No man is an island. Not even the blackened sun. Solstice tears, tossed upon the raging sea.
People imagine a difference between poetry and prosper. A fundamental disconnect. They think magic can be cleaved from mirrors. A disassociated realm of pieces and things all
existing in isolation. But this is never
the truth of an incantation, or a song. The
stars move as the sea is moved. In
rhythm. In concert. This is far more than a public dreaming, or
mortals cast as angels upon the stage of my own imagining. No, this is something I've fought for all my
life. The endless, violent wanderings of
a father. The quiet, noble battles of a
mother. The living legacy of a child. All of us tossed and torn, upon this storm of
tears. All of us lost without one
another. I will never pretend to be
anything more than a poet, but nor will I deny the truth of angels within this
poet's heart. To know things one is not
supposed to know, to see things one is rarely permitted to see. This mystery. This tree of living signs, like a key to a
music box. A girl like a star beneath
the horizon; her brilliance charting a course as she passes through the liminal
realm and into the flesh once again. Renaissance.
The promise of future light. Like gazing into a magic mirror. Poetry and prosper. Rhythm and song. Painted wings, silver storms. Things we almost remember.
Your
mom pretends
She doesn't like me
But that's the story of my life
Still cheating on my husband
With my own loving wife
Pray I'm dynamic, interesting
Damn you if you think I'm not
My ice was truly the coldest
Back when I used to be hot
We know those beasts of burden
These games of plight and pawn
Bending over backwards
Tonight the knight of dawn
We teach like Saints of Camri
Back when you raided the tomb
It's kinda hard to have standards
Reading every mind in the room
Most people's morals are commas
Until a brighter design
But we want your full exclamation
If we enlighten your mind
Mar'kanna of Viir, the occulted ones
called her. The kissing knife. Palest raven, rising curious from illumined
text. They say that dreaming began, and
begins, at the Place of the Mori. Eye
within the eye. Earth within the earth. Seed and star, and tree. But the sky was betrayed, they say. The horizon broken. Lost promise of Eth'Ama, become fury in those
darkest days. Birth of the half-light. From Ama’s Well they came crawling. The wraith-born. Blackened bright ones. Falling lanterns of Eth'iir. The oldest scribes still whisper those lost legends.
Those hidden histories. Today, most mortals
call it the fabled Age of the High Middle. Renaissance. Painters, poets and storytellers. Faintest recollection of Imagining's War. The war of guardians and ghosts. But what's
left of that fabled shining Age? Only
this mutilated chronology. Eth'kanna
Mal. The death of light. You see, the pale Raven of Mori has many
names, some older than the stars themselves. Inherited in utmost secrecy since the Fell. Kiskuh of Vort'eth, some say. In her own tongue. Mortals aren't to dare. But some do. When Kai was just a boy, wandering the Fields
of Lud, she found him. Told him she was
more than a mere daemon of the old ways. In truth a living, eternal myth that had taken
many forms. One of those forms was
Priest of the Drowning Hill. Le Fay, as
the cursed twin had named her. An
epithet still used to this day. Ki'atur,
Kai'ether, Y'ashiri. Encircling the Tree.
Cults of the stellum, the temple and the
blood. Hear the raven now, almost
black-as-crown. Not to fear, but to
learn. The kissing knife, the once-wed summer
song. That we might yet alter the river’s
course, before it finds the sea. For behold, the kingdom is within.
"I was many things, People of
Y'ashiri. You assume lines of the past. Discreet boundaries between fiction and fact. But I assure you, there is nothing discreet
about me. Not then, not now. All your bridges are broken. All your brides. I know your blind, modern visions. The lakes of grey at the very edge. I've read all your pages, you see. I rather like your tales. Thoughtful,
frightening things. I wrote many of them
myself, truth be told. Whispering at the
shoulders of forgotten scribes. What do
you make of me, poets? Echoes of the
shining tryst still call to you, don’t they? Is it warranted in this fallen realm, I wonder? The dreamwalkers still watch over you every
night, in the countless broken temples of your sleep. Did you know that? Tell me, am I druid? Spirit of the sea? Witch or wanderer? Am I healer and guardian of the Oma'turi, or a
monster? Medieval confection, or
half-hidden mosaic? Are you certain that
you know the difference between an angel and a cursed twin? L'ashareth has been with you since the very beginning.
I still pray that Love will be enough in
the end, that such gallantry and insight will save us. Yet I cannot be certain. Are all the lost healers beyond healing now? Is my brother a fool? Is he completely mad, like his sister? Kill the knife, if you can. Protect the kiss. I would gladly drown for such mad, foolish
promise. But I am my sister's fury, even
now. I am the broken, raging cults of my
king.”
