Sister Ysabeau; of the Sight, of the Sense

[Fleeperpriest 261]

Spoiler

@Songwitch

 

My dear sister,

 

Still keenly do I remember, solidified forever in my mind, the great impact of your spirit upon the world around you, conjured forth from a heart and mind unwaveringly dedicated and wholly unified in purpose, in deed, and in all the ability revealed to be in your mastery. Such a spirit is rare even among clerics, among the most dutiful of the priests of the parish, and verily unheard of in the halls of the assembly. It is a spirit becoming more of a prophet than of a priest or servant, or monastic, or holy warrior- the latter both you certainly presumed to be.

 

And this spirit you bore, this weight you had carried, this incredible and blinding power that marched alongside you, it could be sensed, was not entirely of your person alone. No, this spirit, it was a spirit holy, not born of impeccable discipline, nor of great wisdom, nor inherited a charismatic gift of the person, and existing only by invitation into the heart of the servant. That is to say, you are one who walked undoubtedly with the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of God, and who had made yourself a vessel of His will, the perfect servant, the prophet, the one who walks with God.

 

And so familiar was it, it could be sensed. Looking upon you I had seen a parallel in the service, and one attuned to the will of that most mysterious thing, and set upon the road ordered of them. A tool- a great, great tool, a pawn upon the board of God's great game, the manifestation of providence at the price of submission of the self, of the subsuming of the will of the self to the will of the One. This experience has been the great joy of my life, the fulfillment of my passion, the great love known to me. It is for this reason that I have long presumed to be your compatriot, and your equal, and your companion in the service. And it is for this reason also that I have found you to be a great inspiration.

 

The inspiration of a footsoldier, who, flanking him by his shoulders march beside him and ever forward his poor brothers and sisters of the militant, struck in his heart with the power of the raised weapons of his faith to the end of the annihilation of human concupiscence, inspiration. To see the fighters onward, hope undying. More, to see, in place of the banner, a greater honor. The spectacular light, the burning flame of passion bestowing its glory upon each and every soldier of the formation, and flying high above them in radiant glory, speaking of victory, of final peace, of the security of the body and the fulfillment of the soul in its mission.

 

Surely, this, you must also have sensed, my kinswoman. You must surely have known. Standing together we must have been seen two squinting, gazing elders, looking upon things that others could not see, would not see, would not care to sense at all. To us, it was all in calculation, to see the folly of the world, and the paths of righteousness laid out meticulously by the senses, so attuned with the spirit of command as to know by second nature the way that must be tread, and knowing in our hearts our divine prerogative, to take them through the clouds of the profane, and herd the flock onto that narrow path of safety.

 

. . . 

 

But now we are old, and there is an aching. There is a sorrow, and a despair, and a helplessness. While it can be said that we had both been gifted of the spirit, your senses were the greater of ours. While I could feel the light, and feel vaguely the gaze of the watchers, know by some otherworldly direction the presence of greatness and too the closeness of the enemy- for you, it was more, it must have been. I come to understand, now, your suspicious glares, the twitches of your eye, the fury that abounded you. You must have known.. must have seen, yes, to truly see them. You had locked eyes with the watchers, seen true the banner on high, bore witness to the devastation of the world.

It is for this reason you have been tormented. It is those who walk the prophet's path that suffer the most the wrath of the enemy, of the traitors, of the deceiver and his hosts, of the rebel hosts of great multitudes from here to the highest Heavens. I have begun to understand, now, the weight of the sorrow of our affairs. We are told the war is all but won, that the Lord of Hosts shall prevail against the lot of them, that they will be brought to heel and his boot will be upon their neck. But do we see the hallmarks of our victory? Not in our world, we do not see it. The banners do not flutter, the Empire does not reign, the hosts of Heaven do not march upon the Earth. The senses are accosted, on the daily, by the gravity of human concupiscence. These things, we, of the faith, have grown accustomed to. We have known that we live in a land of occupation, we have known our realm to be infested. This, we all have learned to live with.

 

But to gaze upon the beauty of the watchers, of the Angel, and to see the great goodness of their being in every essence of their being, in their glory, but a fragment of the glory of their maker- but with a twisted visage, angry, warped- this is a wound unto the senses, the breaking of the heart. To see in such things the heart of evil, of such good things, and to see that they are everywhere, and the extent of their incredible malice, burning, chastising despise. How could it come to be!?

 

They look upon us with revile, now. They have seen all our error. They have seen the trust placed in us, and have thought it squandered. It is pure and simple hatred, covetous glances, intermixed with disgust, and laden with a bitter pride betokened of the keen knowledge of better weighed against inferior. This, all, you must have known, must have at some point learned. You searched for them, our Angels in the world. You have known our allies few among the vastness of the hosts. We are the ignorant prisoners of a world sentenced to death.

 

I beseech you, now, a peer, do not forget the glimpses into our victory that our resistance betokened. It was by the flame and the light that our marching column was afforded the hope to advance, and assured of the final victory of the militant. Yes, we are old, and the world has not changed, not budged even slightly in its stubborn ignorance. But there is more that we need still do, hope, still, for the salvation of our people, for the survival of our race, and for the annihilation of our error, for the forgiveness of our sin. Yes, the lords of the nations remain firmly in the hands of the enemy, complicit in our genocide, and the banners do not flutter atop the castles and the keeps, and yes, the church and the steeple still do remain in the shadow of their evil, but had we before known that our only hope was in the trampling of them?

 

THIS is what we have been made to see! This, more than anything before, has been our call to arms, a glimpse into the extent of our peril, of our own evil, of the great great evil that has set us here, that it is so strong as to set all the universe against us, and still we should remain the hope of our Master, our Maker, who suffers this all to be for us not only to remain, but to succeed, and to join him in victory against all that has done error in the world, and in the Heavens, and in all places, and live exalted beside the Living God in Paradise eternal. 

 

It is by the invocation of HIS presence shall we make a stronghold of our world, and the world it is our duty to conquer for Him. For this reason you must remain, must keep your hope, must keep your strength, my sister! You must not leave us, not now, not while the world cries out in the throes of sickness, knowing that its death draws near quickly. What rest can we be afforded while our people have profaned Him? We must not despair, not for the breaking of our covenants, not for the folly of our demesne, not for any of the war, not while our God reigns supreme pantokrator.

 

Come down from your tower, do not let us slip away. Fight for the King of Heaven's iron grip on Earth to the failing of your knees, for but a few years more. For a hundred years more, if the torment you can permit, fight with us, sister! Enter into the upheaval, the chaos I now know, that is the partisan rising of us who may yet be saved. Come again to us, sister, and we shall see to your health, to your armor, to all that must be afforded the ones who see our ends and fear our wretched path! We beg you, while still you live, fight, fight, fight! By GOD, we must preserve our hope and faith, the holy covenant!

 

Bishop Callaghan, in call to arms, for the preservation of our spirit. Your friend and colleague, Fleeper.

[marikandaperc 1166]

Angelica of Lemon hill pried through the slits of a curtain at the room lit by candle. There a Bishop sat, and his hand danced on rough paper. No matter the age, his wrist remained as sharp as ever, or so she thought. While unable to peer at the context of such a lengthy letter, it did not take much time for the nun to assume whom it may be directed towards. It was then that she crossed the lorraine, a quiet sigh escaping her gaped maw. A final drum over the wooden curtains announced her departure, her mind troubled by the health of the Bishop.