January 20, 2016 § Leave a comment
She is something fluid and fey, a dancing flame that burns with an otherworldly light, golden smoke and green faerie fire. She entrances and she dances, she is hot enough to burn and cold enough to freeze. Now she flares to fill the room; now she dims, ungraspable, slipping from sight. She is eyes in the flame, Cheshire-slitted, a keen mirthful awareness, a merciless evaluation. She gleams, and she laughs, and all the tales of the fair folk with their silver bells and will-o-wisp glances come to mind, all feline languor and a predator’s playfulness. There’s a rawness beneath that fey shining, a hidden heart of the eldritch flame, kept safe behind glamour and clever Cheshire sharpness and icehot changeling games. And when you try to grasp the flame of her, hold it still or hold it captive, is it you who feels the pain of burning or is it she?
They call the Fair Folk heartless, but I don’t think it’s true –
rather they live by different morals than me or maybe you,
And their hearts may be hidden in a stone or in a flame,
locked away with the key of their secret name.
They’re truer though than humans, cleave completely to their code,
a moon-bright sense of justice, though it be alien and cold.