Kindling

[Bakromanser]

There comes a time to bring every year to a close. Where skies get brighter and the moons lazier. Where the animals stop burrowing and look up in the quiet sense of a new thing. A time where, if only for a moment, Ghanga isn't a curse and Satya doesn't know. Another cycle gone by, another turn of the wheel.

People mill about on land and sea, forming constellations of their own – and the shapes are many. Whether that form is house or wagon, tarp or floor, branches pulled out of the way, or nothing at all – everyone marks the occasion differently.

Some invite everyone and their mother to a great feast by fireside, where all are full and none get turned away. Others find solace in quiet moments, far from the bustle. Some take great pride in putting up the decorations and retelling old tales. Some don't like them at all, reminders of time passed and not much changed. And there are those who don't celebrate at all... but, who cares? One way or another, you've made another round trip.

The end comes in the logs we all toss onto the pile. There will be happy stories and sad. People who embrace the holiday spirit and those who seek to thwart it. Whether you celebrate or resist, toss something in so we can set it all on fire in the spirit of the season.

An end, but not the close.

As it all takes light, it's just a beacon lit so the new year knows how to find us.

 

[Thraah]

The cave by the sea was cold. It was cold and damp and frost hugged the mouth like froth. Waves roared and echoed into howling voices when she sat in the dark and waited.

Inside the cave she had piled broken bits into a crude semblance of things that in a very forgiving light might be mistaken for furnishings... if you squinted very hard and used your imagination.

Most of it was from boats and driftwood and sheep and ox that she took from the cliffs. A circle of puffin feathers plucked from the little one that did not fly but instead plummeted to the rocks below. Scavenging had become her pastime and she was always keen to find bigger crab shells. They made good wall linings when strung up in old fishing nets.

Decorating her "home" was what she spent most of her time on while she waited. Waited for Illia, Illia the unicorn, her friend Illia the unicorn.

*Demons do not have friends*

"Well I do!"

*She's not here!*

"She's busy... unicorn stuff. She's looking for her family."

*Then why does she need you?*

Thraah stopped painting the very crude image of a unicorn eating an apple from a tree.

"She... she's just busy."

*Too busy for you!*

"SHUT UP!"

Her cry echoed out of the cave and into the surf that lapped at the caves entrance and by then it was swallowed by the sea.

Gently she put her head against the cold stone and tried to banish the voice again. It only happened every few days but it kept coming back. Solitude was easy, Thraah knew how to be alone but to expect another person was new and she did not know exactly how other than to keep busy and wait.

The waiting was proving difficult.

 

[Hector]

"Well, that has a nice smooth action, doesn't it?" Hector smiled down at the little wooden figure in his hands. Proud of how well the coiled spring at its carved out ball core stretched and bent and held together. "A real dancer,"

"Dancer?!" Squire Giffon protested. "Here I was, tryin t' make it a soldier," pointed at the ends of its broad shoulders with the butt of his scratching tool.

Hector's smile turned lopsided. The little wooden figure in his hand, jostled with the bounce of a shrug. "Suppose it can still be that,"

Giffon grinned of a sudden. Brows furrowed with pride in his work. "Now I just fave to spend a bit of time boring some proper holes in those there little hands of is, and getting the sword handle, just the right kind of snug," his fingers holding the imaginary parts, as his scratcher slowly whittled down the unseen fibers of wood.

Hector's eyes went back to the little soldier he thought a dancer. "It's good work, either way," though nothing was there behind the words of it. He set the little toy down. Calpped Giffon on the shoulder, and moved on to the next soul busy whittling away in the Anathaeum's workshop. The space alive with the clitterings and clatterings of tools in motion. The see sawing of saw teeth. The warm pop hiss of fire. Tiny tin hammers tinking away at little hob nails that held things into place.

"Ho! Thanks for the eyes, Hec!"

A hand raised over the shoulder. "Course, Giff," was already looking over a carved out duck, set onto some wheels. Big smile on his face as he set low to it, "Now, look at the feathers on this one," voice warm with wonder.

They were making toys to send out to the neighboring villages about the Vayden. As worthy a quest as any, Hector had found.

Far worthier than anything he found at Sumu. The scars of which, still ached on cold days like this.

 

[Trevor]

The logs flung into the fire disturbed Fuckup, who clawed at the inside of his coat. Trevor and the bartender shared a look. And no one heard a cat, not even when it meowed in annoyance. Always wondered when people celebrated if they worked the actual celebration. Maybe with their families, next morning. Seemed like a good deal, you got to harvest all the drunk fuckers and then have a calm...well, whatever it was people did. He was firmly on the drunk end of that cart. It was important to know yourself.

