Lux Tenebris: Well Met at Midwinter

           It was Midwinter's Eve and a misty rain was falling upon the city of Moontree.  The city streets were largely empty, even the most devout holiday reveler having slunk indoors to find what cheer they could near a warm hearth or in the loving embrace.

            Still, watchfires burned throughout the city and the temples blazed with light on this darkest of nights.  The air smelt of chimney smoke, the unmistakable stench of the sea and the crip smell of wet pine.

            Isteban Mirelle stood on the rear lawn of his Silver Hill home, a tankard of hot cider in one hand, his head tipped back.  He watched the sky, oblivious to the cold, damp air but appreciating the warmth of the drink in his hand.

            His home was quiet. The windows, festooned with seasonal greenery, were shuttered against the dark.

            The servants had been sent away for the night, as was Isteban's custom.  Most of them thought their master was simply being generous, giving them a night and a day for themselves and a gold coin apiece as well.  Only Esther, his major domo, knew better, but she kept her mouth shut and ensured no servants remained in the house.

            Isteban knew that Esther, herself, would be ensconced in a big feather bed at this time of night, after spending the first part of the evening at one of Moontree's temples.  She had been the last servant to go and would be the first to return tomorrow, at midday.   She did not like to leave him to his own devices for too long.  She knew him too well, and Isteban was grateful for her thoughtfulness.

            But tonight she was gone and he was standing on cold, wet grass watching the sky. Gray clouds rolled across the black sky, obscuring the familiar stars, but still Isteban kept watch.

            The soft sound of a man clearing his throat caused Isteban to sigh and pivot on his booted heels.

            "Is that for me?"

            The man leaning against the back wall of the house, arms crossed, grinning, was thin and wiry.  His skin was weather-beaten and brown, looking more like the gnarled bark of an old tree than flesh.  Wisps of silver-white hair clung to the sides of his otherwise bald head, and his eyebrows, thin and expressive, were raised in amused query.  He wore leather trousers and an embroidered buckskin shirt. His boots were worn, but serviceable, and a dark bag lay in a crumpled heap by his side.

            "Hell's teeth, old friend. I thought for sure that I would spot you coming this year."

            Smiling, Isteban crossed to the old man and pressed the hot cider into his hands. The old man took the drink with a laugh and raised it in a toast.

            "To your fortune, sir!"

            Then he tilted it back and drained it in a long gulp that would have impressed even the most ale-hardened dwarf.

            "Ah!" The old man sighed his pleasure. "That hit the spot! Thank you, my boy! Thank you!"

            Then he stepped forward and embraced Isteban in a ferocious hug that managed to knock the breath out of the younger man.

            "It's good to see you, Lamplighter."

            The old man stepped back, shook his head. "You know, you're about the only one who still calls me that."

            "It's the name I knew you by when we first met."

            "I remember," said the old man.  "And your name at the time? I forget."

            "I know better," chided Isteban. "You never forget anything."

            "Oh. I don't know. I am getting on in years, you know."

            Isteban snorted, and laid his arm across the old man's shoulders. "You talk like you're still mortal. Come, Lamplighter. Let's get in out of the cold and the damp. I've a warm fire inside and a good meal."

            They ate in the kitchen, at the servants' table.  The food was simple fare - bread, soup, roast chicken - but well made and washed down with tankards of hot cider.  Afterwards, there was dried fruit and sharp cheese served with glasses of good white wine. When the last bit of cheese had been eaten, the old man produced a pipe and settled into his chair for a smoke.

            Isteban left their plates in the sink, knowing that if he dared wash a single dish Esther would never let him hear the end of it.  He settled in his own chair, near the fire, with a glass of white wine.

            "So, Lamplighter, how went your night?"

            The old man took a long drag off his pipe and considered the question. He exhaled a stream of white smoke into the air and shrugged.

            "A mixed bag this year," he admitted. "So many folk, needing so many things."

            "And you provided for them as usual?"

            "To the best of my abilities," said the old man.  He eyed Isteban. "And what of you, my young friend? How have you been? Have you heard from your family?"

            "I've no kin left on my mother's side," said Isteban. "Not any more. The last branch of the family that I knew of died earlier this year."

            "The war?"

            "No," said Isteban. "More natural causes than war."

            "And . . . your father?" asked the old man, carefully.

            "He keeps his distance, as I've asked," said Isteban. He considered his glass. "But I find myself drawn into his sphere, despite my best efforts."

            "Ah." The old man frowned and puffed gently on his pipe for a moment. "What's happened?"

            "A debt has been called in by the Regent of Fallen Baramir."

            "Lukas Swann? He's always been a bit of a rascal, but he's a good man. Overall."

            Isteban grunted. "He sent a letter earlier this year, asking me to return to the city and marshal its forces. The armies of the west will gather there this spring, to march on Calhorne and the Draconic Empire before summer."

            The old man frowned. "I . . .  would not be so sure of that, my young friend."

            Isteban studied his friend. "You have news?"

            "I travel the length and breadth of Lore this night, not just western Nur. And I know things."

            "Are these the sort of things you can speak about?"

            "No confidences will be broken," said the old man. "But, bear in mind, what I'm about to tell you is not common knowledge."

            "What is it?"

            "The war may end before spring.  The Draconic Empire is troubled."

            Isteban leaned forward, studying the  old man's face.  "What do you mean?"

            "Things haven't been right in the empire for some time, but no one has spoken about it. At least, no one of importance. But that's changed. The invasion of the west has cost the empire the favor of the gods and the goodwill of their allies.  You must be aware of that, living here."

