This is the rocky part of the river. Far more dangerous than the turf-banked region I claim as home, it is also, by far, more beautiful. Time has been gentle to this lonely place. The massive stones are smoothed from centuries of the loving touch of wind and water. Pale, and speckled with black and brown, they have a look of comfort, solid comfort, to them.

        To contradict that image of complacence, the water rushes over the rocks, cascades over the rocks, at startling speeds. It roars and laughs and giggles to itself on its journey to the south and west. Never staying the same for even a second, its mercurial moods are dangerous to those who do not know this place. But I . . . I know this capricious River as well as I know myself.

        Midmorning casts an air of sleepy, sun-drenched, shadow-cloaked beauty over this rocky place mortals wisely call Otter’s Playground. The stones are yet cool, the water frigid, the bite of midwinter water in the beginning of summer. The trees and plants lining the banks seem to stretch and sigh as the sun runs her loving hands over their faces. The River giggles and babbles contentedly to himself, and I . . .

        I am Loír, the Kelpie of the River Rowan, Changeling of the Wild Faerie. This River is mine, my home. Be wary of where you step.

        I bask on a dry rock in the middle of the River, absorbing the pale morning sunlight with a lazy sort of pleasure. I adore this idle existence. None of the frustrated, frantic bustle which mortals call "progress." Just . . . lazy mornings, sleepy afternoons, wild nights dancing ‘neath moon and stars.

        But the idleness provides many moments for uneasy speculation . . . .

        We of Faerie, once called the Middle Kingdom or Otherland, lead a fragile existence. Our numbers depend on the strength of the mortal belief in us. Once, so long ago that it is scarcely more than legend, the belief was so strong that mortals and Faerie walked freely amongst each other.

        Then mortals discovered the Fae-bane. Iron. The mere touch kills the more delicate members of our people. And so, we withdrew from our contact with mortals. We retreated to our hideaways, and hid their presence with concealing glamours. And as mortals waxed in power, they waned in belief. The numbers of Faerie began to dwindle.

        At first, we refused to believe. We did not need mortals. Why must we need them when they did not need us? But finally, then day came when only the dead could maintain disbelief.

        When at last we understood our frailty and peril, it was too late. Too late to redeem mortal faith in our existence. The Seelie Court, deemed by mortals to be the "good" Faerie, vanished first. To this day, even we do not know how. Slowly, they were just . . . gone. Darkness then claimed the Middle Kingdom as the Unseelie Court, the gathering of "dark" Faerie, came to power. At last, even belief in them was lost, and they, too, were gone. And only the Wild Faerie remained.

        Although we were never quite so dependent upon mortal faith for our survival, we, too, began to fade from the world.

        We of the Wild have always been fiercely stubborn and fiercely proud. We refused to give up our lives because no one believed in us. We sought doorways, thresholds, places of passage, and we went . . . Elsewhere.

        We were warned what would happen should we make this choice. We were cheating time, living in this borrowed land. One day, we would be forced to pay the price, a punishment beyond imagining. Or so we were told.

        We have three choices left to us now. We may cheat to live, and therefore die in damnation. We may pass from this world willingly, and be forgotten forever. Or we may forget, forget we are all that is left of Faerie, forget our proud past, live as innocent wretches with no memories of who we were. No! Who we are!

        I stir uneasily on my rock, the pleasant morning clouding over with a subtle mist of despair. How bleak are our choices . . . .

        Unable to sit easy any longer, I rise from my rock and slip into the water, taking my otter form as I do. The water embraces me, cajoles me . . . Play, rest, forget, no need for memory, wash away, wash it all away. . . . I force the whispers aside, and move toward one large rock near the bank. As I scramble onto it, I assume human form again, delighting in the grace this form has on land, much as I delight in the grace the other form has in water.

        Atop the large rock is a deep depression, deep enough for me to stand in and not be seen. Filled nigh to the top with clear water, mortals would take it for nothing more than a curious pool of water. Ah, but ‘tis no ordinary pool. With this undisturbed bit of unclouded water, I can scry, whether it be to catch glimpses of the future or speak to another with a like pool. Yet I wish to do neither.

        The surface of the scrying pool is eerily still. Cold and dark it seems, too. I lean over the edge of the hole and peer into the water, examining the reflection the water returns to me. Have we changed so much, from a light-hearted and carefree people to a race burdened by bleakness?

        The image before me is one I have seen many times, but I scrutinize it closely now, striving to find the changes I see in my soul mirrored on my face.

        The person gazing up at me, at first glance, would not appear unusual by mortal standards. Her skin is pale and translucent, her hair long, dark, and curling, her great dark eyes framed by thick lashes. But upon a second look . . . . Her ears have the slightest suggestion of being canted, her features are too delicate to be human, her eyes are too large for her small face. And, upon studying her expression, I find what I seek. And dread. The mischievous smile curving those lips has grown wistful, the innocent yet knowing eyes a touch despairing. And her stance, once impish, is now wary. What have I - we - become?

        With a sigh, I push away from the pool and turn to look down upon my River once more. My River. I draw my knees to my chest, clasping my arms around my legs. My eyes follow every twist and bend and ripple until it winds out of sight. My home! I wail inside.

        "And why is the intrepid kelpie sitting like a child abandoned and forlorn?" I gasp in shock and nearly tumble from my precarious position as I turn to find this intruder. Who could possibly find a way down here? The path is obscured by glamours! No other Wild Fae has ever even been here!

