Mythangelus by Constantine Storm

Author:Constantine, Storm
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: angels, fantasy, nephilim, wraeththu, storm constantine, grigori
Publisher: Immanion Press

How Enlightenment Came to the Tower

He lived within a tower of white stone, in a part of the forest where the light was greenest and the trees dwindled to a furry, sighing sward. The tower was crowned by sparkling marble, which could be seen from the nearby mountainside town of Tooreal, poking up above the trees, golden radiant upon sunny days and shining with the pallor of a sad, sick face at night.

He had been within the tower for so long that most people no longer knew the reason for his lonely exile, and those that did remember never spoke of it. The people liked to make up legends concerning his existence, for that is the wondrous thing about forgetting the truth; it is possible for the realm of fantasy to blossom. He within the tower lived by fantasy. He knew these things. Some said that he was walled within the stone because of some mysterious misdemeanour he’d committed as a child (rumours of death, poisoning, darkness abounded), whilst others claimed that it was because he was a sorcerer who had no control over his visions, who was dangerous and fey and to be shunned. Those who were wisest thought to themselves that the reasons for his imprisonment were infinitely more complex than that, and it may be said that those folk were the most accurate in their musings.

There was no door to the tower, the stone was skin smooth, and its narrow windows began halfway up its height. No briars grew against the poreless walls, no lichens formed, no lizards scaled the hot mid-day stone; it was inviolate and pure, a pristine symbol within the earthy confines of the forest, whose equally earthy activities daily affronted the aura of the tower. In the morning, rays from the rising sun would fall across the exile’s bed to wake him with the lightest of touches. He would rise, stretching like a cat, and his shadow on the bedroom wall would be that of a great cat. Then he would dress himself in dull, black silk and put his feet into worn, silk slippers, go through the long windows open to the dawn air, onto the balcony and lean upon the parapet to let his hair fall forward over the stone. Then he would sigh. Every morning began this way; the days were endless.

Sometimes, he found himself wondering why he did not vary the routine by going to bed at different times or waking up at different times, when the colour of the light would be different. He never did. The mirror in his bedroom was veiled. Each morning, he would look at the veil, but be too afraid to lift it. His reflection was within the walls anyway; he could not escape it, but there it was a soft and harmless thing. Mirrors were too harsh and he feared their cruelty, their passionless honesty. Perhaps too he feared being turned to stone, but in reality he should have worried more about being turned to ice.

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