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.
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