These are the years without summer,
aren’t they? The Floralia without
spring. Spatium, tempus. Serpentine.
Places of night's amnion, cradling every broken ladder of Jacob. Dark, secret work. Full of changelings and grief, as the keepers
of Absentia want it forever. But we were
never the same, Kiskuh. I was only a
boy. An innocent, and you mocked me
terribly. Kasi will never be a bard of
war despite those scars. Your favoured
glories of the shattered trench are all your own.
I want none of it. Bombed grammar
and sinister psychologies. Divine fires,
stolen. Always the appetites of the
elect. Prometheus, Polidori,
Vampyr. Such frightening decadence on
these banks of the belle rive, my sister.
But it takes no skill at all to detune the instruments of sky or storytelling. And yet, I'm still taken with the shining
form you so brazenly stole from my fair one.
My cherished. Blue of those
eyes. Curve of that mouth and breast. Turn of those hips. I suppose it’s enough to give you a brief measure
of my attention. Ever the pragmatist is
this wilding wolf. I'm sure you
understand, my red-robed wraith. But I
do recall your true face. Winter,
dark-haired. Beautiful and vicious. Like a king’s mistress. Oh, Kiskuh.
I want to share something with you.
Something you really should have grasped by now. Something you still haven't the heart nor
wherewithal to understand on your own. The
speaker will live unencumbered, eventually. She will heal from these ravages in a quieter,
gentler place. A place of spring, and
summer. I watch you and your acolytes
flee from that place like cowards, because you are all dead. On the inside. And you’re running out of time. Do you even grasp this foretelling, daughter
of rain? The struggles of my kith are
private despite the horrors of your looking-glass. Abomination technologies. The petty, silvered skins of the half-light
cults. My family shall not be robbed of
their dignity, and my beloved is so much more than a living sacrifice. She is a shining spirit of the eternal
hallow. Her tears are not a matter of state or celebration. We angels watch over all the kind ones,
everywhere. I was never among your
bitter poets of Los. Not even when we
were lovers. Hear me, witch. Lillibeta has a garden grown. Bells and shells and pretty maids. A mother's magic, you might say. Fidelia, Speranza, Charissa. Guardians
of the living Praesentiam. And what of Esme?
Oh, she survived the fire and the
humiliation. I told you, didn't I? I told you who I was even in the
beginning. But you didn't really listen. You were prideful. Seduced.
Blind and deaf. Mea Culpa, dark
one. And I am laughing at you still. A thousand cuts were found upon my flesh, yet
not a mark upon her beautiful spirit. Do
you understand me now, elect of Vorteth?
What I’m capable of? Incanto
Dolorosa, my fallen Florentine. Like a
black star. I want you to know that I
shall meet you at the end of all things. Your executioner, upon cathedral stone. I shall be standing in the ashes of every divine
fire. And you will know me at last. There shall be no mercy, or remorse. You're not the only pale raven of the hidden
folk. Not by half. I too am a shapeshifter. There are still flowers on the shore of these
thousand stars. There is still dancing
in the distant fields, Kiskuh. Life
belongs to love, and laughter. You know
nothing of your Father, do you? Or your
son.
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