Familiarity breeds contempt, they say. Even among princes and kings. It's a pity. I really did care, you know. But nobody can say I was a populist, back when I burned the world. The earth of your imagination, Fallen. Scorched to cinders and ash. A thousand years ago, I think. Or yesterday. Maybe tomorrow. Who knows? Time is such a sly, mercurial thing. Still, it wasn't a hateful act. Such fire of the hearth was not a choice I made lightly. Some of the most terrifying decisions ever are made in the name of love, aren't they? Some misguided attempt at protection or immortality. Making our beloved ones sacred somehow. Transcendent. These things still hold true for wraiths and darker shades. After all, who is left to haunt – if not the hearts of those we once loved in some lost golden age? Ghosts are nothing without context or lore. But legacy isn't just family, or tomes in a library. A true haunting is like mist. There and not there. Half-imagined whispers like glimmers on the edges of a quartz, shaped by the minds of men. As I've said before, I care little for these imposter thrones. These callow and violent lies of succession. The new, altered world. Perhaps one day soon I'll tell you the nuances of a real king and queen. Brythonic, Saxon, Norman. And all else besides. Maybe soon I'll tell you Jennifer's real name. Oh, savage ones. How you so gleefully elevate these hollow phantoms to godhood; it’s beyond me. Your royal cults of black blood and inversion. Would you like to meet a real dark angel? A winged thing of midnight sun, perched among branches on the tree of life? Whilst you scurry about below with your silica and sigils. Would you? I wonder. Also, I want you to know that as you continue to poison everything there are those among my brethren who honour the tree and seek to reclaim the land. To heal and rejuvenate the dreaming earth. No earthly king in a thousand years has cared enough for such a task. The ghosts, books and precious stones still whisper secrets if you know how to listen, and they hold nothing back. Such cruel, mocking monarchs. Perhaps I've already said too much, Callous Ones? Perhaps I'm far too generous in my romance of your pathology? Evil is just so fucking banal. But as an enemy in the struggle against such banality, I have to say – what's life or struggle without a little magic? We all need some pixie dust from time to time. It's been said that I'm far too liberal in my use of it. Purple prose and tall tales all a-glitter. Perhaps that's true. But Kashi only shines because his loved ones shine. Flight is meaningless without friends, even if you're able to touch every star in the sky. Hear me, Fallen. You reign from the earth whilst imagining yourselves gods, but I search from the sky whilst walking here among men. Fly for long enough and you'll discover the stars are infinite, believe me. When all is said and done, who of sound mind would really want to reign or soar alone?
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