Author's Note: This story is part of a collection of tales regarding the birth
of faelings, once told by the Elfen of the Gloriana, and reconstructed from
what few scraps of lore survived the scourge of the Taint.

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In the early days of the Night Coven, there lived in the Gloriana Forest an
Elfen named Monaghen.

Monaghen was an upright Elfen, devout to Mother Night. All his young years he'd
spent in Her service, and tending to the fae. Yet the Coven had not ushered him
deep into Her mysteries, and he was not admired by the fae, as other
Shadowdancers were. He led a modest life, without accomplishment or praise, and
ever wondered why that was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Early one morning, Monaghen went for a walk alone through Faethorn. Father
Sun's rays had just begun to set the air aglimmer with a dusting of light, and
swathes of many hues unfolded like coloured banners across the clear sky. The
village stood empty, peaceful and quiet, as nightdwellers had only just
retreated to their tents, and the fae who preferred the daylit hours lazed in
their beds still. Only the chirps of birds, awaking with the dawn, could be
heard. The chiming, crystalline din filled Monaghen's ears, so that he almost
missed a fainter sound.

Someone was singing. The voice was small, but soft and perfect, like a pang
struck from a silver bell. The song was wistful and sweet, laced with the
harmonies of dawn and clear falling water.

Monaghen followed the voice to the Rainwater Passage, to the crossroads at the
edge of the bathing area, hidden from view by curtains of fragrant exotic
grasses. He drew the grasses aside with one hand and slipped through. The faint
wisps of voice came from further in, and he stepped slowly but eagerly along
their trail, winding his way between shallow pools and stone bowls filled with
soap and scented waters. Clouds of mist and steam passed before him, drawing
aside like veils to let him deeper and deeper in, until he looked down almost
surprised to find his feet in cool water, ankle-deep.

He stood in the shallow end of a large pool, formed at the bottom of a
waterfall. The water spurted from a crest of stone, streamed down in an elegant
arc, foaming and erupting into rainbows where it struck the surface of the
little lake. The side of the pool where he stood was carved with steps, leading
deeper and deeper into the water, and small benches offered the bathers a chance
to leave their belongings high and dry before diving in. The song came from the
direction of the waterfall, so Monaghen sat down and rolled up his trouser legs
before going on.

And so it was, as he was raising his head, that by sheer chance, he saw a patch
of light shimmering on a bench further on. He followed the edge of the pool,
feet wading in the shallow waters, until he stood before the thing, which was
of a material so fine and precious that he could not help himself: he ran a
hand over it, and felt it sparkle along his fingertips. He closed his hand over
the silky, weightless weave, lifted his fist, and felt it slip between his
fingers, slithering down to fall on the bench again. He wanted to stay and
probe it, wanted even more to keep chasing the elusive voice, and torn between
these hypnotic impulses, he settled on taking the scrap of light and stuffing
it hurriedly into his pack, then pushing on.

As he drew closer to it, the roar of the waterfall nearly drowned out the faint
and delightful sound, but at last, he circled around the curtain of water, and
saw stood face to face with her. Intoxicatingly beautiful and as delicate as
glass, her pale skin dressed in nothing but tresses of wet golden hair, she
glowed with her own light in the shadows behind the waterfall, and sang more
beautifully than he could have imagined, her voice brushing against his soul,
strengthening his spirit, filling him with joy.

The song broke off abruptly with a startled cry as she spotted him. Her eyes
went wide and anxious. Monaghen reached out a hand in reassurance, but the
movement only seemed to snap her out of her shock, and she bolted, feet barely
touching the surface of the water as she ran.

Monaghen cursed the fact that he could not walk on water like the city mages,
and waded cumbrously after her. He found her searching the benches by the
pool's edge frantically, her hands in turn running over the cold stone and
flying up to cover her body in a nervous fidget, as she cast desperate looks
over her shoulder at him. What could calm her? he thought. He rummaged in his
pack and held out a honeycake, which the wild fae loved so, but she ignored
him, still looking cornered and startled.

