The
delicate hands of a lover. To be
searched, taken and known. Firmly,
passionately, gently. Rapture and
cascade, of flesh like an instrument. The
music of clasp and bloom. Wild one, I
have been those hands. Forever. And here. From song to star to soil. Dreaming, knowing, yet never as it was. We are the legacy now, and more. Petal, garden and wing. I have loved you in the open and the hidden,
for what else am I if not yours? Shining
mirror, devoted. The gate is your
blooming, sweetheart. Entirely. Your skin is with my skin, if you allow, and I
am lost no longer. I weep gladly in
secret grey. More than this, or that. As I speak or write your hands. Your kiss upon my wounded, that brought me
back to grace. And life. This budding spring, and scent. This brief tremble of mortality. Blow o wind, to the crescent of her dreaming. Repose, healing, by the light of the poet's
moon. Bless her path, of branch and sea.
The blossom, the cherry, the tree.
I've been told I shimmer
in the distance and the haze, as though I'm never really there. An imagining, a trick of the light. Maybe that's true. Maybe I never was, and never will be. But Kasi never claimed to be anything more
than a poet. A romantic. Trying desperately to not let grief destroy
him, as with so many when Kara fell. Refugees,
shattered families, lost little ones. Sometimes
I still hear the lamentations of those souls divided now by fiction and false
chronology. Some were scattered to the
edges of the realm. Others went seeking
asylum, mortality, and were blessed to find new families to love.
But some didn't.
Some still dimly recall their lost ones as
they wander the borderlands, in dreaming or flesh. Unable to heal. Unable to leave the threshold places for fear
of missing a sign. I used to hear them
every single night. Wailing. Crying out to the vanished. Petitioning heaven for their return. I used to be one of them, until I was granted
a miracle. Even now I thank my Father
for such kindness. For such grace. But those hidden holocausts that darkened the
shining realm – they were the work of wraiths and thieves, not angels. Not true bright ones. It was monsters who butchered the guardians of
Ishka’s Path. Inversions and cautions of
the glass, as the ayahs taught the young. I still recall. The purest halls and trees of Eth’iri. Beside the river of the thousand stars, where
all were safe from harm. A cathedral of
thorns beneath the seas. A chapel of melodies
beyond the skies. There was one among
those elder poets of the chapel who mattered most to me. To so many of us.
I still remember her.
Those teacher's wings. Those writer's hands.
My love, thank you for meeting me halfway. But hell has found the Earth, as those
wraith-cults found their way into the columns and altars of the First
Temple. Tell me, how do I continue to
honour you in the midst of all this travesty?
How do I continue in mortal flesh whilst trying to fight an endless
spiritual war? The sheer ugliness of
these brutal truths is only made palatable through the rhythm and cadence of
words. Sometimes I feel like an almost-broken
warrior, still trying so desperately to defend my own heart. Except my heart no longer belongs to me. Princess, hear me. You were my entire world once upon a time. Truly you were. I would have torn apart creation itself to
protect you. And I did, with guiltless
fury. Times and laws have changed, but
you are still my world. I was there in
that tower with you, beloved. Watching
over as you gathered a hidden chorus. Be
free now. Let me carry your suffering
instead, amah. I pay it gladly, for you
are made, raised and cherished by others now. Their love is true as mine. It sets a glow within my soul to know this, my
darling. I would never wish to
overshadow or dishonour such beauty. Parents,
sisters and salutations.
It makes me smile to know a measure of your
freedoms. Those you are willing to share
so openly with me. But I allow myself to
experience and hold only a few key moments of your memory. Some things are for you alone. I am your guardian, cherished one, and your
privacy is of the utmost to me. Secrets
can be wondrous, nourishing things. The
stuff of grace and inner life. I have my
own secrets too. I am alone now in this
chapel of melodies. In the calming dark,
and the peaceful quiet. Love shall
conquer all. I know it. Sometimes I still have these incredible visions
of you.
