Yes, this is a bit cryptic; but then, it's supposed to be. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: The Hosting of the Sidhe belongs to W.B. Yeats, much as I wish it was mine.

Dance the Maelstrom

The Host is riding from Knocknarea

And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare,

Caoilte tossing his burning hair

And Niamh calling, Away, come away!

Empty your heart of its mortal dream.

The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,

Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,

Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,

Our arms are waving, our lips are apart:

And if any gaze on our rushing band

We come between him and the deed of his hand:

We come between him and the hope of his heart.

The Host is rushing 'twixt night and day

And where is there hope or deed so fair?

Caoilte tossing his burning hair

And Niamh calling, Away, come away.

Dance

Lightning kissed the lusty sky and howling thunder followed. Raindrops plummeted, hard and fast and frigid. Somewhere, in the dark, a wild beast keened.

Dance

Whirling, spinning, turning, veritable maelstrom. He threw his head backwards, teeth bared against the wind. Water streaked down his face and his cry matched that of the beast. This was untamed: this was fierce: this was ancient:

Dance

Because this was all that was left to him. This was his, his birthright, his legacy. Flashing white, lightning-bright, screamed an equine challenge to his side. He did not hear, at first, through the storm's pulse, nor the saurian roar nor the wild shrill howling. But then, it did not matter, not to the maelstrom.

Dance

Dance and dance and dance, with unicorn and dragon and wolf and thestral. Dance with lightning. What else was left to one who had seen the Host in that time between night and day when Magic itself ran wild? To one who had seen them, every year, every year for two thousand years.

Dance

One hundred years ago, he had not been alone. One hundred years ago, a youth with auburn hair had come at Beltane and Samhain and Midsummer to dance with him, and an avian shriek had joined the roar and the keening and the howls. For one hundred years, there had been two instead of one, and the youth had grown to be the most promising man he had ever seen.

Dance

Dance and dance and dance, with unicorn and dragon and wolf and thestral. The phoenix was gone, and Caoilte's burning hair dimmed to ash and marble. Niamh had called: Away, come away, away! and he had gone, and would never return. And now there was one, once more, to see the Host and to hear their calling.

Dance

Did the maelstrom weep for the phoenix, too?

Review, please? Five points for whoever can guess the identity of one character and fifteen if you can guess both!