At last, seeing her search fruitless, and her pursuer harmless, the maiden
turned to him:

"Have you seen my dress anywhere?"

And Monaghen answered, without a second thought:

"No. Have you lost it?"

The maiden wrung her hands in distress.

"That dress was made for me by Mother Moon Herself. It was a precious gift,
full of wonder. How will I ever go home without it? O, I should never have left
EtherWilde."

She sank down into the water and curled in upon herself, hands locked around
her knees.

Monaghen let her be for a moment, then slowly crept closer and closer, careful
not to startle her. At last, he was in hand's reach of her.

"Have a honeycake," he said. "The sweetness will do you good. And don't fret
so, I'm sure it can't be so bad."

The maiden reluctantly took the gift and bit into it, sending flakes of honey
to rain down along with her tears. When she looked at Monaghen again, it was
with a grudging friendship. Monaghen stripped off his rough green overcoat in a
hurry and offered it to the fae, who wrapped herself in it gratefully.

"But I can't return to my home now," she choked out. "How can I face Luna
again? And I can't stay here, the Ladies of the Silver Light will find me, and
they'll know my shame. I lost my precious dress, and a mortal saw me, bare."

"Poor fae," said Monaghen. "Don't cry yourself out, you are not without a
friend. If you cannot go back, and you cannot stay here, you may have the
comfort of my home, and all I have to offer in hospitality."

The maiden wept more bitterly at that, but Monaghen soothed her and plied her
with honeycakes, until at great length, she let him take her by the hand and
lead her away.

And that is how Monaghen brought a maiden of Moon back to Gloriana, wrapped up
in his overcoat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Elfen of Gloriana looked on with great curiosity, tongues wagged, but none
considered themselves such close friends with him that they would pry. Monaghen
led the maiden to his house in the trees and urged her to make herself at home,
while he fetched her all she would need from the Commune shops.

But before he went to the tailor's, or the cook's, or the alchemist's shop,
Monaghen paid a visit to Old Dalrumple, an Elfen gnarled like a tree root, his
back so bent with age, he stood the height of a dwarf. Old Dalrumple was the
oldest artisan in the forest, and he no longer made stools, nor desks, nor
bookcases, but crafts both cunning and marvellous.

"Master Dalrumple," said Monaghen, "Won't you craft me a mirror for my love?
And in the base of it, set a little hidden drawer under lock and key, such that
no one shall ever find it, no one shall ever open it, but me."

Old Dalrumple squinted at Monaghen with his one better eye, and said:

"I'll craft you such a mirror, with a hidden drawer, but secrets are not kept
in drawers, boy."

From planks of aged rowan, Old Dalrumple carved the box, joining the wood
together tightly and sealing it with ravenwood sap, so that the slightest
sliver of light would be not be fine enough to seep through. As he worked with
rasp and gouge, his fingers brushed the wood in strange patterns and he
muttered under his breath. Shadows came to life in the form of dark glyphs, and
sank into the sides of the box. From blackthorn, he carved an oval frame, and
with his chisel made it flower, then three drops of mercury splashed in the gap
rippled out to form a mirror clear as chill water. At last, he gilded the hair
of a barghest and twisted it into a tiny golden key.

"My finest craft, boy, will keep the drawer sealed," said Old Dalrumple,
handing Monaghen the key. "Now you use your finest craft in keeping your lips
sealed."

Monaghen thanked him, took the mirror with the hidden drawer, took the key, and
quickly set to leave.

No further had he gotten than to step out the door, and at once he hear in his
mind the soft, low tones of the Queen of Night:

"A word with you, Monaghen," said the Queen.

A bobbing light flickered into being before Monaghen, calling him, drawing him
nearer and nearer. A chime, and a glow, and the willowisp had flung him at her
feet.

Fair as no other mortal could be, she sat on a modest throne, a small Elfen,
frail, but wreathed in shadows that made her more imposing than height and
ferocity could've done. Grace animated her limbs, wisdom lit the spark in her
eyes, and a decorous smile permanently set on her lips ever hid her true
thoughts.

