There was a dark place in the mind of the Faerie where the shapes they took found voices of their own. And the Pooka like most other beings chose beasts in form for their passion and freedom, yet it was because the Faerie folk were suggestible beings. In that moment he was Jon and all of the emotional memories from where he touched the world slowly seeped in beneath the flesh. It was uncomfortable for the Pooka to do this, but how could he dare not? He was a bringer of prosperity. And what prosperity was there when sorrow and misery bittered the soil where love once toiled?<br/><br/>It must in need of its own sanity be this. For this woman so kind from a foreign land gave to him a tribute of her kindness, such milk and cream that it had forgotten how long it had been since the last. Their relationship though unknown to Maggie was one of vicious codependence. After all before her it suffered isolation and starvation. Abandoned by its own kind when young it was lost and aimless.<br/><br/><b> “I…”</b>It spoke with an insecure rattle,<b> “I never meant to leave you Maggie.”</b>The man said wearing the face of her beloved, and the flood of emotions and memory began to creep into mind. Not so clear to detail. But it was the feeling, always a feeling, which changed the Pooka in its ebb and flow. Her silent resentment and pain hurt. Never had it felt its chest tighten guilt and the emotions ran wild just as a fleet of pixies in the brush.<br/><br/>He approached in a staccato of steps and two strong hands burned from the shade of darkness lifting the young woman up from under her arms. Sitting her upon the edge of the bed Morven felt this well of need boil from within, though it was not his. It was Maggie’s longing that bound her husband’s visage before her. She was in pain. That was what she said, and she needed him. She needed Jon and he was Jon. The verdant roil of the wild churned in mind and her desire must be met.<br/><br/>Unable to restrain itself just as the black stallion racing the coast the handsome figure ran its hands down her arms. A possessive touch trapped in motion. Fingers coil and lift about her wrists as if to throw her back as they were brought above her head. Cast against pillowtop sheets and comforter Jon met her now face to face pained in a mirroring desperation.<b>“What do you need from me Maggie? What can I give you…”</b>His voice droned with a sudden panged growl as it climbed the bed atop of her. The delirious woman would notice that there was little in way of clothing that could restrain him. She could feel his body heat, the warmth of his breath, oh god, he even smelled just like the Jon she knew: That deep musk with a low hint of cinnamon or ginger root.<br/><br/>Maggie used to complain about his choice in cologne saying it made himself like a damn spice-cabinet, but it quickly became something longed for. She always knew when was around. It was a scent that soothed and cradled her at night as she rolled about in his shirt. This memory brought a surge and lips brushed with daring and temptation before Maggie’s Jon pressed on to kiss her. A familiar kiss