Written as a Christmas gift for my lovely ChiChiX. She wanted either Elaith or Jarlaxle, but Jarlaxle's a bitch, so wheee, Elaith!
For the record, Catti-Brie is a lesbian, or at least horrendously bisexual. That has nothing to do with this fic. But I'm saying it anyway.
POETRY
He's pure poetry.
That's all there is to it. He is mystery, and heartbreak; hate and love and in between, scattered pieces to the perfect puzzle. He's not the perfect person; but imperfection breeds beauty, and no one understands this - not unless you're a poet. And they are few and far between.
He's not somebody you'd like to love, once it's all been considered. He's sad, in that snowy kind of way, and he's beautiful, too; his eyes are bright, and dark, honey amber, the colour of cider and cold winter nights. Perhaps you'd like to kiss him, too, on those soft, smiling, villainous lips. Perhaps you'd like to shove poison down his throat.
He sure is something, and it sure is poetic. He's the material of dreams, snatched from children's nightmares, sewn together with betrayal and passion and dishonour. He loved a woman, once; but he made a mistake, like all young people do, and from its womb another mistake fed to the pages of history, and suddenly he's on a tainted road, pale skin standing out amid the shadows.
And when he laughs, you want to cry.
His name is Elaith, but no one calls him that, unless they're looking at him; and even then, they're calling him Lord Craulnober. But when his back is turned, they all say the same name - Serpent, for so swiftly he strikes, and his words are poison pulsing through your blood.
He's the Serpent, and he's holding all the cards, and you don't know the rules to the game. Write about him, if you want to, swooping lines of ink on parchment - but it'll just age, and the paper curl, and the words will fade, until all that is left is the memory of your prose; beautiful, once, but now sunken and dead.
But he'll live forever - just you watch, and see. Waterdeep will remember him, but so will everyone else; he'll be the material of dreams for many years, the floorboards creaking when he's in your house, moving through the living room, when the lights are unlit and the moon is covered by cloud. He's starlight enough, anyway; silver hair and milky skin and a white, gleaming smile.
He's a work of poetry, and he'll kill you if you get in his way.
So don't.
