Author’s Note: This year’s holiday story is Eversolstice: A Vulture’s Tale. I’ll be posting all six chapters on my blog leading in to Christmas Eve. If you want to read the full story right away, see the illustrations, read the bonus epilogue, or just support the writer (me) you can download the full novella on Amazon Kindle.
Happy holidays to all, and may The Allfather look upon you with favor.
Chapter One: Thesis
There are many different tales surrounding Ahnae Ath Ivae. It has as many origins as there are gods in the Sereniad, but they all share a common theme; the triumph of light over darkness. One such tale goes as follows:
Long ago, before there were cities, feasts, or temples, there was dark. The world lived in the dim light of the moon, and on moonless nights, monsters and demons stalked the world, gobbling up men and animals as they pleased. The children of men were never safe, for the fiends had a taste for the blood of the young and innocent.
-The Great Teacher
In the spring of 1225, Celestra Livannya discovered her new obsession, her new goal. That gave her ten months to plan and scheme; exactly ten months to arrange the impossible through the use of arcane and alchemical means. Eternity could be captured and reproduced. She knew. She believed. It was an impossible quandary, but what was the impossible to a truly masterful sorceress?
–
-Yarse
The Crystal Bones Conservatory stood proud in the heart of Varanaria, known by many as the education capital of Duma. The gothic, glass structure was just a few blocks from Malice University, one of the three most famous wizardry schools in the known world. Scholars from all over the continent came to have conversations, debates, and lectures in the glistening chambers of the conservatory, and, afterwards, it was tradition to hold a small feast for all of the most esteemed guests.
So it was that Errik Yarse, Professor of folklore, found himself sitting at a diamond-shaped glass table, hemmed in by Thelonius Saga, Doctor of World Philosophy and Hablet Crimison III, the famously educated Duke of Madriee, with High Wizard Epton Odwin, who had just finished his lecture on prophetic dreams, at the far end. There was also a mysterious pale-skinned, red eyed girl who seemed to have come with Crimison III. Yarse thought she was very pretty, as far as humans were concerned.
Errik Yarse was short, even for a dwarf. He had dark brown hair and a clean, trimmed beard. There was a glimmer in his green, spectacled eyes.
He was a man who generally preferred to keep to himself, poring over tomes and stories with his trusty pen, but The High Scholar of Blackwood required all of their professors and scribes to attend at least three lectures a year, and he had chosen Epton Odwin’s On Dreamers and Prophetic Dreams.
It was a fine lecture with some interesting perspectives offered, but the meal afterwards was a bit stale, as was the company. The food had been fine (for human food) but the wine was only serviceable. Yarse had to restrain himself from remarking sarcastically each time Doctor Saga said, “Truly a glorious vintage” in his froggish voice.
The four men (and one lovely young lady) sat in silence, sipping on wine, for an uncomfortable amount of time, the shining lights of the city beaming through the glass walls of the conservatory. Yarse looked over at the many many shelves of books in the center of the top chamber.
I would rather be spending my time with them, he thought. He absently took a sip of
wine. Might as well be drinking water, by hammer and anvil.
“Gentlemen!” Saga spoke as though he were continuing a conversation rather than breaking a particularly thick wall of awkward silence, “The issue at hand is one of belief. Do we believe that the circumstantial evidence posited by the good wizard is qualifiable.” Saga was a man in his fifties or early sixties. He had short, white hair and big, froggish eyes that looked almost like they were drifting toward the sides of his head.
“Surely Thelonius,” Duke Hablet Crimison III spoke next. He was in his forties or fifties, which was older for a human, but he clearly believed himself to be twenty-five or younger, considering the red, foppish doublet he was wearing. He had a matching hat, a close-cropped orange beard mixed with just as many strands of silver, and a crease in his forehead that appeared and disappeared as he spoke, “You aren’t suggesting that Odwin would fabricate evidence.”
The girl next to him said nothing. She just held her wine glass and quietly swished the contents around.
Saga lifted his empty glass, “I make no such claims, unless you find truth in them yourself.”
Epton Odwin, an older man in his seventies or eighties, with dark, Zealish skin and a long white beard, smiled knowingly. One would almost forget that he was the subject of the conversation.
Yarse felt strange talking about the esteemed wizard this way, so he spoke up, “Doctor Saga, I think you’re being needlessly pedantic and noncommittal.”
By stone and steeple. I find it hard to match these people’s speech patterns.
Saga steepled his fingers, as though he was about to dish out some true wisdom, and said, “That is your accusation toward Duke Crimison and myself, and it is your right to accuse, but we are not here to discourse on discourse itself. We are here to talk about dreams.”
Crimison emptied his wine glass and tossed an arm over the shoulder of the pale girl. “Well, yes. Dreams are real, and I have had them.” he said with a self-satisfied smirk.