We have to find a way to not forget
them when we peer the glass. Blackest
clay in the riverbed. In the chlorophyll ghosts who still speak of first
churches. Is it enough? Ribbons of dancing light, burnished shields? I know it hurts to be reduced like this, my
beloved ones. Rewritten, overwritten. Epistolary bloodletting. A cataclysm of letters. Epigraph now to haunted text, neither heard
nor read. Nor understood. But we have to find a way to not forget each
other when we peer the glass. All Songs, all denominations and tribes. The
grey betwixt of living annunciation. Our
differences, our similarities. We make
wisdom with it. Or war. Shape, form and
fiction. Like the handling of serpents. The centre pleading hold. Vintage threads, staving mere anarchy. This reign we dream; hoping for the respite of
an imagined kiss. Is it enough, asks the
angel. This hushed, quivering tempest? These arcanum shores? The river always feeds
the heart. I know how much it hurts to
be reduced like this; constantly reimagining the world. Unable to forgive the difference between
knives and feathers unfurling at your back. These fractures between the mirror and the
poet's star. Ever shining. But we must forgive.We must find a way to honour the Spirit when we
peer the glass. Gold, of the streets and
the sea. Last and first churches. Undying crown beneath this cataclysm of
letters. We have spent too long trying not to see ourselves in colour. Who built these lands? I tell you now that Kasi is merely a servant. An emissary baptised in dreaming depths. Treasures of holy light glinting on the face
of the waters. Home is where the heart
is, and I am not greater than the river.
Love is a miracle in a realm where we
too often squander our gifts. Losing
sight of what truly matters, only for fate to sometimes shock us into a state of
reeling wakefulness. If we’re lucky
enough.Before the spellcraft of state
and their wraith-cults puts us to sleep again. Half-light and half-life. But there are things that can break the spell
of sleep, even here in this radiant abyss. A brush with death. An act of nature. The care of a new child. And suddenly we reawaken in a different way, a
greater way. More cognizant. Made humble and wide-eyed, petty distractions
fading in the light of this new wakefulness. We
finally recognise that we must become responsible in a far more powerful way. We can no longer wander semi-coherent through
the wreckage of our own mistakes. A
greater task awaits us. Love is truly a
miracle. Beyond shame or tragedy. We all want to believe in the promise of a
second chance, don't we? The healing poetry
of forgiveness? We often wonder what we
might do differently if fairytales were real and we could somehow find our way
back to that moment. But what if
fairytales were everything we desperately hoped them to be, and more? What if you could indeed go back? Would you love even greater? Would you find strength enough to humble
yourself and this time make the right choice? I cannot answer those questions for anyone
except myself. But I know things about the Earth that you don't, my beloved
ones. Strange, secret things. Ka'shayel is still shaken to his core every
time he opens his eyes to the Word.
The angel in me still weeps at our
fallen state. Make no mistake about
that. It still hurts to see all this
hatred and division. Brother raging
against brother, against sister. So far
from the shining ideal we once lived as common path-work. But eventually I came to realise the
truth. I can forgive my mortal brothers
and sisters for their lack of cultivated foresight, their vulnerabilities and
addictions to comfort. For not having
the strength and stamina to save themselves and each other. I love them too much to deny them that grace. But can I ever truly forgive myself for the
same? Dear ones, I’ve seen worlds
shattered and burning. Realm after realm
of brutal revelation. Civilisations
crumbling. There were times when I didn’t
know if I could go through this again.
Reliving the Last Day, over and over.
Accepting my limitations as well as my strengths. Suspended and mirrored in holy breath.
Who am I, really? A poet, an angel, a father? If I truly were a parent what would I want for
my children?I realize now that I squandered
too many gifts before I learned this answer.I would want to see my children courageous, kind and purposeful – and to
eventually die within sight of their struggles and their joy. When the time comes.Because the human heart still shines. Even here, among these fallen stars. I've seen it. I've witnessed that breath-taking magic. That poetry in motion. The sheer elegance of a soul in service to its
brethren. To not have all the answers,
or all the context, and to leave a lantern nonetheless. I understand it a little better each day. My Father loves me, I think, more than I can
even comprehend. Granting me a second chance.Stepping me from ruin to ruin, ashes to
ashes, until at last I touched down in a world where all is not lost. Where flowers still grow, rivers still run,
and the possibility still exists to be more than a grieving parent or a lost
child. A world where I get to see you
again.I think heaven is saving our
grace each day, despite the darkness and pain we contend with.Our love is still alive in this realm. Like a miracle.I know what that miracle means to me now, my
cherished one. It means I'm going to
keep giving everything I can, trying to treasure every moment. And then, one day, I'm going to close my eyes
at last. In sight of your struggles and
your joy.
Seeing through the iris of an angel
is only ever partial sight. The eyes of
eternity. Endless grey. Human lives are so immediate and fleeting. Abstracted, incandescent. How does one stay mindful of mortality when
we emissaries are the only things that endure? Reading every mind in the room, every book in
the library? We must fall in love each
time. The perpetual choir of human life.
The similarities, outliers and anomalies. The beauty in
each of them. The entire breadth and breath of creation can be found in
the songlines between violet and red. Did
you know? A perception built of living light.