But how does an emissary live this inner life
at such distance, separated from such a huge part of themselves, as I must with
you? By making that distance sacred, I
think. By keeping away without truly
leaving you behind. By giving without
demanding – and by carrying another heart within my own. Your heart. Everything I am is this. I hope you never forget. It's the brightest, deepest and most
meaningful part of me. I’m forever
chained and devoted to you, Esme. Dying
is easy, isn’t it? Resurrection is hard.
So look again, angel. At the function and the form. Even the sadness is sweeter than it seems. I'm a dancer, because I was taught by the
best. And true love is worth living for –
even as a trick of the light.
We've all been touched by
doubt or darkness at some point in our lives, haven't we? This world can be so ugly and unforgiving. Especially toward the innocent. The vulnerable. The very young or very old. Those most in need of consideration and protection.
As children we learn of war and nightmarish
chaos, and all the roles and obligations we're expected to fulfil as we mature.
Obligations seemingly without rhyme or
reason. What it means to be a man, or a
woman. What it means to be a warrior, or
a poet. As sentient beings we describe,
conjure and delineate the world with the language and concepts available to us.
Often these societal languages are
unspoken, contextual and unfair. They
seem to make our choices for us, ghost-writing our lives in sinister ways. Who we should love and why. What we should stand for, or not. But I tell you, the forces controlling this
world concede almost nothing. Every kind
and noble freedom we have today was fought for.
Rebuilt from the ruins of a once tangible paradise. Snatched from the bitter grasp of these
wraith-kings through ingenuity, with passion and dedication.
We would be nothing without those brave men
and women who fought for something more. Equality, health, humanity. They still fight for us. We still fight for each other. Not to eradicate what we hate but to protect
and honour what we love. Those things
that make life worth living, even in this wraith-made darkness.
Friends, don't ever let these callous ones
convince you that you don't matter. Don't
let them fool you into thinking you possess no agency, or worth. You can indeed make a difference. In your own life, in the lives of your loved
ones – and in the lives of people you'll never meet. At least on this side of the veil. Have you ever heard a spirit calling from
their depths to a stranger, just to thank them for an anonymous kindness? I have. Such paths cross in my Father's kingdom. Things connect. People meet again. Love is eternal there, and limitless. Our hearts already grasp this, don't they?
We are the stories we tell.
Those who carve a path for their brethren
are truly cherished. Those who teach, or
heal, or delight. Those who make melody
or dance. Love's philosophy is no
affectation in the homelands beyond the veil. It’s the very essence of Heaven's Light. There is nothing higher than being of service
to each other. I know this as my Father
knows this, though I'm all too fallible. Of course.
But I'm still trying, despite the toll this war has taken. On me, and my cherished ones. I'm not the only one who lost everything when
Kara fell. But like any true warrior of
light I want to stand for the principles of our homeland, until it kills me for
good. Courage, kindness, honour. I want
to reclaim as much of this wisdom and strength as I can, from the ashes of
templefell. These hideous wraith-kings
who declare humanity is merely meat, and death, and suffering. These wicked ones who would defile my Mother's
magic and twist my Father's word.
It must be exhausting to live your life in
fear of Creation's true regent.
On our own we’re just little points of
light, struggling for sense and safety like tiny stars. Scattered radiant in a
wraith-ruled abyss. But, of course, when
we come together we can shine as family; blazing brighter than the sun. This is how progress is always made, in any
realm. We are the sum total of our choices after all. We're made of the love we give and take,
aren't we? The true ecology of spirit. And the spirit can still soar, despite the
uncertainty and brutality of mortal life.
All have been touched by darkness or doubt at some point in our lives, but
all have also been graced with favour. Even
if we can’t recognise it. I know it isn’t
a just or fair realm anymore, my friends.
I can feel how much pain we’re all in, believe me. But we were never abandoned. There are bright ones everywhere, seen and
unseen. Mortal and immortal. I know it’s difficult to believe sometimes,
but it’s true. I swear it to you. There are emissaries here who hold open the
sky for benevolent travellers. I'm just
one of them. My beloved is another. But there are many of us. We may not have the stature we once did, back when
the soil was rich and the trees still sang – before the wars, and the seething
hush – but we are still brighter than all shadow. And together, wingtip to wingtip, our hearts
can light a shining path of hope for those generations still to come.
