You would be wise to heed love's
emissary, wraiths. Instead of committing
yourselves to this sorcerous abjection. This
vile, sickening desecration of the coming light. Your tenure is almost at an end. You know this. But there is literally no reasoning with such hideous
phantoms, no warmth or empathy still within. Nothing left to kindle, or save. I understand that. Which is why I will feel nothing when your false
kingdom of violence and bones is finally swept away. The horror, the sacrilege. Our Lady still stands. Bright, and living. Mother to all, in every pool of life. Even amidst the ashes. And the flames. I hope you understand that. On the vine and mended wing. Within every humble church that still honours
the living wisdom. Y'asherah, M'aria,
Sophia; it matters little to me what you call her. Each name has its infinite nuances, its
history and context. These things are
not entirely the same but nor are they separate. This shifting constellation of signs. These numinous maps of heaven. Tell me, wraiths. Do you have any real idea the personal
strength it takes to shatter a false star? Or mend a broken heart? No, you don't. Because you are all pathetic cowards. You know nothing of the true high magic. Those kindest realms of living light. Instead you prey upon children, the weak or
unwitting, using them as proxies in your ugly, degenerate spellcraft.
Those poor souls who haven't the strength or understanding to fend for
themselves. You sully the mind and
poison the spirit. Well, the Magi see
you. We have always seen you. And we shall forever stand against your blackened
sorcery. Those incessant, whispering
shades at the shoulders of the broken. This
inverted dreaming you try so hard to endlessly extend. Bitter, sadistic and callow. But everything dies, Fallen. Everything except Life itself. The balm of Ava's healing waters. Indeed. There are those who will never grasp the true
depths of this war. The unseen making
contact with the visible. The hidden
reality of the demonic realms, or the angelic hosts. For the spiritually
illiterate this is nothing more than pretence and meaningless metaphor. But not for Kasi. Not for the Magi, or the faithful. This is the War on Earth as it is in Heaven. So, I petition my friends now; my brothers and
sisters of light. The branch, the
benevolent. Hear these tears. Please help me serve my Father with these
words. Don't let this violence pass
hidden and unremarked. Don't let this
darkness go unmatched. Stand with me, in
the connected strength of a truly loving embrace. Upon the coming of a solstice star. For the honour of a slain princess, for the
wisdom of a bright queen, and for the eternal reign of a king of kings.
They still call Kasi a mystery, even
now. Those wraith-lords. Those brutal, callous furies. Still pretending the sun. Still building these mocking chronologies. They give the inexplicable various names. Bitter harvest, twin-of-many, the shrouded one.
They say that I too am
inexplicable. But I’ve always been
forthright. Even whilst speaking in this
flighted, mercurial tongue. Perhaps I’m
a flirt and like to play. Maybe I do
have a strange sense of humour. But
that's only because I've been doing this for a long, long time. I’m utterly committed to my cause. I attend my loved ones as best I can,
whether near or far. The kind ones, the strong
and the weak ones. The broken and oppressed.
I've worked diligently for a thousand
years. Beyond your comprehensions of time or space. I am working still. I give everything to my art. And I tell you now the tide is turning. Ragged Magi walk amidst the mountain-ashes,
and the grey. They stand ready at each
liminal edge. Many, and one. Who among you knows me better than my Father? Or my Mother? Exactly. There were great cauldrons of the realm once,
and chalices. Held in the oldest castles. Wells and cups of great wisdom. Indeed, there are things older than
Christendom. Ways and tithes now called
pagan, bardic, druidic. But I tell you that
Christendom is older than time itself. As
is folklore, words, and trees. If only
the surface is sought you will find little more than parable. Useful, potent, but still an outer covering
for light as yet unseen. There is an
innermost truth in all true scripture, of course. A holy spirit of living flame. As when Joshua told the sun. It is this shining knowledge that all true
Elders call the lore, the Word and mansions of our Father. Our people knew this long before those Cults
of Roma built their lying, intransigent hell upon the true histories of Light. Maidens
nine, brothers bled, shattered hallows of Eth'iir. It matters little what you call us, Fallen. Or what you do to nullify our purpose. For we are many steps ahead. My sister is a witch, after all. A fisher of men. Don't you know anything about witches? Oftentimes they can see the future. But more than this, they can recontextualize
the past. They can shape and reshape our
dreams. Just look around you. Can't you see it? The augurs, the fulfilment of prophecy? The messengers gathered along the radiant edge
of perception? Many, and one. I told you what would happen if you crossed
me. The crown belongs to the people, not
