I think it’s a healthy thing to wonder and imagine. Especially among friends, but even amidst our enemies. Shall we dream together then? Shall we dream of Tarsus, and Tyana? Or might that be putting too fine a point on things? It is said that magicians love their delicious ambiguity. Sorcerers and charlatans. But, truth be told, I have never been one of these men. I've been called many names among them though. Ostentatious heretic, blasphemous child of iniquity. And my personal favourite: living flesh of the First Fallen. How banal things have become these days, wraith-lords. Am I simply the ruined star now? The shattered son and father of dawn? Well, you have no idea how right you are. In a manner of speaking. The old prophet saw lights in the sky, didn't he? Or so the stories say. Watchers and wheels and gates in the firmament. The dancing auras of the frost-kissed night. An emerald song at the throat of the winter king. Forget destinations for a moment. Shall we dream of journeys instead? Of roads, revelations and the changing of names? Here’s the thing. Self-taught scholars like my brethren and I – destitute poets and former slaves – we imagine a little too grandly sometimes. We fancy ourselves historic and seen; messengers of the human dreaming, unforgotten. To cover the pain of being nameless, I suppose. Overlooked. In truth we aren't the remembered heroes or chieftains of myth and legend. Instead we are the cleaners and midwives, unsung. Unannounced yet necessary. We birth your spiritual children, we heal your sickness and tidy the inner places of your minds. We are the thankless stewards of all the lesser, local gardens. Tending the quietest flora and fauna. Keepers of the breath and the air. So, these grand imaginings are placed here only for my amusement. And to elucidate the emerald song of souls. Annunciation of the subtle tongue. Histories now that never were and weapons that no longer exist. Except in dreams. But if I somehow were a chieftain, or a hero, I would want to fight for those with less power than myself. I'd want to give voice to the voiceless. She wrote many of her wife’s letters, some say. Just as I might have signed my husband's name, if I believed such letters were truly needed beyond those cities of sand. Sometimes, in those oldest cities, I would dream of heralds and shining light. Charming rogues and hidden kings. Sex, and Cyrene. A wolf hidden in plain sight, swift enough to never lose his step. So, Fallen, can’t you see me? Am I really the fulfilled augur of the ruined star? And if so, let me ask you this – should you not have chosen your Imperator more wisely? Roma gilds the tithes of Micah and spins legends abound. But that does little good here, among the midnight of these never-divided twins. And besides, those legends are such nonsense. That a true archangel would sanction the slavery of a city's most vulnerable, native or foreign. How fucking absurd. An angel would tell you the truth. That we care not at all about the place a soul was born or forged. Nor do we care the tongue they think they speak, or the faith to which they subscribe. Religion is such an impetuous, divisive thing. These are the politics and the travesties of men, not messengers. Every loving soul among the human family consciously nurtures a spark. A holy ember of divine fire. They pray and struggle courageously to keep that flame lit, even with limited resource. They succeed in innumerable ways. An act of kindness, a work of art, a tender kiss. Oh, Fallen. If you think we would dishonour that flame, or abandon it – you are deeply mistaken. They say dreams can change things, don't they? The messengers, mystics and wise ones. They say dreams can shape our stories and our hearts. I find that rather beautiful. The common threads. The shared humanity. The world behind the world. So, my friends, let us imagine together once more. Let us dream of better myth and legend; a higher truth and a higher star. Chieftains and heroes in humble, unwavering service to Love.