Disclaimer: Gargoyles etc. are owned by Disney & Buena Vista blahblahblah etc. I am not doing this for profit. Fidessa & In-hop-tep are MINE. MINE _MINE_ **MINE**. But you may borrow if you _ask first_. Some mature content. All comments or flames may be sent to: hologirl1@hotmail.com (This is my first Garg. fic, so bear with me) by Phoebe Kersula ------------------------------------------------ ***MIRROR, MIRROR*** "No one knows what sleepers dream, for dreamers sleep forever..." --Icebug August 1998. NYC The mirror had rippled. Owen was certain of it. Alex Xanatos giggled as it pulsed, like a living, breathing creature, in and out in iridescent bubbles that sent beams this way and that. The child reached out from where he was firmly ensconed in Owen's grip--and it abruptly ceased. A frown settled onto his young lips, and Owen, nonpeturbed, deposited Alex in bed. "Sweet dreams. " Owen murmered, dimming the lights. The boy began to fret, reaching out towards the mirror. But Owen was already out the door. Or, perhaps, Puck was taking over. For the all-too-human Owen Burnett was more disturbed by the mirror than he would ever let on...and so, too, was his Fey reality. But what could distract so utterly? And what could be so important that he would leave his charge...? Alex shook crimson bangs from his eyes and felt a delicious tingle sweep through his tiny body. The mirror taunted his touch. So close, so close...and yet so far. He stood. Leaned...and toppled. "_Shah_. " A singsong voice whispered. "Hush, my sweet one, " and Alex felt his tears melt away. Cool, dry lips brushed his forehead, and gentle hands put him back into bed. Alex fell asleep with a grin upon his face and a burble on his lips. And the mirror was still. Owen was relaxed in bed with an ancient-looking tome which wasn't actually _so_ ancient. Yeats, to be exact. His impeccable blond hair, stiff locks dripping hairspray, was fast resembling mouldy hay. _It must be the humidity_, Owen thought with a grimace. It was simply _too_ heavy, inside and out, for even reading. He set the book on the bedside table, removing his glasses--a rudimentary task, for the most part, but one that must be done--and froze. Now _his_ mirror was rippling. He was certain of it. He stood and bored his eyes into it until they were so dry they felt like the Sahara on a sunny day. His whole concentration, whole being, was drawn to it, as if by some unseen force, commanding his attention again and again. "It's nothing! " He whispered, more as a reassurance than anything else. "Nothing...nothing...nothing..." the mirror mocked. Owen felt a chill, decidedly unwelcome, take residence on his spinal cord. "It's NOTHING! " He insisted, firmer this time. The mirror was silent, and a hot breeze swept into his room by way of the window. He slammed the window down quickly, sweat rivuleting down his brow. Damn, it really _was_ hot in here! Quickly, he divulged himself of his clothes, the light, and slid between the cool sheets, tucked in at the corners, as per usual. He closed his eyes, willing this mortal body to sleep. Nothing happened. Presently, he tried again. _Nada_. _Nunca_. He found his mouth annoyingly dry, and reached for his water glass. Empty. Abruptly, his gaze was drawn to the mirror, which hung silvery in the moonlight, rippling like the moon seduced tides of the Atlantic. His eyelids suddenly heavy, the night called to him, and sleep beckoned her dream-kissed hand... He awoke gradually, just enough to realize that there was someone curled around him, supple, firm, and cool to the touch. Warm breath grazed his neck. Owen gently disentagled his naked body. "Who are you, and--" he looked down then. Shock stole whatever words were on his tounge, and Fate caused her to curl closer about him, twining one leg around the one nearest to her own. A wisp of ebony fell across her face, peaceful in sleep, as it should be. Not fey--no, there was something quite human about her. Something...familiar. No. It was preposterous. She uttered a tiny sigh, stretching her body further around his, her breasts brushing his side. He tensed, feeling himself harden. The girl--for that was surely what she was--changed position, flipping over and almost taking him with her. His breath came back so ragged it was as if Goliath or perhaps Broadway had slugged him in the stomach. That face. He--as in he, Puck--would have known anywhere. And the memory returned, as unpredictable as the sands that swirled around it... Jerusalem, 1273 AD Puck. He was Puck now. Himself. Four feet tall and mischevious as ever. So this was Jerusalem, huh? Not much to look upon. He'd seen better. What was so special about this place, he couldn't care less. His disguise, however...now THAT was a work of art! He almost laughed out loud. Sure, it wasn't perfect...what was? But a tall(if 6"7, wasn't tall,nothing was) knight, golden and shining, decked out in Crusader's garb...now _here_ was close to heaven. Close to Avalon. But chivalry? Hah! Chivalry was dead, as far as he was concerned. He'd been in this godforsaken land for nigh on two years now, and was as lewd and crude and lusty as the rest of them. A cloaked figure shot past him in the dark of the alleyway, to lift his purse, no doubt, and he nabbed it by the wrist, feeling the bones bend pleasantly in his hand. "Halt! " He boomed. Liquid silver-gray eyes met his own. Startled, he only gripped it harder. Struggling wildly, it twisted this way and that, and finally bit him on the hand, drawing blood. With a yelp of genuine pain, he let the thing go. The tall knight with the bloody hand wandered back into the sunlight, stupefied smile across his full lips. So he had no clue when a boy of no more than ten or eleven brandished a heavy stone high, and brought it down upon his head. Instead, he saw the black night of his childhood, and wild silver eyes for stars.... That was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes, and found himself being relieved of his purse. "Oh, so you're awake. " An accented voice said archly. What accent, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that he was drowning...