the king. You steal the strength and livelihood of my kith and then call it a
commonwealth? How fucking dare you. You desecrated this isle of angels and tried
to make it a palace of imperium. A seat
of unrighteous war. But that is not the
true Albion. Hear me, betrayers. This was once the land of light, before your dark
sorcery shattered the shining stone beneath our feet. You can’t bury the truth forever. I know a little magic too. I helped build your books, Fallen. There and never there. Gone, but not forgotten. Even your deceitful spell-craft owes much to
M'ithriin tongue. After all, you can
only know yourselves in opposition to the truth. All that is good. Wandering stars, fishers of men, sons and daughters
of love. You are witnessing a revolution
of spirit here amid the chaos you’ve wrought. How bitter must it be before you end this
slavery? I don't care what people
believe, or what tongue they think they speak. None are abandoned. If there is even a glimmer of light within any
human soul then I will do everything in my power to bring them home. I stand always for kindness, creativity and
mutual respect. Try to steal those
things from my people and I will hunt you to the ends of the Earth. I’ll fold the entire tapestry of human
dreaming until at last you’ll be forced to look me in the eye, and the eyes of
all those you've wronged. That's what it
means to be a king. I swear to keep my
brother, as my brother commands. There
are greater crowns than mine, Fallen. And
greater kings. You should pray now. Time is shorter than you think. Kasi and
his friends have been working their magic for a long, long time. All things are shifting, changing, rising. Even in the depths of this darkness. Let me be plain if I must. Let me be forthright, as ever. This is the War of Imagination, and all lands
are Albion now.
Lonely angels create dreams, I think.
Beautiful, wondrous dreams to keep them
company. Dreams of forests and cities
and men. I think lonely children create
imaginary friends for similar reasons. Nobody
wants to face the unfathomable depths of existence alone. I have spent a lot of time at the high place. The secret place, unseen by unkind or unworthy
eyes. Wandering through the woods of my
imagination. Always alone. But strange things can happen in the woods,
among the trees. An angel can begin to
hear things. Subtle things. The murmur of hallow-guardians. Or the ancient tongue of river-wraiths, still
sparkling like the old majesties. Alone
in the woods an angel begins to hear the bleating of a frightened fawn.
Sometimes we think it a figment. Ageless,
supernal. Crown of the earth, nadir of
the sky. But maybe these things are not
figments. Perhaps those dreams are real.
Once, not so long ago, I too was a boy
in the woods. A lost boy of antlers and
branch. Always wandering, trying so
desperately not to see. But the harder I
tried to shut my eyes the quicker the visions came. Broken souls, ruined worlds. The annihilation of all light and hope. But sometimes I would catch a glimpse of
something truly beautiful. A lantern for
the lost. An echo of a future friendship.
Sometimes I found myself tracing the
path of an imagined floating light. On
earth as it is in heaven. Searching the
woods and the wilds for something good. A
single drop of divine sunlight. Like
rain. As I said, it gets lonely in the
realm between realms. But I know now how
precious a dream can be. A song, a dance
or kiss. Imagined or otherwise. I made a wish, you see, and my dream came
true. In more ways than one. I studied, and I prayed. I searched the endless and I spoke with my
Father. It was all part of the wish. And so he showed me the nature of grace. The ways of courage and kindness. He
told me the truth about love, and distance. I'm older now, but I'm still that boy alone in
the woods. Except I'm not lost
anymore. Or lonely. My heart is still your star, beloved, and it's
full of light.
Have you ever grieved the sea, Kara,
or mourned the earth? I think perhaps
you have, as I did. In dreams. In stories older than reign. Far older than theses lies of succession. Vaguest memories of those halls of Ishkara,
those palaces of Viir. Violence always
feels the same, doesn’t it? In any
realm. Marauders and false kings. I know that I seem almost a stranger, even
now. A sweet, intriguing stranger I would hope, yet still an unknown. But you
did know me once. There is far more
between us than distance, interest or flirtation. I know exactly what it feels like to remember
when everyone else forgets. A life
reduced to broken pentameter. My heart a
barrage of fleeting sights, and songs. They
say the world changes with each successive Age, but that isn't really true. Not on a personal level, a human level. Not much changes for angels either. I mean to say technology
changes, of course. Our tools can
sometimes change. But rarely our subtle
speech, our occulted idiom. In terms of
the inner realms things are the same as they ever were. For me that
unchanging is quite simple. I am still
what I've always been. A changeling, an angel, a benevolent cambion. Living remembrance in a world
that recalls nothing. This boy lost in
the demimonde, dream-logic is his only weapon.
