I had agreed to interrupt our discussion in order to deal with the dead, it would have been counterproductive to continue, and I had plans to see to the needs of the dead, anyway. The Sidhe had gathered those that died during yesterday’s battle and stacked them like cordwood in a tight formation, placing Lord Thomas on top. Enough wood had been gathered that a funeral pyre was possible, but there would be no need for fire to destroy the bodies of these Sidhe.

The Summerland was real, and it was time for the Sidhe of this world to be shown the grace and peace of our rightful inheritance, the respite that the Sidhe afterlife offered. We were promised an afterlife of idle reflection, an afterlife of days with unending peace, where we could heal. I would see that promise kept and part the veil between life and death so those that had lost their lives could find their way to that final rest.

For some Sidhe, death was a beginning. They decided to forgo the Summerlands, to instead take their chances on the river of reincarnation and hope for a new life, a better life. But for most, they chose the promise of security and peace the Summerlands offered. I don’t know why the Sidhe of this planet had been denied that egress, but I would see it established.

What I planned might not have been possible if Caraid had not been made flesh. But he was. And even given flesh, this carnation did nothing to diminish who he was. He was the voice in my head, the person I trusted for advice and honesty, the other half of my soul. But he was also a member of the Hunt. An extension of the power of Summerland and Fairy. He was not Gwyn ap Nudd, but all Huntsmen were linked, and I believed I could use the connection that existed between him and Gwyn ap Nudd to serve as a conduit between this world and the Sidhe afterlife.

Those gathered, those still alive and mourning or relieved that one of their loved ones hadn’t died, had begun singing the funeral dirge. Words and songs as old as time. The Sidhe expression of honor and respect. Of despair and pain. A ritual that memorialized the passing and extinguishing of Sidhe's lives. The expression of loss made more because they were a people created to ignore the ravages of death.

We were Sidhe, and Sidhe were Immortal. Death was anathema to us as a people. The ravages of time and aging had never been our concern. The passing of so many lives in yesterday’s battle was more than a waste. It was a loss of such epic consequences that a funeral dirge was almost an insult to the dead. The emotions were genuine; the pain was real, but the words were small comfort for those that had laid down their Immortality to protect the rest.

As they sang, I began casting, using sympathetic magic as well as spells to affect the change I envisioned. I would tie the magic of this world with the reality of the Summerlands. I used the ritual from the dirge as a link, the sympathetic connection I needed to construct the spell I needed. A spell that was gifted to every Sidhe on Talahm. A way to open a portal to the Summerlands.

I used my connection to Caraid to guide my intent. Opening the portal, I reached through that connection, through Caraid, and touched upon the [Power] of the Hunt to bridge the gap and open a way into the Summerlands. I tethered that connection between the here and there, using myself as an anchor and pulled.

[Fairy] did not exist in this world, the Summerlands did not exist, Gwyn ap Nudd was a myth to scare children. There were shades of magic, places like Underhill that came close, but there was a missing spark, part of Dream made Real that gave [Fairy] life, a vital connection that was missing.

That spark of creation, gifted with the blessing of the Tuatha de Danann, gave rise to the Sidhe. That tie between our people and magic that honored [Fairy] and recognized it as the touchstone of our creation. It was said on Talahm that as long as the fey existed, Fairy existed. That these small motes of magic were the stuff that tied dream to reality.

This world had no fey, and because they lacked those motes of life and magic, something was missing from the Sidhe. They must have existed at some point, the Sidhe could not have existed without them, but the extinguishing of their magic had to have been linked to the loss of fey. I was certain that [Fairy] had existed here, on this planet, at one time. It was my belief that [Fairy] had died when that last light, the final fey, had dimmed and died.

As ritual continued, I funneled my magic into widening that bridge, building a connection between this world and the Sidhe promise of the Summerlands. And as the magic firmed, and the bridge was established, a [Portal] opened. Not the shimmering nothingness of void that I had grown to expect, but a rippling image of glamour and illusion that revealed the Summerlands and what it offered.

