It's no secret that Kasi
cherishes the music and magic of queens in a world retold for kings. Those girls who were kind enough to love
me. Those women who taught me, and teach
me. Those indomitable princesses bracing for sky. Magic enough to crack the firmament, with joy,
ambition and noble intent. That
fondness; it is written all over these love-letters, isn't it? But there are times too when I need to speak
of kings. Men I admire. Men like you, little brother. I often wonder of mortal
kith, and I wonder of you in particular. Do you really know? Do you? That you are truly admired, that you are
indeed a king? No longer just a talented,
perceptive prince.
I want to take this moment to be really
honest with you, if you'll allow me.
I'm older than you. Technically I'm older than everyone, but in
truth I'm still that little boy I’ve always been. Far too young and fearful to wield a sword, as
demons nonetheless continue to batter down my doors. I do try though, watching as breached thresholds
crumble my entire life. I'm far too
damaged now, brother.
Far too familiar with war.
I truly am an angel of sorts, you know, despite
this mortal flesh. But this War of
Imagination has taken its toll on me, both mentally and physically. It really has. I'm feeling much stronger these days, thank
God, but in many ways I'm still a deeply wounded thing. Living day to day, sometimes hour to hour. Trapped in this perpetuity of trying to heal whilst fending attacks. I try to
conserve my strength for the battles that matter most. We're in those battles now, brother. But then
we always have been.
This letter isn't simply an indulgent bid
for your sympathy. I know there's no
shame in feeling weak and afraid, especially during wartime. This cavalcade of horrors passing now for
history is specifically designed to weaken and shame all of us. But you so bravely try to resist that, don’t
you? So many of our friends do, and it
reminds me of once-shining harbours.
Poets, keepers and key-makers – all sculpting legacy, with sound and
subtle light.
Brother, you would laugh with joy if you saw
it as it once was.
The music of tended life, almost
unimaginable to us now.
This fallen fractal doesn't shine even half
as bright as those lost legends. Neither
do I, in all honesty. Not anymore. Kasi is tired. He's been tired since he was ten years
old. Silent, ravaged, bracing himself
for future and sky. Looking into the
eyes of parents and siblings and knowing he'd always feel alone, even at his
happiest. I did recognize the depth of
familial love even then, but angels are truly lonely creatures here on
Earth. There's no other way to say
it. I can't pretend I'm not angry with
every hideous thing that was done to mankind.
I can't pretend that some nights I'm not seething with rage, and sadness.
We must all cope with our fury, I suppose. The wild pendulum of nocturne and necessity. Desire
and deed, on those days when it feels like our temperaments are spilled beyond
our own hands. Despite our best
efforts. However, to know you are loved
and accepted even at your wildest, no matter the challenges – that's the solace
of genuine family and friendship. When
you can forge something like that with the people you love, then even a road
walked alone is never completely alone. It
brings me a certain comfort, at least. To
know this. To know that good people can
be patient, and can strive to understand a difficult thing.
Like an angel lost at sea. Stolen, afraid, still fighting for the
light. Held in branches, supported by
siblings. Those forests of the evening, those
peaks of brighter day.
Higher than hurt.
Where the air is clearer, and a little closer to Heaven.
I'm so sorry I didn't speak until now. Please forgive me. You are nowhere near my shadow, little
brother. Or anyone's. I need you to know that. You are blazing bright as the sun, across destiny and sky. I might be forged of flame and dreaming, but
you are more Man than I will ever be. Even
at your lowest, or your most unsettled. I'm doomed to forever be a boy lost in the
demimonde, holding a sword too big for such small, trembling hands. Willing, but tired.
And that's ok.
I don't mind, in the end. If it helps win a future war.
But I've watched you, brother. I’ve watched you grow to be so much more than
a lost boy fighting monsters in the dark. I want you to understand that the angel in me holds
none of us to impossible ideals. I know exactly
what it means to be human, of course. To
get it wrong, to fail, to make amends. I’m
so proud of you. Don't be afraid. Seize the moment, do
what you can, and know that it's enough.
It has truly mattered, my brother. Everything you've worked for. All your time and dedication. Every false start and rewrite. Every challenge, toll and call to arms. It all matters. To them, to her, and to me. I know it's been difficult, but I couldn’t
have done any of this without you. None
of it. Greatness is never the easiest
thing, but it's earned in the legacy of love you leave in your wake. That legacy is still forming, far greater
than mortal eyes can yet see. Because a
considered rhythm or a sculpted gesture is held in the bud of the nearest seed, and in the heart of the furthest star.
I can feel like a coward sometimes, dearest brother,
as I come face to face with darkest spirits from beyond the veil. Demons.
