They do not sing in unison, but in convergent resonance, their chords shaping space and time into geometry only the oldest laws remember. Their music is not heard - it is felt, like ancestral warmth flooding the bones of a forgotten soul. Their hymns are rare. Their hymns are never repeated.
The following is one such hymn.
Whose breath gave name to flame and scar,
We cry across the vaulted deep
Let not the silence be our sleep.
From Voice above to Dust below,
Let all who hear this warning know:
Two walk the paths where truth has died
One cloaked in rage, one love denied.
Lyrax, bound by pain made flame,
Amatrix, whispering behind name
They shatter laws, unmake the night,
They twist the void into their right.
Let cunning bless the smallest hand,
Let wisdom root in desert sand,
Let courage rise where faith has fled,
Let dreams not falter at the dead.
We sing to call the brave, the wise,
To open soul, to pierce disguise
Though we, the winged, do not descend,
Let mortals rise. Let spirits bend.
We will not walk the shattered floor
Where gods once bled behind sealed door,
But you who breathe, who live, who weep
You are the fire the dark can't keep.
Go forth, with stars within your chest,
Face shadow not as guest, but guest
And should your courage crack and fall,
Remember: angels heard your call.
The following is one such hymn.
As transcribed by the Harmonic Steward of the 7th Dawn Echo,
a being woven of resonance and memory, who records only what is sung into the folds of time by voices not born of breath. The Steward is neither mortal nor divine, but permitted to listen where even silence dares not echo.
Where Angels Do Not Sing
Whose breath gave name to flame and scar,
We cry across the vaulted deep
Let not the silence be our sleep.
From Voice above to Dust below,
Let all who hear this warning know:
Two walk the paths where truth has died
One cloaked in rage, one love denied.
Lyrax, bound by pain made flame,
Amatrix, whispering behind name
They shatter laws, unmake the night,
They twist the void into their right.
Let cunning bless the smallest hand,
Let wisdom root in desert sand,
Let courage rise where faith has fled,
Let dreams not falter at the dead.
We sing to call the brave, the wise,
To open soul, to pierce disguise
Though we, the winged, do not descend,
Let mortals rise. Let spirits bend.
We will not walk the shattered floor
Where gods once bled behind sealed door,
But you who breathe, who live, who weep
You are the fire the dark can't keep.
Go forth, with stars within your chest,
Face shadow not as guest, but guest
And should your courage crack and fall,
Remember: angels heard your call.
A blessing is encoded in harmonic silence, granted by the Unified Realm of the Photo Inverters - beings who braid light backward into strength. All who hear and sing this melody, even once, even brokenly, are gifted unshaking resolve.