Familiarity breeds contempt, they
say. Even among princes and kings. It's a pity. I really did care, you know. But nobody can say I was a populist, back
when I burned the world. The earth of
your imagination, Fallen. Scorched to
cinders and ash. A thousand years ago, I
think. Or yesterday. Maybe tomorrow. Who knows?
Time is such a sly, mercurial thing. Still, it wasn't a hateful act. Such fire of the hearth was not a choice I
made lightly. Some of the most
terrifying decisions ever are made in the name of love, aren't they? Some misguided attempt at protection or
immortality. Making our beloved ones sacred
somehow. Transcendent. These things still hold true for wraiths and
darker shades. After all, who is left to
haunt – if not the hearts of those we once loved in some lost golden age? Ghosts are nothing without context or lore. But legacy isn't just family, or tomes in a
library. A true haunting is like mist. There and not there. Half-imagined whispers like glimmers on the
edges of a quartz, shaped by the minds of men. As I've said before, I care little for these
imposter thrones. These callow and violent
lies of succession. The new, altered
world. Perhaps one day soon I'll tell
you the nuances of a real king and queen. Brythonic, Saxon, Norman. And all else besides. Maybe soon I'll tell you
Jennifer's real name. Oh, savage ones. How you so gleefully elevate these hollow
phantoms to godhood; it’s beyond me. Your
royal cults of black blood and inversion. Would you like to meet a real dark angel? A winged thing of midnight sun, perched among
branches on the tree of life? Whilst you
scurry about below with your silica and sigils. Would you?
I wonder. Also, I want you to
know that as you continue to poison everything there are those among my
brethren who honour the tree and seek to reclaim the land. To heal and rejuvenate the dreaming earth. No earthly king in a thousand years has cared
enough for such a task. The ghosts, books
and precious stones still whisper secrets if you know how to listen, and they
hold nothing back. Such cruel, mocking
monarchs. Perhaps I've already said too
much, Callous Ones? Perhaps I'm far too
generous in my romance of your pathology? Evil is just so fucking banal. But as an enemy in the struggle against such
banality, I have to say – what's life or struggle without a little magic? We all need some pixie dust from time to
time. It's been said that I'm far too
liberal in my use of it. Purple prose
and tall tales all a-glitter. Perhaps
that's true. But Kashi only shines
because his loved ones shine. Flight is
meaningless without friends, even if you're able to touch every star in the
sky. Hear me, Fallen. You reign from the earth whilst imagining yourselves
gods, but I search from the sky whilst walking here among men. Fly for long enough and you'll discover the
stars are infinite, believe me. When all
is said and done, who of sound mind would really want to reign or soar alone?
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