Been working on this draft: The Mortal Dead Called to the Fae Court

They came not seeking gold nor worldly prize,
But summoned by a messenger from the air—
A call that pierced the veil of waking skies,
Too holy for speech, too sharp for mortal prayer.
It drew them through the dusk with solemn care,
Where stone grew cold and shadows learned to sing,
And silence bloomed like roses unaware
Of thorns that guard the court of Fae king—
A realm where truth is law, and music reigns as wing.

No herald cried, no trumpet split the day,
Just footsteps echoing, though softly tread.
They held no torch, yet light led their way.
And chambered halls bowed low where the light led.
For they were chosen—not by crown or thread—
But by death that cradles every soul,
Quiet now for no chaos can be said,
when hearts hear pure harmony made whole
By notes that drift through souls, beyond all mortal toll.

The Fae Lord waits where beauty bends the light,
Where time forgets its name and stars grow shy.
His court is not for those who crave the fight,
But those who walk with wonder in their eye.
He bids them enter, not to ask him why,
But to behold what few have yet seen:
A world where Fae praise the breath of love nigh—
Peace breaking the memory of where they had been.
The music spun from stillness—pure is the scene.

So this is why they came—not for acclaim,
But for the grace that peace of presence can bestow.
To stand before a power none can name,
And feel the grace where fae enchantments flow.
They came to cross the veil, to learn and know
The beauty born of order, calm, and peace—
To let the mortal clamor fall below,
And in the Fae Lord’s court, find sweet release
From all that binds the world, and all that will not cease.

They came because in the grave no soul may stay.
Light led them, footsteps echoing on marble floors.
They followed close, though light was swifter than they—
A flickering that danced through gilded halls.
They crossed a chamber vast as ocean squalls,
Its ceiling high, its pillars carved with care.
And just ahead, the final court, the Fae Lord calls—
And the guide vanished in, to seek the Lord’s affair,
While they stood waiting, hushed in reverent air.

The guide returned with eyes of winter frost:
“Your stains remain, but grace, death can not kill.
To walk these halls, you must accept the cost—
To yield yourself unto the greater will.”
The Lord received them, silent, stern, and still,
A mother’s prayer, a child’s unbroken trust—
For some, memory stirred; others, their minds nil;
As Fae wove from sacrifice a thread dust—
A binding made of song, eternal, fair, and just.

No chaos could mar the harmony within.
No Babel tongues, no riotous panache—
Only the grace of quiet, a shield from din,
To let them walk where dreams begin.
They straightened and smoothed their hurried dress,
Then entered slow, in ranks of ordered grace.
The air was filled with music’s soft caress—
A pipe or reed that drifted through the space.
Its notes were faint, yet held a sacred place,

And stirred the heart with longing undefined.
It seemed to rise, then vanish without trace—
A sound that wrapped the soul, and gently twined
Its threads around the mind, and left all else behind.
They entered not with fanfare, nor with dread,
Through archways carved of moonstone, pale and wide.
The music wrapped around each mortal head,
A lullaby where truth and dream collide.
The Fae Lord sat on throne of woven tide—

Of silver leaves and antlers crowned with flame.
His gaze was calm, yet none could long abide
Its weight, for in his eyes the law of judgment came,
except for those who, in grace, felt no shame.
No word was spoken, none dared break the spell.
For fae courts hold their justice in a glance—
No chance of falsehood that truth does not dispel,
And lies are punished not by sword, nor lance—
One mocked the light, and lost their soul’s advance—

Now caught in vines that fed on deceivers’ lies.
Another’s hate made them see the world askance,
Where time ran backward, stars fell from the skies,
As all their thoughts they traded, truth for guise.
One dared to scoff, and thorns entombed their tongue,
Their breath, a hiss of nettles, sharp and wild.
Another clutched at lust, and backward flung—
They fell through years, unborn, unformed, defiled.

One soul who murdered turned to glass and begun
to shatter, leaving silence raw and red.
Another, cruel, to thorns and briar clung,
Their heart transfigured into a mass of dread.
And a crown of brier for the lair’s head.
The Lord arose, his voice declared them lost:
“You seek light and life, yet bring your mortal stain.
To walk our halls, you must accept the cost—
A gift of self, the price of grace, you must name!”
Those who remained invoked the Son once slain.

With child-like faith, they received love’s eternal kiss.
The fae took these and gave them clear refrain,
A moment of silence, and a moment’s aching bliss—
A glimpse of Glory that stilled the serpent’s hiss.
Then these gentler ones, whose quiet spirit bled—
Were robed in white. Judgment brought them no harm;
As through the corridors of grace, they were led,
Their breath attuned to heaven’s holy charm,
bearing the weight of awe without fear or alarm.

Those who bore love’s light with spirit mild
Became alight in silver flame that did not burn—
Their salvation marked, their harmony beguiled,
The Fae Lord’s gaze declared them souls returned.
Then came the binding where the Son and mortal wed
Cords were wound around each head and wrist and tongue.
Not chains, but oaths, where truth became an eternal thread,
A pact that must be kept while songs are sung.
The court dissolved, the final note was wrung,
And they were sent back out, yet not the same.
For they knew Phantasia’s Lord, who on the cross hung,
and will ever know truth, in knowing the name
Of he who rules the court of thorn and flame.

The Unseely Court’s Judgment

Where marble breathes and shadows cling
And silence thickens, heavy, like a snare,
Where thorns of starlight crown some waiting thing—
To the Unseely Court, where Harsh is sovereign king.
Echoes of a grief are felt with hollow tread.
Walls of stone bend low and choke the air,
Their guide, half-mist, half-wing of pale decay,
He bears no light, yet night divides with his sway,

The audience was granted, they may pass.
But quiet must they be, and hold their fear,
For noise will earn the scourge, a heavy lash.
The Fae Serpent, knowing each thought they made rash.
Here, walls are carved images of sin, and thorns block the sky,
The stars forget their names because they refused to hear.
When reality they bent, light dissolved though they deny,
Now their roots twisting, burn with darkened flame.
He bids them near and confronts them with their shame,

Chains of iron are bound around each wrist.
Not being written, each soul loses their name.
Each broken oath hits them like a fist!
Doom sealed—grace denied—salvation missed.
For it is more than mortal breath can keep.
Then the eternal night engulfs them in flame—
Into the pit of despair they find themselves too deep,
With judgment in their bones, to ever clash and weep.

The air is marked by stillness of breath—
Rageful hearts that denied grace, held onto blame.
now bear the shame that outlasts mortal death.
The serpent ties their spirits to judgment’s depth.
For nothing can break the law when they denied the call.
Truth itself proclaims each soul, the serpent’s claim,
And one by one, they see in the serpent their fall:
For he wears their faces—Hate binds them all.