The euphemisms abound. Good folk. Lordly Ones. The Gentry. The Hill Folk.
No one who knows them calls them by name.
Out of respect.
The name does not carry the respect it once held.
Not with dolls and little cuddly winged babies to represent them.
It's almost as bad as what they've done to angels these days.
The seductive girls with butterfly wings are hardly better.
I assure you the dark half-imagined shapes, seen in of the corner of my eye are not cuddly.
If they are half-imagined - which half I wonder?
They are the Sidhe. The Seelie and Unseelie courts. The Tuatha De Danann.
They are the Redcaps of the Scottish castle ruins, hats soaked in human blood.
They are the Bean Sidhe whose cry is death.
They are the beautiful green-toothed hags pulling lost strangers into the dark bog.
They are the little lights the lost hiker mistakes for headlights and follows hopefully off of a cliff.
They eat the quintessence of food, leaving the other diners to starve on the image of what is no longer