Peter stopped at the shore with his arm companionably around the grey mare's neck, watching the rolling waves arrive and depart. His feet were bare, and he wore the brown leather breeches and vest of the Hunt. The red cloth fluttered in the wind coming off the sea, ragged ends straggling from the knot which bound it around his bicep.
     It's been a long time since there was a king. Not a king of mere kingdom - someone who could merge with the land, and more than the land. Someone with the power to command souls. Too long, mayhap. I don't know that we're still what we were, when we were, then.
     Brother Owl flew over the tall, haunted wood between mountains and sea, wings pulling at the wind and against it in silent, mournful flight. Yellow eyes gleamed under the moon; no time to take snack of crunchy, tender young mouse highlighted against the snow. It was in the snow that he heard the call : the voice on the wind, the upswirl of snowflakes with their stinging, biting cold. Rise and follow, he heard. And so he did, rising into the air for his long flight, flying until the land gave out to sea and he could fly no more. He subsided to earth and thereupon took the form of a man, staring as unblinkingly as if unchanged at the ship that rose out of the fog.
     What are we? Some of us, we were as close to human as anything else, once. We walked with them - we fought alongside them. I made love to many a bonny lass, and their kisses were as sweet as any nymph's. Sweeter, perhaps; what do nymphs know of sorrow and regret? An endless diet of honey leaves one thirsty and longing for something to chase treacle from the lips. That is no fit life for someone not yet done living...
     The wolves came out of the forest and took their other forms - three brothers, beast yellow eyes paler than Owl's gold - swift and sleek in form. Once they were seven, a proper pack. Now their numbers have dwindled and gone through ageless battles, through time and treachery. One has a wound on his arm; limping as he was in wolf form, now he has a bandage around his elbow through which shows the fresh red blood. He is supported by his brothers, following the thin path down to the ocean where waits the silent black ship.
     We come when we are called. The Horn is blown by the High King, and we go - it is our oath, and our freedom. In a true king's absence, we languish in this prison; no matter how many diversions are offered, it is indeed a prison. Body and soul can be kept together a thousand ways, but truth flies free so easily. And when no man's hand is lifted against injustice, how are we other than untrue to our purpose? We break our vows, then, just by continuing to be. Conquer one of us that way, and you conquer us all.
     The silent maiden in her black robe and cowled hood stood in the garden of her own creation. Slowly, bit by bit she cut down the flowering herbs with the scythe, powerful sweeps of the weapon mowing them down. Her expression was unchanged, and the tears that ran down her cheeks could have no motive ascribed to them, surely. And at the end, she stripped away her robe and cut the long white braid so that the points of her ears rose visibly, reclaiming her leathers and her sword. Then and only then did she leave her sheltered oasis, crossing the desert of her seclusion to where the rolling waves might be found.
     And now there is a king. It troubles me a little, though I tell noone this - we all feel it. We all know it. We are all Called. To what purpose will we be set? A just purpose can be as devastating as one unjust, to one unprepared. Gods help me ...
     Peter hesitates, then takes his arm away from the grey mare, giving her a slap to her flank with affection. "Go on, now. If I can, I'll be back - but if not, well, you know where to find sweet grass and fresh water, and pleasant stallions. You'll get a good life out of it one way or another." He turns, bare feet making the transition from thick grass to grass that's strewn with sand and sharp edges of broken shells. He hears the whinny behind him and does not turn, feeling his own weight as his feet sink fully into dry sand and then wet, as his hands wrap onto the fibrous strands of the rope by which he climbs up and into the ship waiting to carry him into the west.
     Am I ready? Gods help me ... for I do not know.

