The moment the Divine came down from the Heavens, the seed of hope was sown. Even without any end to this war in sight, with no true reason to believe humanity will survive, we look to the future. Should we find victory, what comes next? I wonder this myself. What am I to become if not Highlord?

--Entry from Highlord Oswald’s Journal

SONGS OF HALLOWING

(A CHRISTMAS INTERLUDE)

The room was still. Outside the blustering wind scattered flurries of snow through the air, but in his chamber, surrounded by the thick walls of Bastion’s keep, Raegn was protected. The stone was still frighteningly cold, though, especially this far from the fire at the far end of the room. A discomfort, to be sure, but victory required sacrifice.

Footsteps approached from down the hall. They grew ever-louder, then drew silent from behind the creaking door. And still Raegn waited. Those final moments - that last, bated breath - was when patience paid off.

“I’ve got you!” he yelled and leapt out from behind the dresser, sword in hand.

There was a frightened shout in response followed by a yelp of pain as the wooden blade jabbed into the intruders’ ribs.

“Raegn! How many times do I have to tell you not startle me like that!” Maren scolded.

Raegn paused for a moment, debating if his mother’s narrowed eyes were of anger or if there might be some sparkle in them. She was beautiful, or at least he thought so, even if only because his father always said she was.

All the girls only called each other pretty when they were in skirts or dresses, but his mother wore those so rarely he thought she looked rather odd when she did. Her black hair was done up in a loose bun with a few strands hanging lower, a typical affair given her daily activities with the Sentinels. What he cared for most, however, was the tiny crease at the corner of her slender lips that rose and gave way to a smile.

“Have at you!” he cried and lunged once more.

“Argh!”

His mother parried the hit but feigned an injury to her arm. She tried to flee, but Raegn was upon her again. A strike to the leg and she was limping. Raegn clambered atop a chair as she rounded the room and jumped onto her back.

“If I’m to die, I’m taking you with me!” his mother declared and collapsed backward onto the bed.

Raegn let out a grunt as her weight hit him, though thankfully the bed absorbed most of it. His tiny lungs were given little reprieve as she immediately turned about and took to tickling him. He writhed and gasped atop his bed and generally turned the blankets into a mess.

When she’d finally decided he’d had enough, Maren tucked in the bedding at the edges while Raegn caught his breath, then covered him up to his waist. She took a seat at the chair next to the bed as he fussed with the blanket.

“Everyone else is still awake,” he complained. “Why do I have to go to bed?”

“Because your mother said so,” Aerich answered as he entered the room. “I heard quite the ruckus. Not celebrating too hard, are we?”

His father smiled broadly at him as he crossed the chamber with easy strides, the fur cloak he wore bouncing slightly atop his shoulders.

“I thought you had a council meeting,” Maren noted, but leaned into the hand laid across her shoulders all the same.

“I think the other lords can wait awhile. Why they ever thought scheduling a meeting on the eve of Hallowing is beyond me,” Aerich muttered.

“Father, tell mother I don’t have to go to bed yet,” Raegn said. “I’ll go to meet the council with you!”

Aerich chuckled and tightened the hand he held on Maren’s shoulder.

“It would be dreadfully boring, my boy. If I were you, I would much rather spend my time with your mother. I’m sure if you asked, she’d be willing to tell you a story, though. That might let you stay awake for a while longer.”

Raegn frowned, but he was outnumbered. A tactical disadvantage, his father had taught him, was never a good thing. Sometimes it was best to know when not to fight. Even if that meant not having any fun. He crossed his arms and tucked in his chin.

“Fine.”

He settled into bed a bit more, but left most of his back propped up against the pillow so as not to be lured into falling asleep. Maren pulled her head away from her husband’s side and fiddled with the blankets some as she began to speak.

“’Twas the night before Hallowing, and all through the keep, not a creature was stirring, they made not a—”

“Aw, but this is the same story every year,” Raegn groaned. “Aren’t there any others?”

“Oh, this story’s no good?” his mother chided. “I suppose you’d like to hear about how the Angels flew across the land, smiting the enemies of humanity?”

“Yeah!” Raegn exclaimed.

“Well those stories aren’t very appropriate for the season, I’d say. And a bit too violent for a boy your age.”

“I’m plenty old enough!” Raegn argued. “Father said I’m almost ready for the Scarred Lands!”

“He did, did he?” his mother asked with an icy glare up at her husband. “Well, I think it’s time your father headed off to his council meeting, but I’ll be sure to talk to him about that later.”

