by Ethagon
Alex Thorley has a letter on their desk. The Foundation doesn't use letters. Everything of note or not of note gets sent over the secure scipnet system. They open the letter.
You are invited to the Winter Court
The event will be
at the hut
Alex briefly thinks about the contents of the letter before crumbling it and discarding it in the overfilled trashcan.
Once upon a time, there was a Name.
The Fool, a human name.
One day the Fool came upon a barren land and in it, the Fool found nothing worth being.
The Fool died alone.
For Winter's Domain is that which is not, from commoner to throne. And nothing of value is found in nothingness.
An old man with a white beard and many names trudged through the snow, a fir tree under his arm. Behind him, the lifeless plane of snow animated into a blizzard.
His destination was a hut at the edge of the Winter Court, barely keeping itself tethered to the real world.
With the Father's presence, the hut brightened a bit again, kept from fading a day longer.
His right hand holding the tree, the man grabbed the old wooden door handle with his left hand. It didn't budge. He turned to stand sideways towards the door and tried to open it again, this time with more weight behind it. The door still didn't budge but creaks emerged from it. It creaked more in the middle than it did at the side of the handle. Finally, he set down the tree, leaning it against the wooden wall of the hub. Now he pushed with both hands and his full weight against the door.
One door hinge broke off and he stumbled inside and fell. He stood up with a groan and hauled the fir tree inside.
When the blizzard tried to follow the Father of Winter stared at it with a stern look. The ice storm would stay outside, an impenetrable wall for anything else that lived.
He held the door to the frame and breathed on the hinge until it froze in its old place.
The old man sighed.
Out of his reddish mantle, he took some apples and hung them on the tree.
Finally, he searched in one of the hut's crates until he found wood. The old man took all logs out of the crates, carrying them with both arms, and then dropped them into the chimney with a groan.
Then he finally set down. He sighed again.
He heard the door creak and a child come in. The child was covered from head to toe in woollen clothes, only its fae eyes being free.
The child walked towards the Father of Winter and gave him a matchbox. He gratefully accepted the matchbox and took out one of its matches with a blue top. When he struck the match, only snowflakes came out.
The child giggled.
The Father of Winter struck the match two more times before giving up. He returned the matchbox with an acted stern look.
The child giggled more and jumped into his lap. It left its feet dangling.
The old man stroke his white beard for a bit.
After a while, he stretched his left hand towards the fir tree. One of the apples grew colder until it was completely frozen. While the apple was freezing small sparks appeared in the chimney. With the third spark came the fire.
Now they waited.
The Winter Court was a realm that lay over the world, mostly without interaction. In this hut, which was halfway in Winter the phantasmal fog native to the Court had no trouble entering the hut. At first, the windows fogged up from the inside, then the fog crawled across the floor towards the live-giving fire. The closer it got to the fire the more parts got loose from the fog and coalesced into forms. They would not leave the fog completely.
The only discernible form grasping towards the fire now was a ghost entwined in racks of regal scarfs and robes, coloured in all the way the pale sunlight breaks at dusk. The figure's clothes were set, frozen mid-movement. Two cold dead hands warmed themselves over the fire. The figure was silent.
The Father of Winter leaned forward.
Welcome to the Hut, Holder of Twilight.
There is no one with that name. It was taken like everything else.
The white-bearded man winced. For a moment their being split, dozens of different faces looking through the facade before the Father of Winter reaffirmed himself.
Please, call me Father of Winter. It's what I'm here as and I fear no other name will be of help to you.
Nothing can be of help.
Then they waited again.
A shadow too big for the hut squeezed itself through the door. After it was through it ripped an apple from the fir tree and ventured to the fire as well. It was the shadow of a Yeren.
The dead god in robes did not react.
The Yeren have no place in the Winter Court. The Winter Court is a resting place for the Fae, not the Yeren.
The shadow ignored the former god. It was plain that there was a bond of pure hard contempt between the two, fostered through millennia of hatred.
The Yeren have no place in the Winter Court. The Winter Court is a resting place for the Fae, not the Yeren.
Enough of that. Ur-An-Uum entwined herself deeply into our magic during her rebellion. And while she may still be out there in the sky now, the shadow she left behind on the world is just as dead as the rest of Winter. They remember her as much as they remember you.
And so they all stood and sat around the fire in what the Father of Winter would often understand as the true meaning of the season: To huddle together around a warm fire so they would not die to the cold.
One of the columns near the chimney looked a bit like it was guarding the group if you looked at it right.
I see the Pattern Warden is here.
They waited a while longer, but nobody else entered the hut.
It seems like Alex isn't coming. I'm sure I sent out the letter correctly. I know the Pattern Warden wanted to clear up how we stand with the Unreality situation.
The hut wasn't airtight. The wind hissed through the wall and it almost sounded like a sigh.
It seems like we're missing something if there is no human new to all of this. They add a bit of life to it all.
The child looked at the old man for a moment. The rest showed no reaction.
So be it. There are quite a few things to share. Anyone want to start?
The chair the old man set on with the Child became a bit more uncomfortable after sitting for a long time.
My apologies. As always this is no official court sitting for the Winter Court and there never will be. I just wanted to catch up with some old friends.
The former Holder of Twilight stared at him.
No one here is your friend. You are not really a part of the Court, Many-Named.
The white-bearded man winced. For a moment their being split, dozens of different faces looking through the facade before the Father of Winter reaffirmed himself.
Has anyone something to share?
No one responded.
Then I will start. Has anyone heard of the Summer Court?
The Shadow of Ur-An-Uum slowly shook her head. The other dead god still didn't move.
Maybe two-hundred years ago there was. No. Nevermind.
What? This might be helpful.
I can't remember.
The blizzard was howling outside. The Father of Winter looked outside.
Autumn said Summer is gone. Something must keep it away.
No interest.
It was cold in the hut. They all huddled a bit closer to the chimney.
There must be something we can do. Can some of you reach out to Spring?
Why should we?
If the Cycle of Seasons remains broken, everything will eventually turn to Winter.
Then that is what will happen.
The old man looked at the former god, sadness in his eyes. The child was still dangling its feet from the Father of Winter's lap.
What about the children? Should they also fall so completely into Winter?
No, not the children.
Then we must reach out to Spring.
Why should we?
The Father of Winter sighed. At the second mention of Spring, there was at least a spark in the eyes of Ur-An-Uum's shadow, but nothing more. He turned his face to no one in particular.
Pattern Warden, surely some of the vanished could be released? We could bring at least them to Spring.
Caused by the storm outside the hut creaked. The creak sounded a bit like a growl from a certain perspective.
I suppose that is it then.
They waited around the fire until it had burnt down completely. Some left before the final flame, others collapsed back into the fog with the final ember going out. In the end, the old man was alone in his hut. In truth, he hadn't expected much to come out of this, just as the other times. One spark in the eyes of a long-forgotten queen's shadow would have to be enough.
