Wraith-ravage upon a
ruined eye. We've seen enough of it,
haven't we? Enough lies and illicit
wealth gathered through the broken promises of all tribes. The ostensibly rarefied air in which you dwell, Fallen. Hideous seething of an
inverted temple kept in half-life with distorted pulse. Far below the healthy, or the sane. I've seen those lowest places. The way you cluster like flies among the scent
of your own, or feed like locusts upon the passing and unwary. I've seen the savage hells you've built here
and elsewhere.
But I'm not afraid.
True, there was a time. When I was young in the aftermath; when my
lungs were full of ash, my wings still trembling and burnt. But no more. There is only so much shadow-play a wraith can
cast before it reveals its hand. Utopia,
Fallen? Really? These are your lies of
colony? You have a truly dark sense of
humour. Mine is far darker though,
knowing times and laws as I do. Isn't
that why you fear me so, and built this butchering of Word and Light? Angels bled for further, and food. Nailing bright birds to the trees.
Voiceless, without tongues.
Now you eat your gods and devils in equal
measure, and the earth is sickened by your glut. This bespoke damnation. Most chic of oppressions. You desire hellscapes hidden beneath synthetic
skin. A perception ruled by thieves and
caution’s shades. Seeping, born of
looking-glass wound. Lacquered with
dubious veneer. But this glittering
nonsense fools only the most naive of souls. It is savage, ugly and imperious. An ignorant blood-letting, like all
blood-letting. A mockery of shields and
uncut rock. What ghastly wraiths you
are, living fleshless. Else flesh you
feigned, or stole. As with thrones and
skies.
K'Athari, Y'Ashaya.
Eth'iri.
We have always seen you, Fallen. And your hideous inverted temples. Of locusts and flies. Others will see you too,
soon enough. Their blindness is healing now in ways you cannot fathom. In a realm of fallen chronologies and butchered
geometries all we have is so-called time. This sallow, grinding mockery of Father's trinity
and Mother’s magic. Through a window,
perhaps. For a rose. For every single soul who suffered and lost as
I did. As we all did. Do you still balk at a future reckoning? Oh, Fallen.
You never know. Stranger things
have happened.
So hear this, if some faintest glimmer still
wishes to recall the truth.
A king is not a castle. Castles burn. A warrior is not a sword. Swords shatter. The Word is not the angel. Angels can fall.
However, love is eternal. Beyond misery, loss or destitution. Beyond wraith-ravage and ruined eyes. It always lives, in the end. Written in light. Human experience has been tainted by your
brutal shadow-colonies. But take them
all away and the heart's flame is still the true conqueror, and the conquered. You know that, don’t you? When all else is ashes, and ye monsters mere
cautions once again, the Word will be all that remains. The unseen quickening of heart and mind is the
very coherence of spirit, most holy. The
difference between void and potential. What
is, and what might be. These are not
simple linguistic games, Fallen. These
are the secret workings of the heart. The
Mysteries of God. Deep within the flame.
If this were not so, none of us would
even dream. Or dare to dream.
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