Rhys—if that was even his real name—either believed what he was saying or he was a prime candidate for an Oscar. Because try as Morgan might, she couldn’t see any evidence that he was lying. He had to be crazy then, but everything about the whole situation was insane. After all, she was standing in her front yard in her pajamas, holding a naked man at the point of a garden hoe. She’d taken assertive action when she’d seen him lying in the grass, assuming he was drunk or something. Well, she’d gotten the upper hand all right. Now what was she supposed to do with the guy?
The Tylwyth Teg were immortal beings, but the burden of living for endless millennia was often tedium. It was one reason that the Fair Ones tended to play terrible pranks upon mortals. Like bored children, they sprang upon the unwary, seeking diversion. So it had been when a weary Celtic warrior turned reluctant gladiator had fought his way to freedom at last. Wounded and near death, pursued by his former captors, he’d blundered straight into the territory of the Tylwyth Teg in the steep hills northwest of Isca Silurum….
Winter Liar" by Liam Doyle the IncubusWhat come once here will never come again,no matter monument nor memory;all sunwarmed green succumbs to winter's wind.And you, my love, were also my best friend,and had your life to live. The tragedywas not just my youth's recklessness, althoughI trusted much to impulse, whim, freedom,a destiny excluding doom. Frankly,youth can be our insanity. But now I'm curedof that fever, although the price was high;and chilly April wind can only sighat my regrets, yet sun will brighten wind so,one knows that soon green stirs, and wild bees hum.And summer once more will make winter liar,but I won't warm. You're all I'll ever desire.