The place had changed with years, but not really. Jameson was still fat and jolly. The lanterns hung at the entrance were the same as the last year, and three before that. The only visible change was the char at the edge of one of the bigger lights – guess that one would need to get replaced soon. And then it would be back to the same celebration every year, until they all ran out of years.

People were not quite at dancing yet, but the hippityhoppity stage had come. Everyone bounced in place, tips of toes and balls of feet taking loadbearing turns. Wouldn't be long now before someone remembered a shanty and they all started yelling and spilling. Good for business. Trevor's ass remained planted firmly at the bar. Couldn't go all jumpy with the cat. Year before that it was a bum foot. Wasn't sure if he had an excuse for the year before that, but he could surely come up with something if pressed.

He looked down the bar to another sad sack. He'd gone all grey and wrinkly, but still drank like he could put two men under the table. Not wanting to be outdone, Trevor made sure to keep up. They no longer recognized each other, but they were both still there. Another year done and the race unfinished. Wasn't sure what the other fucker was racing towards – but he just didn't want to lose. Not to that old goat.

„You two want another?“ The old man looked over, Trevor looked away.

Both stuck out their tankards all the same.

 

[Vyn]

Vyn had received two pairs of gloves, seventeen pairs of socks and two scarves – a neck one and a horn one. She'd handed out three stories, fifteen bottles of booze, and well over twenty of Jem's trinkets. She still remembered how she thought she was sneaky that first year. Next year he had them ready and heaped by the door so she could steal them more easily without disrupting the rest of the Wagon. Really took the wind out of a girl's sails. Or...um...despoke your Wagon? Hmm... That one still needed some work. Surely she was cleverer than that.

She was currently fussy about wrapping a scrawled up piece of paper into a burlap sack she retired with knives and claws in equal measure. She'd found the oldtimer that wrote the book Marcy liked to read when it was cold back in Sev's. Retired, apparently. That just wouldn't do. So she made sure to show him some new inspiration – and when the old guy didn't clutch his chest to death at the sight of the Pale, she knew the world would get more ghost stories out of him – even if they were a tad too accurate going forward. She made sure to never read it, but she did remind him it was for a kid. Six times, exactly. Because it was important some things were understood. If this was to be Marcy's story, then she needed to be the first person to read it. She needed to be the one who'd retell it badly until she got good at it.

And if she never did – well, the world was always hungry for bad stories too.

 

[Solitude]

"It's not as good as Mom's," A man said to a woman with long dark hair.

"It's never gonna taste as good as Mom's." She sighed, brought the spoon up to her lips, took another slurp of red broth filled with clams and mussels. "It's not as sweet." The man nodded.

"You could've made it."

"Leo, it still wouldn't have been like Mom's, okay? I told you, I can't cook the way she did. She always got fed up with me and took over." She set down her spoon, looking as if she had lost her appetite. Which was a shame, there were four more courses after this. The woman saw Solitude staring at her and gave her a mean look. Solitude looked away, taking another bite of fried smelt toast. "Mom could make the nine dishes, but she'd spend all day cooking. I work all day as a seamstress, come back, and my fingers hurt. Then I need to be deshelling shrimp, breaking open crab, and boiling scungilli. And don't even get me started on the Baccala. Gotta soak it for nine days, and still Mom would say it was too salty."

"I've always liked your cooking, Cinzia. Mom did, too. She was just always... You know."

"Yeah, I know." Cinzia pushed her bowl of clam and mussel soup in front of her. She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "You think they could at least put some salt out on the table?" She threw her hands up in the air before crossing them over her chest. She was frowning deeply.

"Let's cook the nine dishes together next year," Leo said. He had finished his bowl, leaving the three shells, one mussel, one vongole, and one arselle in the bowl. "You won't need to worry about your fingers if I do all that prep work. You worry about the actual cooking, I'll worry about everything else." He patted his sister on the back. "We'll have a proper Nine Fish Feast next year with lots of salt." This made Cinzia smile.

Solitude looked away from the moment shared between siblings. She felt her sister stir in the shadow, pleased by the tender moment. When they were younger, along with all the others, they would help prepare the different seafood dishes for everyone in the Citadel. Solitude was bad with a lot of the cooking stuff, minus the knife skills. But where she fell short, her sister would take over. Solitude grabbed a bowl of scungilli linguini off a tray, took a fork to it to shovel it straight into her mouth.