     The Horn of the Hunter blows, sounding in the wind that spurs the waves from the depths of the sea to the shore. The sails fill with it and lead the ship onward. For it is called, no less than you...
     Ships of every sort, the dreams of ships in fact -- tall ships and galleys, sailboats and dragon-bodied ships surely the dreams of Viking vessels long-since passed from the world of mortal men -- carry the members of The Hunt from the Known of the land to the Unknown of the sea...
     The journey is long, but the ships are swift. Each one of them is outfitted with a comfortable cabin, with food and drink. Generosity is manifest. The King's bounty is laid out before each of you, and a bag of coins. The recompense for wages lost in your own strike.
     For what must have seemed an interminable journey, you traveled in darkness, a magical compass shining in the air at the bow. The stars and comets (and the dreams of stars and comets) pocked the sky, no space between them so seemingly. And then the sea gave way to sky above and below, and a great island and its great palace appeared, bathing in moonlight.
     There, the ships' sails lowered and your approach was slowed. Anchors were weighed, planks lowering, and you were invited to take to the land once more. Great dragon gates opened, welcoming each member of The Hunt by name...
     Moonlight glimmers on the silver-stone and moonstone steps that lead upward through forest and gardens to the white marble palace, this basilica with its moonlit glow. It is there that the King is waiting, dressed in black clothes of a mortal realm.
     Davydd ap Owain stands in the great atrium colonnade that leads to the steps of the palace. There, the pods of salmon and koi swim in the clear-watered pools. Upon the surface of the water are floating flames, candles set within lotus and lilies drifting on the ripples created by the fish. He tosses food to them, watching the multi-colored forms tangle and writhe for the promise of treats.

     The Hunt - each has their own thoughts, their own opinions, shared or unshared. They are not so numerous as once they were. Their exact numbers, a secret - to all but the Hunt itself... and now to the man that calls them.
     It is Peter who stands at their head when again they find land under their feet; Peter, whose voice is apparently the voice of them all. Out of foreknowledge of this king, perhaps - or simple arrangement. His eyes are as blue and grey as his descendant's, and he steps forth with careful feet, feeling each step as if it might be a step out onto nails. "Your Majesty."
     He has come to a halt, the rest of the Hunt arranged behind him. He smiles, and his teeth are white, his smile not quite feral but with a hint of ferocity. "You Called us, and we have come."

     With the final toss of food into the pool, with the thrashing of fish bodies in response, Davydd turns. His hands brush the last crumbs of the pellets away as he takes a few steps forward. "I will make it worth your while to have pulled you together so suddenly," he says, his dark green eyes lighting on each one. Lastly to Mad Peter, their spokesman.
     "I won't beat around the bushel," Davydd notes, and his look is grave. "I have a hunt for you. Among other things," he tacks on, a wave of his hand dismissing that for now. "My first act, in fact... how the Others shall know of me... is with the pursuit of those responsible for the conspiracy and murderous act of magic against Queen Isabel. I am sorry," Davydd turns his attention specifically to Mad Peter, "... for the delay, Peter. But I hope it's better late than never."
     "So... to begin... I came upon this information in a revelation that can only come with death. After several deaths," his mouth quirks at the corners in a sharp smirk, "...I began to get the point..."

     The eyes glitter, but he does not show the depth of his emotions. Not to any man or woman has he ever revealed his full self. Not to his cousin. Not to his lovers. Not even to you, o king. Not unless it is commanded of him. "There have been delays," Peter agrees easily. "Not all of them can be laid at anyone's door, your majesty. You've changed; you're a man of purpose, now."
     He lacks now the sly humour of the trickster archetype, now; now is closer to what he truly is. Something of the hunter, the assassin, the spy that he's always been beneath the buffoon. He stands with ease and confidence, resting his weight lightly, hands empty and at his sides in a show of good faith. And he listens. They all listen, without comment, without judgment. They are not the judges...
     They are sent after judging has been done...