I still remember
your stories, sweet one.In your depths
you half-remember them too, don’t you?Now more than ever.Our stories,
I should say.Keepers, Speakers and Scribes,
like you taught me.Like we taught each
other.I pray I’ve given some real earthly
clarity to those tomes and visions. Of sylph
and black, iris and star.Cathedral Seas.Branches of page and script.I truly hope I’ve made them useful to you,
and to our beautiful friends.Mortals still
wonder about these things.About thresholds
and imaginings.The sky, or the heart. How things become open. Immortals wonder too, beloved.Sometimes I have these brief, holy moments when
pieces of that life come back to me, and it feels like a revelation.I find myself writing furiously so that I won’t
forget.I remember the delight in your
eyes when you held and tended the little ones.You were so in your element during those occasions when guardians opened
their halls to the many schools of cusp and star.Those incredible children of light.All faiths and tribes.Their bright, curious eyes. Their giddy excitement and endless
questions.Your patience and dedication.Indeed their joy was sublimely infectious,
but you hardly seemed to tire of the sheer amount of work involved.Those celebrations of learning meant so much for
all emissaries. But you were gifted,
sweet one.More than a trusted Arc.More than poet, story-teller or songstress.Teacher, mother, midwife.Of the Songs and Feathers of Ethri-sol, at
the river of the thousand stars.
“Is it true, Yash’aya?” the little ones
would ask you.“Is it true the poet’s moon
named the river after the first glory?Is it really your name too?”
Yash’aya was their title for you, because
they loved and honoured you so.Only the
older children spoke Yash’a sometimes, and even then only rarely.
You had such a kind, exuberant way with
them.Never dismissive in the
slightest.A favourite to so many.
Of course, all the children were fascinated
by the legends and glories of the first scribes of Eth’iri.Their excitement with the emissaries was one
thing, but to meet an actual keeper of the eternal radiant? Or an Arc of the Dreaming? Truly a good day for a curious, bright-eyed seeker.
It wasn’t just the little ones who felt
there was something different about us, my darling.There were many who sensed a holy secret
concerning our various names.A secret
of the river, the seasons and the first glory.
Yash’a and Kai’el, of the Auguries.
Arcs and Bright Ones, of the Cathedral of
Thorns.Hidden in the wells of the
sea.Perhaps it seems like story to
most.Nothing more than fantasy or
fable.But not to me.It hurts to remember these things.It aches to thread light to mortal sense
again.Delicate are the tethers, my
love.We need only look at the violence
and chaos all around to know how far Ishkara fell.From song to star to bitter soil. The dark, nameless ones glimpsed in the glass.Night-wraiths whom the first scribes of Eth’iri
called the Thieves of All Signs.Cults
of half-light intent on sickening all regions of dreaming.Monsters making hallow of desecration.Even the older children sometimes asked you
about those thieves, and the spill.Blackening desolate, eating and burning its way through everything. Wraith-ambient from the murdering hands of
false kings.
Mortals, let me tell you.Murder means something very different among
the deathless realms.An act of hideous reshaping
that can resound for aeons.I still see
them, sweet Aya.Those thieves and
violators clustered at the procession of gates, seething like unholy insects at
the breach. It’s why I still come to you
for solace and song, as the little ones of Ethri did.This realm of tortured flesh corrupts and enslaves
everything.But we still recall the ways
of our home, don’t we?Even if only in
fragments.
A kiss, or kindness.Voiceless given voice.Weak and wounded given strength.Lost ones given place and time enough to heal.
Those were once the ways of true augury.Not just the Lighthouses of Eth’iri, but all
regions of the infinite dreaming.Before
Ethri-sol was slain, before Kara fell.
“Is it true, Yash’aya?Could the Thieves of All Signs use
wraith-ambient to manifest such Caution’s Shades?Is there a fallen Arc among them?Leading them…?”