Things of incomprehensible cruelty, seeking so vehemently to enslave us
all. And none of them are my
friends. I find myself alone, as always,
peering into the abyssal gaze of these grinning wraiths. And so many times I've just wanted to die. To give up, to experience a final
annihilation. But I don’t give up,
because those rhythms and gestures of the heart – they help to keep me fighting
for just a little bit longer. Day by day. Hour by hour, if needs be. For someone like me, that's exactly what hope
sounds like. I’m still here because you
cared enough to create. To stand. I thank you for that, my king. I thank you for everything.
River of the thousand
stars. Lonely star of the thousand
rivers. By song and by sanctuary. Through
star and soil. I've seen things grow,
and pass. And grow again. Contemplating the haunting dance of it all. To and fro. Like anyone who has tilted their face skyward
and imagined greater things. Many have
journeyed skyward, with machine or bettered mind. But few have crossed the threshold into the
places beyond the sky. Fewer still have
made such places their home.
I did, once upon a time.
It was wondrous, terrifying, and it hurt me
in ways I can never explain. Each
sentience. Every suffering. Art, science and philosophy, from star to
habitable star. Unique, momentary. The billions of spirits huddled around the candles
of their suns, vying desperately for the warmth of imagined surety. So many candles in the black. More than could ever be counted. Other spirits, other forms. Endless varieties of further and flesh. All of them asking the same essential
questions. How do we find better ways to
learn and live and dream? How do we find
strength, individually and collectively, amid forces that seem so much greater
than ourselves? Even the most nuanced spirits ask these kinds of questions.
I don't have all the answers, of course. I don't even have a few of them, and I was
once an angel-king of hallowed hills. Before
the hush. Before fires and falling. Hallow, halo, hollow. The old cities are buried
now, or else hidden in fractured chronology.
Their ruins belong to the wraiths. What the Arcs and emissaries once called
Caution's Shades. The desolate
spill. Blackest blood in the
looking-glass. But such shades and
thieves cannot void life itself, no matter how hard they try. It returns, like Kara. Like Kara's daughters and sons.
There is always more to know. Always more depth in the river. Beyond telling stones, or clockmakers and automaton
stars.
Can you still feel it? The pulse of you? The fury? You are a dangerous and utterly beautiful
thing, child of our Father. As one among
your primary guardians I have watched you grow, and pass, and grow again.
All of you.
Hear me well, if you can.
I am not just a poet, or an angel. I'm a very bad wolf, and I won't be tamed. Neither will you, because we are all more
connected than these wraiths will ever understand. It doesn't matter what they believe, or how
they mock us. Our works speak for
themselves, in plain and hidden tongues. Such works stretch further and wider than you
might imagine, scattered like innermost jewels throughout so-called history.
I am Kasi.
Emerald song, of the Church of the Bright Ones.
Arc, Augur, Seeker of the Stolen Sea.
I'm so much more than mortal flesh. I age, of course, like everyone. I die too, like everything. But I'm a traveller. A trick of light and radiant dreaming. And like you, dear ones, I live forever. Tonight I pray for us, like those spirits of
infinite black huddled at the candles of their home-suns. I pray among this eternity of little lights. The briefest flicker of me, and you, and everything. Always those same questions. How do we live better within these forests of
the evening sky? How do we battle these
shadows at our edges whilst keeping our hearts soft enough to love, and playful
enough for venture? We are wild,
delicate, dangerous things. We must
share strength with one another, like those blessed ways of the old
cities. Make each other quicken, and smile.
For we are the candles of our Father. Protecting the weak, healing the wounded. Celebrating life as one, at every rise and run
of the river.
It's a scary
thing, Esme. Isn't it? To be faced with this. To be faced with something so vast and without
precedent. Something that hasn't
happened in this particular way before. This
kind of vulnerability feels both searingly intimate and horribly
impersonal. It's truly the last thing I
ever wanted, sweet one. Please believe
me. I've dreaded days like these my
entire life. Here we are, nonetheless. It enrages me. It saddens me so. These wicked ways of the world.
I know you worry, Esme. For the weak and wounded. For our elders, our children. I share those worries. Real fear in the eyes of those we love is
always heart-breaking, far more than our own fears and challenges. It's a natural, beautiful desire; to soothe
those closest to us. When we can't
provide that healing balm we suddenly feel so powerless.
It's hard to be a poet in times like these,
my darling. It's even harder to be an
angel. A thing of second sight and
ragged wing. The modern world has no real
place for us. I know you
understand. I'm not interested in
accusations, in glib dismissals or hollow platitudes. Because this will change the quality and tenor
of many lives in days to come. But I am
interested in truth. The spiritual is so
hard to discuss when the literal is at the forefront of so many minds right
now. Those brutal realities. Those hideous inequalities. Suffering, sickness, uncertainty.