It didn't taste like her sister's, who liked linguini softer without much chew. But still, it was good, and the memories it helped to elicit in her mind made the food taste better in the end.

 

[Zayad]

It had been well over a year since Zayad had seen his family. This foreign posting was a long and uncomfortable one. He'd done his best to make sure his men kept as many Miradi comforts as they could when they departed for the damn north. People often thought that loyalty was this grip at your chest that made your heart work overtime and your blood run hotter in defiance of all foreign powers who would impose upon the greatest city that ever was, is, or will be. But, in truth, it was the spice they all still added to what the locals passed for coffee. It was the quiet understanding that they'd never found anything as good as what they had back home. That they never would.

This would be the second celebration he'd miss. He wondered if his kids were still as misbehaved and if the lavaklai was as overweight as he remembered. It's important to spoil the little ones, especially as you had to whip the adult ones into shape. So let them have childhoods of comfort and wonder – because the world may have been a thing to wonder at, but it was far from wonderful.

Zayad did not love his wife, but it was important to respect your partner, as befitted her station. So when he compared her beauty to the skies of Nzuri and crossed that out to tell her instead how she was a star herself, plucked out of the divine weave – allowing him, mere mortal, to be closer to god. He made sure his love bordered on heretical. Made sure to crumple it up and throw it to his nosiest guard to dispose of. Because Zayad could do better. And when that nosy traitor made a report of this back to Miraj'Dah, no one would ever doubt his loyalty. And when the higher 'ni talked about his work to his wives, as he was known to do – he'd mention this. They would gossip in turn and the lot of them would turn green as those Silmorael silks they liked to flaunt. The ones their family couldn't afford that first year.

Because no one else had a husband as devoted, as good with the kids or as clever. And the lower his head bent to kiss her hand, the stronger the chain around his own neck. No one ever worried that a chained dog could bite you. Simply wasn't a thing censors ever considered – and if they ever did – well, he had backup plans in motion for that.

Wasn't even sure if he loved his kids some days, but he was always sure when he missed them. So that's what he told them, committing his final words to spellflame. The expensive vellum gave its life for the emotion therein. He'd forgotten himself for a moment and it singed the sleeve of his most decadent robe. It was an expensive indulgence.

Behind, his men mistook his mistake and the earthbound fireworks as permission to celebrate. He did not correct them.

Because Zayad al-Kuresh zi Takoumba missed home, and that's what all the reports would say.

 

[Ol' Ashe]

The old blankets carried the aftertaste of the unwashed. That wouldn't do. Arev was on laundry duty this week. Ashe would make a note of this and leave a stake by his bedroll. The youth would perform all his duties more fervently for at least a week after that. Because some reprimands were best given silently. And when he got panicked and told Gal who wouldn't laugh it off as he did most things...well. Some things simply took care of themselves.

He looked Mirth over for a moment too long. There was more sag to her than last year. Suppose they had both gotten old, she just lacked the fur to hide it. Her skin was more honest. She noticed and pulled the covers higher. Still fussy about no longer being pretty. So he looked away, out to the rest of the camp. In truth, he did prefer her back when she was tighter. Just like she preferred him back when he had steady paws. But years were not kind, they were just many.

She covered his trembling arm next, as they both pretended it was just cold. They were both too old for silly things such as love. So he didn't ask about her kids, and she didn't talk about the future.

The youngers were noisy in their own drunken celebration. Gal had gotten up to feed the fire and looked their way. On your back wasn't a good way for an eight foot orkin to catch you. His better arm instinctively flinched towards the stakes he'd left by the blankets, but it was pinned by Mirth's weight. There was a brief, ashamed part of him, that worried for a moment. But Gal looked away like they hadn't just seen each other.

Which was correct.

They would all go back to working together tomorrow. But some nights you just didn't spend alone.

 

[Juniper]

Garth followed a different calendar. The new year did not come with moons and stars and whatever scholars agreed the solar trajectory was. No. They didn't celebrate the year of Khurun. They celebrated the anniversary of their own independence from the Arshakans who would have it otherwise. The few who stood hrough the plague and made all of the later years possible.

Juniper's sense of self barely held on, power spread thin to make sure the city was in full bloom despite the deep winter. The three of them sat on her balcony and looked over the festivities below. The people had really outdone themselves this year. Some of them even dared put lanterns onto the bigger of her vines cascading through the square. She wasn't sure what to make of that.

