The wind whistles through the trees outside the small mountain cabin. Inside, stone walls keep out the cold of Deepice as a fire crackles in a marble corner fireplace beside a luxurious sofa in the sunken living room. A tall pine stands on the other side of the hearth, draped in red and silver garland and hung with balls of crimson and gold. A strange song, though softly sung, fills the air, and a few seconds later, Keats descends slowly, having just affixed a sparkly, glowing orb to the treetop.
Perfect. Just like last year.
It had taken him far less time this time around, however. The previous Frostfell, being unused to the practice of tree-decorating, it had cost him almost an hour to make sure that the tree topper was just right, that its glittering glow was equally easily seen from door, table, couch, bar, and stairs. He still hasn't gotten the garland just right, but it's passable. Perhaps even charmingly messy.
Charmingly messy...the idea reminds him of seemingly innumerable Frostfells in the apprentice dorms at Marsheart's Chords. Although he's not sure he'd call the chaos "charming," it most certainly was messy. And not unpleasant, he has to admit. The madness of Frostfell as a League apprentice in Freeport was intensely exhausting, certainly, but in that strange way that Frostfell has, it seemed to feed on its own momentum. He can't even begin to recall the number of times he fell into his bunk, completely wiped out from hours of performance at parties, in street choirs, at special services at the Temple of Marr, in concerts and plays at the Theater of the Tranquil...yet he also can't recall any time that the exhaustion wasn't also rewarding and utterly eradicated by several good hours of sleep. At least all the residents were equally enervated; there was little interruption before the call to breakfast.
The bard smiles and picks up a recently-made evergreen wreath that he acquired at market on the way here and climbs up on the mantle to hang it on the column of the chimney. He cheerfully whistles a holiday tune as he does so--and then proceeds into variations on it. Balancing the wreath on the rounded column gives him a bit of trouble at first, but he soon finds the fulcrum point and gets it in place. Hopping down off the broad fireplace mantle, Keats takes a few steps back and looks up at the wreath, critically at first, but then with an approving smile.
He can't help chuckling a bit at himself and shaking his head. Who'd have thought that he'd ever be doing this--decorating for Frostfell in his own...well, not "home," exactly. But close enough--his own place, all these many years later. As a child he'd been pressed into service often enough to put up decorations around the Hall, and as an adult he'd helped decorate the Tavern and the inns, and the High Sigil's Court occasionally in the past, but this is just different somehow. Unlike almost everything else in his life, it's not about the League, and it's not about the guild. It is something of an escape; even his own little home--rebuilt as it is, and as "him" as it is--isvery much the home of a Sigil-bard. This is something else. Decorating this place for Frostfell is...different. Exciting.
Energetically beginning a new whistled Frostfell melody, Keats turns back to the crate of Frostfell stuff. He hesitates, then pulls out two Frostfell stockings. The Frostfell spirit has so overtaken him that his smile interrupts his tune as he hangs them carefully from the mantle to frame the cheery blaze. She'll love them, he's sure of it. After a brief moment of thought, he tucks a large candy cane into each of them, just like he did last year. A glance confirms this as appropriately festive, and he stands back to survey the scene once again. The warmth of the holiday tableau brings an almost-childlike smile to his face, but suddenly he snaps his fingers and turns again.
Ah! Almost forgot!
He's brought a few more bags up with him, and these he now opens. Soon the holiday foodstuffs are put away, several gaily wrapped gifts reside under the tree, and a fine bottle of champagne stands on a side table between two cushioned chairs. The bard carefully lays a fresh rose alongside the bottle and then sets a tiny wrapped-and-ribboned box beside it. He eyes the setup and adjusts the rose. Still not quite right. Frowning, the bard picks up the box and walks across the room to place it on one of the end tables beside the couch.
No...
Perhaps on the mantle? Down in the toe of the stocking? Behind the other presents?
After moving the small box to almost every conceivable location in the small living room, Keats returns it to the table with the rose and champagne. Taking a deep breath, he smiles eagerly. Gifting Day will be here soon, and he's finally ready. His gaze sweeps the room, and then the larger space of the house that contains the small wet bar, the formal dining table and sideboard, the staircase leading to the library and bedroom...yes. Everything is straightened, swept, and dusted, the Frostfell decorations are up, just so, and all is ready. It's even better than last year.