I'm angry, Esme.
I'm so very angry, and I won't pretend I'm
not.
Part of me – the very tired, very perishable
part of me – wonders if tales of augurs and angels might ring utterly hollow
during times like these. Perhaps silence
is preferable. But that would be like
turning my back on my own spirit. Poems
and tales are all the truth that is left of us now, in this so-called modern
world. Kasi was more than mere cadence
and rhythm, once upon a time. King of so
much more than a desolate hill of ashes. But I know deep down that thinking like this
won't help me, or anyone. So I try to
bravely face the depth of my sadness hiding behind the anger. Beloved, I never wanted any of this. Not for Father's holy children. Glorious humanity. Kara’s kin.
Those beautiful artists, healers and engineers who shone so brightly
before the Fall. So I tell myself it's
always time for stories. Especially if
they're magical, meaningful, and true.
And I try to have faith.
Crisis, trauma. This wounding of mind and
body that we're experiencing right now, this collective uncertainty – I have to
believe this is in fact the perfect time for tales of augurs and angels. Otherwise, what use am I at such distance? What use is anyone, unless they can lay healing
hands upon those who suffer?
I wish Kashi still had greater magics than
these. Tangible magics, like the skilled
dreamers of the old city.
Thought and shape and making, steering homes
and harbours.
Once upon, but not anymore.
I think we really need it, Esme. That soothing balm. That restorative faith to quicken our steps. One, two, three. Because it's an ugly, fracturing thing when an
angel loses his faith. Cities can burn, and fold. Bleeding shoulders seeping images torn from
dream, still flexing the place where such wings would fold at my back. But you gave me faith again, my love. You really did. Kisses and kindness, flirtation and play. Deep, abiding friendship – by every name I
called you. But more than all that, you
gave me maturity. Work. Consideration. You gave me real art…and then you gave it to
those who needed it most. The voiceless,
the desperate and dispossessed. You gave
them depth. Song and strength enough for
healing. Alone, and together. A quiet place within your offerings, where faith
is a little easier to find. Especially
during these difficult times. I shall
always be indebted to you for that. So
hold on to me, Esme. Together we'll try
to comfort all our people. We'll embrace
them however we can as we pass through this darkness. In love, and faith, toward light.
It’s a frightening time
for so many right now. An uncertain
time. I understand that. But there is a strange majesty that surrounds
each human soul. A nimbus of unimaginable
power shining through flesh, through thought and deed, usually unseen by mortal
eyes. Often this light passes beneath conscious
awareness. But sometimes it rises. Sometimes it’s recognised. Through creating
and sharing art, through challenge, connection or joy. Sometimes we see it in the smiles of our family and friends. And for a
gladdened moment we remember our eternity.
Assured, invigorated.
Sometimes we feel it in the solemn
tenderness of dawn, suspended in threshold song between night and morning. Like a single breath held and drawn out beyond
the known. Hidden things moving in
painterly skies. Deep blues and pinks
and yellows. Dark still dancing with day,
courting the living pulse of the rising sun.
And the heart knows things then.
Things beyond word, or reason.
Sometimes, just before dusk, deep in the
forest the trees can speak in hidden tongues too. Branches holding an eternal sea. Golden light slanting through, suffusing
greenest canopies. A wild cathedral of life, whispering evening song to coming
colours. A murmur, almost heard by
mortal ears. But not quite.
And sometimes, in the immense quiet of a
dark blue night, silence folds all the sound and bustle of the world into
itself. The sheer gravity of stillness, a
sky full of portent and star. Countless
distant suns glinting in the deep of the ever after. Each of them haloed with unimaginable stories,
like ourselves. Mysteries within
mysteries, arcing endless through myriad worlds. Sometimes this is enough to recall the truth
of romance and divinity. To know that we
are more than flesh, or dust. To know
that every single one of us continues. But
sometimes it’s grander and more gentle than all that. The quickening of faint music heard in the
distance, or that look in their eyes.
It has almost been a
nightmare, Kiskuh. These last few years.
Your cloak of raven pale across the
citadel. Mouth of Weavers spilling black
milk beneath the every. Stones among
riverflesh, lamenting star-cults and Temesh augurs. As though I wouldn't remember the old
city. As though your acolytes had burnt
even my memory of song. But a chorister
becomes the swell, regardless of how cities now fold. The hill is still a hill, despite darkened
shards of Looking that pierce its skin.
The house is still a house, though held beneath. Imposter gates upon the Veils of Myriad, risen in their stead. Blackest portico
that would steal my children whilst pretending the sun. But I am here now. I’m still here.
