For idolatrie.
A few dozen waddled balls of paper litter the faded carpet. They are always the same: awkward images of a quicksilver girl, her supple limbs in frozen motion, riding the Wild Hunt or consorting with her wood elementals the Dirdreth. Some people say that Charles has a talent for art, but he knows better. He's lost count of how many times he tried drawing Elwyn over and again, hoping to capture just a hint of the elusive wildness of her or even the childlike iridescence of her cornflower blue eyes.
Sometimes he wishes he'd never met Elwyn Silverhair. He knows what she is: a daughter of a fairy queen, a member of the immortal Quislai, an enchanter of human men, an untamed elemental - but why go on? He /knows/ she is an impossible dream. Janie and Alys, with the unsubtle encouragement of Morgana and the vixen, have made sure he's heard the tales of Thomas the Rhymer and dozens of other unfortunate men a thousand times. He remembers the stories well.
And sometimes he just doesn't care.
It's not that he avoids dating human girls. He's had girlfriends every now and then, mostly to stop the worried look in his sisters' eyes - all right, it's because he has hormones. He refuses to stay celibate like those relics of holy men who wandered alone in the desert when the world was still pure. So what if the occasional girl moaning and straining under him isn't Elwyn? She's still enjoyable, at that. Charles is an artist, and he knows what to do with his hands. He's never alone at nighttime unless he wishes otherwise. And yet there are times when Charles turns over in his bed, staring up at the ceiling or at the window, ignoring the faceless (human) girl snoring next to him, wondering if Elwyn remembers him still. And wondering when her next visit will be.
Not that he's counting or anything, but it's been seven months, three weeks, and two days since he's seen her last. To Elwyn, however, it's only a moment in her infinite lifespan, peopled by a parade of half-forgotten, half-remembered companions. He's one of many, but if he ever resents it, no one ever knows.
Charles crumbles another sheet of paper and throws it over his shoulder. It's a futile gesture, really, but futile gestures are what Charles is best at. The underside of his forearm is streaked with charcoal and the muscles in his right shoulder are tense. His internal clock tells him it's past midnight and he reaches over to turn off his lamp.
A subtle scent of night-blooming flowers woven together with moonlight pervades the room. His heart gives a leap, and then he raises his head. Elwyn! He glances towards his open window eagerly - he's always left it open, even though Alys mutters dire warnings about thieves - but Elwyn is not on the windowstill, her slim legs dangling, the bell on her anklet tinkling.
And then he knows. She's on the edge of his bed, laughing at him, waiting for him to turn around. He has no idea how she got in, but what does it matter? She's a Quislai and that says it all. And this Quislai wears only a bedsheet, with only her waterfall of silver hair as her main adornment. He's not sure what he feels - relief that she hasn't forgotten him forever, delight that she's here, or even dispassionate amusement knowing that this will be a memory soon. But he goes to her because she's his dream.
Elwyn laughs when he whispers her name. "Of course! No one else has my name," she says, clapping her hands. She goes off on another track of thought, with an artless candor that is so uniquely hers. "We should dance under the stars and take off our clothes. Then we'll run wild in the Chaotic Zones."
Charles doesn't fight his wry grin. Only the Quislai can withstand the Chaotic Zones: the desolate wastelands riven by wellsprings of wild magic and its twisted, beastly creations. He knows if he died, Elwyn would only wring her hands for a minute and then perhaps forget him in the next. It's funny, really. Claudia once told him that he could always find anything funny, but he doesn't think his little sister meant it as a compliment.
"I want to draw you instead," he says.
Elwyn presses a fingertip to the pale mark on his forehead. It's something she always does now. Her kiss branded him as hers, a careless gesture born from a moment that meant nothing to her, but now it helps her to remember him. Sometimes Charles wonders if she ever regrets that kiss. It's not a question he'll ask - not because he fears her answer but because she's not capable of answering. For all of his faults, he never makes the mistake of applying humanity to Elwyn Silverhair.
"If you like," Elwyn replies, with a shrug of her slim shoulder. There's a strange indistinguishable light haloing around her, and Charles's fingers itches. He needs a pencil or a paintbrush - and then wind buffets at his hair. "Come, let's be away!" Elwyn cries, pulling at his hand with a surprising strength.
They are out of his apartment in a flash and then they mount the golden stags she's brought from Wildworld. Charles spares only a moment to be thankful that she didn't bring violet-eyed ice dragons this time. Now that had been hell. Especially after the dragons decided the town was their fiery playground, cars their flaming projectiles.
His stag shifts smoothly, the effort of its great muscles undetected under its oddly hypnotic stride. Charles almost believes he's not moving at all, but that's a lie. The traffic lights, the incredulous faces of the human bystanders, the cars' headlights - they all blur in a patina of confused colors. Giddy, Charles throws back his head and laughs. He doesn't fear for his sanity because his ever-knowing twin will fetch him in a little while, so he just lets himself be. Elwyn's laughter rings out in accord, and then they pass into the Wildworld somehow, through Morgana's passage perhaps.
They emerge under the star-encrusted sky. It is always different here, in the Wildworld, more primal and savage, colors never seen in his world, multiple dimensions not yet dreamed of. As always, Charles wants to stop, just to drink in the beauty, but they don't stop riding. They hurl into Elwyn's Wood, and then tumble onto the soft grass growing tall around frozen moon-colored lakes. It's almost holy and Charles thinks maybe this is his pilgrimage.
Desire makes his voice thick. "Elwyn..."
Her bedsheet pools at her feet like a crumpled butterfly. She doesn't reach for Charles, but leaps away from him, laughing and dancing under the canopy of trees. Her lithe form is at once feral and girl-like and Charles catches his breath. It's just one of her games, a game he lets her play because they have all the time in the world - for now. So he settles on the grass and draws her with his mind. The hollow of her throat, the curve of her hip, the long lines of her legs, the reckless abandon of her - they're all Elwyn's. A thousand other women might copy her gestures, but they are only faint echoes. Elwyn is the truth, the sublime, the beauty in all art.
She comes to him eventually, and Charles sketches her with his mouth and hands. It's the best drawing he's ever done.
Fin.
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