toast, with real maple syrup!"
Firebrand roused himself as a scratchy voice dragged him from the dream. Who was this hag kneeling on the bed before him, offering him slops and filth? Was he supposed to be diverted by her hair like frayed rope, her dishwater skin, her sagging face and bosom? Could he choke down her so-called cooking for long enough to hear her drone about whatever inanities filled her little life? No.
He knocked the tray from Angie's hands as he climbed out of bed, picking up his clothes. He would have seen the look of abject hurt and misery on her face if he had even bothered turning around before he walked out of her house and her life, not giving her even a second thought.
------
Back at home in his suburban pleasure-dome, Firebrand checked the tiny alcove behind the concealed wall panel, that he dared not let even his motley-mates find. The mirror was still there, surrounded by pristine, unlit candles, and the silver knife still lay in front of it. A crisp sheet of paper lay in front of the knife, the single letter "C" written near the top in Firebrand's elegant, flowing hand.
It was all still there. He lifted the pen from the inkwell and brought it close to the paper, waited for a few breaths, then replaced the pen and closed the alcove. Not today. Maybe one day, but not today.
Firebrand collapsed onto the bed, wondering if it was really going to work this time. Experience, and the warnings of the other Fairest in the freehold, had taught him the futility of trying to form a long-term relationship with a mortal woman, but this time, it really seemed to be working. Angie was special - sharp as a tack, lovely to gaze upon, and willing to accomodate his mood swings without letting him walk all over her. They'd been together for three months now, with no signs of trouble. Maybe it was really going to work.
As they lay in each others' arms, he breathed in her scent, running his fingers through her soft, golden hair, musing on how much he loved this woman. Perhaps she could truly be his salvation, he thought, as sleep came for him...
He woke beside the radiant form of his beloved Contessa, breathing deeply of the scent of lilacs and sandalwood that rose from her heartbreakingly lovely form. He smiled as he brushed a strand of gleaming golden hair back from her face, and kissed her cheek before rising to prepare their morning meal. He drew forth the substance of their island home and spun it into their perfect repast - honey-dew and the Milk of Paradise. Soon she awoke, and as they dined, their eyes met and her hand brushed his, her touch gentle but speaking of the transcendent passion they had shared the night before. After breakfast, he would sing his songs for her, all for the sake of seeing her smile once again, and hearing her sweet voice praise him...
"Honey? Wake up. I made your favourite breakfast - French toast, with real maple syrup!"
Firebrand roused himself as a scratchy voice dragged him from the dream. Who was this hag kneeling on the bed before him, offering him slops and filth? Was he supposed to be diverted by her hair like frayed rope, her dishwater skin, her sagging face and bosom? Could he choke down her so-called cooking for long enough to hear her drone about whatever inanities filled her little life? No.
He knocked the tray from Angie's hands as he climbed out of bed, picking up his clothes. He would have seen the look of abject hurt and misery on her face if he had even bothered turning around before he walked out of her house and her life, not giving her even a second thought.
------
Back at home in his suburban pleasure-dome, Firebrand checked the tiny alcove behind the concealed wall panel, that he dared not let even his motley-mates find. The mirror was still there, surrounded by pristine, unlit candles, and the silver knife still lay in front of it. A crisp sheet of paper lay in front of the knife, the single letter "C" written near the top in Firebrand's elegant, flowing hand.
It was all still there. He lifted the pen from the inkwell and brought it close to the paper, waited for a few breaths, then replaced the pen and closed the alcove. Not today. Maybe one day, but not today.