In Winter’s Hall

9th Day of Winter

766 Karloman’s Peace

He had never seen so much snow.

In the south, snow was a brief, welcome novelty, rarely lasting more than a few days, a cycle at most. Here, it was relentless, knee-deep and unyielding, beginning even before the first day of winter officially arrived and trapping residents in their homes. Vedast and Dreux had told him of a history of finding frozen bodies when the snow melted in spring.

There was just so much of it.

Ekkehard struggled to trudge through the knee-high powder, his nose red and snivelling, his eyes watering as the crisp, clean, yet bitterly cold air stung his lungs. His breath came out in visible puffs, each exhale a fleeting cloud. Tall hide boots lined with fur and wrapped around leather chaps, and a thick navy cotton shirt under a dense, fur-trimmed coat barely kept the frost at bay. It was the heaviest clothing he had ever owned, and still, his bones were chill.

The outfit was made of fine material but unadorned. Decoration would not be suitable for today’s affair.

Ahead of him, Audomar led their family procession. Auriana and their siblings trailed behind, all in similar attire. Vedast, Dreux, and their family kept a respectful distance. Ekkehard mirrored Audomar’s steps as they pushed through the snow toward the House of Commencement.

A most sacred building, the temple’s architecture was unique. It wasn’t built upward toward the heavens, nor did it feature colourful, extravagant roofs. Instead, its roof was almost flat, sporting a shallow slope. Windowless dark stone walls covered in alcoves housed statues of the revered dead, framed in snow. Ghostly faces of grief and mourning were carved along the roof's edges. Its large double doors bore the image of a self-consuming crowned serpent, its features dividing as the doors opened.

Two Winter Women opened the doors, waiting solemnly. Abbot Zhu stood between them, nodding as Ekkehard and his family approached.

“Welcome,” the abbot said, “and may you languish in Winter’s Hall no longer than you need.”

“Thank you, Teacher,” Ekkehard replied when Audomar did not. He glanced at his brother, lost in his thoughts, and knew this would be hard on him.

Ekkehard turned back to the abbot and nodded. It had been years since he had spoken with a priest, and he couldn't help but feel a dread anticipation. But this Abbot was not Ren and knew nothing of their past or his apostacy. There was no reason for the man to be anything but pleasant, unless Ekkehard gave him one.

“You’re welcome, my child,” the priest replied, bowing his head. “Please, follow me,” he instructed, turning and walking through the doors. The yellow cloak of his Hofamat robe trailed behind him as he descended the immediate stairway within.

Ekkehard turned to Audomar, who was frozen at the threshold. He placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Audomar's eyes were red and puffy, a glimmer of tears gathering. He clutched something tightly to his chest, the figurines, no doubt.

Ekkehard ushered Audomar forward. Taking a deep breath and squaring his expression, Audomar took the first step. Ekkehard may now be the head of their family, but he would never insult his brother by denying him the right to lead them through this most sacred of rites. Ekkehard followed, passing the Winter Women without looking at their masked faces, and began his journey into Winter’s Hall.

As Ekkehard passed through the threshold, a wave of discomfort colder than the winds outside washed over him, his skin prickling. The air seemed laced with inaudible, critical whispers. Dim lights from overhanging braziers cast unsettling shadows, forming shapes of offended faces. With each echoing step, he felt the weight of countless judging eyes, as if the denizens of this place knew a heretic, unwelcome and unwanted, was among them.

The Reubke party descended seven steep sets of seven small steps, each footfall a note in a sombre song, one that was constant and inevitable. Halfway down, Ekkehard heard Vedast and his family enter, Vedast’s deep voice rumbling through the passage and interrupting the melody. Ekkehard couldn’t discern his words, but they were followed by the soft closing of stone doors signalling their entrapment within the sacred space.

At the bottom, the passage opened into a massive hall built deep into the ground, with walls reaching up to the surface, supported by monolithic dark stone pillars. Dozens of braziers hung from the pillars, casting cool, flickering lights.

Ekkehard admired the hall's starkness. Unlike other temples, it had no paintings, decorations, or displays of wealth. He smiled, appreciating its purposeful bleakness. This wasn’t a place for ostentatious braggarts. It was as it should be.

