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by Arethinn
rather old, ca. 1999

Once, in the cold weeks before La Fheile Bride, there was a copper-haired flyingforestfae who had found herself a comely mortal and decided herself that she would toss a little glamour his way and begin to enchant him. He had heard her say that she was fey, but she knew that in his heart something denied such a thing, and wished to give him a taste of the reality.

Knowing well that appearances would count in such an operation, she proceeded to bathe and scent herself, tie up her hair and then let it fall again to fullness, place a shine on her eyes, and such things. She did all she could to let that what was inside her shine out, to let a faerie radiance through the skin of the human body it lived in. She practically enchanted herself staring in the mirror and murmuring strange sounds to herself, preparing for his arrival.

Then, all this wonder she had summoned decided to go on a quick holiday to Greece, and she shook her head and went to tidy herself back into a mortal seeming. But scarcely had she begun than there came a rapping on her chamber door, if you will forgive the paraphrase. She answered the door, and lo, there he was, hair golden in the stupid porchlight's light. He came in and set his cloak on the floor, then turned and looked at her.

He peered at her face queerly, and then finally seemed to take notice of a smudge of glitter she'd been too hasty to cleanly remove. A light dawned in his eyes, his intuition quickly deducing from a few grains of sparkle what reason would never have suggested. "You... would have enchanted me?" he whispered.

Tears forming in her eyes, she turned from him. "You really are a faerie, aren't you?" he asked, quietly.

She turned back to face him as he shook his hair loose from its ponytail. "So you believe me?" she said, wary.

"Do I believe you?" he murmured, more to himself than to her. "A mortal believes you...? I do. I believe what you are." He brushed a stray strand of gold back from his forehead. "But never mind that," he continued, reaching out a soft hand towards her. "Do you believe me?"

p.s. this story is a fiction, I think, except inasmuch as in the telling I have given it reality, and they live in my dreams, which must be a strange existence, don't you think?
p.p.s. I tell a lie. The people are real. The actions are the fiction.

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