The errand done,
The Pooka turns from horse,
to Raven in courser speech,
hungry for more,
excitement surging too loud,
Pooka hushes the crowd,
though not one listened—
until a palace
rose in sight,
and silence fell at last,
so no one would lose their chance.
The building towered, vast and strange—
a hybrid of every age and style.
It looked less like stone than spellwork,
as if some hidden genius
had shaped it for twilight alone,
a palace meant for dreams.
The newborn Fae swarmed the stairway,
a rising flood,
when suddenly the doors gave way—
massive panels gliding open,
light pouring through.
But entry was not yet theirs.
First they must shed
the rags of their old life,
step out of sorrow’s costume,
and dress themselves in wonder.
Led into a chamber,
given new robes—
silks and satins,
cloth that shimmered like dawn.

The Pooka watches, grinning,
as astonishment widens their eyes.
The Raven doles out beauty like mischief,
delighting in their disbelief.
And there, in their borrowed glory,
they laugh for the first time in years.
The Raven, himself adorns cloths,

looking like something out of folklore—
a slim figure in feathers, velvet and satin,
half-raven, half-sprite,
with movements sharp, graceful, unreal.
Beneath a feathered head,
eyes sparkled with mischief,
yet Pooka carries like a page in a royal court,
capable of bowing low or shining bright
in the highest company.

Without a word,
Pooka leads all down a long corridor,
footsteps echoing on marble floors.
following close,
for movements are quick, almost too quick,
a flicker in torchlight, glides through the great hall,
looping and circling like a scout,
until all reached a door
where slipping inside Pooka vanishes,

to request an audience.

Soon the Raven returns, smiling,
mission complete.
“My lords grant you entry, but with conditions:
bring no noise, no discord.
Within these walls there is no room for chaos—
grace is gentle, but will not forgive
a tongue or spirit that shatters the peace.”
All the mortal-born Fae straighten their robes,
still rumpled from the rush,
and step forward in orderly ranks.
From the far end of the hall,
music reaches them—pipes and flutes,
notes that rise and dissolve like breath on glass.
The sound wraps in hearts,
stirring souls,
and carries forward, helpless in its current.
The light changes.
Suddenly the air ablaze
with a brilliance that strikes still,
as if one had stumbled
into an enchanted cave.
Golden lamps glow,
casting fire on stone.
Above, a dome rises vast as the sky,
a marvel of architecture—
a space so large,
so overwhelming,
that all shrink inside it,
silenced by awe.
The walls shimmer with tapestry—
threads of amber,
woven with impossible detail.
Fairy hands must have worked these images,
for no mortal needle could hold such life.

The crowd would have lingered longer,
gazing at each scene
as if inside a living canvas,
but a trumpet of summons rang out.
The Raven marshals them swiftly;
there is no choice but to obey.

Eager now,
they hastened forward—
proud to be welcomed
as honored guests
of a Lord who was both
king and sage.

There, upon high thrones,
sit the Lords.
Fae Graces stand on either side,
Fae maidens at the feet.
Upon the brow
a crown of stars burn bright,
Laurels circle temples,
and sky-blue tunics cloth,
over these, a robe of saffron,
light as summer air.
Around lay the tools of art—
instruments whose voices
could awaken enchantment,
the harp above all,
its strings catching the soul.
Masks for comedy and tragedy,
the lyric, the pastoral,
the song of epic minds,
all scattered like offerings.
Here is culture itself,
alive and waiting.

The murmurs carry like delight,
as if a promise of joy
passes hand to hand, waits breathless,
spirits brightening
as dawn brightens
a horizon once wrapped in dark.