Thousands of niches carved into the dark stone walls formed shelves from the foundations to the roof. Some, particularly those higher up, were empty, but most housed collections of small figurines, some of wood, others of stone, and a few of metal or decorated with gemstones. Ekkehard’s gaze climbed the wall, taking in the displays until he looked straight up at the ceiling. A massive mural depicting the Cycle of Gods showed each of the five gods presiding over their periods of existence.

Ekkehard felt himself shrink under their gaze. They were watching him, and to them, he was small. That somehow comforted him, as if they affirmed the significance of the rite they were about to perform. He knew then there was meaning in what he and his family did today.

He continued down the aisle between rows of stone pews, feeling a little more bolstered than before.

Audomar followed the abbot to the front of the hall, where a three-tiered dais lay. Winter’s Table, Ekkehard thought. He had seen mock-ups before, but the real thing was awe-inspiringly stark. On the lowest level was a pillar housing a small, caged fire. The second level held a lectern facing the pews. On the highest level stood a massive stone altar draped with a pale blue cloth, trimmed with tassels and silver images of death. Hundreds of lit candles and carvings, like those in the niches, adorned the altar.

Reaching the foot of the dais, Abbot Zhu turned to face the procession. He indicated for Audomar to take the front row, followed by the rest of the Reubkes. They took their places, Ekkehard beside Audomar, Auriana beside him, and the rest of the family in age order. Vedast and his family stood a few rows back.

When all were present, Abbot Zhu bowed his head, and everyone followed. This is it, Ekkehard thought, his chest constricting.

“Are you okay?” Auriana asked him, taking his hand and squeezing it.

He turned to her. An odd question, he thought, but said only, “Yes.”

The abbot turned his back, prompting everyone to take their seats, and made his way to the lectern. Zhu raised his hands skyward and brought them together. Two Winter Women emerged as if from nowhere, and approached the plinth, one carrying a large marble bowl, the other a huge carafe.

Ekkehard had read many winter sermons and attended numerous ceremonies, but never one like this. His had been ad hoc at war or in the shared temples of Karloman’s house. Necropolises like this were rare and venerated. Most ceremonies involved compromises and despite himself, he was excited to see the rite performed as it was meant to be.

The first monk placed the bowl on top the fire’s cage and assisted the second in pouring the carafe's contents. The container was so large, both women had to raise it together. A rich crimson liquid flowed into the bowl, heated by the trapped flames.

Once the carafe was empty, they set it down and pulled pouches from their robes. Ground spices of ginger, dried lavender, cardamom, cloves, and juniper were added to the bowl, and a wooden ladle was laid before it. Then, the women returned to the shadows.

“Welcome,” the abbot began.

Ekkehard looked up at the old man, his bearded face partially hidden by the green hood of his tabard and took a deep breath. Once more he had to steel himself and remain strong for his family. Though time had passed since their family’s murder, they had never truly faced their losses. Today, they had to embrace the absence of those taken from them and it would hurt. He could already hear Gerwald beginning to snivel.

“Honoured descendants,” the abbot’s voice echoed through the hall as he began his sermon, “esteemed friends, we gather today in the hallowed halls of Winter, not just in mourning but in solemn remembrance and august celebration of those who have reached the end of one cycle and the beginning of another.

The abbot paused, letting his words resonate. He has a good cadence, Ekkehard thought, a sombre, appropriate rhythm. Ren’s voice would never have carried words so elegantly. Ekkehard bowed his head in reverence to the words he had given the abbot days before

“Today, this house offers refuge to the family of the departed,” the abbot continued, gesturing toward Ekkehard’s family. “I ask all present to offer their prayers and sympathies to Audomar, Ekkehard, Auriana, Florentin, Gerwald, and young Gisla, as they bid farewell to those whose seasons have ended.”

Ekkehard’s back stiffened at the sound of his name. His head rose involuntarily, and he lifted his chin in challenge of the priest. He inhaled deeply, steadied himself, and placed both hands behind his back, interlocking his fingers and squeezing tightly. Why am I so uncomfortable? he wondered. Am I angry at the priest? He had no reason to be.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“It is a rare day that we must commemorate so many, and a tragedy for one family to suffer so much,” the abbot’s tone softened. “But we should remember their joys, not their suffering. We remember Ouss, a wise elder who gave sage advice, and Brunhild, a dutiful mother and wife before her husband's passing in the Merchant’s Rebellion.”