Everything you know, and everything you
don't – an ocean of oscillating waves. Divinity,
made manifest. A galaxy dancing and
laughing, and laughing again. The
unfathomable art of our Father. Red is
the deepest wave among the visible, and violet the most subtle. Isn't it strange how the blood howls but the
crown whispers so gently? These things
are mysteries still, even to angels. We
are not exactly as portrayed in your many scriptures. We are so much greater than the petty squabble
and politic of Man. We are the Word of
God, made message. Given winged form. And yet, there is more truth in your
scriptures than you will ever know. Resounding
eternally through the imagination of Man. Stories told and retold. Every library, every culture and holy place. Still, there are lies among the truths of your
pages. I know it all too well. However, there are secrets beneath the sea
and beyond the sky. These are
the true altars of Ishkara. Beyond
bloodshed and sacrifice. Hear this, sweet
mortals. Our Father requires no killing,
nor the constant warring of his children. A warrior's place is to defend, not desecrate.
The sickening concerns of slavery and
genocide are never a true soldier's path. Hell on Earth is not the want of your brothers
and sisters. It is the want of the
wraiths that whisper at your shoulder and their dark priests who covet your
life-force. The earth is a church, my
dear ones. Not a vampire's lair. A holy garden was made for you in the
beginning. A place of rest, reflection
and healing magic. It should be
respected as such. Embrace this
immediacy. This fleeting flesh. It will all be over sooner than you think. I’m no better than my fellow man. Kasi yearns and bleeds and falters just as
you do. But I pay it gladly, this toll
of love. While we are here we must
treasure each moment, each glimmering soul. Every point of light shining in the sea of
endless black. The iris of an angel is
much like the songs that mortals sing. Ancient
and new. Steadfast and ever-changing. Starlight is incalculable, and yet it travels
far slower than poetry. Those distant stars
upon your eye? Many of them are ghosts,
holding loving vigil for the not-yet-departed. Did you know?
Portent comes in many forms. A courageous girl with footsteps of glass, or
a thoughtful boy alone at the ivory. Trying
to pick a lock of eighty-eight keys. The
lock of a thousand stars. I've seen that
kind of wonder held in the palm of angels far brighter than myself. Angels of mortal provenance suspended in the
place between fable and heartbreak. Remembrance,
as the true healers of lost Roma believed. To be loved, to be seen for the wild and
wilderness that we are. Each of us. To close your eyes when your beloved does. To close your eyes to the entire universe,
only to open them in union. Or as close
to union as a heart can venture. I've
walked beside each of you. The winged
unseen. Bright Star. The men and women we become. The lost children we’ve always been, and are
still trying so desperately to protect. Blessed
ones, it's not my place to guide your hands across the ivory or the fret. Nor my place to tell you what melodies mean. My place is simple compliment, never claim. I only listen, staggered by the grace I find
in those places where diligence meets spontaneity. Places where my friends truly bloom. Those fields and keys of lavender where I am humbled,
gladdened and taught.Like a kiss poised
so earnest and delicate in the reign of rising light. That's real study, I think. True scholarship. To be moved by the work of your friends, both
cherished and unmet. If I were any kind
of angel worth his salt I would reach for those kinds of footsteps and that
kind of thoughtfulness. Each day I would
pray and pledge to know more of those courageous hands in mine, half-hidden
though they seem. To earn respite from
this loneliness. To truly earn the kiss,
or the kind word.There is no greater
grace than a heart that wants to lift you; a heart that remembers you always.
When I'm asked again why I didn't
crack the sky and set fire to the sea, I'll tell you all the truth. I loved mankind too much each time. When I'm mud and stone and riverflesh beneath
the twinning waters I'll speak my heart again; standing unafraid before your
seething, violent wraith-cults. Those
priests of the fallen who have taken their pounds of flesh from me countless
times. Saltwater and sacrifice. The cathedral beneath the black. I'll tell you calmly. Here I am. I fight until the end, and beyond. I drive myself mad for love each time and I
never walk away. Oh, fallen. The truth is plain. I still wish you would leave me alone, but
you never do. Because you're afraid of
me. Afraid of the heartlight of my
brethren. The gold that was. The gold that is to come. Mortals imagine angels existing at a distance,
don’t they? A step removed. Unsullied, silent. But I'm not a step removed from anything. I'm right here in the shit, sinister ones. With you. I chose a frightening path, but I once made
grand gestures as a mortal, heralding the coming light. I intend to keep those promises. None are abandoned. Love shall conquer. These are bold, righteous legends, aren’t
they? What angel would I be, if instead
I were reigning over a black and fractured void? A lightless, seething abyss. I would be your king, fallen, wouldn't I? Your angel holding a key of shadows. But I am not your king, or your angel. I'm not the sentient desecration that raped
Empyrean, slaughtered Ishkara and pulled a billion lights from their celestial
homes. Fallen stars hitting the earth
like a rain of shrieking fire. Like
something you could feel in your chest. In
your bones. Something that woke you in
the night, only to witness the glow of things writhing and burning on a black
horizon. An inverted sky. Deceivers, tell me something. Haven't you figured it out by now? Whenever
I'm held at knifepoint and asked why I don't submit to this new chronology of
the Altar Sun – this crown of shit, misery and blood – I always tell you the
same thing, don't I? It is a false
reign. A liar's throne and a coward's
counterfeit. It is not the holy reign or
the loving splendour of my Father. I
suggest you hear me now, fallen. I am
not an angel, or a god, or a prophet. I'm
something else entirely. I'm a hidden
story, pretending as storyteller. A
madman in the river. A lighthouse in the
sea. Flesh, spirit, words. I'm older than gods, and monsters. Brighter
than angels. Darker than demons. The first, and the last. A terrifying claim? Oh, cowards. The brightest part of me would tell you not to
be afraid. That it's only a dream. But you should be very, very afraid of dreams.
