THE DARK WINTER

 

"In that darkness the White Walkers came for the first time. They swept through cities and kingdoms, riding their dead horses, hunting with their packs of pale spiders big as hounds."

―Old Nan

The dark winter will soon be upon us. White walkers unfortunately already are. 

The past few years have witnessed the culmination of an agitated multitude, steely eyed in their dogged demand of a ‘pure’ nation, free from outsiders, free from those unwilling to follow the faith. 

Their grips are icy and their touch toxic. So is their stance, a determined refusal of anything but their point of view. This army of the dead grows stronger by the day, once human, now stone-cold brutes, marching south under the orders of the Night King. 

Copious like the plunging of dragon glass into a man’s heart, so too, this people proudly flaunt their badge of honour, a heart bereft of substance; on flags, across their arms, defiant, putrid, hostile. 

Much, much like Viserion, once buried underneath the icy waters, now resplendent in all its glory this tribe now multiplies, slowly, stealthily, steadily; their march amplified in the seeping puddle of viscous, amber stains on each nation’s soul.  

So, who are these White Walkers? I wish I could say it is another fine piece of whiskey, although actually not quite. Flippancy aside, they are, on the surface, seemingly fine people in almost every aspect, except if you look closer, you can see the ash grey sinew stretched taut across, unrelenting.

Faith or religion is what they call their rallying cry. An ardent blinding, the scales firmly rooted, they see nothing, hear nothing, save the rabid liturgy of their King.

They are everywhere. Once perhaps only one faith could boast of its blind allegiance. No more. 

The god whom they worship may be different; their names and rituals dissimilar and yet they are all but one following. All fighting for what they profess to be the truth, bathed in blood and gore, hands and tongues dripping.

And like the dank odour of death, the pale and chalky sloughs bear testament of their professed piety, as also their singular mark of inclusion, unadulterated by the grunge and soot that is the world. 

They are among us, unseen no more, loud and defiant. Arya Stark, whose icy dagger, frost upon frost, splintered the Night King into a million pieces was no conqueror. All she did was shatter the myth when in truth the dragon remains; still.

A fiery purge awaits, not from the heavens; instead this, the tenacious fanning of fear and resentment that will take no prisoners, spare no one, not even those suckling at the breast.

A great sign appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head.  She was pregnant and cried out in pain as she was about to give birth.  Then another sign appeared in heaven: an enormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on its heads. Its tail swept a third of the stars out of the sky and flung them to the earth. The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth, so that it might devour her child the moment he was born. ~ Revelations 12:1-4

There is a new awakening that waits. 

Where all are free.

Where all are the same; you and me.

Liberty. Equality. Fraternity.

And so, does the dragon.

It awaits.

Hydra.

Serpent.

Chimera.

Demogorgon.

The Beast.

But truth be told; in life, the monsters win.