Argument

Melissa (sort of) meets Corindor. This is all I have in the computer at the moment. It’s that old.

Disclaimer: This is very old. Please blame clumsy writing on the fact that I wrote it longer ago than pretty much anything of mine you’ve ever read.

*is not ashamed, exactly…*

***

An elf! someone shouted. A real, honest-to-god elf!

Oh, shit.

Joy warred with panic. Melissa shoved both emotions away, and the voices too. He was white, his skin icy, whoever he was and however he got there, she had to get him warm.

Frantically she tugged, pulling him closer to the fire. She yanked the afghan from the couch, but paused in spreading it over him. Old first-aid training came back: she had to warm him, his body was too cold to do it. God, how did she get into these situations? She started pulling his clothes off.

Yeehaw! said somebody. Sharing body heat!

She piled more logs on the fire, then shed her own clothes and slid under the blanket with him. She pulled his arms around her, wrapped her body around his. The voices gibbered.

An elf!

An almost-dead elf! In our living room!

A naked, half-frozen elf in our arms!

But elves don’t exist…

She’d lost it. That was all there was to it. Voices in her head arguing about whether or not there was an elf in her arms…but she knew the voices. They were hers—her muses, her inspiration, the separate facets of her fractured personality—whatever she called them, she knew them. The discussion in her head was perfectly normal. Except for its subject.

Elves were fairy tales. They weren’t real.

Oh yeah? said a voice. Then who is that naked person in your arms?

Somebody else. Her lover, and she was waking from a weird dream…

You haven’t had a lover in months. You haven’t talked to an eligible man in weeks. You haven’t talked to anyone in four days.

Who cares? someone demanded. We’ve got an elf in our living room!

Elves, she told that voice, do not exist.

I dare you to look at him, the voice returned.

That wouldn’t be proof. If she couldn’t trust her mind, how could she trust her eyes?

Why don’t you trust us? another voice asked. You always have before.

Because elves aren’t real.

And money is the most important thing in the world, the voice retorted. If you’re going to be a realist, go all the way.

Trust her muses to love the idea of an elf. She wanted to believe. She’d always wanted to believe in elves, in magic, in unicorns and heroes.

Great! snapped a voice. Now we know they’re true, and you ruined our chances at a unicorn years ago!

Unreasonable bastards, growled another voice. Insisting on virgins.

Knock it off, she told them all. Unicorn prejudices don’t matter. How the the hell did I end up with an elf in my living room?

A long silence, then: Are we sure this is our living room?

Melissa whimpered and huddled closer to the unknowing form beside her. It was a legitimate question—

Skip it, came another voice. There’s no knowing. Next question: Is there really an elf in what we will assume is our living room?

Someone was definitely in the living room, unless she was insane or dreaming. She didn’t think she was dreaming.

And you’re not insane, said a voice. Trust us.

Sure. Why not?

Next question: Was the person really an elf?

Melissa lifted her head to look at him. A thousand contradicting stories filled her mind, all the literature of fantasy she’d devoured since learning to read. The one thing all the stories agreed on, he had: his ears were up-swept and gracefully pointed. His eyebrows, too, climbed to heights not normally attained in the human race, disappearing into unruly blond hair that fell across his forehead.

He’s an elf, said a voice. Or a Vulcan.

“Beam me up, Scotty,” she muttered, and checked under the blanket. Nope. No communicator. Must be an elf. She dropped the afghan and dropped her head to his chest. God, she was strung out. All her world falling to pieces, and she was playing voyeur. She was exhausted and giddy, she’d had far too little sleep after far too long awake.

Just how much sleep, a voice asked, would you need to be up to this?

Who the hell are you? she demanded. She’d asked before, and received the same answer as now.

You. Who else?

She sighed. Maybe she was what psychiatrists called fractured. Normal people argued with themselves. They did not have round-table discussions at the drop of a hat.

Normal people, a voice pointed out, do not spend Monday mornings naked under afghans with strange elves who’ve been magically transported into their possible living rooms.

Normal people, said another voice, don’t have near as much fun.

All right, Melissa growled at them, I get the point. Anybody not think he’s an elf?

Only you. And you’re just in denial.

Look at the bright side, said someone else. At least he’s a good-looking strange magic-using elf.

“Good-looking hell,” Melissa growled, lifting her head to look once more. “He’s beautiful. As an elf should be.”

He was, with a broad intelligent forehead under the golden hair, and a noble nose lending strength to otherwise delicate, finely-drawn features. He was lean, even scrawny, but his hand had been strong—he was just the sort Melissa always wanted to cuddle.

Is that what you call it, someone muttered.