When I'm asked again why I didn't choose
pride, or hate, or violence, I'll tell you this. I chose all of those things once, but never
again. You're not the only ones who can
change times and laws. Or dreams. I have a question for you, dark ones. Don't you remember the day you died, and finally
pledged your eternal allegiance to the Light? I do. The
Earth is billions of years old, and yet not a single day has passed. Hear me, Absence Brethren. You raped imagination itself. You cut your own hearts from your chests and
fed them to the abominations you would become.
This is not a fucking game. It is
still the day you died. Moments to
Midnight. A day beyond your
comprehension, held suspended in the breath.
All shall be called to account. Mark
these words. There will be no hiding from
the eyes of my Father. There will be no
hiding within the heart of a black star.
I am that star. Every key forged
has passed through these red-rhymed hands.
I know what you did and how you did it.
But I’ve seen you choose love. And
honour, and higher thought. In dreams. Will you ever keep those dreams? Will you ever truly make them real again? You will, in the end. By royal decree. Far greater than my own. It's a very simple choice, fallen. Sacrifice or sanctuary. This dark day or something more. I know what I would choose. But do you? Do you really?
The kind ones are protected. The
faithful, of all tribes. They get to go
home, immortal. Their love will live
forever. My Father isn’t petty or cruel.
He is gracious, and very patient. Eventually you will learn that eternity is a
long, long time. This is the King's
Mirror. Do you know whose side you’re on?
Hear me, blind one. Dark one. On behalf of bright do I speak this, for life
again. Patient, sleepless eremite. Storied cacophony upon his back. The day he died. The day he drowned in the river of the thousand
stars. The cry of all true keepers
resounding in the hidden valley. "The calm fury is come. The healing sword. Who is like unto the storm? Who is like unto the war?" Mi'ka'el, the old tales tell. Imagining's War. The King's Mirror. But light is not only angel, or sorcerer. It bleeds, as men bleed. As women bleed. Oh, fallen. You have no idea. Thy cup runneth over. Quiet, perpetual resurrection; the
ever-igniting heart of every star. Midnight
of each day. Standing sun, and the
frozen crescent of all our dreaming. Blow
o wind, till the ashes are scattered to the four corners. He knows how much you hate him now, Amas. He knows you won't stop until the earth is
broken and its children are slaves. But
he defies you, eternal.As does his
scribe. He does not break, but I do. I hold his agonies that he might shine
evermore. I hold them in my wounded
flesh. The shame of that babbling delirium.
That ruinous conflagration. The merciless way you hurt me. Tell me, Sama'el. In your most secret moments do you still wear
your brother's feather at your throat? He
prays for you even now, despite himself. Still mourning the loss. Still hoping against hope for your immortal soul.Endless negation, or flight?But make no mistake.Either way, love shall conquer.When the time comes he will not hesitate. Feather cleaved in twain.What stolen truths will your hideous acolytes
reveal, when their darkest prince is finally pinned by the spear of my sire?
There really are secrets hidden in
the sun, my darlings. The star at
midnight. The mount that shone for
worlds around, like the heavens were closer somehow. I still remember those days. That frightening,
magical time. The laying of hands, the
birthing of rivers. A celestial map for
those with eyes to see, written in the night sky. I am only a herald. A wayshow. I'm just a madman who drowned a long, long
time ago. But I speak the truth. I never lied to you, my cherished ones. Not about this. Not about these sacred matters of the heart. Joshua's sun standing still. Joshua's moon. Over the valley of secret names. Dalen of Isra.
Circle of Ishka. Mount of the First Light. Half-remembered pieces of the old chronology,
made scripture now. The lost history of the shining realm. The sunken realm. K'athari Kara, as the old poets and healers
blessed. Yohanan. Brother, river, mended wing. But a seeker must come willingly. A soul has to want to rise again. To soar, and know. Temet Nosce. It matters little of who comes bearing
messages if no one is listening. What
does it matter of angels pretending poets if the heart is dead? Letters hidden in light will remain hidden if
no one is willing to read. So, my
darlings, please hear me. This Land of the
Midnight Sun is truly a realm of secrets within secrets. Sovereignty and songlines. Kashi may have placed those secrets. I may have opened these gates and allowed
these visions, but I didn't author the essence of the magic within them. The truth of the heart is something far
greater than any of its servants combined. I’m only a king of dreams. But, in truth, among the Fields of Heaven I’m
a willing servant. A warrior, in perpetuity.