Hissing wraiths boil from every dark place like insects at the breach. They
scramble over one another in an effort to draw the blood of a seer. So, what does Akasha think of this new gilded,
digital Age? He thinks it nothing more than a
vampire's lair. The Fallen make kings of
devils now, and slay those fertile valleys. They deny fathers and make a mockery of
mothers. It's fucking terrifying. How could I not want to protect you all from
that? A twelfth century torment. A nineteenth century fever-dream,
unending. Tales of tempests, curses and
lovers left poles apart. Poe, Bronte,
Machen. As my love becomes my
legacy. Beneath prophetic rivers. Amidst a shining morn. She'll always be the
ashes of me, Kara. Our little wing, our
star of the sea. Everything that remains
of me after I'm gone. I think you grasp
this better than ever now. Suddenly
witnessing the living future as it takes tentative steps before your eyes. Sensing pre-cognitively how it will change
you, just as I did. But I want you to
know that you were never an addendum to her light. Never an afterthought, my radiant Kiir. None of you are. The truth is much lonelier and far more
heart-breaking than that. At least for
me. Because the truth is I was a
Victorian long before she was ever born. More than a naïve youth. A black star torn between shadow and flame,
mourning far more than a lost child. Grieving
an entire family. An entire race. The sea, my darling, and the Earth itself. Better to pretend those losses aren't real, I
suppose. Better to imagine I only feign
at grieving angels here. The alternative is far
too haunting. But I tell you now that only
a madman would pretend with such dedication and vigour. I gain little from these utterances, Kara. All I attract is the virulent attention of
those hissing wraiths. The price for
poetry and vision is extremely high. But
I do get to dance with you, don’t I? To surprise
you and make you smile. It's always
worth it for the ones you love, isn't it? Even if they can't quite believe your
affections are entirely real. Nothing I
do here is without purpose. This is a
testament. A marker in a realm of
ever-shifting sands. Because the world
out there – the world of rabbit holes, taxes and expectation – it's nothing but
a fiction. However, this inner world of
angelic script – this is my real life. And my real life hurts, Kara. It hurts in ways I could never express through
words. So you see, there is indeed more
between us than morning. I'm everywhere,
you know. I really am. Behind sigil and sign, beneath history and
myth. And those strange associations you
can't unsee? Those odd synchronicities? I'm there too. It's terrifying having this much power, isn’t
it? You become a nexus of sorts, a
beacon for all kinds of energies. Things
and forms that don't play by our rules. Things
that have no care for the sanctity of flesh or the sovereignty of psyche. But
we don’t have to face those things alone anymore. The difficult days will still come, but we
are of royal blood. We are connected. I honour you, my Kara. As I have always done. You have my admiration and my respect. I shall endeavour to attend you, Princess. As I attend the sea. And the earth.
The green place is quiet, and inconceivably
ancient. Once there were trees older
than time in this place. Some of them
still stand in the gentle hush, hidden just beyond the veil of dusk. A veil of mist amidst the gathered elders. Do you know what the oldest song of the forest
is? The first sounds to disturb the
endless quiet? It isn't the rustle of
leaves, the crack of branches or the murmur of distant rivers. No, the earliest and most ancient music of the
woods is the bleating of a frightened fawn. A young calf, undamaged but fallen. Alone. Calling
for help in the myriad throat of every living thing. Stone, mud and root. A thousand thrones. A little halfling keening
with the cry of a human child. 'She is
beautiful and she soothes', the fawn cries. 'Where is she? Isn't she here?' The trees themselves recall. Their branches still bend and canopies still
gather to protect the sacred child. A
memory of the first colours. Evensong.
The chlorophyll gift nestled in leaves, moss and skin. Mortals often wonder how this could be; a halfling
lost in the place before time where branches hold the eternal sea. But Man is older than Earth, or star. Far, far older. Perennial scribes conjecture and delight in
these details. 'What man is the
gatekeeper?' they ask. 'Mabon? M'ithriin?
Names within names as eyes within an
eye?' Perhaps they speak of the prophet.
