Light. Light unseen by many a mortal eye; or at least by any who could bare tales from where it lay. Hardly was there a time when human man nor woman spent time in the land of faerie and nere came out again. It was an oddly poetic tale of the spider and the fly. But often the ending was twice as sweet; twice as bitter, and a whole world more terrifying.

This was where there stepped but light slippered feet; a girl of mere twenty three pressing her pale shoes into the glittering stone with naught but the sound of her faint breathing. Even that was small enough that one would have had to be very closely paying attention, and within hugging distance to her small ashen lipped mouth to hear the air whispering out of her. She was Roslyn, Daughter of Meredith, Grandchild of Andais. She was white like a stretch of snow over the long slumbering earth. A white that glistened in the odd light of the Sithen as though she were but powder; ready to be blown away in the first wind. Her willowy figure stood but half a foot over five feet tall; framed by a mass of curls that ran down to her ankles. They were some of the oddest curls any court had ever seen, leaves and buds gracing them in curling colors like rose thorns. When winter came truly, her hair was as brown and bare as the brambles in winter; graced over with a delicate frosting of white and semi clear though she were truly touched with snow.

In the spring time her hair was the soft yellow green of new life, spilling the illusion of tangled vines across her body like a cape made of only the liveliest greenery. When summer came, her hair held the spotting colors of briar roses. But they weren't the simple red or pale pink that one saw; no, one day they would blue, or violet, fuchsia, red; every color of flower one could think of, and some colors that didn't exist out side of faerie. There was no telling what the colors meant, or what they would look like depending on how she felt; the pale wisp of a girl never spoke. Her voice was a mystery to all who beheld her. She was silent as the winter snow, never laughing, never crying, never sighing. She bore life in it's many splendored cycle...but she seemed to have none of her own. As though her white body drew her to act like the ghost she looked. She was everything alive..everything joyous and bountiful in nature, framing a body that was forever pressed into the bosom of winter. Her sweet face looked that of an innocent child, as though not a day had touched her once she came from the womb. Open eyes were the palest ever seen- white up to the pupil where lay a single thin ring of silver, followed by a thicker ring of grey. She looks blind, apart from the black pupils forever small. As though light simply had no effect on them. Never changing. Never dilating. Her lips were ashen, barren of life as the rest of her skin; pale and almost bloodless. Like baby's breath crushed and molded into a kissable shape.

This was the silent figure that walked down the hall, her hand out on it as she trailed pale fingertips in against it's warm surface. The Sithen was a living thing, and perhaps not a breathing and bleeding thing..but magic so thick and heavy that it formed walls and gardens, pathways and held a warmth of life. Where her hand touched, she spread colors ever so softly dimmed against the surface. As though she trailed her hand through water, the colors spread growing thinner and thinner the further out they went; fading once her touch had passed away.

As she usually did, Roslyn spent her days simply walking the halls, pressing her hands to whatever she could. Every new thing she found seemed to hold interest for her. Though only in the sense that she touched. She touched everything. Like a blind woman she touched and that made it real. She never so much as raised an eyebrow at anything. The only way anyone could figure that she liked something, was if she spent more time practically fondling it than she did with more mundane things. A leaf..a spring..a patch of wall not quite so smooth as the rest. These things intrigued her. Her room was naught but trinkets of the oddest variety; spider's webbing..white and perfect between two sticks, set in a vase. A leaf as big as her hand trapped in the same spread of autumn that pressed across the whites of her eyes. That seemed never to lessen in brightness, and nobody was certain if it was the life of the Sithen keeping it from crumbling and turning to the withered brown that all leaves eventually turn..or whether it was her magic. For someone as unique certainly had magic, even if they never showed it.

There was spread across her floor a rug..a fur of the finest softest pelt one could have imagined. It was colored as though a white bear, a red fox, and a black cat had somehow mated in the spread of the dark blue moon one night; and this was the animal that came from it. Soft as rabbit's fur, most people visiting her room found her curled up and asleep there like a kitten cuddling close to it's mother's side. Though she could just as easily been found pressed in against her Mother's legs, doing that very same thing. Even in the throne room, she seemed to have no care what other's thought. And they certainly thought the same of her. A fly on the wall, a flower, a stretch of odd color in the center of a woven blanket. She was nothing more to them than decoration most times. Cursed, they called her. Broken. There was nothing in her that seemed to speak of intelligence; recognition. That she even remembered faces was something that made the court quite astonished in her. Some people she favored, but some she did not. Autistic, someone well read up on medical journals had offered one day. The Queen and her Grandmother had not liked that, not one bit.

"Lost your way, little kitten..?" A man's soft low voice called. But she ignored him as she pressed her fingers in between the stones of the wall she had stopped at, feeling the mortar that couldn't have been real mortar as she turned her head; perhaps that would yield the proper origin of the stuff. Perhaps the mortar wasn't real, and only showed itself to give her mind some way of reasoning how the wall was stuck together. That seemed the most likely, being as the Sithen didn't need mortar to hold itself together, and it certainly had never felt the hand of man nor beast in it's creation. It was what it was, and needed no man made things such as mortar to hold it's bits together. As though the world around her smiled and nodded, the hall felt suddenly lighter; the lights a little brighter. she moved her hand from between the stones and they moved, but not in any sense of the word. The stones simply were. They didn't have spaces between, or mortar to hold them. As though they had always been that way, they..simply were.

"Come come snow white, where are your manners?" The man asked again, and that earned him the slight turn of a head full of flower bearing thorns; her tri-colored eyes turning to meet the gaze of Faiwyn; a man six foot, his hair to his waist colored like the finest dark purple wine; his eyes a color of red that changed depending on what light it as in, as though someone had taken a tumbler of liquor and swirled it in front of candle light. The darker and lighter flecks never seemed to stay in one place, and the effect was rather dizzying. His skin was the soft tanned of a man who spent his days in the fields, bringing the fruits of harvest in to be turned into the most intoxicating of liquids. His mouth was full and kissable, lips only as plump as the fruit he surely should have been carrying with him. He was once a god of harvest and merriment, of drink and song. Now he was but one of the Unseelie Sidhe, powers diminished so he was something more akin to a shadow of what he once had been. Once, he could have filled any cup to the brim with the best wine you had ever tasted; the taste of mulled wine sitting on his lips to drink and get drunk. His voice would have held the sound of great revelry, as though just behind his voice were the sound of some grand gathering; people of old celebrating the coming of the harvest, and the fruits of their labors. Now he was barren as the earth he came from..eyes holding the hope that perhaps one of the vines in the vineyard still held fruit to be plucked..savored. But it would be bitter.

Faiwyn was never a very kind man, and it had been the drink and song that had kept people from seeing it. But he was as bitter as the fruit he no longer bared. He was cold and spoiled, and hardly went without getting his way. He was well used to being catered to, and this little white thing never seemed to have a care for that. Even now she did not, as she turned to walk down the hall again.