        He grins broadly as I regain a more secure position, clearly enjoying my agitation. Slowly, my shock begins to fade. By the Nine, it can’t possibly be . . . .

        He cuts a figure at once both impressive and unassuming. Human he seems, but after taking a closer look, one sees his features are too sharp, his ears more than slightly canted, and no human just appears atop a river rock with a wooden flute in his hands. Those uncommonly graceful hands run those long fingers thoughtfully over the intricately carved flute as he studies me with brown eyes full of amusement. A lock of reddish-brown hair falls partway over one eye, one merry eye. . . . His tunic, trousers, and boots are a curious blend of green and brown and rust, like leaves and bark, and, oh, by the Nine, I’d know this figure anywhere. . . .

        The moment of silence stretches on, until the Piper gives a low, delighted laugh and leans forward slightly. "I’d wager my precious flute to an acorn that I was the last person you were expecting to see, little Loír."

        "Little Loír" from anyone else would elicit a sharp rebuttal from me, but coming from him, the Piper . . . . The Piper is not our god, no, but more a guardian spirit to the Wild Faerie; a trickster we can trust, an impish prankster who watched over us well. . . until we crossed to here.

        "You would win that wager easily," comes my numb reply. "Why are you here after abandoning us for all these years?" A bit of anger, or perhaps outrage, maybe both, seeps through me. He should have been there when we needed him! How dare he forsake us as he did!

        "Abandon you?" He arches an eyebrow. "And who went running off to do the forbidden? Obtaining permission just to observe your antics was difficult." He shakes his head. "You Wild Faerie can be so troublesome at times."

        "Simply because we do not wish to die?" I challenge, tenaciously. "Simply because we hate the fickle, fading belief of mortals?"

        He nearly falls from the rock laughing. When he regains his breath, he returns his attention to me, grinning and stifling further laughter. "Fickle, eh? So speaks the Wild Fae!" He shakes his head again, now in mirth. "A creature as capricious as her river, calling mortals fickle!" His amusement slowly subsides. "Little Loír, the time of Faerie has passed, whether we speak of Courts or Wild. Your kind has boasted of its ability to adapt, accept change, yet only the selkies, by forgetting, have adapted. And here you are, in the forbidden lands. You are twice as thick-witted as any mortal."

        "We want to live," I insist. "And we are adapting, to a new world, a new life. The Middle Kingdom is gone, but Faerie shall flourish still."

        "Stubborn little kelpie," the Piper admonishes. "You are defying Fate. The more time you steal, the stiffer the price you must pay. You Wild Faerie have been a thorn in everyone’s heel, but you do not deserve the punishment you are running to with arms outstretched." His merry eyes turn sorrowful. "I have loved you all, but that will amount to nothing when your final day of defiance arrives."

        I flinch, an action alien to me when first we arrived here. Then, we were brash, reckless, scorning the punishment we knew we deserved, but, oh, how we wanted to live! "This River is all I have," I burst out. "Fair Rowan, aside from life, is all I want! My confidante, my guardian, my lover, my home. . . . I will not let go so easily." I glance at his flute warily. Everyone knows the Piper can do. . . things. . . with that bit of wood. "I will not go with you."

        He lifts the flute, then shrugs helplessly. "Nor would I force you to come, although," his voice and expression become stern, "I certainly ought to." He traps my gaze with those canny brown eyes. "No, little Loír, you must choose for yourself." I cannot shift my eyes, cannot look away. "Be as yielding as this River you love," he gestures toward the water with the hand holding the flute, "and follow the course set for you by Time. Accept." He releases my eyes, and I look out at my River, my beloved River Rowan, feeling as lost as the child he compared me to. "Or," he adds suddenly, "be like these." He slaps his free hand on the stone beneath us. "Let Time wear you away." I sigh wearily. "You know your three choices, little Loír. Accept the course of the River of Time. Or let it wash you down a side stream, as the selkies did. Or, let it break you down to nothing. Simply put, yield, forget, or pay the price."

        "It’s hard!" I snap. "And ‘tis not fair!" A lone tear slides down my cheek. How long since I shed even a single tear for anything?

        "Of course it isn’t," he soothes, then reaches out a hand and turns my face toward him. "But you must choose anyway." His voice is intense, urgent. "Go, little Loír. Search your river for the answer you need. I will not choose for you." Slight smile. "You will know when you have found it, in here," he touches a finger to the center of my brow, "and in here," he touches the finger to my chest. "Be brave. Choose wisely." And with that, he is gone, leaving no trace but the fainter than faint sound of skirling pipes in the air.

        I remain seated and silent long after he is gone. Too soon, too sudden, the decision too hard. My soul knotting up in turmoil, I slip off the rock and into my river, but I do not search for answers. Yet. Instead, I waste away the day, wandering upstream and down, to my home and back. But the next day, I set out to find my answers. All day I search, seeking comfort in favorite places, resolution in secret nooks. But I find nothing.

        At the end of the day, when sunset washes the land in gold, I climb onto a rock in the middle of the Rowan, assuming human shape as I do. This place is many miles downstream from my home, and I have only been there once. Here, the River divides in two: the continuation of the River Rowan, and another, smaller River that takes its own way to the sea. And now, my choices seem clearer than ever. The Piper’s words return to me. Yield. I look to where my River rushes to the ocean. Forget. My gaze travels to the smaller stream, bravely making another way. Or pay the price. I turn around on the rock at serves as my vantage point, and look upstream.

    Then. . . I smile sadly. . . I sigh. . . and. . . I choose.