all hail the king
When the angels fall, the stars do to. No one notices, as they rocket to the earth in a spectacular light show, grace sizzling away with their wings, meteorologists and astronomers all over the world scrambling, panicking as the fires light the midnight sky, buzzers and warnings humming and beeping their alarm in accord. But in the days after, in the panic, in among the news reports of record meteor showers but no meteors, empty craters miles wide, bomb warnings, new-agers welcoming the otherworldly, are the few who notice.
Constellations have gone dark. Entire galaxies of them, gone like they’ve been blown out like lit candles, no smoke trails to be seen, unnoticed for a short time in the chaos. Orion, Cassiopeia, Pollux and Castor, twins in the north, wiped away, like the black sheet of the night sky shaken of dust, snapped and set back on the line, spotless. Huge swathes of the sky are empty, and not even the strongest of lenses can find light twinkling in the inconceivable distances; in the depths of space there are no guiding lights.
Except one; one constellation remains, flickers ashen and pale in the northern sky, Lynx alone surrounded by the emptiness. In reports and papers its name is written down as the last, unwilling, and quickly forgotten, and in the night sky it hangs, reigning solitary in the vault of the vacant sky.
A week passes, two, and it sits over humankind, awareness of the void, an uneasy, uncomfortable sense of the barren sky. Some part of every human looks to the night and finds no guiding North Star, no ancient lode to guide through storm tossed seas, no nesting doll Dippers, no zodiacs to tell their fortunes, and the whole of the earth is unsettled. Reports too come in of strange people, wandering into stores and trying to take clothes, or food. Doors are locked; children are kept in.
People stop looking up. They go about their business with eyes to the ground, become more familiar with neon-lit concrete than the night sky, but some primal part of them, some instinct passed down from ancestors who sailed ships through howling winds and salt soaked gales and trusted only guiding star paths, are unsettled to their core, shaken to the marrow of their being.
Church attendance drops, and pastors, preachers, rabbis, clerics and ministers across all nations wonder why, what has caused their flocks to wander. They can feel it, though, that their prayers are cast like sand to empty winds, their hymns sung to cathedrals without ceilings, no holy echoes, no comfort, no warmth, that hard wooden pews are only hard wooden pews. Everywhere sinners kneel in iniquity, and there is no answer, no exalted, holy, lifting hands; there are no angels left in heaven.
drawing out my sentiments regarding the season finale
“Rejoice despite the fact this world will hurt you
And rejoice despite the fact this world will kill you
And rejoice despite the fact this world will tear you to shreds
Rejoice because you’re trying your best!” (x)
FANDOM DOWN. I REPEAT, FANDOM DOWN.
its not just the fandom thats hit the ground recently
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