„Would it taste better today?“

„That would be enough of that, June.“ Cass cut her off, as her eyes widened. Had she said that out loud? Her feet had sunk a good two inches into the stone below. She looked over to the First and he shrugged, but did not apologize.

She nodded, grateful that she didn't have to be the sane one today. It was taxing work.

She watched to the squirming humans below instead. Testament to another year of a job well done. And as they...gods, were they fornicating in the streets?... enjoyed themselves, it was nice for all your hard work to be acknowledged. Another cycle where the flesh would last. Another toast to freedom and victory.

„Right, let's drink to that!“ Cass pulled out a wine that looked older than the three of them combined.

„I no longer feel the taste...“ Juniper admitted, worried.

„I've cured my alcohol weakness.“ Alanna added from the other side. „It no longer does anything for me.“

Cass passed Third the filled goblet as he held another to Juniper's lips.

Guess it was the First's turn to be human today.

„You'll both still drink, so I don't drink alone.“

And they did.

 

[Kuuga]

She'd come back to see him for the holidays, like promised. The room had gotten more decrepit than last year. Or the one before. The air was stuffier, the furniture more sparse and spent. There were cracks and gaps along the stone walls. He no longer wore any clothes, the sunk of his ribcage testament that he too had gotten thinner. It was only a matter of time before the building gave up too. Things tended to do that when left too long in Nashi's presence. They just gave up. Ceased to be.

Sash of her robe fell into the hand resting atop his knees as she left his gift between them. Same as every year since back then. A bowl made by her own hands, carved of the best wood she could find. And she'd gotten better with years and practice. This one could probably even fetch a price far as Sonshan.

His hands pulled away and she saw the end of the sash was no longer there. It had been years since he'd allowed her to touch him. She was coming to understand it better, but it still never felt right. He stopped speaking last year. Some of the attendants confided in her that he did still speak sometimes...just not for her, apparently. And that stung. But she couldn't hate him for it. Not after what he'd given up for all of them. For her.

Sometimes she wondered if he still remembered her or if he'd feasted on those memories too. She hoped he wouldn't eat her name too. It always sounded nicer in his voice.

The scratching at the back of her throat was already starting, like the air itself struggled to reach. So it was time to go. She thought she had more time. She could stay forever...but Nashi would eat that too.

„I'll be back next year. Promise.“

She got up and headed for the doorless hinges – huh – when did that go?

She looked to him again, over her shoulder and the bowl was no longer there. The question didn't leave her as she left the building, or the village.

Had he taken or eaten it?

 

[Adem Bin Amra]

Come on, let me take over only for a couple minutes. It wasn't like Woodsmoke to ask for things.

No, you overstepped last time. You are not assuming control until we reach Songrest. Adem was having none of it.

The rest of the choir didn't weigh in, but Adem remained in control and that was all he needed to know about their votes on the matter.

There was a song I used to sing to my family every year...

You can all sing it together when I give you back to the Chorus.

You know they won't let me back in. Not me.

And Adem did know. They might let in Woodsmoke, but they would never let back in the heretic hiding behind that name. Because some songs no longer sung weren't lost, they were forgotten on purpose. So he would be unsung...unless everyone else agreed to lie for him. Seemed unlikely.

I'll teach you and you sing it.

Adem wasn't very musically talented and the body was unused to melody, so it took more time than either of them was proud to admit. But the new year was still welcomed with Adem's voice carrying the tune:

...

„On the shores of distant sea,
Paddles flailing in the breeze,
Current carries us all home,
To the place where we belong.“

...

That was horrible. Thank you.

 

[Edd]

„So I tell 'er... I tell 'er... BUURRH!“ Kev had to cough to keep the burp from boiling over.

„You tol... HIC...her.“ Edd threw in with a wide smile, premolar missing.

„Y'know... yer an alright sort.“ Kev looked at where they sheared one of Edd's fingers the last time he stole from them. „We're square.“

„'S good t'know“ but Kev's head had already thumped against the table.

Edd stared for a long second, counting his fingers once again. But when a mark presented itself, you didn't really stop to wonder beyond the obvious. Took but a breath and his hand was already rummaging through Kev's pockets. OOOOH, heavy purse....musta been a good year. As he pulled the pouch out, he halfexpected Kev to grab what was left of his hand, but the other man was down for the count. Sucks to be him. This was a major score – if he rationed properly, he could live in luxury for...weeks?

Oh, and look at that silver chain around his neck! That was another bottle's worth at least. Edd pulled out the locket, unclasping it with catlike grace. The secret to such handiwork? Brassiers. Gods bless 'em! But sure made for a solid performance when you freed the titties with one smooth motion.

