Appear. Dose. Pierce.

They say that he appears at the moment just when the sun and the moon are in perfect alignment, one golden god descending down to a mountain throne, the other, a silver-clad assassin rising into a twilight sky.  When their light strikes another at just the right angle, at just the right moment, he comes.  One cannot tell him by his appearance alone, as he never wears the same Earthly guise.  Sometimes, he is as slender as a crescent; and other times, as broad and strong as the full moon.  The Pink Moon, The Sturgeon Moon, The Full Long Nights Moon.  Each brings him with their faerie glow, birthing him from every lover's dream and child's midnight wish.

They say that one can never be too careful, walking at this hour.  Some fear the dead of night, but it's then, just as the world is alight with double luminescence, that the Fae dance.  Even they, however, fear his touch.  With a glancing brush of his icy hand or a look directly into his burning eyes, he can take your soul into a place of blinding light, so brilliant that to blink is to suffer immeasurable pain, and to be returned to the mortal world is to go blind.  A single word in a lullaby cadence is all it takes to bind you to him, irreversibly, irrevocably.  For eternity.  And if he draws you near and places his fingertips directly on your heart's center, his essence will pierce you like a golden blade, a silver spear.  You will cry for him, cry to forget him, but your mind is trapped in a spider's web of light and longing.

They say that if you can capture one, he will die as all Fae, a burst of fire licking around his being in a defeat disguised as triumph.  They say that his ashes are the only thing that cure the heartache, the lovesick, the spell he casts.  They say that a single dose, a pinch of ash in a cup of tea, will erase all but the most lingering recollection of him in your heart.

But I don't want to forget.