When he calls, the day darkens. Clouds gather, and the northern wind comes.
When he calls, the true hearts answer. The air is full of horses cantering, galloping, neighing. Silver bells ring in the distance only to grow quiter upon approaching.
When he calls, nothing else can matter. Nothing else does, nothing ever will. His voice silences the voices and noises of the wide world, that looks to shut out the world beyond.
When he calls, the time comes to leave the past behind. Yesterday’s wine is stale and bitter, and the altar candles are out and smoking. The remembrances are done with, the dreams are nothing but ghostly shadows on the floor.
When he calls, we answer. Poet and king, minstrel and knight, fair lady and a hag – everybody follows, everybody has his own place in the Hunt.
When he calls, the earth stops for a moment, just to fly off again. Minds stop racing, hearts are no longer trying to outrun minds.
When he calls, the world listens. No king has more presence, no wise man has more knowledge, no lover has more passion, than the one who rules the world beyond.
When he calls, the Fae come out of the hollow hills – the Fair folk, the Tylwyth Teg, the Good neighbours, the Shining ones. In the fields they dance, and their music is unearthly.
When he calls, no sleep is found, no peace, no rest: the Hunt never stops, and nothing can hold it. No mortal mind can fathom it, no mortal heart can withstand its might.
When he calls, everything changes. Towers collapse, bridges burn, frontiers crumble. He brings together what was separate, he separates what was not meant to be whole. He is just, and his judgement is severe.
When he calls, you better answer, for he may not call again- the Hunt never stops, and its master is too proud to ask twice.