I found a star today, buried in a
lake. Hidden in a hollow tree. I can part the veils with this star. I can open worlds with the edge of its
dreaming. This star, this tongue of
burnished silver – I share it with a friend of mine. A girl I've known since I was a boy, and long
before. When we wandered hill and dale
and spoke of Vivian's music. The calling
thrill of the twinning river, mid-morning.
The ghostlike mist that kisses those lakes of grey. A world of myth and making, when the hours
themselves were golden and the skies ablaze with tender promise. I sought that sun today, my love. That bucolic gold in the meadows and fields. Nis'atur, the pages once sang. In the oldest tongues of Albion. Navah'tri, of our thought. Ann'ethi, of our flesh. Cam'ri'lach, of our heart. But is it enough to fill our heads with
stories of the old world? The
half-forgotten vistas of a lost and shattered chronology? They sicken me; these Plantagenet wars of
Tudor glance and sinister revelry. These
false flowers reddened in blood-dimmed tides. That they might speak for Ebura,
or Lune? How absurd, when these
pretenders knew and know nothing of words, or names. Calesvol is written upon the brow of the
first angel. Just above her left eye. Did you know that, Fallen? It is written there in all the colours of
continuum. Sometimes names are passed down like secrets. Altered just enough for hiding. K'ashayel is such an old name. Albion is such an old tale. See, I won't pretend I'm not a man. I am. But
neither will I pretend that I wasn't once a prince. My dear one, I wanted more for you today. I really did. I wanted to offer you something other than
these stories. Something tangible. I can't give you a gift like that, but I can still
seek with inner vision. I can still take
you with me in my heart. And so I did. A small gift perhaps, but earnest. I quickly discovered a path on my journey, set
with an eight-pointed star. I wandered
this path adorned with bunting, beside the angel and the crown, until I came
upon such monument as is fit for a day pledged to you. These turrets of Magdala. And so here we are again, little one. Priests and their hills, daughters and their
hallows. Mothers and their kin. This work is greater than those hideous lies
of succession, those dark attempts at alchemy. Greater even than those supposed angelic
scripts at Mortlake. Besides, I care
little for blackened glass when all is said and done. Ga’hala will tell you, my love. Lest you forget these tales of truer
waters. Tales of near-drowning and the
breath. A daughter of fortitude? Oh, for certain. But such a daughter is of far grander
provenance than these wraith-lords understand. I still recall the sleeping river at Richmond,
when we spoke of future dreaming. Imagined
archaeology. There is thunder in our
hearts, my love. I cannot drown
again. I cannot risk the depths to truly
know once more, but I swim towards light in my yearnings. And so I climbed Richmond Hill to be with
you. There at Turner's View I stood in
perfect sunshine and watched the ribbon of Temesh weaving its way through
verdant meadows beneath a sky of crystal blue.
I wandered among the deer and the fawn that gathered at a fallen tree in
the meadow. A hollow tree. Later still I ventured deep into the woods. Until, to my astonishment, I witnessed a
caped traveller upon a white horse. I imagined
him a gallant knight upon his steed, in honour of you. Far too naïve a sight, too innocent for a
cynical soul to recognise. You and I are
not children anymore. We both know the
cost and price of war. But these sweeter
visions indeed are kisses from the otherworld. A gentle smile can sometimes be found among
the trees, where branches hold the eternal sea.
I still remember. The tiny bells
upon ankle bracelets, barefoot in the grass. Like a vision in white and gold. Half human, half fay. You were there with him, you know, at the gate
of Lud. In the churchyard on the hill. In the shadow of Powles Crosse. The angel and the ghost. An exchange of experience, you called it. You had such warmth in your voice as you
offered to carry his pain for him. But
that boy in the courtyard knew he could never do that to you. Not to you.
He couldn’t let you be cursed like that.
Oh, Little Rock. It’s far grander
than you ever imagined. That shattered
blade, those shining eyes. Made a star
once more. In the hands of a dreaming king. Upon the brow of a singing angel. It matters little of those hordes of Vort’eth,
those draconian towers. We tongues of
the true fire speak louder in silence than all the lies of those false thrones. I need you to know, my fair one. I need you to grasp the depths of who you
really are. This Path of Roses, of
Mother and Child. For Daughters, and
Sons. Albion is not merely these
isles. No, all lands are Albion. And the true regent of those golden hours
shall never abandon their people nor leave them without hope. We share this silver star, my darling. For Love, and little else. We were warriors once. We are warriors still.