Aerich gave a sheepish grin, but acquiesced. With a tousle of Raegn’s hair and a kiss atop his wife’s head, he departed. After watching the door close, Raegn turned his attention away from his mother, anticipating the same old story from the previous years to continue. Through the window he could still see snow falling and hear the shouts of Bastion’s men celebrating down below. He wanted to be with them, hearing their tales of heroism and sneaking sips of the ale that gave them courage.

“I suppose you have grown some, much as it pains me to admit it,” his mother said, calling back his attention. “If you want a new story, so be it. I will tell you one about how the joy we find in the Hallowing came to be…”

David’s masterful fingers gave one last chord, resolving the buildup that had been an entire song in the making. He kept his eyes closed and stayed still as the fading notes carried away that tension to leave sweet bliss in their wake. Those not dedicated to the craft might feel awkward sitting up on a small stage, a hundred pairs of eyes watching their every move. For David, however, performance came as a relief. It was every other moment that was awkward.

There was some clapping and slaps atop tables in acknowledgment, but most of the tavern’s patrons simply went about whatever conversations they were already having. They made enough noise that his music might not truly be needed, a fact that brought thoughts of disdain to David’s mind. It took only a moment for their chatter to soar, filling the space left by the absence of his tune.

“Sing the one about the milkmaid!” someone shouted.

A chorus of agreement rose from a significant portion of his audience. They raised their glasses to show their vote, sloshing the contents onto the table, floor, and one another alike.

David rolled his eyes. “I will be sure to, my good man, once I get another drink of my own,” he called back.

He set his lute against the barrel at the corner of the stage and sauntered his way over to the barkeep, mumbling under his breath about the lack of artistry in the more popular songs. These people were simple, with no appreciation for the finer qualities of music. He’d seen his fair share of tits and could certainly admire a woman’s form, but for Heaven’s sake half the tune was just various innuendo’s alluding to the size of the milkmaid’s chest. There was hardly any nuance or beauty to it.

The bells were still some time from starting their first tolling in remembrance of the Divine, but that only meant people sought some other form of entertainment - and so David was there to provide. The barkeep filled a mug with spiced ale and handed over the frothing beverage free of charge. Some might call it greedy, but David had always been sure to work that particular arrangement into his contracts. It was small in comparison to his hefty payment, but given that he’d been keeping the place full for more than two hours now it seemed a fair trade for the establishment to keep him from thirst.

He slicked his brown locks back and off his forehead, then took a long swig, hoping that somehow the alcohol might pass the night a bit faster. These types of jobs had no real appeal to him; there were bards and minstrels far more suited to please the ears of the common folk when compared to someone of his own caliber. Such work did help line the purse with a bit extra, though.

David set his mug down and wiped the foam from his lip just in time for the man closest to him at the bar to chirp up.

“Funny, don’t you think?” the man said. “There are men in this world that haven’t tasted any milk besides that of their mother’s own breast, not that they could remember it. Some probably haven’t the slightest on how one might milk an animal, yet all of them seem to know what a milkmaid is and want to hear about her.”

David gave a single, dry chuckle. “Well, when it comes down to it most men are able to visualize the more prominent bits of that particular song.”

“Most tunes are like that, no? They evoke a certain…image. A feeling.”

David flicked his eyes over to the talkative gentlemen. An older fellow, the snow-white hair gave away that much. His face was plump, though, and that must have helped hide some of the wrinkles. This poor bastard was leading up to a song request of his own, David reasoned. A bit more effective a method than shouting out a name, but selfish all the same. There was no point to this conversation other than the man wanting to hear something specific.

“True enough,” David sighed. “There are songs for sorrow and songs for heroism and everything in between. Which is it you want to hear? Or is your interest born from a love of the arts?”

The last bit was a touch rude, but he couldn’t help himself. Something about singing for those without any understanding rubbed him the wrong way.

“Oh, I’m not sure I’d go that far,” the older man said. “Songs have changed quite a bit in the time that I’ve been alive. I’ve just taken to admiring some of the things I missed in my earlier years.”

“A shame,” David noted before taking another swig of his ale. He swallowed the mouthful of earthy liquid and let out a long breath. This man had at least been amenable with his request. Were everyone to take that moment of consideration perhaps these jobs wouldn’t be so tedious.