-- "Do not move. You are hurt. " "Your fault, witch. " He said it teasingly, but she drew back, eyes cold. "My apologies...? " "Names are power, my dear Crusader, and I will not give you the pleasure. " "A kiss for a name? " He asked hopefully. She smiled ferally. "You first. " "Pu--er, Bartholomew. Et toi? " "Where is my kiss? Never mind, it's too late. I'm Fidessa. " Briskly. Puck was disappointed--no, he was more than that. He knew then, in that instant, that he wanted her more than anything he'd ever had in the past two centuries. "Fidessa? That--" "Doesn't fit. I know. My mother was a pilgrim. My father, a Saracen. " "A pilgrim...from where? " "Curious for a knight, aren't you? I won't tell you. No: it is of no importance. " "Just like that mark? " She shrugged. "It is nothing. " "A crescent moon...was your mother trained in the Old Ways? " "No--they consider me an atrocity. A crossbreed. " Unconsicously, her fingers brushed it, sending a thrill straight into his groin. Did she not know what she did to him? He didn't care where she was from, or what it meant, at the moment. Her lips, still moving, mesmerized him, wove a spell he could not break. Her hips enticed him, the rise of her breasts against the shapeless cloth. He felt his mortal body flame with desire...and then he drew her to him, and kissed her full on the mouth. In-hop-tep knew it was all over when Fidessa ran into the sunbaked house, flushed with happiness and oozing charm. His heart hit the floor, and shattered into a thousand shards of glass at his feet. But of course she was not to know. He kissed her cheek, a kiss of brotherly love, when he wanted it to be much more than that. He helped her pack, saddle her beast, kiss the knight whose eyes were so hot when he looked upon her that In-hop-tep could swear she was about to burst into flames. "But In-hop-tep, " she whispered, "don't be so solemn. I will return for my adopted brother. I will find you a fine wife. Any woman, she shall be yours. " _But I only want *you*! _ He screamed in his head. "I must go. He awaits me. " She whispered, patting his cheek fondly, sister to brother. And with that, was gone. 3 days later The cave kept them cool in the hot afternoon sun, and Puck/Batholomew marveled at how fast she came. A virgin, to be sure, but so sweet. She hadn't even cried at the blood, not even when she claimed she was so sore she could barely stand. Besides, since then he'd discovered her a willing and apt pupil. Her ebony hair, sleek and silky, her sun-kissed body, lithe as a cat. He didn't care _what_ that mark portented. They could make love for hours and still not get bored. One morning, Fidessa woke up alone. She groped for Puck, but the cave was silent. A single tear slid down her cheek and onto the cool bedding, as the time for innocence passed and left her only with a memory. Aug. 1998 NYC She was awake. He let the hand that had been tracing her outline drop. The girl he had once left behind, so many years ago. "Well, my chivalrous knight? " She asked. "It's Owen. Owen Burnett. " "I know my Puck--my Bartholomew. " "Yes, you've found me, whoever-you-are. " "I'll tell you for my kiss. Remember? " "How could I forget? " Owen muttered, kissing her chastely on the cheek. But she pulled him to her, and kissed him with all the pent-up passion of the last 525 years. It was a night Owen Burnett would remember for a long, long time to come. Dawn streamed into the room, hot already. He was alone. Frantic, Owen shoved the covers back. The mirror rippled golden. Owen knocked over the table groping for his glasses. Without further ado, he shoved them on. Yeats was open on the floor. The insistant cheeping of a bird paused him for a moment. Wait--that wasn't cheep-- Cheep? Owen sat bolt upright in bed. The baby moniter was going off frantically. Owen groped in the harsh light for the light, his glasses, anything. Pulling on his robe, he bolted for the room next door. The room was empty. Wait--didn't he leave Yeats back in his own room? Here--here it was, marked on _"The Stolen Child"_: `Away with us he's going, The solemn-eyed. He'll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside, Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the oatmeal chest. ' "Damn! " Fox and Xanatos were going to KILL him, not to mention Titania. A voice, sing-song, silvery, and so very innocent, lingered in Alex's empty room: "`For he comes, the human child, To the woods and waters wild With a fairy, hand in hand, From a world more full of weeping than he can understand. '" The end of an innocent. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- (C)1998. Phoebe Kersula. Do not reprint without permission.