He opened the bauble to see if he needed to drop something for Kev – people often had sentimental crap inside, like drawings or letters. And no selfrespecting thief was gonna nick your kid's first sock or whatever it was people did.

And it opened on a drawing of a scrawny little nibbling. Well, that was depressing. Looked happy. Could definitely eat more. Kev wasn't a tiny guy, so he really should feed the kid better. And he caught himself there, wondering a moment...should he perhaps just not? Kev was out cold, he could still put everything back and have them wake up as buddies. But if he'd learned from past mistakes...well, he'd be ninefingered not eight.

Still, he left the locket on the table. Chain would sell well enough.

„MotherfuHIC!“

Some people really couldn't even get robbed gracefully. Fucking assholes! He pulled open the pouch and dropped a coin into Kev's pocket. Then two. Stood up and turned to the door before dropping another three – the kid did look scrawny.

He made his way outside before he could change his mind.

 

[Ilt]

„Cheers!“ He clacked mugs with his men, who all held their arms lower so he could reach too.

They were all too many drinks in, and he'd personally hit his own pressure points at least twice to avoid some of the liquid coming back up. It was good to know that even drunk and old he still had it. Wasn't like skill ever left your hands, but some days those hands weren't good for much of anything. So it did make you wonder.

„To our fallen brothers!“ Yelled another and they all took another swig, even those who were yet to swallow. It was only proper.

„To Nechon!“ another round of yelling and cheering before they all struggled not to gag. They weren't youths anymore, even if Kindleg still drank like one. Ilt wasn't sure what that guy had for kidneys, but he was sure he would bury them all one day.

„To peace!“ One of the younger guards yelled out, and everyone got quiet.

To his benefit, Ilt did not smash the mug across that huge, dumb face. Table wasn't as lucky. The wood on wood sent spills and splinters everywhere. There were years he'd have made an example of cowards. But they weren't cowards. He was just old. And wrong. To them anyway.

„Fucking cowards!“ flipped the dented table over before proceeding to fuck off into the dark.

His left knee betrayed him on the way out. Popped clean out its socket and he rolled into the mud.

„Great Granny Nap!“ Someone yelled out in shock as Ilt just reached down and yanked the leg back into its socket.

„Shut the fuck up!“ and he slowly grumbled further into the night.

He'd regret it all in the morning. But he was too drunk and angry to care tonight.

Used to be a dream of peace. It wasn't this.

 

[Fray]

Fray stared into the fire, a flask of something blisteringly strong in one of her hands. The night was young and the air crisp but not frigid.

This year, the Deva sat alone by the shore on a crumbling old log. The solitude, she did not mind, but it made for poor conversation. To remedy this, she had Long Boy impaled in the dirt. He was, after all, her oldest friend.

“Cheers,” she said with a slight slur, holding up her flask to her trusty sword. “To another year of staying one step ahead of death."

She took a long drink, relishing the feel of liquid fire coating her throat. It watered the eyes and cleared the sinuses; well worth the coin she'd paid. As warmth settled pleasantly in her stomach, that telltale numbness spread throughout her limbs. Fray looked out into the dark waters and thought about all those she had met. Battle-scarred One-Eye. The sparkling princeling. Mackin Macky filled with sorrowful dreams. The little wastrel of a street rat. A red eyed assassin.

If she thought even further, she could recall the choking air of crystal mines. Of scorching desert heat and a richly robed savior. And even further than that, death. So much death. Tree lady. It had started with her parents and culminated with her brother, before plateauing into a seemingly endless series of killing.

She never did quite forget the nugget of history gleaned from Lady Second. Nor the prophetic answer she'd given in return.

Granted, the killing had been mostly to survive. But there were plenty of times it had merely been for coin. Or anger. Or both. Honestly, Fray was pretty resigned to whatever fate had in store for her. The consequences were surely piling up. Somewhere, somehow, they were going to catch up and eat her alive.

Until then, she had her sword, her drink, and the salty sting of wintry air by the sea. It was good and clean, as was Long Boy, as was the brew in her flask. She could already tell that so long as she ate the rest of her salted jerky and took a few large swigs of water, she wouldn't even be hungover come morning. So it was with a simple kind of contentedness that Fray sank down the log onto her sleeping roll and stared sleepily into the fire. Within moments, her eyes became too heavy to keep open, her chest rising and falling steadily as the fire crackled merrily on.

Another year survived. There was not much else the likes of Fray could hope for.