My father was, needless to say, pleased with the return of my original colorings. It reassured him. Confirmed his manhood. Although the job would have gone as well with my favored blue and blonde. I'm sure the local cats are relieved. Next time, I'll try red hair (and green eyes!).

He wondered about transport, then mentioned some ridiculousness with a griffin. I declined. I have my ways. Getting there was the least of my problems.

*******************************************************

...there little Peppin, how is that? Eh, little pooter....
So this is the mighty Charlemagne. Which is Roland? He's awfully short... Oh no, there he is. With the hawk. Well, this won't be half bad.

I just stood and waited. Beautiful weather. A concubine screamed and spilled her wine.

The short knight rushes forward with his sword drawn, realizes his foolishness, and retreats. Roland's hawk scores a kill.

Charlemagne takes charge. We talk. I fawn (Charles is too easy, you would think that with all those concubines he would be less susceptible.) I eye Roland. He fidgets (wonderful); a beautiful young page gives him doleful looks. (well, well.)

Is this The Roland of whom so much glory is sung?

I am.

I take his hand and lead him inside. The page casts an accusing glance. (at me or Roland?)

Dinner is arranged. (you never doubted me, did you?) We talk of trade and weapons. I pepper the evening with minor glamours; beauty, wit, desire. It was at last time for the real work. The Roland's downfall.

I began with the tea ceremony. What a fascinating bit of magic; spell within spell; glamour within ritual. I had never performed it before and the act of creation was as engaging as my quarry. What Roland lacked in wit, he more than made up for in strength and beauty; he put up a magnificent fight, his power played between us as the spell buffeted him, pulled him under. He eventually succumbed (they always do).

I cleared the hall, and began the final circle of glamours. I pulled the blood from his mouth. So close now. Still he fights it! Amazing! He grabs me and throws himself down on top.....

Then was the moment of my undoing. Roland's doleful young page pushed his way past my wardings and into the hall.

The first law of Magic: Power is never created, only channeled.
The fifth law of Magic: Avoid backlash.

The beautiful page stared at me, his chest shuddered and thundered. (The first law. I had pulled Roland's snare from the boy's desires!) He was so fragile and dear. His eyes. His teeth. (Backlash?) How could I have lived without him? Stop it! BACKLASH!
Medordo?! Go away, the Roland says.

We ran out of the hall, Roland lumbering after us, past the guards' gates and into the night, the woods. Roland was long behind us. The woods closed like a hand, his hands, his beautiful hands and teeth devour me, devour the chalice of my hips as the nightwoods flow around us like a river. So dear, my boy, so fragile and light inside me. Pour out your pain into my earth little dear one! We will never be parted lover I will stay with you always lover always keep you near me, in me, we will stay always. ANGELICA! He found us. His glamour was unfinished and had pulled him to us like a tide. As the boy scampered to cover himself Roland crashed into the clearing, his sword drawn.

Dogs howled in his eyes. I prepared for battle.