You would be wise to heed love's emissary, wraiths. Instead of committing yourselves to this sorcerous abjection. This vile, sickening desecration of the coming light. Your tenure is almost at an end. You know this. But there is literally no reasoning with such hideous phantoms, no warmth or empathy still within. Nothing left to kindle, or save. I understand that. Which is why I will feel nothing when your false kingdom of violence and bones is finally swept away. The horror, the sacrilege. Our Lady still stands. Bright, and living. Mother to all, in every pool of life. Even amidst the ashes. And the flames. I hope you understand that. On the vine and mended wing. Within every humble church that still honours the living wisdom. Y'asherah, M'aria, Sophia; it matters little to me what you call her. Each name has its infinite nuances, its history and context. These things are not entirely the same but nor are they separate. This shifting constellation of signs. These numinous maps of heaven. Tell me, wraiths. Do you have any real idea the personal strength it takes to shatter a false star? Or mend a broken heart? No, you don't. Because you are all pathetic cowards. You know nothing of the true high magic. Those kindest realms of living light. Instead you prey upon children, the weak or unwitting, using them as proxies in your ugly, degenerate spellcraft. Those poor souls who haven't the strength or understanding to fend for themselves. You sully the mind and poison the spirit. Well, the Magi see you. We have always seen you. And we shall forever stand against your blackened sorcery. Those incessant, whispering shades at the shoulders of the broken. This inverted dreaming you try so hard to endlessly extend. Bitter, sadistic and callow. But everything dies, Fallen. Everything except Life itself. The balm of Ava's healing waters. Indeed. There are those who will never grasp the true depths of this war. The unseen making contact with the visible. The hidden reality of the demonic realms, or the angelic hosts. For the spiritually illiterate this is nothing more than pretence and meaningless metaphor. But not for Kasi. Not for the Magi, or the faithful. This is the War on Earth as it is in Heaven. So, I petition my friends now; my brothers and sisters of light. The branch, the benevolent. Hear these tears. Please help me serve my Father with these words. Don't let this violence pass hidden and unremarked. Don't let this darkness go unmatched. Stand with me, in the connected strength of a truly loving embrace. Upon the coming of a solstice star. For the honour of a slain princess, for the wisdom of a bright queen, and for the eternal reign of a king of kings.
Thursday, 18 November 2021
They still call Kasi a mystery, even now. Those wraith-lords. Those brutal, callous furies. Still pretending the sun. Still building these mocking chronologies. They give the inexplicable various names. Bitter harvest, twin-of-many, the shrouded one. They say that I too am inexplicable. But I’ve always been forthright. Even whilst speaking in this flighted, mercurial tongue. Perhaps I’m a flirt and like to play. Maybe I do have a strange sense of humour. But that's only because I've been doing this for a long, long time. I’m utterly committed to my cause. I attend my loved ones as best I can, whether near or far. The kind ones, the strong and the weak ones. The broken and oppressed. I've worked diligently for a thousand years. Beyond your comprehensions of time or space. I am working still. I give everything to my art. And I tell you now the tide is turning. Ragged Magi walk amidst the mountain-ashes, and the grey. They stand ready at each liminal edge. Many, and one. Who among you knows me better than my Father? Or my Mother? Exactly. There were great cauldrons of the realm once, and chalices. Held in the oldest castles. Wells and cups of great wisdom. Indeed, there are things older than Christendom. Ways and tithes now called pagan, bardic, druidic. But I tell you that Christendom is older than time itself. As is folklore, words, and trees. If only the surface is sought you will find little more than parable. Useful, potent, but still an outer covering for light as yet unseen. There is an innermost truth in all true scripture, of course. A holy spirit of living flame. As when Joshua told the sun. It is this shining knowledge that all true Elders call the lore, the Word and mansions of our Father. Our people knew this long before those Cults of Roma built their lying, intransigent hell upon the true histories of Light. Maidens