     "The three criminals... you will know them by sight. Grimeral The Glimmering," a familiar, handsome face appears upon the surface of the pool at the wave of Davydd's hand, "...it was his cunning, and his trap, that bound Isabel to her curse and to her Tower. His motive? The triple gaes and agreement that would make him king." Dark green eyes glimmer as he glances to you sidelong, the image of Grimeral rippling and disappearing with the next swish of a fish's tail.
     "Miril was his co-conspirator," Davydd explains, the image of the beautiful but minor noblewoman's face appears next in the pool. "With Ragnell in torpor and Isabel dead, it is only now Hafwen who remains in her way. Hafwen's days... are marked by Miril's ambition. Ambition that was her motive for joining Grimeral. To be his wife, to be his queen."
     That image is soon scattered on the scales of swirling fish. "The Mastermind... the one who coined their ambition into gold..." Fiery eyebrows cock upward. "King Yggsdraisal... making a bid for High Kingship. A gamble that destroying Isabel would cause such distraction and dismay that no one would notice his motions. Perhaps even that I would be destroyed along with her, like a spell that can't live once the magician's dead. This... I haven't seen. I have seen their faces, their hands bloodied. It is possible...likely," he corrects himself, "...that your Hunt will find others who are complicit in The Deed. But these, My Fellows, are the Principle Three."
     There is no Trickster in this King either. He is Judge and Jury. The sentence given. "Bring them to Justice. They are guilty in their hearts, and the Rest should know of it. Deliver the news of their guilt after you have them, then... do with them what Justice demands."
     "Oh... and after you finish that, I'll have other things for you to do. We have napped long enough, My Fellows. Now... now it is time to act..."

     Peter nods. A simple gesture, but he is the current leader of the Hunt - and the Wild Hunt has no need of fancy political speeches, long in wind and short in sense. "As you command."
     The others nod as well. No doubt they will commune with each other, discuss these perpetrators, discuss how best to take them down - but such is not done in front of the king, not without his order. It would be unprofessional.
     "We will go forth," Peter announces, "and capture them. We will take them in the night, and then spread your word, your majesty. We will discover and uncover Truth and make Madam Injustice dance. What else do you bid?"

     "Nothing for now," Davydd says, turning his attention back to the fish. Hazel nuts in his hands, he cracks them and tosses the meat of wisdom into the pool for the fish to feast on. "You are welcome to rest tonight... to drink wine... to plan... there are rooms in the palace for each one of you, and anything your hearts and minds should desire."
     "When you return from your task, we will speak more. I ... will wait for your word on Justice's measure." Pivoting, Davydd gestures toward the palace. "Your deliberations are, as always, your own. You will have privacy within, if you choose."
     Looking lastly to Mad Peter, Davydd smiles a little, just slightly. "Isabel's grandchildren lie within. You may have a look at the new princes if you wish. They are with their mother, Isabel's heir."

     The various members of the Hunt exchange sidelong glances, but it's up to Peter to respond. He nods slowly. "We will take advantage of your generosity, your majesty. Tonight, we rest; tomorrow, we return to the lands beyond."
     The brothers Wolf slip to the edges of the group, then towards the palace. They will find their rooms, and tend to the wounded in their small number.
     Brother Owl and the Silent Maiden withdraw as well - an act of tact, in their way. They have much to discuss, and it has been long years since they have communed with one another.
     Peter is left to face the High King, startlement slightly cracking the tough shell of his facade. "Her heir... I thank you, your majesty, but," he speaks slowly, almost hesitantly, "I fear I must decline. Best she remain in my memory - there should be no temptation for me to call upon the past. By your leave, then - I'll go to my fellows."
     He loved Isabel, after all, even if he was never with her as so many were. And that love has not faded, even if it has fled...

     "You have it," Davydd replies softly. "And when we have dealt with the Past we can finally face our Future. Have a good night, Peter." The High King rests a hand on Peter's shoulder a moment before patting his arm. He steps away.
     "I leave it up to you. I trust you now, as I always have." He pauses. "We should look to Hafwen next. In my dream, Peter, she was dead." Davydd quietly paces away. His thoughts withdraw, turning inward and his eyes follow the drifting flickering flames that float on the clear liquid of the ponds.

Posted by rowan at December 01, 2005 04:35 PM