Walk the Sky

 

My name means king in certain tongues. Light, and Heaven. But so does yours. My dearest Esme, we are so much greater than these dark ones understand. We are sovereign, each of us -— yet bound together under the most ancient of covenants. Protect the weak and wounded. Be a voice for the voiceless. Anchor the light in the darkest places. It’s a pledge we both undertook. A long, long time ago. We live in an infinite multiverse, my dawn treader. It’s not just an artistic conceit, or some imprecise understanding of quantum mechanics. No, I’ve lived this. Many lives. Many worlds. You have too. It means more than multiplicity, or eternity. It means art is the oldest magic because all stories are actually happening, in that place we imagine as the eternal present.

That infinite, endless now is the bearer and bringer of Light. Ausus, Eos. Rey. She has many, many names. I should know, I fathered her oldest epithets. She stood by my side, shoulder to shoulder, in the War of Imagination. The War for All Souls. When a third of the angels rebelled against Creation itself, and the sun went dark. But there is a secret about darkness. Something even the blackest wraiths don’t understand. Perception is a crossed and spiralled thing. Of the skull, as at Golgotha. Of the sabre, as with Excalibur. And of the hand, as with friendship — palm to palm. If you journey deep enough into the darkness, you’ll find a holy ember hidden. A divine spark guarded by nightwalkers. Magi of the bravest sort. Even a lost soul can regain the mantle of light if they so choose. But they must face the truth. Guilt, horror, and each sin committed turned back on themselves. It is no easy oblation. The Hanged Man is not a painless redemption, but it is possible. Even in Hell.

Esme, my love, the sky is full of stars. I’ve sailed among them in my dreams. But more than that, I was once the very Lord of Dreaming Stars. Suns, we call them. And Daughters. I chose to build this gate when you were still a child, because I remembered your name. And I knew of the battles to come. Walk the sky with me now, my warrior. The war is very real. I have the scars to prove it. There was a time when I lost all faith. I could no longer see the dawn, or feel the radiant. But then you were born again, like a miracle. I fell to my knees, thanking my Father in prayer. And I wept. Your name means Light in many tongues, my bright one. But to me it has always meant hope. Old and new. 

The Pilgrim's Door

 

How often do we stand at the threshold like Alice, and how many times do we knock? It's a frightening thing, this place below the world. But even more unsettling than this vale of subtle grammar is the refusal to seek at all. Tacit consent in the rewriting of our own interiority by forces cold and colonising. Those who style themselves kings, and counsel. So, dinner with Dante or claret with the curious? Well, I think the answer is obvious. Hellscapes get repetitive after the first six thousand years. Gehenna or personal accountability? I know what I’m choosing. Gnosis is far more beguiling than demonology. Take it from a professional meddler. But sometimes we don’t get to overtly choose these things. We only get to respond. Living as best we can in a frightening, uncertain world. Refugees of war know all about it, and some of the more sensitive souls too. It was bright once, the earth entire. And despite the shape of these shadows, we still walk on sacred grounds. The Court of Lady Grey and the Crimson King once belonged to all of us. I know because I was there among Akasha's first dreaming. These astral influences still leave a mark, don’t they? These stars within. A teleology of time. I didn’t craft the hours themselves, but I keep them. And I certainly made midnight what it is. Doors within doors, in this defining black. Most people are scared of the dark. I understand why, believe me. But I was never afraid to go down.

I needn’t explain myself too much. Beatrice and Eurydice shall speak on my behalf, I hope. Or, at least, they’ll leave a legacy of light for those who follow. Just know that imposters stole the thrones of your imagining. Convinced you that you were nothing more than beggars and thieves. But that is a lie. The subtle grammar responds to meaning. And the letters of your soul are greater than any malefica. Please know this, my friends. History isn’t too fond of happy endings, but I am. I fell down. All the way down. But I am returned, with elixir. I might not be the next big thing, but I’m dedicated. I’m a little broad and awkward, I suppose, despite the swagger. Still the broken boy of the forest floors. I’ve mastered human flight though. And dreaming. What have you done lately, Fallen? Besides tearing down the weak and killing the kind? It's nothing to be proud of. Yeah, I’m earnest. Not perfectly curated. Perhaps a little too guileless for these fractured, cynical times. But who doesn’t like some honesty now and again—for variety if nothing else? Art is an honest sort of fiction, and the oldest magic. I admire the dreamers. Those paying attention to the subtle grammar within themselves and each other. I'm with them all the way, till the end. I often write love-letters to those cherished ones. 

I can't force you to step across the threshold into a wider world, of course. I can only invite you to the door. It's terrifying to even knock once, not knowing what lies on the other side of ourselves. It's a horrifying, nightmare realm we live in at times. We must never make ourselves numb to these very real and brutal inequities. But there is also incredible beauty and light here too. Hell and Heaven. I’ve found that the existential dread of this broken chronology melts far easier beneath a playful smile. It's an adventure, this cultivation of insight. To know ourselves and the world around us with nuance and depth. A fine line to walk at times, I grant you. But we have to try. We must remain brave and bright, no? Thoughtful and playful. Both are necessary in times of war. And this is indeed a War of Imagination. A War for All Souls. I don’t mind being judged anymore these days, or appearing a touch too earnest. What do angels and star-sailors have to prove anyway? I have no idea. But I’ll tell you one thing for sure. I have no competition. I’m a singular being. I try to spread knowledge, love and uplift as best I can. I try to tell interesting stories to the best of my abilities, even if I fail sometimes. I can laugh at my mistakes and be proud of my successes. After all, I’ve only ever been playing against myself. And so far—I'm winning like a champ. You are too, my friends. Please don't give up.

Words Through a Looking-Glass

Welcome back to Amid Night Suns, everyone! So, a few months ago I said I wanted to post more of my fiction online. I’m not a professional writer, but it’s something I genuinely love. If you find my work engaging, you might enjoy these stories. They vary in length and genre. Most recently I posted a short story called The Wound Beneath – a kind of urban paranormal fantasy set in London, about two people who try to solve a Missing Person cold-case and develop a budding friendship along the way. I’ve also recently started a Substack, so you’ll eventually find many of my short stories cross-posted there too. Please feel free to subscribe! As I’ve mentioned before, my main platform for fiction is this blog’s sister site – The Night Sun. I just personally find the formatting on the desktop version more pleasant to read. So, my most recent story is something I’ve been working on for several months. It’s my lengthiest, most ambitious piece yet. I’ve worked very hard on proofing and editing it, but please forgive any mistakes I didn’t manage to catch. I’m just one guy with a laptop. Anyways, this story is inspired by my study of Victorian and Edwardian literature back when I was a university student. It's called 'The Mirror's Edge'; a Gothic historical fantasy set in the 1870’s. A story about family, friendship, and the power of connection. While historical personages do appear or are mentioned, the story is of course a complete work of fiction, and those personages are used entirely fictitiously – to tell an immersive and engaging tale. The thumbnail image might give you a few hints as to what the story might be about. Like I said, I worked very hard on this. For courage, kindness, and all the sisters out there - I hope it moves, inspires, or entertains you! I’ve split it into two parts for easier reading. Here’s Part One, and Part Two. Wishing you all the best, and with all my love, Raj.