He strolls to the bar, smugly pleased with himself, and pours himself a drink as memories of the previous year wrap him in warmth and happiness. He'd just acquired this place a few months before Deepice, and it hadn't been anything but a thick stand of trees. Something about it had just looked attractive, though, and he'd set to work, cutting a path to the center and making a small clearing. Once he'd ascertained that these trees were of the garden variety--he grins even now at the bad pun--he didn't mind having so many around. The seclusion was pleasant. This was supposed to be a retreat, after all. He quickly set to work building a cabin, using much of the material at hand and trying out some new design elements.
The design had surprised even him with its effectiveness and aesthetic beauty, though it had gone in a different direction than he'd originally intended. His original idea had been something of a rustic cabin retreat, but somehow it had become more formal, yet no less cozy...
Keats chuckles to himself. Already, her influence had subtly asserted itself. He hadn't even considered it at the time, but now, looking back, he's sure that's what it had been.
Still, he'd considered it a place for himself to get away and recharge, and he hadn't taken anyone there. And then...then one day, after that odd experience in Qeynos, he'd changed his mind. Immediately, he'd gone and bought decorations, cut a tree, and hauled the whole lot inside. That year he'd worked in frantic bafflement to get the adornments right, but even in his frustrated confusion at tree toppers that wouldn't work and the refusal of gifts to cooperate, he was suffused by an excitement and joy that he'd never experienced in quite this way. A couple of days later, he finally told her that he had something to show her, and, after extracting her promise to keep this place to herself, he led her there. She had approached the door with him shyly, but when he unlocked and opened the door, her gasp of delighted surprise was all he could have hoped for.
She had stepped into the room almost hesitantly, but her blue eyes were wide with what he could only describe as amazement, though applying such a lofty term to his handiwork embarrassed him. Her joy, however, was unfeigned, and she went on and on about how wonderful it all was...how wonderful he was...
That began one of the most beautiful seasons in his life. She made herself at home, yet always with the slight diffidence of a guest. She took nothing for granted, from the Frostfell tree to the meals he served her, to his very presence. In that strange suspension of time that true happiness creates, it seemed like years that they returned here from adventuring expeditions, and after cleaning up and changing to more comfortable attire, spent the evenings before the fireplace and the fragrant tree, sipping hot chocolate and spiced cider together as she nestled against him, wrapped in the gowns that she loved. She had protested, on Gifting Day, that he had already showered her with so many presents that she could never reciprocate properly--a sentiment at which he had scoffed and dismissed. Even so, she had cried out with surprise at the new dress and sparkling earrings that he had purchased for her, and she had thrown her arms around him in utter delight and gratitude. Holding her, he had had to swallow a lump in his throat. He had never known such innocent joy as this...and once more, though he had never imagined it could happen, the resolution took hold in his heart.
They never spoke of it, but he was sure she knew, somehow. In the first freezing days of spring, she had bid him a loving farewell and had gone back to her home to speak with her superiors about him and their love, to gain permission to spend more time away--more time with him. Each day had been an eternity in the first week that she was gone. The second week came and went with no word. He wrote to her, of course--tender notes of affection, wishes for her return...later, increasingly worried queries about her health, her situation, and even her freedom. She answered none of them. He'd even gone to her temple, asking, pleading, and then demanding to be let in, all to no avail. The wards were solid, and eventually the cloaked woman who continually answered his insistence at the gate called the guards. Furious and confused, he had suffered himself to be led away.
In the mountain cabin, Keats refills his glass, gazing broodingly at the liquid, but seeing nothing.
The weeks had eventually turned to months. Summer came and went, his hope dissipating with the heat of the year. In the last dog days of the season, he received a cryptic message from the cloister, but when he eagerly wrote back, there was no response. As summer turned to fall, he struggled to come to terms with the seeming-fact that she would not be returning--that despite her professed devotion to him, she had decided (or been coerced?) to go back to her old life and remain in the temple of her religious order.
He takes another healthy swallow from his glass, drumming his fingers on the counter.