"Ah, Monaghen, how good of you to come," said the Queen. "What would you tell
me, Monaghen?"

"Majesty," he replied, "I found a maiden of Mother Moon in Faethorn. She was
sore distressed and could not return to her home, so I offered her my own."

"Oh, you are good, Monaghen. And how long will she stay with us?"

"I plan to make her my wife, Majesty."

The Queen cast him a long, silent look, but her smile did not waver. At last,
she said:

"Very well, Monaghen. It is a strange thing that a fae of the Moon should stay
with us for so long, but good will come of this. You've my blessing."

She waved her hand to dismiss him. At once, a pooka emerged from the shadows. A
swish of its tail, and a stamp of its hooves, and Monaghen felt his will twist
until he shed his Elfen form and flowed away through the forest. At once, he
found himself in the tailor's shop. He stood for a moment and wondered, then
went on about his day.

At sundown, when he returned to his home, he brought the maiden rich new cloaks
and dresses of silk, cakes with spice and honey, all the potions and salves she
could need, and he offered her the mirror. He watched as she sat before it and
combed out her golden hair and sang.

That night, after the fae was asleep, Monaghen took the dress of moonlight from
his pack. He let his eyes and his hands linger on it one more time, then put it
neatly away in the hidden drawer. The key, he slid into the little pocket in
the lining of his coat, over his heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Every night from then on, the maiden sat before the mirror, combing out her
golden hair and singing a wistful song. She sang in the tongue of the fae, so
that Monaghen could make out only bits and pieces:

"Oh, the light, the light has gone away," she sang often. "Never will I bathe
in the moonlight again, never will I dance in the moonlight again."

And every night, Monaghen would watch her reflected in the mirror's clear
surface and clasp in his hand, under his coat, a tiny golden key.

They were married, the union of a fae and a mortal a great event in Gloriana.
Wherever he went, Monaghen was welcomed and admired, moreso when, in time, the
maiden bore him a son, a faeling boy with fair skin, pale eyes and dazzling
golden hair.

At birth, Lucen was the size of a toadstool, his wings thin as spider-spun
silk. He grew and grew, and soon stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder with a
barghest. His wings thickened, and a brilliant fuzz grew over them, so he
looked like a pale, glowing moth.

"My son, my faechild," Monaghen called him, swelling with pride.

"My son, the light of my eyes," his mother called him, as she rocked him in her
arms or held him on her lap.

Monaghen took his son everywhere, brought him every precious thing, satisfied
his every whim, but the boy was not spoiled. He was unassuming and
well-behaved, fluttered about with his ethereal grace even as every eye in
Gloriana was on him.

"My son, my son," his mother would sing as she watched him play. "Light of my
eyes, my greatest hope."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One night, Lucen, tucked into his little bed, dreamt that he was standing alone
in deepest darkness. No matter where he turned, he saw nothing: he was as blind.
No matter how loud he shouted, no one came to help. He awoke with a gasp, tossed
off his coverlet, and flitted fearfully to his parents' bedchamber. The door was
barely ajar, and Lucen paused timidly, not sure if he should wake them. Then he
heard a faint movement, and he gave the door the mightiest shove he could
muster, which opened it only a sliver further.

Through the crack, Lucen saw his father sitting at his mother's mirror,
fumbling with a little golden thing. The little golden thing was a key, and his
father placed it in a little tiny keyhole underneath the mirror. Now, Lucen had
seen his mother combing her golden tresses out many a time before that mirror,
but he'd never noticed a keyhole there before. He watched curiously as his
father turned the key and slid out a drawer.

And lo, from within the drawer, pale silver light poured out, glazing his
father's hands and face, the surface of the mirror, and everything it touched.
Inside that drawer lay the most dazzling thing Lucen had ever seen. But his
father only let his fingers trail over it for a second, then slid the drawer
shut and tucked the key away inside his coat pocket, over his heart.

Lucen padded silently back to his bed, his own heart fluttering with a peculiar
anxiety.