Yarse scoffed, “If this room were any more obtuse, I’d have to call myself a myriagon.” He looked up to see if anyone laughed at his joke. No one did, but the girl smirked. Yarse let himself take a longer look at her. She was extremely thin, and she was wearing a beautiful gown that bared her collarbone, neck, shoulders and the center of her chest, while her sleeves were left sheer and transparent. The dress itself was dark, with glimmering stones here and there, like a night’s sky, and it hugged her figure. Her snowy white hair was tied in a long braid which she let hang over her left shoulder. “Prophetic dreams,” he continued, “Surely there can be no room for doubt that they at least occur.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” Crimison frowned.
Yarse put his wine glass down on the glass table, “Priests and saints have them. Surely you aren’t denying the Sereniad.”
Crimison shrugged, “Priests make claims just like anyone else. These claims are basically always made after the fact.”
Saga turned his head toward Crimison, “One cannot rightly record something that hasn’t happened yet.”
Crimison rolled his eyes, “Unless one is a prophet as you claim they are.”
“I claim nothing,” said Saga.
Crimison snorted, “Of course not.”
By hearth and ash, this guy.
Yarse forced another sip of wine, hoping it would make the conversation more tolerable, “If documentation of a solitary experience isn’t enough, what is?”
Crimison sighed, “Why, material evidence, of course.”
The room fell silent for a dozen heartbeats.
“Then by that metric,” Saga said, “You would call the tales of The Allfather factual, since the presents and gifts he leaves children on Feasteve are undeniably material.”
“Ha!” Crimison nearly gave Yarse a heart attack with his sudden and loud interjection, “Do not jest with me like that!”
“He raises a good point.” The High Wizard spoke for the first time, shocking everyone further.
“But The Allfather is a myth. Every educated person knows that!” Crimison insisted.
Yarse was starting to feel like he had finally had enough, “Okay, then indulge me! Where do all of the toys and gifts come from?”
Crimison put his feet up on the glass table, nearly kicking a wine bottle over, “I won’t discuss this. ‘Tis simpleminded.”
Saga leaned forward, dropping his elbow on his knees and putting his fingers over his mouth, “There are three pervading theories.”
Crimison sighed, “There he goes.”
“The first is ‘The Generous Thieves’ theory.” Saga continued, “This theory posits that there is a secret alliance of persons who stealthily deliver these gifts as some sort of secret pact or brotherhood.”
Crimison took another sip of his wine and snorted, “And none of these secret brothers has ever been seen, right?”
Yarse joined in, “On the other side of things, the fact that some of the more reclused nations, like the orcish tribes on Cistuun in the South Belt Islands, don’t receive gifts reinforces the theory.”
“You know your theories well.” Epton Odwin shocked the group by speaking a second time while pouring more wine into his glass.
“The second,” Doctor Saga continued, “is the Manifestation Theory. It requires knowledge of the Fay Shadow Theory; the idea that Fairy, the realm of the fay, exists as a sort of mirror to our own world. The Manifestation Theory posits that the gifts manifest as a sort of natural balancing response to worldwide child abuse. There are, needless to say, a number of issues with this theory. Firstly, it presupposes the Fay Shadow Theory, which lacks credible evidence.”
Crimison chortled, “And there’s also the issue that it’s all bollocks.”
Yarse frowned, “Fine Crimison, then what do you believe?”
“I don’t believe anything. I don’t make theories about magical holiday presents for children.”
“But they clearly exist!” the girl in the fetching dress spoke again, and Yarse could tell she was trying to hide emotion in her voice and face, “They have to come from somewhere!”
By chain and tong, this lass is the only one in the room with a lick of sense.
Yarse nodded, “She’s right, Crimison, there has to be some reason for it.”
Crimison glared at his girl, then at Yarse, his nose wrinkling in an ugly way, “I don’t know. I don’t care. Maybe some powerful university wizard creates them. Does it matter?”
“Ah,” said Saga, staring directly at the girl’s chest, like he had just noticed her for the first time, “The fifth theory. The Benevolent Alchemist Theory.”
The girl crossed her arms and stood, “Well, if there’s a wizard summoning them, you might as well label that wizard ‘Allfather’.”
Doctor Saga nodded, “You have a smart girl there, Duke Crimison.”
“No, I’m not suggesting that an immortal drakkish man in a flying sleigh delivers the gifts, so that’s not Allfather. But forget it, no wizard.” Crimison went on.
Yarse, feeling strangely compelled, stood to his feet just like the woman had, “So, if there’s no wizard, then where do the gifts come from? My little cousin found a new set of toy soldiers in his hut last Feast. They were real. No one put them there.”
Crimison stared down at his empty glass, “I don’t have enough wine for this.” He turned toward the girl, who was standing a claw from his seat, “Darling, would you?” He handed her the glass. She hesitated, but took it and went to get him a refill. Then, he faced the table of men, “Garcigenicus Fabrola.”