For those gathered, the dirge died. The ripples in the magical aether resonating and expanding as the connection that had always existed, the point between this world and the Summerlands was made manifest. The veil was pierced, and everywhere that Sidhe had fallen, the portal opened.

And it called the dead home.

All the dead.

Every Sidhe that had ever lived and died.

Each person that had been lost to the ravaged of limbo. Sidhe that had held out against dissolution for the prospect of Summerlands. Those that had refused to accept reincarnation. Those that had been trapped, neither awake nor asleep, but souls lost to limbo. Souls tormented and trapped in that plane of nothingness were finally woken and welcomed.

The Summerlands beckoned them, called them home, and the dead responded.

Souls with bodies long returned to the earth given shape and form. Ethereal bodies of substance forming for all to see. Everywhere a Sidhe had died, everywhere their souls had languished in agony and limbo, they formed, and embraced the welcome the Summerlands was offering.

For those here, those that had been stacked like driftwood, the body and soul joined, and they rose, restored and healthy. This faux life was only possible because they had accepted the Summerlands offer and would retreat from the world of the living.

For a few, there was a moment of tenderness. A moment of pause where they confronted those they would leave behind. A chance to say one last goodbye. Lord Thomas availed himself of this last chance and reached out, touching the face of Lady Clarice, her body racked with sobs.

His touch some comfort to a woman that had been lost to despair. Her tear streak face, framing eyes opened wide in wonder and hope. Hope that he would live again doomed to be denied. There would be no second chance at reconciliation. No fairy tale ending. The dead could not linger, and while they could speak, this opening of Summerlands drew them, urged them to forget about the living and embrace that final peace.

That Lord Thomas had been able to offer even that amount of comfort was only possible because he was so newly dead. He hadn’t suffered the ravages of time, lost to limbo. He hadn’t been dead long enough to forget who he had been. Still, even he was compelled to enter the portal I had opened. A portal that would serve as a beacon, a place that offered release and hope.

The living watched in wonder as one Sidhe after another accepted that gift the Summerlands offered and entered. It didn’t matter where you were on the planet. If you were born Sidhe, you were able to see this portal. You were able to give testament, to witness this event. Even those Sidhe who had retreated Underhill experienced this migration of souls.

There was no gatekeeper, no person standing in judgment, no barrier that would deny one of the dead from entering. The Summerlands was open to every Sidhe, no matter race or rank, no matter if they had lived a life of good or evil. That was the beauty of the Summerlands. A place of idle and wonder, of acceptance and respite. A place without judgment and strife.

I watched as the missing fey that I had guessed must have existed sometime in the past, the spark of Fairy that had once connected this world and Fairy, joined the legion of dead and accepted the kindness of the Summerlands. And as I strengthened the connection between there and here, I summoned the Wild Magic.

As it stirred to answer that summons, I commanded those energies. I begged a boon from those Wild Magics. I am King Teigh Mac de Beleros y Cyronax. I am blessed by Danu. I had healed the breach between Seelie and Unseelie. I had called the Cernunnos into life. I had freed our people. I had restored the Volar-fey. I am beloved of the Wild Magic. And I would heal these people.

I would see Fairy restored, magic rekindled, and the Sidhe given a chance to save themselves. And as I danced within the embrace of the Wild Magic, it responded. Magics of earth, forest, and sky stirred at my behest. The Wild Magic answered my unspoken request, and a choice was offered.

For those fey that had yet to accept the Summerland’s blessing and pass through, a choice to rekindle their spark of magic and restore Fairy to this world. A choice to restore balance was given.

They would live again, these small sparks of Wild Magic. And as they lived, they would anchor Fairy to this World.

Not resurrected, but reborn.

Dochas meant hope in the original Sidhe language. And these fey would be imbued with hope as a word of power. They would be born the Dochas-Fey. Hope’s Fey. This new race of Demi-fey, the Wild Magics gift to this world.