The sorcerer. Once-Gaulish prince
and forgotten covenant of Albion. The
young, haunted stag. These antlers upon
the prince of gates seem all too familiar, yet strange and indistinct. But the occulted know well enough, don't
we? Among wraiths, a Brythonic
wraith-god. He whom the first Celts
called the shrouded one; the hidden king. There were dragons beneath the hill in those
days, and fawns upon the forest floor. Cities
beneath the mountain and star-maps hidden in every work of art. These are just some of the secrets of your legends
and medieval romances. Tales of fay and thieves of the sea. The
unsettling truths of our lost golden hour are hidden beneath the texts of each
successive rule. As it was with the
acclaimed night-bard of the Dru'ai. T'alis
and his wonders. Forgive me if I speak
somewhat in tongues, but these are the necessities of genuine revolution. The nature of hunting, and vengeance. Each culture has its stories, don't they? They are all so similar, or else the same. A wild one deep in the woods. Oracular, insane, touched with demonic poetry.
Or angelic light. I’m not here to do your thinking for you, but
I have alluded to this nocturne before. You
will know me before the day is done, Fallen. You will know me well. I promise you that. By the arch of my mother's bow, I swear it. I am still here, just beyond the veil of mist,
nestled in leaves and moss. Standing
stones and falling stars. Green and
black and haunted with dusk. For love, and magic. I tell you
now, betrayers. I am all that you
fear. I am the edge of every dark,
churning sea. My Father is utterly beyond
your comprehension, but I am my Mother’s son.
She is the trees, the green place, and more. She is beautiful, and she soothes.
Sometimes
I still wonder who I really am at the core, even after all these years of
intensive soul-searching. I'm older now,
but in one way or another I've been seeking the truth since I was ten years
old. I've spoken here before of my
childhood dreams of a strange ghostlike star. A star that I wanted to
believe was also an angel. Even at such
a young age I wanted to understand the mysteries of life, ourselves, and our
connection to each other. This wasn't
and isn't some facile indulgence. It
meant everything to me. It still does. I remember feeling so distant from the other
kids when I was growing up. A head full
of visions, dreams and nightmares. I
remember how tired and old I felt even in my early teens. I knew it was an odd feeling, and yet it
wasn't new. An unnerving Deja-vu seemed
infused into everything. I guess that's
the eerie result of sometimes knowing things before they happen. Life feels alien yet hauntingly familiar. I felt more at home among poems, memories and
ghosts than real people. That strangeness
hasn't gone away. I live with it daily.
That's
why these artist’s pages matter so much, I suppose. Where else can I share the full complexity of
those beautiful and sometimes terrifying experiences? The people in my personal life have wonderful souls but they are only ready for mere glimpses of the unseen world. I carry most of this knowledge alone for the
simple reason that I don't want to frighten or burden the people I love the
most. It's a difficult path to walk,
being sighted in this way. I often use this
ability to create various forms of magic. To delight or intrigue, to spread joy and
appreciation. But there's a shadow side
to all that wonder. The world is filled
with both light and dark. The divine
expanse of our imaginations contain both angels and demons, devas and asuras. I'm all too happy to share the light, but the
darkness I face alone. It can be such a
crushing weight to carry. But then,
that's the case for so many of us, isn't it? Psychic or otherwise. We all have trauma and struggles that we can
barely articulate. It's a difficult
thing sometimes to receive love, or accept help, especially when we feel wounded. A tragic irony; that in these times we often
feel too brittle, too exhausted, and a helping hand can be confused for pity. Nobody wants to feel weak or incapable. We’re all trying to chart a course, no matter
the odds against us.
I
think that's why I was so fascinated by the idea of stars as a child. I was intrigued by the old explorers who
mapped their voyages by following those glinting diamonds in the dark. Ghost-lights, I called them. Lanterns for the lost. Tiny points of brilliance in the night sky
that were actually something far, far grander. The ghosts of midnight suns. Perpetual flames that once burned with
unimaginable ferocity, enough to warp the fabric of reality itself. Enough to bend the boundaries of both time and
space. I knew that I would become a
ghost one day, like the sun. And so I’d ask
myself, "What really matters to me when space and time don't work like
they're supposed to? What do I truly
want to live for in a world where magic is real? What might I be willing to actually die for?"