Ekkehard feared the bloody faces of the dead would intrude upon his mind. He forced them away, remembering instead the family’s laughter at the dinner table and his mother’s loving disapproval of one of his grandfather’s dirty jokes.

“Also, we remember the siblings taken: fallen brothers, Evroul, Aldedramnus, Otker, and Corbus; and departed sisters, Marcovefa, Oydela, and Ereprad. We say goodbye to Adda, loving wife to Audomar, and beloved children, Adalwif, daughter of Audomar and Adda, and Cheldric, infant son of Ekkehard and Auriana.”

Something gripped Ekkehard’s clenched hands. Auriana, covering her bowed face with one hand, searched for his with the other. He took her hand, and she squeezed it tightly. He looked at the rest of his family. Gisla was openly sobbing, while Gerwald and Florentin both tried to hide their faces with bowed heads.

To Ekkehard’s surprise, Audomar struggled the most, his face a mess of tears and snot. He repeatedly tried to look at the priest but bowed his head each time, eyes sealed by tears. Seeing his brother’s troubles, Ekkehard took another breath and squared his chest. I have to remain strong, he thought. I’ve prepared for this. I’ve played out this moment in my mind a thousand times. I can do this.

“We all know that one day we will feel the embrace of Winter for the last time,” the abbot continued. “The scriptures warn us of the brevity of our lives, but they also speak of hope and joy. Hope for those left behind, who still have time to relish the world, and joy in knowing that those gone will be reborn in the heavenly garden, tended by the Father, to blossom in His eternal warmth.”

The words were good, strong, as Ekkehard had written them but delivered perhaps better than he could have. He nodded his silent thanks to the priest. It was the kind of service he had once imagined himself giving, one that comforted the uncomfortable and left listeners grateful for the rest of their lives.

“Let us offer a prayer,” the abbot said, bowing his head. Ekkehard and the others followed.

“I speak to you the words of our Saviour King Karloman, Final Master of the Earth, as he spoke to Ossi after their son’s death,” the abbot began, then recited:

“Mourn not his passing, for he steps now in the light of eternity, hand in hand with his forebear, my sire, sovereign of the celestial expanse. Weep not at his departure, for he is liberated from burden, free of mortal sorrow, embraced by endless serenity.

“Let your tears be of reverence, not grief, for his suffering has ceased. Instead, offer thanks and prayer, and hold hope that one day, when our cycles here are run, and Winter beckons us too, we shall be reunited. May our lives honour his memory, our actions reflect his virtue, and our faith secure our path to that divine oasis, the final home of all.

“To the Father we give thanks, in hope one day that we to will be reborn in the meadow of his love.”

“To the Father we give thanks,” Ekkehard and the others recited.

Abbot Zhu waited as the prayer sank in. Ekkehard knew it by heart; he had heard it so often that the words had become empty to him. But not today. Today, they resonated, and he pictured a young man named Cheldric waiting in a garden, eager to meet his father.

The abbot cleared his throat and raised his hands. “Let us stand and bow our heads in quiet reflection,” he said. “Reflect on the generosity of Spring and the mercy of Winter as the women of the house play for us the Melody of the Absent Dawn.”

A group of Winter Women had gathered on one side of the hall, seemingly appearing from nowhere. Three sat on short stools with dulcimers across their laps, playing the strings gently with little hammers. Three more monks stood beside them, adding wordless hummed vocals. Together, they produced a harmonious, introspective tune.

The Melody of the Absent Dawn was a light, sombre tune that invited introspection. As Ekkehard listened, he thought of the brief time he had with his baby boy. Images of a pudgy smiling face surfaced, but he shook them away, feeling the memory press against his will. I have to remain strong, he told himself. Allowing Cheldric’s ghost in would make me weak. He focused on the Winter Women and their delicate artistry.

Each wore a featureless porcelain mask and black leather gloves, their robes ensuring no flesh was visible as the dulcimer players drummed and the vocalists hummed from motionless mouths. Ekkehard wondered about the lives of those who served the Dying God, giving up their identity to become nameless servants of mercy. Why would someone want to become nameless and unknowable? As he pondered this, the song ended, and he was grateful for the distraction. The monks vanished into the hall's recesses.