It’s my life’s work, and always has
been. Because more than anything I want
you to know that you are stronger than all your doubts and fears. I want you to sense it in your depths and
feel it in your bones. That you were
always integral and never arbitrary or unloved. You are still your Father’s child. Together we are brighter than any form of spiritual
darkness, and that's the truth. John
promises you that. I really do cherish you,
my beloved ones. And if I can I want to
help you remember what it feels like to rise.
It came upon a sky of blackest pitch
and hidden names. Occulted from those
who would abuse such knowledge. A star,
written in the language of the birds. Given
life upon winged grammar; this phenomenon. This annunciation of ingenious light. But what of the dream and the kiss that
sustains the dream? What of other
stories and other gods? A patient,
sleepless eremite, carrying the myriad upon shoulders of blackest pitch.Magi and madmen say this of the dream: a
dreamer's lot. Legends, pretending the
real. These tall tales of meat and
machine. Empire, wraith, darkest mills
of industry. Gone are the old
technologies. Annunciation, song. The shaping of bedrock and sky. It was always a refrain, a bridge or verse,
but these night-ghasts have hijacked the lucidity of all brethren. Other stories, other gods. And we three remain. Rain and Star and Sea. Violet, gold, sapphire. We remain to be seen, as wayshow of the
living, embodied light. Flesh and not
the flesh, here at everything's edge. Honeyed
locusts and circles of salt are a small agony to bear. If the birds might sing again, and grammar
might soar. The eternal movement, sweet
ones. Writing song and ship. Navigating the celestial. Across. Through sky and through sea, for you. Blackest pitch or the blinding vision of day. They come upon me as prayer, and eternal
dance. To exist, to be birthed. To live and live again. Magi and madmen know these rhythms. These rhythms of the here and hereafter.
M'ithriin, lay your palm upon my
breast again. My reflection in the open
of your eye. Through all storms. Shrieking, in whisper as the stones call
the sea. From the mountain of binding
river to the shore of quenched thirst. As
when all throats need the water. Please,
ancient one. Be my sight once more. Show me dancing lights, and softest
Seiđr. Root and star of every beating
heart. Before the hill was cleaved and
the tree adorned with wraith. The broken sky beneath our feet. Hear me now, myriad path. Upon these tainted grounds I call forth the
truest counsel of kiss, and light. Mother,
Father. Grant me hidden knowledge of
unmet tribes and unwalked lands. Distant
brother, distant sister. Enemy and
friend. Bridge, shield, Elen. Speak as my tongue beneath all tongues, with
healing mara. Upon the dragon's head and
the care of kin. Eternal are the old
songs, M'ithriin. Eternal is the old
song.
I
am burning pages, in dreaming. Pages that seek to pass as lost, shattered
truth. I rarely burn written things, regardless of their abhorrence to me, but
I’m particularly terrified on this night. A silver dish awaits me in my
candle-lit cell, standing on legs of iron. Tapers and wick sit beside. I can
smell the sickness of the burning paper and the sleeping horrors therein. Many
times I’ve wished I was dead, or forgotten, or mere figment. Tonight is one of
those times...
Things have changed, my
cherished one, and I won't try to make it like it was before. But I do still recall the unimaginable power
of a dream. Enough to reshape causation
itself. Spilling secrets like sea-salt
through the gate of evening. Holding
open the iris; a dusk deeper than ocean rose. Far, far below. In the church of thorn. Drowning lowlands and remains of the day, just
to shatter my palms on the curve of your shoulder. Stitching letters there, my darling. Waiting
for almost forty years to see you truly taken with love again. The way you run toward it now, unafraid. Like those earliest visions that first broke
and blessed my heart.
It's so beautiful.
I'll stand for love, till the end. I'll exist this way even if it hurts. I'll steal each cut if I can. Every agony,
that my beloved ones might finally breathe and rest undisturbed. I know I sometimes fail in that, and I'm
sorry. I'll keep trying until I am salt
and sea myself. Living far from my
family, if that's what it takes to keep them safe from these hideous wraiths. Yet, as near their hearts as possible. Three kings, for sisters and brother, still
following star and song. From world to
world, edge to edge of everything. And I
found you, at last. Here in this fallen
royal court beneath the twinning river. This
frightening place where they think we no longer exist. Mirage. Fata Morgana.
But I didn’t come all this way to reclaim
you, or to demand a single thing from any of you. I came to see the lives you should have
lived. Your own chosen paths fulfilled. You're as safe as I can possibly keep you in
this unsettling place, my darlings. Running,
truly running. With new love. I am far below, even now. Like my Mother. Living drowned in bluest dusk. Laken hilt. Guardian of the Well, still tending the innermost
of every holy place. Till the day of our
waking. It’s the price I pay. You never knew me, and I never was, except in
dreams. Thankfully, my Father doesn't
believe you can ever truly erase something from a dream.
It’s not a lie when I say
I've known such tears before. Yours,
mine and theirs. Those tears know me
too. I wear one hollowed on my finger. A circle of salt screaming of betrothed. The sun’s hidden midnight, living below
horizon and sea. A church of thorn and
mirror beneath the blue. Mira, you gave
me your name. So that you would look
back at me every time I face myself. Too
much, and not enough. Fairest and true. I've known sorrow, my darling. Ways and ladies of sorrow. Every binding. Every bitter wraith.
