Introductions

Greetings, traveler. *courtly bow*

Those who know me call me Midir, but Adair is the name I've chosen for this generation. Perhaps you've heard of me? And perhaps not. So few remember the old ways anymore.

Please allow me to introduce myself... *hums a few bars* Gotta love the Stones.

I am of the Sidhe. A King of the de Dannan. Etain is my love, and I have sought her across time. I've found her again, but she...

*wry smile* She is being stubborn. She likes this world with its cars and its music and its people. And I find, I can't really blame her for that. You humans have certainly gotten more interesting as the centuries pass.

I can wait for her. I've waited millenia. What's a few months? A few years? Let her have her fun with her pretty mortal boys. Until then, I'm bored. I have a band, as doing something seems de rigeur these days, and she always loved to hear me sing. I think I'll enjoy amusing myself with you lot until she comes to her senses or I get tired of humoring her.

Don't be shy. *smirks* I promise I don't bite until you beg.

(no subject)

How dare he?! Bastard! Deviant whoreson!

Go gcreime cúnna ifrinn do bhall fearga!*

Keep your bloody hook to yourself before I rain down rage and fire and destruction on your impudent head! Etain is mine and was mine before time began and will be mine until it ceases to be. Learn to keep your hands to yourself, creature of evil or I will toss the rest of you to the alligator that haunts you piece by piece and make you watch as he devours you!

*May the hounds of hell gnaw on your manly parts.

(no subject)

Have you ever just woken up one morning and said, "Fuck it. I'm bored?" Of course, we don't actually say "Fuck it." I do love your English language for it's simple gutteral harshness.

On the other hand, your cursing does leave a great deal to be desired in terms of creativity.

But you try living underground for thousands of years because men have taken what was yours and encroached so far into the land of magic that you have to seal it in to keep from being defiled. Then people stop believing and the magic left in the world starts fading, so that only the special ones can touch it.

But you do create such wonders to try and make up for it. This machine, for instance. Guitars. Jaguars. The cars, not the cats. I helped create the cats. None of it quite reaches the level of pure magic, you understand. But, it's intriguing in its own right.

She seems enamoured of this world. I suppose I should at least see why.

Though...fuck it, I am bored with waiting for the child to make up her mind.

What does the word "love" mean to you?

Love. Love is joy. Love is pain. Love is forgiveness. Love is selfishness.

Love is existing to the point where there is nothing but her smile.

Love is searching for her for her on every flower in every forest as the evil wind buffets her away from you. Love is taking a deceitful whore and turning her loose in the Fields of Man as a lizard prey for the hawks. Love is ruling without a queen, because no other will take her place.

Love is leaving your home to wander in the land of Men as a minstrel for twenty years, seeking any sign of her.

Love is a game of chess.

Love is fifty dark grey steeds with dappled blood-red heads, pointed-ears, broad-chested, with distended nostrils, slender limbs, mighty, keen ..., huge, swift, steady, and easily yoked, with their fifty enamelled reins.

Love is another game of chess and a forfeit of fifty young boars, curly-motted, grey-bellied, blue-backed, with horses hooves to them, together with a vat of blackthorn into which they all will fit. Further, fifty gold-hilted swords, and again fifty red-eared cows with white red-eared calves with a bronze spancel on each calf. Further, fifty greywethers with red heads, three-headed, three-horned. Further, fifty ivory-hilted swords. Further, fifty speckled cloaks, but each fifty of them on its own day.

Love is the clearing of Meath of stone, rushes placed over Tethba, a causeway over Moin Lamraige, and a wood over Breifne.

Love is a final game of chess with a husband too assured. Love is a wagered kiss, given freely on top of a hill. Love is a flight through the sky, leaving enemies behind.

Love is home. Love is peace. Love is her eyes shining up at you, and calling you by name. Love is the smile on her lips when you walk into a room.

Love is sorrow. Love is death and dying. Love is the pain in her eyes as she watches your brethren fall. Love is the sob in her voice when she tells you that you must send her back. Love is the rage in yours when you know she is right.

Love is the tears in her eyes when she looks at you as he walks in the room.

Love is the final kiss you give her, your last gift.

And love is stepping back as you watch her eyes go blank, as she forgets you, as you send her back to her mortal life, and take the burden of remembering your happiness solely on yourself for all eternity.