“Part of the beauty of music is how it evolves with the times,” David said, indulging the man’s question a bit further. “Always changing to match the current fashion. I can play something older, something that you’re more likely to recognize, when I start up again.”

“I’ve no doubt you could,” the man noted. “A professional such as yourself would certainly know all there is about the craft. You probably know more songs than any other, in fact.”

David set his face in a hard line and turned to face this conversationalist. He’d glimpsed the white hair and constant smile out the corner of his eye, but until now hadn’t bothered to give this man his full regard. This fellow claimed to know him somewhat, though, and that was far more than any of the other simpletons in the room.

“You’ve heard of me?” he asked.

“Of course, of course,” the man insisted with a jolly chuckle. “David, the King of Bards, they call you. Quite the title, I think.”

Had the man not been so nice thus far David might have taken offense to that, but instead his scowl gave way to a small laugh.

“Jest all you want, old man. There are those that pay a hefty sum to hear my music.”

“I’m sure of it,” the man agreed and stuck out a hand. “Name’s Eskay. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, David.”

David furrowed his brow in curiosity, but clasped the hand all the same. The man’s hands were hard and the rest of him a bit on the round side, though more of a barreled figure than truly fat. Some sort of laborman, if he had to guess.

“Let me ask you,” Eskay continued, “do you think there is value in a song that doesn’t change?”

David frowned thoughtfully and coated his lips with another sip of spiced ale.

“I’m not sure what you mean. I’ve studied the older ways and the art of today certainly calls back to the way things were once done, but the change is what keeps things fresh. It keeps people interested.”

“Change is tiring, though,” Eskay said with several strokes of his white beard. “Not to mention full of risk. Could the familiar not bring comfort?”

“Familiarity is comfortable for a time, sure,” David agreed, “but it eventually becomes boredom. Risk is where excitement lies! Were I not open to taking chances I never would have gone on the adventures I write my songs about.”

“I was hoping you might say something of the sort,” Eskay said through a smile. “If you’d follow me, I believe I have something that someone of your craft would find great inspiration in.”

“Oh I would love to, but I’m in the midst of a contract.” David emphasized his predicament with a regretful thumb over in his shoulder in the direction of the tavern’s patrons.

“Come now, where was that desire for risk you were just speaking about?”

Eskay hefted a double-strapped leather satchel off the ground and began to make his way to the door. David stood in place, still leaning on the bar and trying to decide if the old man was actually serious. Watching him take no pause at the door seemed to be sign enough. He let out an exasperated sigh, then rushed over to the stage to grab his cloak and lute and went to search for the old man amidst the snowfall outside.

There were cries from the tavern calling him back, but the old man had been interesting enough that he couldn’t pass up the opportunity. David glimpsed the round figure, pack on his back, trudging through the snow some distance down the street. He hurried to catch up, doing his best to keep the strings of his lute beneath his cloak to protect them from the wet snow.

It only took a single block before David was cold. The wind wasn’t blowing particularly hard, but its occasional gusts passed through his clothes as if they weren’t there at all. His fingers began to ache from clutching the front of his cloak closed and his teeth started to chatter. Some adventure, he grumbled to himself.

Eskay was unphased by the weather, his barrel-like form rolling along through the snow with ease. And directly towards the Citadel, David noted. He followed cautiously, but was surprised to see that the Templar guards didn’t offer either of them a second glance as they crossed the bridge onto the holy island. That was odd. No one but members of the Order were permitted entry without a coordinated visit. It wasn’t all that likely that they were being lazy just because of the holiday, was it?

There was no one else to be seen as they continued their way along one of the walls, the gravel underfoot buried beneath a fluffy white blanket. The snow still crunched, although with a much more satisfying sound than that of the small rocks. More tiny flurries fell through the bare branches of the trees all around them, steadily dancing their way towards the ground to fill in their footprints. A small portion of the snowfall still made it to the ground even after they’d entered a circular building. It was focused into a small pillar in the middle of the room by the partially open roof and coated the single raised garden bed upon which an Evertree grew.

Eskay walked towards the magnificent white tree and set his pack down on the knee-height wall that encircled it. The old man rolled his shoulders some, then casually made his way over to the rounded room’s edge.

“Might now be the time when you tell me who you are?” David asked while taking a moment to inspect the strings of his lute. “Or what we’re doing here?”