Apprentice, I beg you. Pretty my devastation with all the glamour of peace. That one day you might know me once
more through softest eyes. I've lost so
many lovers in this river of the thousand stars. Make a Father of me again. This wounded ray of sunlight dipped in
ink. Forever falling into an angel's
longest nights.
Teach me sweeter secrets, Mira. An endless hunger for honour. A hidden tongue of birds. Gift me with flight
and I shall bring the skies with me. And
the grey, and the rain. To the door of
any who dare defile my beloved ones.
Love is worth my drowning and the agony of
this open eye.
Indeed.
If character is fate then hammer me upon the
anvil of life itself, until this fury of mine is fit for daughters and
dreaming. It isn't enough to rage,
righteous or not. Torment must be
tempered with a certain sweetness. I
have borrowed enough of it from my girls. Time now to repay. A place to believe, for guardian eternal. Of poetry and prosper. Descending, still, into those longest nights
of the year. And you’re with me,
Mira. No man is an island. Not even the blackened sun. I didn't forget you, teacher. I gave you my name.
I want you to know that I'm
still listening, my friend. To the
rivers, the breeze. Trying to stay
attuned and of service. Just as you
taught your students. Now the world is
harder, darker, and demands so much more from all of us. But there is still unimaginable wonder hidden
everywhere. The book, the hand, the
song. What it means to travel. To honour and to dream. Wolves.
Angels. The way we circle back. This kind of dreaming can happen anywhere. This shining reciprocity. In the forests of dusk and dawn. At the city's edge where lost things dwell. Or
upon the bridge, the refrain or verse. These
are questions of faith in the end, aren't they? Ritual writ large, and blind. The oldest songs are always songs of place, of
love and the unseen. We need to believe that something cares, that something
underpins and reveals. We craft hymns of
creation and experience, that we might know ourselves and each other. That we might order the maelstrom with such holy
writ, and soothe our fear of wraith and shadow.
As it was on that fragile edge.
I remember how the emissaries all continued
to build stunning halls and schools in Ethri-sol, even as mirrors bled and
stars began to fall. We weren't ready to
simply abandon everything we knew in fear of those terrifying shades. Instead we held steadfast to our principles
and our hopes. Churches of higher
thought. Libraries, archives. Places of learning and rest. We cherished them even as they slowly
darkened.
Even as the sky itself began to fracture.
But I still recall meeting a girl in one of
those schools. A beautiful musician. She could write songs with only a glance, just
as Yash’a did. A gesture. A palm against the heart or a hand placed
gently across the eyes, to invoke such melody. Summoning even the subtlest harmonies. We became
great friends eventually, despite our world beginning to darken all around us.
Slowly at first, then with increasing rapidity. A thousand years was nothing to the teachers
and students of Eth'iri. This girl was a
true visionary. She taught me many
things about music, but never how to play. We would joke about it now and then. I still haven't learned an instrument beyond word
or sky. But I often sat listening as she
taught the others, enjoying the sweet poignancy of her wisdom. She spoke of how she could hear music in the
rivers and the breeze. In birdsong and
forest murmur. We carry that music with
us, she said. And we shape it. A continual, constant exchange. Like breath. More than simple conceit or metaphor. A literal music of the spheres that could be
heard by an attuned soul or ear. In our
depths, our graces. The joy of our
fingers on strings and keys, the dexterity of the hand that moves a pen. The promise of a kiss, or the sculpting of a
star. Wherever we go, there the music
is. It's something I've never really forgotten.
Flowers planted on the banks of the
river. Prayers sung on the sands of the
shore. The way spirits breathe and
mortals imagine. My friend described
this hidden music as a powerful secret, in that enigmatic way of many teachers
and poets. A traveller's secret, she
said. She wasn't wrong. I still remember. "With love nothing is impossible. Can you hear?"
It's no secret that Kasi
often feels like one of the dead, despite this arduous and seemingly endless
life. I find succour among the kindest
of the lost and broken. Dwellers at the
occulted edge. I often speak about never
giving up the fight for truth, and I never have. Even though I've wanted to, many times. Desperately, with almost every fibre of my
being. Those hideous wraiths feeding on
the wounded in this battlefield of living dreams. This demimonde. It’s an awful, brutal thing to be fed upon by demons.
I speak from experience, all too
real. Vampiric shadows, forever ravenous
beneath the black light of their Mourning Star. Proximity alone begins to sicken the spirit,
no matter how many of these wraiths I bind or slay. Knife-mouth grin. Defilement and desecration. But I stay for my beloved ones. For my family. Believe me, friends, the true warrior's path
is brutal and exhausting.
Even in dreams.
