The Claiming

It happened on a moonless night
So many years ago,
When seasons, hung in balance
Between the freeze and thaw,
Part to reveal passageways
That lead to eldritch ground,
When first the Dreamer dared to lay
Upon the stony mound.
His reasoning was sound enough
Though perhaps his purpose queer.
If there be gates to the Otherworld,
There'd surely be one here.
To seek the elder magics
One had to take the chance,
And risk the madness born of
Seeing the Spirits at their dance.
To hear their words and learn their songs
Seemed such a simple thing;
To lie among their spells and dream,
To dance within their ring;
To let his soul be touched by fire
From an elven brand;
To know their secrets and their art
Among their airy band.
He lay himself upon the ground,
Pillowed by cold stone,
Surrendering his reason
Among the trees alone.
Owls and bats and nameless things
Circled overhead.
Shadows lurking in the mists
Whispered words of dread.
He let his conscious mind give way
Into the realms of night,
Until his waking dreams revealed
What had been hid from sight.
Where once there had been silence
Now rode a stately court
Of Elven lords and ladies
Of every shape and sort,
Mounted on fantastic beasts
That mystified the eye.
The glamour of their faces
Lit up the midnight sky.
Dressed in ragged elegance,
They passed on either side.
The music of their voices
Like seabirds on the tide.
Then they circled round him
In laughing arrogance
At this foolish mortal who
Intruded on their dance.
With golden knives against his throat,
Hands bound with silver chain,
The Dreamer felt dispair
At ever coming home again.
But then a voice like winter ice
Mixed with summer rain,
A voice that murmured of the greatest
Pleasures mixed with pain;
A deep intoxicating voice
That turned his head like wine.
Ordered his release and with
A laugh, she said, "He's mine!"
What mysteries he then beheld
He still cannot recall,
For human minds aren't meant to see
Such sights and hold it all.
One overpowering memory
Remained of all he'd seen;
The terrifying beauty
That was the Fairie Queen.
Dark eyes, dark hair, a cruel smile,
She held him in her power;
Posessed his soul entirely
Forever from that hour.
"You have a poet's heart," she said,
"A poet you will be.
Whenever you inscribe your verse,
You first will think of me.
I'll be your inspiration,
And I will be your Muse,
And save you from the madness.
But now you have to choose.
For always with an Elven gift
There also comes a price.
And nothing's ever given free
Without a sacrifice.
If I give you a poet's voice,
I want back what is fair.
For I am a jealous lover,
And I refuse to share.
Once you have received my kiss,
Your words will be like wine,
With meaning and with eloquence,
But always, you'll be mine!"
He looked upon her beauty,
Her eyes like burning coal.
Those eyes reached to his deepest parts
And feasted on his soul.
She knew his deepest secrets,
already knew his choice.
She kissed him once in triumph
And gave to him his voice.
He woke early next morning
On a bed of cold grey stone,
With the memory of cold dark eyes
That claimed him for their own,
Knowing in his deepest heart
He never would be free
To live and love as normal men:
He'd been touched by the Sidh.
So in the morn he left that hill,
A fever in his brain.
He never spoke to anyone
About that night again.
And through the years his poetry
Was closest to his heart.
All other earthly pleasures paled
When matched against his art.
It was his greatest solace
Whene'er his heart was sore.
But always it was colored by
A darkness at its core.
Friends and loves would come and go
But never satisfy.
For another owned him,
And these pleasures would deny.
For never could he shake the hold
Of that which he had seen;
The cold and cruel beauty
That was the Fairie Queen.
A fairy tale, you say? Perhaps,
A fantasy in dreams,
Where every meaning wears a shroud,
And isn't what it seems
To mingle with the elder race
Holds risks beyond degree,
For mortals were not meant to mix
With immortality.
To commune with the Elvenkind
Leaves marks down deep inside;
An owner's mark burnt into flesh,
A brand that you can't hide.
The fate of one who has survived
Is not found in the stars,
But written on his heart in blood.
I'll show to you the scars.