In the night she asks, “Why did you make me your champion?” and all the answers that come to mind are dissimulation. But she knows me too well to deceive her and so I answer honestly. “Because you are nothing,” I say. “You are no one. You have no name; Mage isn’t your real name, and even the first name I had for you is no longer yours. You are nameless, homeless, ageless. That makes you freer than us. Tanim and Daren are bound by who, by what, they are; the Sun and Moon, brothers and lovers. I am bound by who I am and always will be; my name is not so easily cast aside as yours was. Yet you cannot be bound by anything now. You’re free. That’s why it must be you. That’s why I need you.” I lay in the dark for a while, then add, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I meant it to be this way. It’s just, we all have roles to play. This is yours.” She doesn’t reply. I don’t think she minds, though. She’s walked so many roads for me, and this is just another. Really, I chose her because she has always been my champion. That is who she is.


If you are any city, you’re New York Las VegasAngeles Soddom Gotham every city that runs on vice, every city full of dark alleys and broken glass, every city that smells like cigarettes and old whiskey and desperate sex, anonymous sex, bruising sex, that doesn’t want to know your name or your secrets because here you’re no one, you have no past and no future, you are every city where the nights last for years and the days taste like yesterday’s hangover.


If you’re any city, you’re Pripyat, city of dust and shadows, of crumbling walls and ghosts in filmy windows, a city so long abandoned it feels unreal, impossible, frozen in the second the world went wrong, an unwanted reminder of there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-we, and yet still some brave souls cling to your outskirts, desperate to remain in the place they once loved, to eke out a meager life beside you, even as your corruption slowly alters them from the inside out.


This no longer feels like an old religion, like bonfires and incantations and ashes smeared on moonlit skin, like wood and bone and stone, no, no, that primal power has bled out on unconsecrated earth and this feels like new religion, like empty words and empty songs and empty altars, like a god who turns away his face and allows others to speak for him because he really couldn’t give a shit, he’s been at this for so long and what’s another thousand years without miracles, they keep on believing no matter what, and fuck you if that’s what you think because I can’t remember the last time the sky lit on fire or all the tongues of men were turned to gibberish and I’d give anything, anything, for another apocalyptic flood to come roaring in and wipe it all away, remake the face of the earth itself so I must relearn how to walk in an unfriendly wasteland, that’s my kind of religion, the kind with destruction and recreation, with retribution and jealousy, cause when’s the last time you coveted me?

That’s what I thought.


I keep cutting off my hair and picking at my skin and pulling at my eyebrows and it’s not because I’m mourning because I’m not and it’s not because you’re gone because you’re not so it must just be that sometimes you have to rend your clothes and smear your face with ashes you just have to wail and beat your breast you know?


Have I mentioned my arch-nemesis is now on WordPress? She’s the artist of many of my beautiful pictures of Tanim and Daren, and the author of many bold, shameless lies about my escapades. You should definitely check her out – and commission her for a picture!

Originally posted on AlicePan:

[For miserypane]
You’ve fallen in love with a charcoal queen

Who couldn’t stand the crystallizing pressure
And instead burned out like an autumn fire
Her only purpose to put thoughts to paper
An inky substance to smoke out ideas and texture
But might crumble under your touch and sheen
The dark stars in her eyes are just carbon copies
Of diamonds in your faraway dreams

[For onlyfragments]
When word of your villainous exploits are whispered
in hushed tones across the omniverse
And the dark stars in your eyes finally go out
With your last dying breaths you’ll laugh in
Her face, as the queen of all faery cradles your
Thinning gloom — the clouds of red thunder
Will part and reveal the infinite ebony, for
On the final midnight of the Dark Elven Mage
There is. no. Moon.

View original


There are no books in which I could find answers for this, no key to be found in church or mosque or synagogue, no past pilgrims or prophets whose footsteps I might follow. Should I walk until my feet are bruised and bled? Should I withhold food and water? Should I cast stones or light candles or burn offerings? I do not know. I would cleanse myself in holy water, if you cared for purity. I would confess my sins, if you cared for goodness. But you are fickle, cruel gods and I do not know to what state of grace or disgrace I should strive to earn your love anew. There have never been ones like you in all the pantheons of history, and thus I am alone in worship and ministry both.