Lucen bided his time. One morning, after his mother had gone to the herbalist's
for fresh galingale, his father was summoned by the Queen of Night. He changed
hurriedly out of his everyday clothes and into ceremonial robes of gray silk,
carefully hanging his coat in the closet.

Monaghen knelt next to Lucen and ruffled his hair fondly:

"You'll be all right by yourself for a half-hour, 'till your mother returns,
won't you, my love?"

"Yes, daddy," replied Lucen. "You mustn't keep the Queen waiting. I'll mind
myself."

Monaghen dropped a kiss on his forehead and said goodbye. Not a moment passed
after he stepped out the door, and Lucen ran to the closet, flew up high where
the coat hung, and felt for the hidden pocket. From the pocket, he took a tiny
golden key, a key that looked made for hands like his, not big hands like all
the Elfen had. He went straightaway to the mirror, clambered onto the little
stool before it and started looking for a drawer. As soon as the key came near
a carved rosebud at the bottom of the frame, the bud opened up into a rose, and
in its centre was a keyhole. Lucen slipped in the key, turned it, and the drawer
slid out neatly, with a burst of silver light.

A gasp came from the doorway. Lucen twisted his head to find his mother come
home early, and watching with a look of purest joy. She ran to him, sank to her
knees beside his stool, and took the pooling light out of the drawer. When she
held it up, Lucen saw that it was a dress, a dress of woven moonlight.

With a trill of delight, his mother cast aside her robes, dancing as she
stripped down to the bare skin, and put on the dress. Silver light draped over
her limbs, fitting as if it had been made for her and her only. She was
glowing: her skin glowed, her fine golden hair glowed like a halo around her,
her pale eyes glowed, and her face glowed with joy. She wrapped Lucen in the
tightest embrace, then pulled back, clasped his hands, and said:

"Thank you, thank you, you gave me back the light, you set me free. My son,
light of my eyes, my only hope."

Then she yelled with such elation that everyone in the Forest could hear her:

"Monaghen, foolish Monaghen, you could not keep what was not your own!"

And before Lucen's startled eyes, she twirled upon her heel and vanished in a
shower of sparkling lights.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monaghen ran back to his house in a frenzy, but it was too late. He found only
his son, head hanging guiltily, a little golden key clasped in his hand. He
wailed in anguish, and ran back to the Summer Court, to beseech the Queen of
Night. His robes torn where they'd caught in the branches, his hair covered in
cobwebs and twigs, he knelt before the Queen and pleaded with her to do
something for his wife's return.

"You can speak to the Moon Coven, you can demand they bring her back, you can
ask them to let me fetch her myself..."

"Monaghen, Monaghen," the Queen replied. "You could not keep what was not your
own. I will not speak to the Moon Coven. She is gone."

"But you gave me your blessing! You said good would come of it!"

"Good has come of this, Monaghen. You have a beautiful son with uncanny eyes,
the finest gift you could have brought the Night Coven. Mother Night is
pleased. Go home to him."

"My son, my son, my faechild," moaned Monaghen. He climbed to his feet and
turned to leave, but could not bring himself to take a step towards his home,
where a little golden child held a little golden key.

In grief, he rent his robes and ran like a madman to the Master Ravenwood. He
placed his hands on the trunk of the mighty Tree, bowed his head and reached
for the link to the Ethereal Plane, but the link slipped further and further
away. He tried and tried, until Father Sun sank below the horizon, and Mother
Night opened Her arms to him, and he fell into Her embrace gratefully,
wandering off into the darkness. He wandered for days through the Forest,
unseeing, uncaring, into the foothills, and up into the Southern Mountains,
never to be seen again. From that day on, the Elfen of Gloriana said, if you
listened closely to the mountain winds, you could hear the wail of a broken
man.

As for Lucen, left motherless and fatherless on the same day, he passed into
the care of the Night Coven, and was threefold beloved: once, for being the
child of the fae; again, for being a timid boy, sweet and good; and thrice, for
with age, his uncanny eyes started seeing such things as mortals never fathomed.
But that is a story for another time.