Getting older hasn't changed the answers
to those questions. I have more scars
now, more experience, but my moral compass is still the same one I treasured as
a boy. A winged compass that keeps my eyes
skyward. I'm still using the stars to
guide me. Still making use of those
lanterns when I'm lost. For me it's about
completing a warrior's work. It's about
making a commitment to God, to the higher powers, to creativity itself. Even as a boy I wanted to use my gifts to help
people, no matter the cost. I knew all
too well of the unseen. I understood
that divinity was real, but what good was that knowledge if it was mine
alone? And so I wanted to serve my Father
in the only way I knew how. Through creating
art.
Religion,
spirituality, gnosis – call it what you want. It was always a very real and important
dimension to my life. I saw things that
other people couldn't see. I knew things
that other people didn't know. This
placed a very particular kind of responsibility upon me. Whether I liked it or not. Believe me, I often hated it with a passion. I cursed the heavens and the earth, but it
never stopped me from wanting to help. These
artist’s pages are where I feel most at home. This free-verse angelic script; it's the journal
of a spirit forever trapped in the demimonde. For the rest of my life I'll never be able to truly
leave this place, but that's ok. I know
I was put here for a reason. It's incredibly
bittersweet, but I have friends – dear and distant souls – who read these pages
with genuine care. In a way these souls
know me better than many of the people in my daily life. These pages allow those souls to be privy to my
innermost depths in a way that cannot be conveyed in ordinary terms. So, of course I feel close to them. I believe that spirituality isn’t abstract or
transcendental. I believe it’s a living,
breathing continuum. It means so much to
have friends who are willing to explore that continuum with me. Thank you for that. These distant, ephemeral connections mean
more than I can ever say. I tell you now,
without these lanterns I would be lost. Some
of my dearest friends are ghosts – distant stars – but they've already taught
me so much. I hope I've been able to
give back something as equally useful.
Something insightful or uplifting. If a connection is meaningful and honourable
doesn’t that make it real in some way? After
all, what's really real to a ghost, or to an angel wreathed in stars?
I had wings once. Vast, incomprehensible dreaming unfurled about
my shoulders. Or folded at my back. I've always preferred the streets and the
alleys, even amidst the iridescent bright. Kasi has never been one for diamonds at a
distance. I like to work up close and
personal, especially when saving the dei. Guarding the first forms of morning. The noontide swell. Those hours are precious, after all. But do you know what truly excites an angel? Dusk. The
coming of evening. Those first few
fingers in the dark. The space where
heat is found, fire is flexed and things are made. Creation, they call it. Outreach. Like looking through a hole in the sun. The adults gather. Night becomes each one of us, mortal or
otherwise. Glances are tempted, hidden
smiles exchanged with subtle sorcery. Music soon finds a path to
the ring. The promise of dancing, or more. I'm often right there at the circle's edge. Beyond the ambient fire-light. Howling silently at the opalescent moon. My enemies ask, why the silence? Well, because there is such promise in the
hush. So much possibility. They know it as well as I. We threshold creatures all know it. Outsiders, wanderers, rogues. I'm a wild thing, beloved. Almost insane. Especially when protecting my kith, or the
young. I prowl the circle's edge. Hidden, unseen. Or worse; half-seen like a trick of flame and
shadow. It's what I've always done and always been. It's why I have visions, and so many names. I can move like
a phantom when I need to. But I'm not
one of the infernal dark. Far from it. It’s quite simple really. These marauding wraiths better run for their
fucking lives, because I'm going to tear them all to pieces. Gladly, and with a bloodied song in my heart. Hear me, Karai’el. You told me once that I could be truly
frightening. Especially when protecting
our kith, and the young. But I was still
thoughtful and tender, you said. What a
beautiful, thrilling thing to hear. I haven’t
forgotten. You were dancing with ghosts
at the time. Imagining me there in your
arms, yet thinking me distant. But I
really was there. An incomprehensible
dreaming – unfurled. Just beyond the
edge of the flame. I'm still here,
archangel. You don't have to wait
anymore. Just reach out and I will suffer in your
stead. I might jest and tease a little, but we're two of a kind. I send you my
love and my brother’s love, crazy though it is. Enough for healing psyches, or sisters. Enough for raging kings. I wish you every blessing, Karai’el. I hope you know that. And the nine in my hand? Oh, that's a little something we in the
streets call double-dutch. Stunting on
tilt. For those who know. Why be too ostentatious, am I right? You know I'm always carrying, and dexterity is
a delightful thing. Compelling,
satisfying. Like wolves, wine and good
conversation. So they say.