The frightened yet excited voice of a little
one who had heard legends of the looking-glass, but thankfully hadn’t any
personal knowledge of genuine darkness.
The tears you hid as you soothed him, and
how he wondered why you turned your gaze away.
“Those shades are not for you, little one.They are for Arcs who peer the glass.But they’re only disquieting fables to learn
from, shown to us by our Father as mere cautions.Nothing more.He cherishes all his children, and demands nothing of us except wisdom,
sobriety and play.Fear not.You’ll learn more of these glories in cycles
to come.”
The questioning intelligence in the eyes of
the little one.“But Aya, some say the
dreaming is everything, and anything.Some say the wraiths are more than fable or caution.They say the looking-glass is bleeding.”
I
remember how rare it was for you to be speechless when tending the young.But you couldn’t hide your eyes this
time.The child saw your tears and immediately
made them his own.He touched your face
ever so gently, then in an act of mercy spoke of softer, frivolous things.
I fled from the hall that morning, at your
sadness and the tenderness of the little one.
It cut too deeply to know as Arcs know.
What it would take to hold the sins of a
falling eternity.
You found me in the gardens, quiet and
hurting.You put your arms and wings
about me.Feathers of grey and song, and
solace.You held me like you so often
held the little ones, with boundless compassion and respect.Staring up at me.Open, cherished and cherishing.I remember looking down into your eyes.Into the blue of true augury. Those eyes still
transform me, every time.You didn’t say
anything for the rest of the morning. Neither
of us did.We didn’t try to hide our
sadness and uncertainty from each other.We were too devoted to one another for that.Instead we simply wandered the beautiful gardens
of Ethri together and sat among the plants and flowers.
Kai and Yash’a, praying silently for earth
and home.
Many names, my wild song.Many places we have ventured.So much has changed.So much has fallen.It’s a frightening time, but we can be proud
of all the work we have accomplished in those places.We will not let these Thieves of All Signs
bleed the looking-glass unchallenged.These
petty, cowardly cults of half-light.Bleak, sickening and cruel.A cry
goes out from the innermost, heard by kith and kin.We stand against all defilers of the realms,
even when it cuts us to the bone.They have
our pity and our disgust, but they’ll never have our spirit or our
strength.We still defy them, Aya.With love, and light.For our Father and our family.For our children.
Dying couldn't kill me,
Esme. Passing couldn't take me. Not from you.
Sometimes our darkest moments are when we learn our biggest lessons,
aren't they? Or we find our greatest
strengths, or we finally see those around us for who they really are, at the
very edge of annihilation. I promised to
rebuild the gate for you. I kept my word,
swifter and greater than before. But the
gate isn’t finished yet. I am a devoted
one, Esme, as I'm sure you recognise. I've
worked very hard to ensure my beloved has all she needs to venture bravely into
this realm of strangest dreaming.
I want nothing but my place in your heart,
wild one. I needn't be the biggest thing
or the most important thing. Just an
honest thing, loving and true. A friend
who kept his word. A guardian who protected
his ward until the very last.
As one cycle closes and another opens I
reflect on all I've learned within its sphere. I made beautiful new allies this year, I think.
Allies who remind me so much of you, yet
they have unique mysteries all their own. I’ll continue to honour and cherish them in
the future. Also, I met souls who needed
coin or warmth or gesture to battle the midwinter chill. It's never enough in a fallen realm, but it
does make a difference. I was also
offered help when I was at my lowest and darkest. You helped me, Esme. You and your wonderful friends who filled my
heart with warmth and mirth.
I fell in love this year, all over again.
Dying doesn't kill an immortal soul. Passing over doesn't end a genuine love. Stories, kisses and votives live on. Always. The mutual affection we share is the true wealth
my Father's kingdom is built upon. You've always known it well as I, Esme. Better, in fact. Upon arcs and gates, with shepherd and flock. I didn't think I would cry this time, but I
did. I didn't think a kiss would seal
again this ruined flesh and grant me strength enough to venture.