“This place holds many memories for me,” Eskay hummed while running his hand across the writing carved into the stone wall. “When I had it built I intended for it to be a place of memory. I must say, I’m glad that others have continued to use it for that purpose. I still remember what it was like back then, when people all across the Realm were trapped within their own walls. Most of them were starving, especially when the cold hit and the snow killed off what was left of our crops. Yet even then, they took care of one another. Shared what little they had. Once a year, I come here so that I can share what I remember with this new generation.”

“New generation?” David frowned. “You were alive during the Void War?” He chuckled faintly. “You might be an old man, but you’d be nothing but bones in the ground if that were true.”

“I assure you, lad, I was there. Whether the Heavens intended for me to have this blessing or not I am still unsure, but long life has graced me all the same.”

“You’re referring to being a Saint? You must be of some renown, then.” David scowled and brought a pensive hand to his chin. “The name Eskay doesn’t come to mind.”

“I may have lied to you some,” the man admitted while returning to the middle of the room. “Eskay is not my true name.”

David hardly cared about that small admission. There were songs about those blessed by the Heavens during the Void War. He knew them. Sung them, even, to kings and lords across the Realm. Yet all the Saints were storied to be dead. Would it even be possible that this man could be one?

“Did you say you had this place built?” he asked.

The old man nodded.

“The first Highlord build the Citadel, though. Klaus Oswald. Why, you’d have to be nearly…” David started to do the math, yet his mind strayed and the true answer dawned on him. He took a stunned step back. “You’re…him?”

The Templar Order’s founder grinned between rosy cheeks. “Yes, though the title of Highlord no longer belongs to me. I prefer Saint these days.”

“Saint Klaus…Eskay.” David shook his head. “You gave me initials.”

“Very astute of you,” Klaus said through his smile. “I’ve heard much about you, David. People have compared your voice to a choir of Lightborne and your lyrics to those of the best poets. To answer the other part of your question, I’ve brought you here because I’m hoping you might help me.”

“I’m not a warrior, sir,” David said sheepishly, then hung his head some, regretting how cold he’d been back in the tavern. “I’m afraid I’d be woefully useless in your fight.”

Klaus laughed; a hearty, deep thing that rose from his belly. “Oh, I’ve been leaving the fighting to the young,” he bellowed. “I’ve turned my attention elsewhere.”

The Saint paused for a moment and gazed solemnly at the Evertree. “I’m not sure how many years I have left,” he said more softly, “but I feel as though they are few. I was hoping I might employ you to capture the essence of what I have been doing for the past few decades.”

“And what is it you’ve been doing?”

There was a sparkle in the Saint’s eye as he looked away from the tree.

“Bringing joy.”

David frowned, a gesture that Klaus took as another question.

“I spend most of my time in the north, away from others,” the jolly man explained. “I feel no need to influence the day-to-day happenings of the world, for my time of prominence passed long ago. But each year, just before the Hallowing, I make the trek back down to this tree. They’re all connected you see, though this one is special. Gifted to me, you might say. Each year I come here and share the memory of the pure joy that all of humanity felt when the Divine came to save us. If I’m honest, I’ve never quite understood how it works, but when I press my will and my memories into this tree, it carries them across the Realm.”

Saint Klaus let his fingers brush a bit of the Evertree’s bark as he finished his story. It looked to David like he longed to touch it, but there was a hesitancy, like a father afraid his hands weren’t soft enough to stroke his own child’s cheek.

“You yourself admitted your music can stir emotion,” Klaus said. “I want you to bear witness to the world at Hallowing and immortalize that moment, for this is truly a most blessed time of year.”

“Highlo—er, Saint,” David corrected himself, “your story already has all the makings of a new legend. Should I not simply write of that?”

“No. Come,” Klaus said with a sideways tilt of his head to beckon David over. “Let me show you.”

David bit his lip, but his curiosity got the best of him. He carefully propped his lute up against the short wall and took the tall step up onto the snow-covered grass. Klaus took his hand and placed it, palm flat, against the tree. The wood was surprisingly…not cold? It wasn’t warm, but somehow it wasn’t taking the temperature of the world around it.

“Now wha—?”

David didn’t get to finish his question. The moment Klaus laid both his hands on the tree, his mind exploded with visions. He’d visited the Khanate and smoked many a various grass and been shown many things, but this was nothing like that. Those were only images, a known fake his mind was making. This…this was true experience.

He was there, standing amidst an entirely different generation. He could feel their collective emotion. The swell of hope when the sky first opened to the Light.

“This is wondrous,” David whispered.

“Do you see what I see?” Klaus asked faintly. “Hear what I hear?”