It was fine, he had told himself. He was fine. He was at peace with it. After all, hadn't he always had that feeling, that he wasn't meant for commitment? That his Queen had wanted him to remain free, unbound and at liberty to represent Her Love abroad, in any way that the situation required, with no vows to break and no guilt to bear? This was simply a return to Her will after he'd veered away from it. And as for her...wasn't Love indeed all about the happiness of the Beloved? By all accounts, she had been happy in her home, with her order. Who was he to call her away from that?
But was it the truth...was she indeed happy there? Her tales of her home, while full of peace and light, thinly veiled the harsher side of the Koada'dal--a side which, over his many decades of experience with them--he'd glimpsed from time to time. The mainstream holy orders of Felwithe were one thing, but the fringe ones--the elite ranks of the Koada'Vie, this fringe order of Tunare's priestesses that she belonged to...they had their own rules and laws. She had told him, all innocence, of being locked in her room regularly, of being severely punished for such infractions as even looking over the wall of the compound... Was she indeed there of her own free will?
Keats lifts his glass to his lips and realizes that it is empty again. He pours another round and sets the bottle back on the counter a bit harder than he'd intended.
All his efforts had come to naught. And here he was again...
The bard turns and looks again into the twinkling lights and warm glow of the cabin's tastefully decorated living room. His mind diverts momentarily from its somber brooding, and a smile comes to his face at the sight of the stockings, the gifts, the tree. Taking both glass and bottle, Keats gingerly and deliberately makes his way down the steps and across the room to take a seat on the couch near the fire. He sets the bottle on the end table at his right elbow and sips again from his glass, gazing at the tree. His eyes flick to the door, half expecting the knock that he always assured her she needn't offer.
Maybe she'll come back.
His wavering gaze scans the festive room again, trying to check all the details.
It's just like I did it before. It's even better. All ready for her...maybe she'll...and this time will be different. This time I'll...
Somehow his glass is empty again. He reaches for the bottle to fill it and finds it hard to grasp--his vision has suddenly, inexplicably blurred, he tastes salt faintly through the numbing effect of the whiskey. He manages to get most of the liquor into his glass and looks at it. Better not have too much, just in case she comes. A lucid corner of his mind chides him, whispering that this is foolishness, but he suppresses it. It could happen. She'll know, and she'll come because she loves him...and everything is here...everything is...
The wind outside whistles as the fire burns down to embers in the darkening room.
Perfect. Just like last year.
It had taken him far less time this time around, however. The previous Frostfell, being unused to the practice of tree-decorating, it had cost him almost an hour to make sure that the tree topper was just right, that its glittering glow was equally easily seen from door, table, couch, bar, and stairs. He still hasn't gotten the garland just right, but it's passable. Perhaps even charmingly messy.
Charmingly messy...the idea reminds him of seemingly innumerable Frostfells in the apprentice dorms at Marsheart's Chords. Although he's not sure he'd call the chaos "charming," it most certainly was messy. And not unpleasant, he has to admit. The madness of Frostfell as a League apprentice in Freeport was intensely exhausting, certainly, but in that strange way that Frostfell has, it seemed to feed on its own momentum. He can't even begin to recall the number of times he fell into his bunk, completely wiped out from hours of performance at parties, in street choirs, at special services at the Temple of Marr, in concerts and plays at the Theater of the Tranquil...yet he also can't recall any time that the exhaustion wasn't also rewarding and utterly eradicated by several good hours of sleep. At least all the residents were equally enervated; there was little interruption before the call to breakfast.
The bard smiles and picks up a recently-made evergreen wreath that he acquired at market on the way here and climbs up on the mantle to hang it on the column of the chimney. He cheerfully whistles a holiday tune as he does so--and then proceeds into variations on it. Balancing the wreath on the rounded column gives him a bit of trouble at first, but he soon finds the fulcrum point and gets it in place. Hopping down off the broad fireplace mantle, Keats takes a few steps back and looks up at the wreath, critically at first, but then with an approving smile.