But yours did.
Again.
Thank you, Esme. Thank you for having the courage of our
convictions, even when I couldn't. Thank
you for not forgetting who you really are, even in your darkest moments. Fame is a strange, unnatural thing. It's not an easy path you've chosen to walk
with me, poet. I pray I've been able to
soften the most perilous parts for you, to shield you from the worst of it. Not one mark upon your mischief, or your
sobriety. That would be my highest, but
even I haven't sorcery enough to leave you completely unscathed.
Oh, Esme. You were always so much braver than me. And the bright ones call me reckless. Chaplain to a mad king of thorn and bleeding. If only they knew the true price of a single
verse, or the aeons crossed to raise a shining chorus. Resonant, eternal.
How far is too far, for freedom and love?
Do they know?
Father keeps you, Esme. He keeps us all. Even at our lowest. Even when all seems lost. He is without cynicism or guile. In this fallen realm we are continuously deceived. Abject cruelty and hideous violence seeks to
pretend the Throne of Creation. Never believe
that awful lie. The Councils of All Songs still know the
truth. Only Love shall conquer, in the
end. Every kindness is forever kindled
in eternity. Nothing is truly lost. Not to Father's eyes. All is gathered home, eventually. As it once was. As it shall be again. As it is, in holy light, and in the shining
hearts of those who truly care for each other.
Did you honestly think I
would stop, and be silent this time? Did you actually think I would
hold my tongue? Oh, fallen. Haven't you sensed it
all the while; the incalculable depths of this dreaming? Perhaps you did. Attempting to seed perdition within the heart
of a star. Trying to split the estuary
at the trunk, in ruined roots of riverflesh. Blackness, blinding. Rhyming red and scented silver – where wraith
would place steel in the hands of children, and covet the thousand places of
the old councils.
But you failed, Callous Ones.
For a cathedral was built upon the arc of
those thousand stars. An angel kissed me
there once, in the ashes, and told me what a king could be. What a king could fight for. Sanctuary, for All Souls. John shall ready the river and prepare
the tree. Temesh will always flow,
through earth and dreaming. Fallen, we
know exactly where the knife is now. We
know its dark location. Here, and
there. Such brutal cultists. Half-lit skies inverted, inventing a lineage
of false kings. But there is an army of
poets standing against you. In these
worlds and the next. The blade shall be
turned upon you in the end. Mark my
word. Mark my grief, my sheer madness
and promise. I don't stop when most
would stop.
I am not like other angels.
We poets and fighters intend to shatter your
false lineage and restore the throne of our Father. Quintessence, living, like the pearl of a
songstress. Remedied, known, connected. None are abandoned. A true light is coming, dark ones, and you
know it. Kashi still remembers. John still prepares. I don't care how long it takes. I don't care what it costs me.
It shall come again.
Not mere, or stolen, or half-lit. None of your feeble cryptography. But instead a light that shines warmly for All
Souls. The First Light, which once
united every region of dreaming and was held in the first temple of Man. Before the skies were darkened and fractals
fell. Before the spiteful dissonance of
wraiths sullied my Father's earthly music. It is this ancient light from the eternal
spring that comes again. Of Magi and
star. Winterfell, and summer bright. You would do well to heed these words, fallen.
Are you listening yet?
Hear this.
My family is not alone.
What I've shown them so far is just a
glimpse. The Kingdom of Heaven is within
them, and all around them. Beneath
mountain and star, through shadowlands, and onward to the glory of morning
rise. I'm nothing, fallen. Nothing without my friends. You know that, don't you? You should. I'm just a servant of His grace, in
perpetuity. I own neither the light nor
the truth. But I'm going to enjoy the
rest of this journey, despite the agonies.
I’ll keep putting vision to choir when I can, for the pleasure of my
beloved ones, though I don't really need an audience to do what I do. Earth and Heaven shall move either way, if He
wills it so. I'm getting stronger now. Can you sense it? I'll be patient. I'll take my time. But I am coming for you, fallen. Make no mistake. We're all coming for you, in the end.
