We often find the gates of fairy through wandering or complacency; dreams, water, virgils, hunts guide us through the looking glass. But rarely is vengeful violence the catalyst fey.
Now atonement, this is often discovered in Otherworld. We are discovered and discarded. Consumed by our worldly normalcy, mugglish mediocrity, we ascend purgatory’s mountain: our dragon skin is torn off, our rusty armor broken clean, our neck pierced by verdant sir. And herein, our eye paints judgement beside the other consumed, making peace where murder stood.
A man destroyed, remade: true life in death.
Paradox alive.
The Hollow Land (1856) by William Morris
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