He can't help chuckling a bit at himself and shaking his head. Who'd have thought that he'd ever be doing this--decorating for Frostfell in his own...well, not "home," exactly. But close enough--his own place, all these many years later. As a child he'd been pressed into service often enough to put up decorations around the Hall, and as an adult he'd helped decorate the Tavern and the inns, and the High Sigil's Court occasionally in the past, but this is just different somehow. Unlike almost everything else in his life, it's not about the League, and it's not about the guild. It is something of an escape; even his own little home--rebuilt as it is, and as "him" as it is--isvery much the home of a Sigil-bard. This is something else. Decorating this place for Frostfell is...different. Exciting.
Energetically beginning a new whistled Frostfell melody, Keats turns back to the crate of Frostfell stuff. He hesitates, then pulls out two Frostfell stockings. The Frostfell spirit has so overtaken him that his smile interrupts his tune as he hangs them carefully from the mantle to frame the cheery blaze. She'll love them, he's sure of it. After a brief moment of thought, he tucks a large candy cane into each of them, just like he did last year. A glance confirms this as appropriately festive, and he stands back to survey the scene once again. The warmth of the holiday tableau brings an almost-childlike smile to his face, but suddenly he snaps his fingers and turns again.
Ah! Almost forgot!
He's brought a few more bags up with him, and these he now opens. Soon the holiday foodstuffs are put away, several gaily wrapped gifts reside under the tree, and a fine bottle of champagne stands on a side table between two cushioned chairs. The bard carefully lays a fresh rose alongside the bottle and then sets a tiny wrapped-and-ribboned box beside it. He eyes the setup and adjusts the rose. Still not quite right. Frowning, the bard picks up the box and walks across the room to place it on one of the end tables beside the couch.
No...
Perhaps on the mantle? Down in the toe of the stocking? Behind the other presents?
After moving the small box to almost every conceivable location in the small living room, Keats returns it to the table with the rose and champagne. Taking a deep breath, he smiles eagerly. Gifting Day will be here soon, and he's finally ready. His gaze sweeps the room, and then the larger space of the house that contains the small wet bar, the formal dining table and sideboard, the staircase leading to the library and bedroom...yes. Everything is straightened, swept, and dusted, the Frostfell decorations are up, just so, and all is ready. It's even better than last year.
He strolls to the bar, smugly pleased with himself, and pours himself a drink as memories of the previous year wrap him in warmth and happiness. He'd just acquired this place a few months before Deepice, and it hadn't been anything but a thick stand of trees. Something about it had just looked attractive, though, and he'd set to work, cutting a path to the center and making a small clearing. Once he'd ascertained that these trees were of the garden variety--he grins even now at the bad pun--he didn't mind having so many around. The seclusion was pleasant. This was supposed to be a retreat, after all. He quickly set to work building a cabin, using much of the material at hand and trying out some new design elements.
The design had surprised even him with its effectiveness and aesthetic beauty, though it had gone in a different direction than he'd originally intended. His original idea had been something of a rustic cabin retreat, but somehow it had become more formal, yet no less cozy...
Keats chuckles to himself. Already, her influence had subtly asserted itself. He hadn't even considered it at the time, but now, looking back, he's sure that's what it had been.
Still, he'd considered it a place for himself to get away and recharge, and he hadn't taken anyone there. And then...then one day, after that odd experience in Qeynos, he'd changed his mind. Immediately, he'd gone and bought decorations, cut a tree, and hauled the whole lot inside. That year he'd worked in frantic bafflement to get the adornments right, but even in his frustrated confusion at tree toppers that wouldn't work and the refusal of gifts to cooperate, he was suffused by an excitement and joy that he'd never experienced in quite this way. A couple of days later, he finally told her that he had something to show her, and, after extracting her promise to keep this place to herself, he led her there. She had approached the door with him shyly, but when he unlocked and opened the door, her gasp of delighted surprise was all he could have hoped for.
She had stepped into the room almost hesitantly, but her blue eyes were wide with what he could only describe as amazement, though applying such a lofty term to his handiwork embarrassed him. Her joy, however, was unfeigned, and she went on and on about how wonderful it all was...how wonderful he was...
