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The rest, however…
I notice the hair, first. It was coppery-blonde moments ago; now it’s blue. Not a discreet, dark blueish black like Ryther, but proudly shining like deep waters under a clear night sky. My hand touches my locks, half expecting to find them different, or gone, but they’re right here—and decidedly blue against my fingers.
Then there are the ears, long and curved at the tips. And the eyes, of a pale amethyst, overbright, when they were their normal azure the last time I looked in the mirror. I blink, and now they’re blue again. As I watch, jaw open, they morph to a soft gold, and green, before settling on their usual color.
I am not myself at all. My face has changed, ever so subtly, thinning in places, hardening in others. I don’t think my own mother would recognize me.
Maybe that’s just a trick of the water. Right? It’s not a mirror; I bet the dark, changing lake's making me see things. Besides, it's a magic lake. The fact that I almost died in there although I’m a decent swimmer speaks volumes. I shouldn't believe what I see in the reflection.
But the strands of hair are still blue between my fingers.
How do I explain that away?
“What did you do to me?” I whisper, forcing the words past my lips rather than just thinking them.
“I?” Ryther sounds amused. “Nothing yet. But the queen’s lake is still imbued with her powers. It's restored something taken from you long ago.”
It makes even less sense than anything he’d said before.
Only his words have the ring of truth, though I don’t understand them.
“You—” Valdred says, turning on him. “You’re unsurprised. You knew. How could you?”
“And you tried to hump her, knowing she was spelled. How could you?” Ryther echoes with a casual, cruel laugh.
Now’s not the time for their pissing contest. I stomp my foot like a petulant child clamoring for attention, again. This time, I feel it’s warranted.
“I don’t understand a thing! Speak plainly. Why do I look like this?” Sounding far too whiny, I add, “Please.”
Somehow, it works. Both men turn to me.
Valdred isn’t inclined to answer. “Where were you born? When? How long ago?”
My lips thin, in anger more than frustration. “I asked a question first!”
“You look like this,” Ryther says, “because it’s your true form.”
My lower lip quivers, and he immediately shrugs off his rich velvet jacket, handing it to me.
I was freezing a moment ago—so cold I could have died of hypothermia. Now, the temperature is vaguely unpleasant, but not harmful, though my clothes are still drenched.
If I shivered, it’s at the fear his words evoked.
My true form? He can’t mean that.
I ignore the jacket and press, “My true form, whatever that means, isn’t supposed to be that of a cast member from Lord of the Rings!”
Now, it’s his turn to frown in confusion. “Lord of what?”
He’s thoroughly confused.
Good.
That makes two of us.
“Don’t be upset, queenling. I’ll explain. I needed a moment to decide where to start. But there’s no cutting this tale.”
I’m too impatient for a tale, but I fight to keep my mouth shut. At least he’s fucking talking to me now. I can’t help shifting my weight as my eyes narrow. To my credit, I’m not tapping my foot on the ground. Yet.
