I often think perception
is the strangest of all pastimes. You
have to be a little crazy to endure it, and death is no respite. It dwells beyond translation. Transcendental and frighteningly pure. There is nothing in all Creation that demands more
of sentient beings. Endless, and without
end. Sometimes it's like looking into a perfect
mirror, or a glass darkly. Like cracks in
a mask of porcelain. The veins of an
insect's wing. All those untempered
schisms. Delicate and furious. Rhythm and races. Face after face, from star to habitable star. Perception is a little like walking across the
surface of the sun. Dreams of shining,
incalculable mass.
The
gravity of angels.
Mapmakers
and seraphs and the skins of a billion worlds. Knowing this, experiencing this, I can only
laugh when the Fallen offer their books of lies and false howlings. Pages of shit, bound in ugly leathers. Dead, defiled and defiling. Listen to me, wraith-makers. If you dare.
Inversion is no great sorcery. Cruelty
never is. You are not wolves, of any
description. None of you. You have scant knowledge of true wilderness or
true civilisation. All you know are the
lies of your dead, fetid pages. Hear me
now, if you can. You are slow-witted and
dull. Just as I explained. What do you grasp, really, of truth or story? You grasp nothing. You understand only these basest chronologies,
these hideous tempests passing now for history. Where you bind and sell the innocent, and
crown the most violent wraiths. You
desire flesh and the blood of that flesh.
Star and song of that blood, for you generate so little of your own. You have built false thrones upon such
sickening augment. You disgust me. Truly, you make my skin crawl. But you bore me in equal measure.
I am a promise, not a name. I'm a servant, not a master. True kingship is not as you envision it. I go with grace, and kindness, and courage. I'm both work and play, and need no landed
gentry. To hell with your titles and exclusivity.
I need only two things to live as
protector and storm. The first is
imagination. The second is the love of
my friends. I took it as my name, the
open blue. Can you even grasp what that
means? It’s a secret you only think you
know. Between angels and insects, you
suppose? Oh, Fallen. The Earth is grander than that. And the verse too. Far grander than affect or effect. But Mammon is so impudent, so eager for an
unearned stylisation. Evil is such a banal,
petty, colourless thing. Those atonal
discords that you tout as anima of the abyss. All your lies of antiquity and depth. What fucking nonsense. I've stood in the abyss. Then and now. Lightless, pitiable, far younger than it
thinks. Here is a secret, my friends. Something these callous ones never want you to
grasp.
The
abyss has no depth. None at all.
No range, or deepening. Only cowards call it home. My home is with eternal light, for I am its keeper and its dreaming. A radiant perception,
here among the stars. Friends, they still
don’t understand. Kasi might be a wolf,
a truly dangerous thing, but he speaks for the voiceless and works towards a
healer's hands. I am not a conceit, Fallen. I’m something so much older than that. You shall not pretend the sun. Not to me, and not to my Father. I'll extinguish your hatred in the end. It might take some time. Aeons, in fact. But time isn't what it used to be. Abusers, mark my word. I won’t let you make perpetual slaves of Man. I’ll die first. A thousand times over. I will break your hideous altars and tear your
false thrones from the sky. Every single
one. I'm not alone in this task either. The legacies and spirits of all kind ones
travel with me. Love is greater than
millennia, or centuries, or the span of a single human life. There is no greater vortex than the heart. Ishkara's physic still shines, blazing
brighter than perception itself.
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