We are more trouble than we’re worth.

.

attend you now 

to what I say. 

you are the mortal, 

I the fae.

thus moves the moon now when I look above, 

there is no glimmer of the light I love.  

instead, all like a flower unfurled, 

her face shines on your mortal world. 

now all your mortal maidens sigh, 

for she is fully in my sky.

Beloved by both the Fae and men.

Our moon’s a merry wanderer then?

   not so. a traveler, yes. a wanderer, no. 

she moves but cannot freely go. 

this shaper of the dark and changing eye 

stretched out his hand against the pure black sky. 

he pulled the moon, but could not make her stay. 

so now she moves ’twixt mortal and the fae.

you have your tale. your who and how. 

there is a final secret now. 

so all your owlish listening lend. 

this is the part on which you must attend. 

the moon has our two worlds beguiled,

like parents clutching at a child,

pulling at her, to and fro,

neither willing to let go.

when she is torn, half in your sky,

you see how far apart we lie.

no matter how we long to kiss, 

the space between us is not ripe for this. 

and when your moon is waxing full, 

all of faerie feels the pull. 

she draws us close to you, so bright.

and now a visit for a night 

is easier than walking through a door 

or stepping off a ship that’s near the shore.

’twas thus while wandering

in the wild, 

you found Felurian,

manling child. 

And this is true of any fae? 

have they the will,

and know the way. 

there are a thousand half-cracked doors 

that lead between my world and yours. 

How have I never heard of this?

It seems it would be hard to miss,

Fae dancing on the mortal grass. . .

but has not just this come to pass? 

the world is wide and time is long, 

but still you say you heard my song 

before you saw me singing there, 

brushing moonlight through my hair. 

Still, it seems I should have seen

more signs of those who walk between.

most fae are sly and subtle folk

who step as soft as chimney smoke.

some go among your kind enshaedn,

glamoured as a pack mule laden,

or wearing gowns to fit a queen.

we know enough to not be seen.

many of the darker sort

would love to use you for their sport.

what keeps these from moonlit trespass?

iron, fire, mirror-glass.

elm and ash and copper knives,

solid-hearted farmer’s wives

who know the rules of games we play

and give us bread to keep away.

but worst of all, my people dread

the portion of our power we shed

when we set foot on mortal earth.

We are more trouble than we’re worth.

while she is full you may still laugh,

but know there is a darker half.

a clever mortal fears the night

without a hint of sweet moonlight.

on such a night, each step you take

might catch you in the dark moon’s wake,

and pull you all unwitting into fae

where you will have no choice but stay.

and on such unfamiliar ground,

how can a mortal help but drown?

I do this so you cannot help but hear.

a wise man views a moonless night with fear.

[The Wise Man's Fear, Patick Rothfuss]