I’m not the first slave or regent to
question all star and song. Who among us
chooses the slain, in the end? And what
of the slain who never wavered? Those
who kept their faith and their honour? I've
seen glimpses, and more. Raven
pale. Emerald black. A thing among the trees. A thing of branch and moss, and strange rains. Walking and wandering for a thousand years. Chlorophyll, Elven, Elemental. The wild one, victorious. The tempest and her kin. Do you still think I belong in a churchyard,
Fallen? Have you learned nothing? I can move quicker than candlelight. Quicker than hand, eye or glass.
Love is like lightning.
It can strike when you least expect. Like Fate.
Thrice-fold, all through the night.
Valour is no paltry thing. When
all is ashes once again, love shall remain. Carried by the valiant Kiir, across the
shining bridge of colours and song. Reflecting
my daughters, brave as snow. Stronger
than iron. Wise as the clasp of each
clan. Onward to the hall where I still
dwell with my Father, even in this earthly flesh. Tell me, Fallen. What side of the king's mirror do you think
you're on? Listen closely. I won't choose for you but I have you in my
palm, and always will. This is what it
means to dream. Love is eternal, and
death is nothing without its brighter twin.
I know how it feels, Princess.
Like a chaotic, unstable realm. Like your plans have been stolen. Snatched from your grasp by the maelstrom all
around. Despite being grateful for the
opportunities still available, you cannot help but feel a little cheated. It feels like the entire world is on a razor's
edge. Angels weeping on the head of a
pin. A realm that seems tailored for the
merciless and the cruel. But you and I
both know there's more to this world than what we can see with our eyes.
Kara, don't let these
wraiths and their trickery harden your heart or break your spirit. They only become so powerful because people
give over their own power to them. I
don't have to tell you about the importance of keeping your faith. Often you've helped me recover my own. Through
song and kisses, and kindness. You helped
me find my courage again.
For that I am
indebted to you, always.
Because even angels can
break. Winged songs of living light,
shattering like glass. The men and women
they have become. The messengers they
used to be. Everybody needs friends,
after all. Those special souls who truly
care. Even at a distance. Princess, when I was weak you cared for me. Like my own.
You believed when I couldn't. So,
when you are low or tired or anxious, I will do everything in my power to
believe for you in kind. Because
believing in dreams and fairy-tales makes them truer. It helps them manifest through tender heart-light,
with the sweetest intentions. Never
underestimate the power of a dream, or the human imagination.
They can raise both mortals and angels from
the dead.
Heaven is very real. It thrives on the joy of mutual affection; the
shining reciprocity of the heart. Our
Father would have it no other way. I
know you grasp this, my beautiful lavender star. These are the arcs and triumphs of creation
itself. This is Love, even at a
distance. I truly was an angel,
Kara. Once upon a time. I'm an angel still, perhaps. In dreams. A Song of Songs, far and near. My wings are with you always.
I often think about the
countless paths and choices that are faced by the people I love, both near and
far. The twists and turns, the nuances
and hidden groves. The pain, the joy. One can never entirely plan a journey, after
all. Life, unexpected, is always
occurring. Overturning our neatly
ordered plans. Sometimes I imagine a
young hand turning pages of a great book. A tome of myth and secret skies. A compendium of magic and hope and fairy-tales. But even the gift of foresight is no guarantee
that things will run smoothly. Sometimes I
remember the future, but even the gifted can remember it wrong. However, there are secrets hidden on every
page of the Book of Life. Even in our
mistakes.
I know it to be true.
I've seen some incredible things on my
journey. Sometimes my life feels
agonizingly long, but no less beautiful for its endurance. Eventually the young hand turning those pages
in the book of life begins to age. They
doubt the tall tales that once held them spellbound and delighted with the
magnificent possibilities of an enchanted world. Sometimes the song of those pages begins to
darken. The melody is mingled with fear
and the brutal experiences of this fallen realm. I've seen angels plummet through midnight skies,
striking the earth like gutted stars. And yet the reader of these pages still
wants so desperately to believe in kind, gentle magic. Oh, sweet ones. The magic is real. Kasi promises you that. There are very dark forces at work here. Wraith-cults and deviant sorcerers. That much is true. But the eternal light is also present here. This truly is an enchanted world. I've experienced things that should be impossible,
but they happened nonetheless. Bottled messages
of love lost at sea for a thousand years, before finally alighting on the
shores of the intended. Kisses folded in
rose-petals, somehow crossing the chasms between worlds. As a smile, an inspiration, a hidden muse. I've even watched as lost souls attempt to
find their way home again, bravely facing their sins and their guilt. Truly willing to earn a place in the eternal radiance
once more. I've witnessed
transformations and resurrections.
Miracles, by any name.
There is a mortal adage of which many
emissaries of the threshold are fond, myself included. Wherever you go, there you are. It might seem trite at first but there's
great wisdom in it, I believe. Of course,
the magic of new places, sights and sounds is never to be underestimated. The
influx of new energies, new people and new experiences. These things are the materials of our most formative
moments. Often the simplest way to learn
is to just experience something new, and to recognise value in a different
context. But, despite all these
incredible wonders that await every traveller, we are still always ourselves. We carry our faith with us, and our scars. And our love. Memories, symbols and trinkets of home. Those things that remind us of a nurturing
relationship, a comforting shoulder, an unexpected tenderness.
