We all serve him,but we perceive him differently. Sometimes he is tall, dark and solemn, sometimes his hair is silvery white, and his face reminds of the ancient Roman statues in their calm serenity. At times he is silent and reassuring, and at times- compassionate and soft spoken, but whichever guise he chooses, he is never distant. His heart beats close by, his voice echoes in our minds.
We serve the Lord of the ways, the Lord of the mists, the Lord of the Shadows, the Lord of the Blessed light. We all serve him,but we serve him differently.
We all serve him, but we call him differently: Gwyn ap Nudd, the Horned one, the Wild Herdsman, Herne the Hunter, Cernunnos, Arawn. Sometimes he chooses one name, and at times he is content with another – nobody knows what name appears next in the minds of a newcomer and a sage alike. He has many a name, and it is up to him to pick and choose.
We serve the Lord of the Hunt, the Master of Stars, the Prince of Dreams, the King of the Fair folk. We all serve him, but we call him differently.
We all serve him, but we serve him differently. Some write, some sing, some praise- and others take on vows, wage battles against their personal darkness and win. We all serve him with what we do best. We all serve him, but we serve him differently.
He comes to us all, but he comes differently. As a name in a song, as a sigh on the wind. In the tales of old, in the dreams of many, in love and loss, in joy and grief, in life and death. He comes in starlight, in the frailty of the moonlight and glory of the sun. He comes with the first mists of spring and departs with the last mist of autumn. He comes to us all, but he comes differently.
We serve and we wait, no matter how long – for he has promised to come, and Gwyn ap Nudd never breaks a promise.