Oh, Kiskuh.
You arrived with your tales of smoke and
void-bring, all to break the spirit of a child no more than sixteen. Tales of red rock and shattered blade. A bleeding well, deep in the cloisters. Our Lady, fair and true. Brightest dusk, where skin is a word. You hurt me so badly, herald of Los. Whilst
pretending depth and revolution. But you
let the others hurt me even worse. Just
a child, with scant knowledge of corrupted chronology. And yet, who was bested? Clearly, Thief of Vir, you are not as well read
as you imagine – if the same boy still stands amid your ruins even now.
You couldn't fell me.
Augurs and apple trees. Place of the Resting Realm. You still don’t understand, though you would
wish it. An end to your humiliation. An end to my making. But those names, Kiskuh. Those names were mocking you and your acolytes
long before you ever made yourself known to me. K'athari, Ka'shayel, Cam'ri.
Ha'shaya.
Lonely Star of the Thousand Rivers.
We are secretly laughing at your hubris,
and your thievery of our signs. Well,
perhaps not so secretly. You can darken
the day, Kiskuh. Or bring about a
seemingly endless night. You can try to
scare me with promises of Lussi, of human-hunting and a sister you would snatch
from my very arms. But I saved her,
didn't I? A young boy, alone, lost in
the night and the smoke. That's what
love can achieve. The impossible. You can burn poetry and police cars, and have
wraiths prowling the rooftops, but life outshines you in the end.
Life returns, like love. Like a girl from the dead.
The light guided me that night, and every
night since. A kiss beyond your
comprehension. Light of the lamb, every facet gleaming like kindness upon the
eye of a true angel.
Echo of this echo.
I know you can hear me, Kiskuh. I know I still frighten you. Red rock and shattered blade? Shattered light? Void-bring and
ravage, all beneath the sickened tor?
Oh, we bright ones think not. Thieves and heralds of Los, of Vir, of the
Ever-Falling City – hear this. I am not
the only king to tear false thrones from the sky. I’m just one of the oldest. Of sword, of cross, and crossing. There is no meaningful regent without the
peoples of a land. Remember that,
callous ones, the next time you doubt legends of a sleeping sun. Acolytes of the Stolen Sea, I'm among you even
now. And you know it. Prowling your cults, watching your ways. Tending my secrets hidden in your secrets. For those coming times when Man sings again in
one voice. Place and cup and womb. Life, a holy dreaming. Not quite yet a nightmare. For we dreamers stand against you in these
dark days, eternal.
There is nothing worse
than watching the suffering of those you love. So many of us have known those kinds of torments.
Too many of us. Agonies at a distance. Helplessness by proxy. The worst part is that most of us would bend
Creation itself if we were able, just to spare our loved ones. Or we would break those laws and rules
completely. Linearity and causation be
damned, if we could somehow go back and stop their pain. A wounded child, an ailing parent, a terrified
lover. Family means everything in the
end, by blood or by heart.
Live long enough and you realize that love
is the only real thing worth a damn.
That truly human, empathic desperation to seek out a miracle. Not for ourselves, but to spare the ones we
love the most. It's one of the most
beautiful things about us, that warrior-spirit. When we fight so honourably to protect
something we deem more precious than ourselves. Our families, our friends. But it's usually only demigods, angels and
storytellers who are granted that kind of world-changing power; to
single-handedly alter the very course of things. Fictions are often the only solace in a world
that seems ever darker. Chaotic beyond
all reason. I know it hurts, my sweet
ones. I know how scary it can be; those
thoughts and visions at the edge. I've
felt that kind of worry too.
You're not alone.
I know what it's like, watching helplessly
as a spirit or a soul appears to fracture. Or even an entire world. Those once shining glories of the mind and
heart, now threatened by greed and sinister inhumanities. Wraith-ravage upon the eye of dark colonies.
I dull the pain by deeming it fiction, but I
once saw my homelands reduced to ashes and sand. Everything and everyone I ever loved. A shining realm of prosperity and peace, all
lost and burnt away. A ghost of all
light. But life always finds a way of returning,
in the end. Against all odds. I know it can be difficult to believe in the
throes of suffering, but nothing is ever as it seems. Things do get better. Sometimes before death, sometimes after. Fear is powerful, but it's nothing against the
immeasurable glories of hope, knowledge and wisdom. Such glories transcend the physical, whether
you believe it or not.
The words of a lost, flesh angel might seem
little comfort when people are anxious and afraid. I do understand that, beloved ones. Just remember, if you can, that life itself is
on your side. It is the very spring and
essence of you, your literal source of strength. Grander and brighter than suffering or fear. Eternal.
As are you and everyone you love.
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.