“Yes,” David answered. “Yes, all of it!”

The beauty he bore witness to was beyond what even the brightest of the summer flowers could offer. There was peace in the way the snow muffled the cheers of the Elysians without dampening their excitement, elegance in the lanterns strung across the streets and how they twinkled in the night, and wonder in the eyes of children. Music lifted spirits and the sweet scents of apple and cinnamon were carried along by the same breeze that nipped at the cheek. Love was abound. It lingered in embraces against the cold and blossomed on smiles born from graceful dancing.

The notion of a merry tale, tied to the season but with the strength to be born anew each and every year, flooded his spirit.

“I must write of this,” David murmured as the visions faded. “I must…” he patted himself down, searching for something to use, something to help him keep the memory, but he’d left his satchel back in the tavern.

Klaus leaned his back against the tree and slid down until he was resting comfortably on the blanket of snow. “In my bag there,” he said with a weak point at the rucksack at the edge of the grass.

David hurried over, digging through the bag until he found several rolls of small parchment and a finely sharpened piece of charcoal with which to write. He sat down on the wall, fussing over the paper that refused to stay flat, until he felt eyes on him. It was a test of his patience, but he took the time to glance over his shoulder.

“What will you do now?” he asked of the half-sleeping Klaus.

“Oh, I think I’ll rest while you work,” the Saint answered and shifted some so one of the larger roots would support his head. “I save up all year for this one moment, but it still tires me quite horribly.”

Satisfied that the old man wasn’t going to die at that very moment, David went to work. He wrote and practiced and performed tirelessly. For ten years, he met Saint Klaus beneath the Evertree in the heart of Elysium. In that time, the two grew to become good friends. David even visited Klaus in his tiny northern cabin, a cozy home nestled between towering trees of pine.

Each year, David’s writing bore new songs and hymns, each a way to commemorate another night of celebration. Some were hauntingly beautiful, like horses prancing through the silver storm of a snow-filled night. Others had melodies as majestic as the Heavens and enough trumpets to make any king rife with envy, while still others were as whimsical and happy as the children who sung them while they played.

David wrote and wrote until one year, Saint Klaus did not appear. After trying to touch the tree himself and feeling nothing but bark, David withdrew. His heart hung heavy in his chest, for he knew that time had finally taken his friend. The bridge off the Citadel grounds seemed longer than previous years and the slush-filled streets which he aimlessly wandered colder. He meandered through the city, lost in his sorrow, until the night sky was filled with sound. He looked up towards the bells that tolled for the first time that eve and dreaded each of their methodical swings. Without Saint Klaus there to fill the hearts of man with joy, what celebration would there be?

And yet, as the bells rang, people took to the streets. David stood baffled, watching as they danced and sang, a smile on every face. For a long moment he considered heading back to the Evertree, reasoning that Klaus had simply been late, but in his heart he knew it not to be true. The scene before him, that merry celebration, both was and was not Klaus’s doing. And the songs on the lips of the people celebrating were familiar. Very familiar.

A smile broke across David’s weary face. He stretched his arms out wide and turned his head to the Heavens, letting the snow fall softly on his cheeks and feeling his own spirit be lifted by those around him.

“A tradition of joy indeed,” he declared to the night.

Happiness was contagious, it seemed, and he spent the night singing for small gatherings and sipping on sweet mead…

“David passed many Hallowing’s later, but lived his life knowing that he’d fulfilled the request of one of humanity's greatest hero’s. One last selfless act by the great Klaus Oswald. A victory born of great intent, filled with heart, and shared with all.

And that is how the songs of Hallowing came to be,” Maren said, finishing her story with a soft stroke of Raegn’s hair.

Raegn stretched and let out a mighty yawn. “Are any other Saints still alive?” he asked with his eyes fighting to stay open.

“No, little child of mine. Saints were long-lived, Oswald more than most, but even he was not immortal. The important thing is that he will always live on through the traditions of joy that we still follow today.”

“Do you think I could become a Saint someday?”

“Only the Heaven’s know what’s in store for you,” Maren smiled, “but I think you’ll grow up to do great things, Raegn.”

She pulled the covers up to his chin and gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead.

“Now get some sleep,” she whispered. “You’ll need your rest for the feast tomorrow.”

Raegn didn’t knowingly comply, yet his mind brought him visions of sparkling lights and people dancing while the faint hum of Bastion’s men singing carried him into slumber like the softest of lullabies.