Yarse squinted, “What?”
“Garcigenicus Fabrola; the historical figure our ‘Allfather’ was inspired by. A monk who lived and died Dark Era 4000 to 4055.” Crimison rattled off.
Yarse sat back down and watched the girl return with Crimison’s drink, which she handed to him, “Well . . .” Yarse couldn’t think of a response.
Crimison took a long sip and savored his glorious grape juice, “How could a drakkish, functionally a mortal being with, what, an eighty year lifespan, born two thousand years ago, still be delivering gifts to this day? Scratch that– how could he do it all in one night?”
“It could be a different person,” Yarse suggested, “He might not be Fabrola. It could be a different person or being.”
“Then it’s not the same Allfather.” Crimison said smugly, “We’re talking about a totally unrelated fay, building magical toys and distributing large chunks of coal stone to the wicked.”
“He became Allfather. He became immortal.” The girl said it softly, almost as though she was talking to herself.
Crimison glared at her, “What?”
“There is actually an old legend.” Doctor Saga took his mouth out of his empty cup, “A legend that Fabrola was christened by ‘Ooblagat’, which is possibly an archaic name for Ooalos, the Goddess of Joy. They say he consecrated himself and she, in turn, granted him passage into Fairy.”
Crimison sighed, as though with exhaustion, “So now a man can become immortal. There is not enough wine in the world, gentlemen.”
With this, the girl, without another word, walked off, making her way out to the balcony.
Crimison didn’t say anything or even acknowledge her passing, but Yarse rose to his feet, “I think I need some air.” he said, then followed to the balcony before he could hear any answers.
—
He found the girl leaning against the railing of the balcony. The city was lit with beautiful, magical lights and crystals, even at this time of night, but she wasn’t looking down at the city. She was looking up into the dark, empty sky.
I should say something. Yarse thought.
“I’m . . . sorry,” he said. He didn’t know what he was apologizing for, but she seemed distressed. The girl was beautiful, but he didn’t want to be like Crimison, no, not even a little bit like him.
“Immortality,” was all the girl said. He wondered if she had even heard his apology, “Somehow, Garcigenicus Fabrola became The Allfather. He became immortal.” She turned and looked at him, and there was just the shadow of a smile on her face, “It feels childish to say, but I know it. I believe it.”
“Me too.” Yarse found himself saying. What was he saying? He was a man of learning and knowledge. He studied myths and fairy tales in order to understand their impact on society, their historical roots. Not so that he could believe in them.
“It’s a beautiful night.” the girl said, staring back up into the sky.
“It is.” He was looking at her when he said it, but then he joined her, staring into the infinite night black of the sky. What did she see in it? What was she looking for in that impenetrable void of dark?
-Vulture
-Stellar Year 1225
-10th of the month of Whale
Personal Journal of Celestra Marila Livannya; Seeker of The life and light
As I suspected, tagging along with that Duke, Hablet Crimison III, was worth my time, though the man himself turned out to be a simpleton and an unimaginative bore. Indeed, imagination is the worst thing one can lack, so I pity him.
We’ve done a circuit of lectures, since it seems he wants to be perceived among the educated elite. This evening, I learned very little, but I did come to see a new way forward. There is a creature wandering amongst us who might hold the answers which I seek, one who, seemingly, has overcome the ultimate enemy, death. I shall now begin drawing up plans, that I might meet with him, no, that I might take him into my possession as one takes a djinn or a familiar demon.
Celestra turned slowly and gazed across the face of the dwarven scholar who stood next to her. The city lights played across his careworn face. He was in the middle of his life. As a dwarf, that meant he had lived between 150 and 200 years. He wore them well. He had seen much more of life than Celestra had, but the threat of end was clearly something that lived within his mind.
“I don’t know what I came here looking for,” said the dwarf with a sigh.
“Probably the same thing all of us look for.” she responded.
He looked at her, wondering at her next words, “Hope.” she said.
And I think I’ve found mine. I need to draw up my plans.
“I suppose so.” said the scholar, “When you get to be my age, magic slowly starts to feel less magical, more like science and numbers, machine and wheel and gears. By swage and iron.”
“That’s foolish,” said Celestra, “Begging your pardon, but magic will always be magic.”
He didn’t respond, but stared off into the blackness.
Celestra stared with him, knowing she would eventually have to go back in and engage with that bore of a duke again, unless she wanted to use a spell and teleport herself out of the conservatory. Just as she was thinking about this, a slit of light cut itself across the pitch canvas of the night sky, sliding downward toward the earth and disappearing just as quickly.
Yarse gasped.
A shooting star. The ancients used to think they were signs.
“Hope.” Celestra said out loud, “The cosmos testifies.”
And that was how it began.
She now had ten months; ten months to plan how she might apprehend and bind the very essence of a holiday and lock it in a bottle.
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