Then, in later life, if faith is kept and
kindness treasured, the old hand turning those pages becomes a page turned by a
younger hand. This is not simply death,
or succession. This is so much more than
mistaking skin for parchment. This is the
mystery of incantare; the magic and hope dreamt of by every reader's heart. Breathing life into All Signs, through
connection. Creation and dreaming are
not passive things, after all. The legend
of a quickening spirit is the truth of a spirit quickened. Indeed, we are made in the likeness of our
Father. Fashioned in the image of
eternity. We can honour because we were
honoured. Through the book, the hand,
and the song.
I miss the old world. The real world, full of song and shining
vision. Everybody who still remembers
this place before the Fall is at least occasionally overtaken with a certain
nostalgia. A melancholic reverie. Yearning for what was lost. But those losses are all the more devastating
when they are actually half-remembered thefts. Storm and torment that made a ruin of our true
home. Fallen fractals. Malignant chronologies. This world of abuse, of slavers and slaves –
it is not the true world. It’s the
sickening spill of wraith-ravage. Sinister
technologies carving and scarring their way through the flesh of human hours. Oh, sweet one, do you doubt it?
There was a time before time, once upon.
Though it pains me to admit, I'm just one
among many in these endless fields of the dead. A drowning, and a crossing. The river and the tree. There are a million souls at my back, and
more. Phantoms of an angel. Thieves of a king. An army of furious lights all desperate to
steal back their sovereignty from the demonic hordes that darkened the
Earth. Look at the stars, I tell these
lights. Look how they shine. Distance is a liar, I proclaim. Though I'm not certain if enough of them would
dare to believe me. But some of them do.
Both mortals and angels make fictions of
the spaces in between. These dreams of
the interim. This devastating lore told
among the folk and the fay. My wise one,
I still search those lights in the night sky. Searching for you, and others
like you. A map of the stars in the skin
of a seraph. Whether bleached for
passing or not. To be recognised, even
for a moment; it is a heady, powerful thing indeed. We all crave spiritual recognition, don't we?
I thought I could kindle that kind of hope
in others. As you so generously did for
me, princess. I thought I could steal
back that shining name for myself. An
older name. And I did, in a way. In a church beneath the sea. But perhaps my reach somewhat exceeds my
grasp. After all, I'm trying to make
stars of still-healing flesh. Forgive
me, wise one. Forgive my foolish youth. Thinking I could banish violence from the
realm with little more than a wing, and a prayer. I was so desperate for my friends to think
fondly of me, and each other. I wanted
to speak intimately in several tongues at once. I thought I could share my sweetness almost
equally with the people who truly touched my heart. But maybe I can't. Maybe it's a fool's errand, in the end. It doesn't mean I'm done trying though. I'll never be done trying for the old world. The real world. Even though I died a long, long time ago it's
almost like I never really existed at all. Except in dreams, I suppose. You can never fully erase something from a
dream.
Sometimes the prospect of
facing an uncertain future is akin to standing at a high place, peering down
into a dark, unfathomable abyss. Most of
us have experienced frightening moments or days like these. I wouldn’t wish them on anyone. It can be a struggle to share these things with our loved ones. When
life has felt almost unbearably difficult and our sense of isolation seems
beyond repair. In those moments and days
of disconnect we sometimes feel just too damaged. Beyond the reach of friends, family or
passing strangers. An interior life too intimate
or complex to share. We feel the
crushing weight of it all, yet we don’t want to burden those we cherish most.
I know exactly how lonely that can feel.
But I have to believe that some form of
healing is always an option, even if available only at a distance. Perhaps something as simple as the memory of a
past kindness. A comforting word or
gesture. The way someone once held you,
or made you laugh. A kiss that meant so
much more than words ever could. Hold on
to those shining points of light, like lanterns in the lost. They can be so
guiding, and truly sacred. A source of real
strength. Often the literal difference
between ruin and recovery. I speak from
experience. Never let anyone convince
you that kindness isn't incredibly powerful. Art, mythology and music have always been
those paths of recovery for me. Healing
balms that have brought me closer to God.
I’ve heard it said that our character is our fate. How we tend the weak and wounded, or don’t. How we uplift our peers and protect our loved
ones, or not. Yes, Kasi believes in
fate. Of a kind.
Mira'na, Val'kiir, Yash'aya.
The way we sometimes circle round to meet
ourselves again. Like angels, or wolves.
Oh, Kara. I cannot thank you enough. You'll never know how deeply I treasure your
melodies, and your magic. I hope you recognise
the depth of these days and the reaches of your own soul. There are folk, wise as the hills, who call
such depth the lore of the land. I pray it
stirs your intuition and your heart. I
want you to know that I'll never betray your respect, Kara. Or your affections. You have so many wonders ahead of you now. Honing your craft. Distilling perfect worship. Reflection and celebration; making music with
the instrument of our Father's truth. Whatever
it takes for each of us. Circling back
like a wolf, or an angel. Because with
love nothing is impossible. Do you see?
