It was a busy week. After decades of imagining and years of writing, Morigan’s tale draws to a close. It’s been exhausting: orchestrating, recording the fates of so many of Geadhain’s denizens. But we’re there: at the War of Wars. The showdown is absurdly bombastic, as you’d expect. After the climax of the first novel, where Magnus and Brutus met and eradicated a valley with a nuke of frost-fire, the aftershocks of which ravaged the continent, my primary editor, Barbara, said: “How are you going to top that?” But then I did, with the events of the second novel, and the third has a gut-punch at the end, too. It wasn’t by design or due lessons taken from the School of Michael Bay that the books accelerate toward these dramatic conclusions. These are cosmic conflicts (beneath which human pettiness, and solidarity, is easily shown); they can’t be sedate. It’s how the story wants to be written. I wish that there wasn’t months of editing and drafting ahead to get this manuscript into readable shape. Although, time does fly, and you’ll be seeing Feast of Mercy soon enough. Indeed, the first snowflakes hit my window the other day, and I watched their dance and wondered where my year had gone.

I used to think that winter suppressed my affections and happiness, before realizing that some of my deepest bouts of depression simply happened to coincide with that time of year. As I’ve gotten older, happier, and better at managing that dark beast we all have within us, winter has settled into the kind of reflective solace of which Rilke would surely have approved. I read one of his earlier works this week, and even though I feel as though I’ll never fully understand the poet’s depth and aching, I certainly have enough of my own. Whence came this urge to write something melancholy, seasonal, and, I hope emotionally-provocative. I’ve also been reading the Susan Cooper books again; Arthurian stuff, and that might explain the darker, ancestral turn the piece took. Anyhow, here you are, a poem to christen the season: the Lords of Grey Thunder.


Lords of Grey Thunder

Winter tolls

Clouded gates, roll

–open, thundering

Summoned, hither grace,

ballerinas of wuthering lace

Across glassy balcony and space

To watch, afar

White dream, unmarred

By what is ugly,

and what is dark

Hands aflame, as kiln to blame,

for coco and clay draught

We drink to me,

to thee

to the gnarled Mummer Tree,

Hanging ghostly claws over skating fools

She stirs, breathing

A tangle of what we’d forget

A whisper of spirits of land and sea

We know not the names,

of our silly games,

wreathed in festive harmony

What of the lords of thunder grey,

whom offerings no longer sway?


wild feasts–on flesh

Not of fur and squealing

The primal dark,

would chill our hearts

And leave us, in misery be

Have you forgotten?

Do you remember?

Rumble the clouds, angrily

A breath, and sky no longer dark

A flinch, and phantoms gone from heart

Park, snow and children shine

All these construct of thee and thine

The beauty of humankind

Which is illusion

Which fades

When the lords of grey thunder


And reign

–Christian A. Brown, 2016


I wish I had one of Leo’s pieces to go with this moody prose. I may just ask him to make one. But there it is, something about our humanity and our humility in the face of the divine. Feels appropriately reverential and Sundayish.

All my love,


P.S. Today is also the sixth anniversary of my marriage–true love is real! Xoxo