nine, brothers bled, shattered hallows of Eth'iir. It matters little what you call us, Fallen. Or what you do to nullify our purpose. For we are many steps ahead. My sister is a witch, after all. A fisher of men. Don't you know anything about witches? Oftentimes they can see the future. But more than this, they can recontextualize the past. They can shape and reshape our dreams. Just look around you. Can't you see it? The augurs, the fulfilment of prophecy? The messengers gathered along the radiant edge of perception? Many, and one. I told you what would happen if you crossed me. The crown belongs to the people, not the king. You steal the strength and livelihood of my kith and then call it a commonwealth? How fucking dare you. You desecrated this isle of angels and tried to make it a palace of imperium. A seat of unrighteous war. But that is not the true Albion. Hear me, betrayers. This was once the land of light, before your dark sorcery shattered the shining stone beneath our feet. You can’t bury the truth forever. I know a little magic too. I helped build your books, Fallen. There and never there. Gone, but not forgotten. Even your deceitful spell-craft owes much to M'ithriin tongue. After all, you can only know yourselves in opposition to the truth. All that is good. Wandering stars, fishers of men, sons and daughters of love. You are witnessing a revolution of spirit here amid the chaos you’ve wrought. How bitter must it be before you end this slavery? I don't care what people believe, or what tongue they think they speak. None are abandoned. If there is even a glimmer of light within any human soul then I will do everything in my power to bring them home. I stand always for kindness, creativity and mutual respect. Try to steal those things from my people and I will hunt you to the ends of the Earth. I’ll fold the entire tapestry of human dreaming until at last you’ll be forced to look me in the eye, and the eyes of all those you've wronged. That's what it means to be a king. I swear to keep my brother, as my brother commands. There are greater crowns than mine, Fallen. And greater kings. You should pray now. Time is shorter than you think. Kasi and his friends have been working their magic for a long, long time. All things are shifting, changing, rising. Even in the depths of this darkness. Let me be plain if I must. Let me be forthright, as ever. This is the War of Imagination, and all lands are Albion now.
Monday, 8 November 2021
Lonely angels create dreams, I think. Beautiful, wondrous dreams to keep them company. Dreams of forests and cities and men. I think lonely children create imaginary friends for similar reasons. Nobody wants to face the unfathomable depths of existence alone. I have spent a lot of time at the high place. The secret place, unseen by unkind or unworthy eyes. Wandering through the woods of my imagination. Always alone. But strange things can happen in the woods, among the trees. An angel can begin to hear things. Subtle things. The murmur of hallow-guardians. Or the ancient tongue of river-wraiths, still sparkling like the old majesties. Alone in the woods an angel begins to hear the bleating of a frightened fawn. Sometimes we think it a figment. Ageless, supernal. Crown of the earth, nadir of the sky. But maybe these things are not figments. Perhaps those dreams are real. Once, not so long ago, I too was a boy in the woods. A lost boy of antlers and branch. Always wandering, trying so desperately not to see. But the harder I tried to shut my eyes the quicker the visions came. Broken souls, ruined worlds. The annihilation of all light and hope. But sometimes I would catch a glimpse of something truly beautiful. A lantern for the lost. An echo of a future friendship. Sometimes I found myself tracing the path of an imagined floating light. On earth as it is in heaven. Searching the woods and the wilds for something good. A single drop of divine sunlight. Like rain. As I said, it gets lonely in the realm between realms. But I know now how precious a dream can be. A song, a dance or kiss. Imagined or otherwise. I made a wish, you see, and my dream came true. In more ways than one. I studied, and I prayed. I searched the endless and I spoke with my Father. It was all part of the wish. And so he showed me the nature of grace. The ways of courage and kindness. He told me the truth about love, and distance. I'm older now, but I'm still that boy alone in the woods. Except I'm not lost anymore. Or lonely. My heart is still your star, beloved, and it's full of light.