That began one of the most beautiful seasons in his life. She made herself at home, yet always with the slight diffidence of a guest. She took nothing for granted, from the Frostfell tree to the meals he served her, to his very presence. In that strange suspension of time that true happiness creates, it seemed like years that they returned here from adventuring expeditions, and after cleaning up and changing to more comfortable attire, spent the evenings before the fireplace and the fragrant tree, sipping hot chocolate and spiced cider together as she nestled against him, wrapped in the gowns that she loved. She had protested, on Gifting Day, that he had already showered her with so many presents that she could never reciprocate properly--a sentiment at which he had scoffed and dismissed. Even so, she had cried out with surprise at the new dress and sparkling earrings that he had purchased for her, and she had thrown her arms around him in utter delight and gratitude. Holding her, he had had to swallow a lump in his throat. He had never known such innocent joy as this...and once more, though he had never imagined it could happen, the resolution took hold in his heart.
They never spoke of it, but he was sure she knew, somehow. In the first freezing days of spring, she had bid him a loving farewell and had gone back to her home to speak with her superiors about him and their love, to gain permission to spend more time away--more time with him. Each day had been an eternity in the first week that she was gone. The second week came and went with no word. He wrote to her, of course--tender notes of affection, wishes for her return...later, increasingly worried queries about her health, her situation, and even her freedom. She answered none of them. He'd even gone to her temple, asking, pleading, and then demanding to be let in, all to no avail. The wards were solid, and eventually the cloaked woman who continually answered his insistence at the gate called the guards. Furious and confused, he had suffered himself to be led away.
In the mountain cabin, Keats refills his glass, gazing broodingly at the liquid, but seeing nothing.
The weeks had eventually turned to months. Summer came and went, his hope dissipating with the heat of the year. In the last dog days of the season, he received a cryptic message from the cloister, but when he eagerly wrote back, there was no response. As summer turned to fall, he struggled to come to terms with the seeming-fact that she would not be returning--that despite her professed devotion to him, she had decided (or been coerced?) to go back to her old life and remain in the temple of her religious order.
He takes another healthy swallow from his glass, drumming his fingers on the counter.
It was fine, he had told himself. He was fine. He was at peace with it. After all, hadn't he always had that feeling, that he wasn't meant for commitment? That his Queen had wanted him to remain free, unbound and at liberty to represent Her Love abroad, in any way that the situation required, with no vows to break and no guilt to bear? This was simply a return to Her will after he'd veered away from it. And as for her...wasn't Love indeed all about the happiness of the Beloved? By all accounts, she had been happy in her home, with her order. Who was he to call her away from that?
But was it the truth...was she indeed happy there? Her tales of her home, while full of peace and light, thinly veiled the harsher side of the Koada'dal--a side which, over his many decades of experience with them--he'd glimpsed from time to time. The mainstream holy orders of Felwithe were one thing, but the fringe ones--the elite ranks of the Koada'Vie, this fringe order of Tunare's priestesses that she belonged to...they had their own rules and laws. She had told him, all innocence, of being locked in her room regularly, of being severely punished for such infractions as even looking over the wall of the compound... Was she indeed there of her own free will?
Keats lifts his glass to his lips and realizes that it is empty again. He pours another round and sets the bottle back on the counter a bit harder than he'd intended.
All his efforts had come to naught. And here he was again...
The bard turns and looks again into the twinkling lights and warm glow of the cabin's tastefully decorated living room. His mind diverts momentarily from its somber brooding, and a smile comes to his face at the sight of the stockings, the gifts, the tree. Taking both glass and bottle, Keats gingerly and deliberately makes his way down the steps and across the room to take a seat on the couch near the fire. He sets the bottle on the end table at his right elbow and sips again from his glass, gazing at the tree. His eyes flick to the door, half expecting the knock that he always assured her she needn't offer.
Maybe she'll come back.
His wavering gaze scans the festive room again, trying to check all the details.
It's just like I did it before. It's even better. All ready for her...maybe she'll...and this time will be different. This time I'll...
Somehow his glass is empty again. He reaches for the bottle to fill it and finds it hard to grasp--his vision has suddenly, inexplicably blurred, he tastes salt faintly through the numbing effect of the whiskey. He manages to get most of the liquor into his glass and looks at it. Better not have too much, just in case she comes. A lucid corner of his mind chides him, whispering that this is foolishness, but he suppresses it. It could happen. She'll know, and she'll come because she loves him...and everything is here...everything is...
The wind outside whistles as the fire burns down to embers in the darkening room.
