Spring is a time that marks the end of the dark half of the year, a time when the doorways to the Faery realm are said to be wide open.
A perfect time to visit Finn, the antagonist from my paranormal novels, an elf who resides in the realm of Alfheim.
So off I go.
The grand vision that greets me takes a moment to absorb. Crystalline water shimmers in shades of azure and turquoise where they pool at the base of a five-tiered waterfall. Sunbeams dance across the water and sparkle off river rock cut from precious stone set in the emerald hills. The breeze is perfumed with jasmine, the only sounds are bird song, leaves rustling and water falling.
I’ve read up on Fairies and Elves, but to finish the edits on my WIP, I have a few gaps I’d like Finn to fill. I see him outside his palatial home. His back faces me as I approach. His waist coat is draped over a dais and his long white hair is tied in a queue down his broad back. Lean, tall, muscled—nothing about Finn is diminutive.
He turns to face me and sends a devastating smile. I wonder if it was a good idea to give him such potent good looks and strong magical powers. His presence seems to fill the valley.
“Hello, Finn. If you have a moment, I’d like to bounce a few thoughts off you. I’m editing my novel now and—”
“Yes, I know. I’d like to speak to you about that.” In a sleek movement, he closes the distance between us, graceful as a cat.
“Why have you put me at odds with the king?”
“For conflict, Finn. There’s no story without conflict. Now, what I’d like to know is do you consider elves distinct from the faery world or—”
“My games with the humans would better serve us both if I had the king’s support.”
“Right, that’s why the king gave you five years to test your theory and play your match-making games. So getting back to my question, the modern view is that elves, dwarves and trolls are all part of the fairy world. So is it correct for me to call your world Faery?”
“You made a catastrophic mistake. The king gave me five human years, not five Elvin years.”
I take a step back, fully appreciating how Finn intimidates my characters with the force behind his iridescent eyes. “It’s called tension, Finn, something you’re obviously familiar with. Deadlines create tension and tension is good for the story.”
“It’s not good for me. Rewrite it. I want one hundred human years.”
“No. I can’t. Your scene with the king is in Rhapsody. That book is published. I can’t change it now.”
The intensity in his eyes is like tiny flares going off, but I won’t be bullied by an elf. “The five years for your game playing stands. The game you had Calum play in Love of Her Lives was disruptive to say the least. You fractured Jonathan and Isabelle’s world in Rhapsody and pushed her into a game that still makes her shiver, but impersonating Markus the Illusionist and luring Jessica to the stage as your volunteer, what you did to her, well, you’re causing enough mayhem in human lives as it is.”
The wild fire in his eyes diminishes as if he has acquiesced. His demeanor reminds me of a wildcat’s before a kill. “As you wish, dear author. I should thank you for the gifts you did bestow, the gift to see into your mind, to detect your vulnerabilities, your secrets, your weaknesses. Do not think you are outside the reach of my games.”
Finn vanishes leaving me in a coat of goose bumps and a breeze that furls around my neck. Guess I’ll leave the subject of dwarves and trolls for summer solstice.
(Pieces of this article did appear as a guest post a couple years ago. Sorry, for reposting, but life requires easy-as-possible sometimes!)