            "I've heard rumblings," admitted Isteban, "but nothing concrete."

            "Well, my boy, it's causing more than rumblings in the empire. There are public protests in the streets of Kargoth-Denn. The citizens are questioning the fitness of the Chosen Emperor to rule."

            "Are you suggesting that the Chosen Emperor could be forced to abdicate?"

            The old man fixed Isteban with a cool gaze. "You know better than that. Chosen Emperors don't abdicate. They die or get removed."

            "Civil war? In the empire?"

            "Not likely," said the old man. "Nothing so violent. More like a palace coup. Knives in the dark. Poison in the cup.  That sort of thing."

            Isteban shook his head. "It's hard to believe things are that bad over there."

            "People tend to act when gods make their displeasure known. And there has been something festering at the heart of the empire for some time.  Something sinister and dark."

            The tone in the old man's voice made Isteban uneasy. "Something diabolical?"

            "I hope not. But there is a familiar stink to all of this. At least, to me."

            "Even if the empire is sorting themselves out at home, I don't think it will have any effect on things here," admitted Isteban. "People want to go to war. They want vengeance."

            "Revenge is a fool's game," the old man said, bluntly.

            "We know that, but we've both lived very long lives.  Most people don't have that luxury."

            "True." The old man shifted in his chair. "So, what will you do? Will you go to Fallen Baramir? Answer the Regent's call?"

            "I do owe the city a debt. I'd like to wipe the slate clean."

            "Even if it means going back to war?"

            "I'll return to it one day," said Isteban. "It's inevitable. I am my father's child. War is in my blood and bones."

            "True, but there are many ways to wage war, Perra. Remember that."

            Isteban smiled. "So you do remember my name."

            "I remember the names of everyone I visit this night," admitted the old man.  "Do you remember being him? Being Perra?"

            "Vaguely. Like the memory of a dream. But every year Perra fades more and more and soon I won't remember being him at all."

            "No," said the old man. "You will always be Perra. You just need to hold onto him."

            "And how do I do that, old friend?"

            "With a little help."

            The Lamplighter bent and picked up his black bag.  He reached into it and drew out a rectangular picture. Even in the dim light of the kitchen, the picture's wooden frame gleamed.  The old man passed it to Isteban.

            Isteban studied the picture. It was a miniature painting, done in oils, by a fine hand. The subjects of the painting were a woman and a young boy. Mother and son. Both had reddish-gold hair and pale green eyes, but where the boy was pale as moonlight, his mother had skin like dark honey.  The woman was smiling at the boy,  who smiled back at her.

            Isteban looked at the picture and felt like he had been kicked in the chest by a mule.

            "Where did you get this?" he asked, softly.

            "Do you like it?"

            "It's . . ."  Isteban hesitated.  He didn't trust himself to speak for a moment. "I'd almost forgotten what she looked like."

            "Your mother was a handsome woman. She doted on you. You know that, right?"

            Isteban nodded, was aware of the unfamiliar sensation of tears welling up in his eyes as he studied the picture.

            "I know. Thank you, Lamplighter."

            The old man nodded and took a final suck off his pipe, before tapping its ashes into the fireplace.

            "Well, the night's fading and I've my own home to get to before the dawn."

            He stood and stretched, joints popping.

            "It was good to see you again, lad."

            Isteban stood and carefully put the portrait aside.  "And you, old man."

            They embraced and the old man hugged Isteban so hard that the younger man thought his back might crack. But he didn't complain. He simply returned the hug.

            "Shall I walk you out?"

            The old man laughed. "I'm sure I can find my own way. Happy Midwinter, my boy."

            "Happy Midwinter, old friend."

            With that, the old man tossed his bag over his shoulder and, with a smile, stepped back into the shadows and seemed to vanish.

            Isteban didn't bother trying to spot the Lamplighter. The old man had been doing this for centuries.  If he didn't want to be seen or heard, he wasn't going to be.

            Instead, Isteban picked up the picture and sat by the fire.  He studied the faces of the woman and child, memories flooding back to him of other Midwinter holidays, of a life he had almost forgotten.  He remembered snowball fights, the death of his first dog, the time he'd gashed his knee open while playing in the garden, the times his mother had sat by his bed and sung him to sleep.

            Had he really forgotten so much?  He shook his head and made his way upstairs, to his bedroom.  Carefully, he placed the framed picture on his bedside table, then walked to the window. He unlocked the shutters and pushed them open.

            The misty rain had stopped.  The clouds had parted. Pale moonlight painted the world in silver.  He smelt wood smoke and saw the distant glow of watchfires around the city, as folk waited for the long night to end and the light to return.

            Suddenly, Isteban Mirelle did not want to be alone in his home, sitting in the dark.  He wanted to be out there, on the streets of the city, among the people.  It was like a hunger, this sudden need for companionship, for human contact.

            The irony of that did not escape him and he chuckled as he drew on a thick winter cloak.

            He would find a tavern, he decided, and buy a round of drinks for everyone there. Afterwards, he would walk to one of the watchfires and sit and keep vigil until sunrise with other people.  When the new day dawned, he would make his way to the Temple of Sumet and offer a prayer to the God of War.

            After all, Midwinter Day was a time for family, and he wasn't just the son of a loving mother.  He was a Child of War.  It was inevitable that he would return to his father's house some day.  The time felt right for this to happen.

            Yes, thought Isteban. I will go to my father's house and I will offer him a prayer for peace.  I'm sure it will amuse him if nothing else.

            Smiling, Isteban Mirelle descended the stairs of his house and walked out, into the long night and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.