“Let us now take succour from the nourishment of the Mother and the blessing of the Pantheon combined,” the abbot said, raising a hand toward the hall’s opposite side. Several more monks appeared, walking in a straight line toward the plinth of fire. The lead monk carried a tray with clay cups. She stopped before the plinth, holding the tray aloft as the following monks filled their cups with wine from the bowl, and approached the Reubkes.

The first monk offered a cup to Audomar, who coughed and spluttered slightly as he sipped. Ekkehard steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, and Audomar quickly finished the wine. Ekkehard took his cup and drank. The warm, sour flavour mixed with hearty spices tasted like the stark acceptance of the inevitable. After a few moments, everyone in the congregation had drunk, and the monks retreated.

“I invite you now,” the abbot said, “to bring forth your effigies and leave them on the Winter Altar. Let go of your loved ones so they may commence new life unburdened by the old.” Abbot Zhu looked at Audomar, Ekkehard, and their family. “Whenever you are ready, Master Audomar. Take whatever time you need to utter your final goodbye.”

With those words, the abbot stepped down from the lectern and walked toward the entrance of the hall, his long yellow cloak flowing behind him.

Audomar walked up to the altar and placed two stone figurines, one for his wife and the other for his daughter. He hesitated, turning his back to Ekkehard and the others, placing a hand on the altar and whispering words Ekkehard couldn’t hear. Audomar clenched his fist, as if fighting to endure its presence. When he could linger no longer, Audomar turned and marched away, sobbing.

Ekkehard braced himself, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. It was his and Auriana’s turn. He vowed to stay strong.

Auriana placed a small carving of a babe next to those left by Audomar. She was crying and did not speak. Ekkehard placed his hand on the altar, bidding his son farewell in silence. He looked at his wife, who nodded, and they walked hand in hand back toward the outside world.

Unbidden thoughts flooded Ekkehard’s mind. That was it, his final goodbye, he thought. Cheldric is gone. His boy was gone. He tried to tighten his jaw, but it quavered. He gripped his free hand tightly and grimaced. Auriana squeezed his other hand, and as the pressure in his chest forced him to gasp for air, the first of his tears fell.

By the time they reached the top of the steps, Ekkehard had composed himself. Yet, he felt fragile and avoided looking at Audomar, who paced in the snow a few metres away. He stepped aside, releasing Auriana’s hand and he too found a small space of solitude to calm his nerves and wipe away his tears. When his heart settled, he embraced his wife. Then he went to his brother, tapping him on the shoulder. When Audomar looked at him, Ekkehard opened his arms and they hugged.

“That was harder than I thought,” Ekkehard said.

“Yes, it was,” Audomar replied, snivelling from tears and the cold.

Ekkehard waited as the rest of his family exited the House of Commencement. Each of his younger siblings had been given carvings representing the fallen Reubke family members. A clan of effigies now rested on Winter’s Altar. Later, the Winter Monks would house them in a vacant niche, but for now, the stone Reubke family stood in prominence.

As the Reubkes ascended the stairs, Ekkehard greeted them with hugs and words of comfort. Gerwald and Florentin, with puffy eyes, said little. Gisla couldn't stop crying. Vedast and his family followed. After comforting Gisla, Ekkehard approached them.

“Thank you again,” Ekkehard said to Vedast, “for being here and for making this all possible.”

“Think nothing of it,” Svanhildr replied for him.

“Indeed,” Vedast agreed, “you gave me back my city, and you Reubkes deserved to put your family to rest. I am only glad I could assist in some small way.”

It wasn’t a small way. Though Vedast now paid Ekkehard and Audomar, it would have taken a year to fund this ceremony. Vedast financed everything, the service, effigies, funeral garbs, and the attendance of the city’s most senior priest. His generosity humbled Ekkehard and he felt ashamed for his past doubts. The Reubkes were noble-born and couldn’t inter their family’s markers within their ancestral shrine, lost with their estate. Vedast’s kindness prevented further insult, allowing them to bestow the honour on their departed, restoring their dignity.

After half an hour of pleasantries, it was time to retire to Vedast’s home, to sup and drink and tell stories of the dead. As the others headed out, Ekkehard lingered and caught Abbot Zhu's attention.

“I am sure wherever they are,” the abbot said, “they would be proud of you today. You stayed strong for your family. Not even the gods would ask more of you.”

“It broke me in the end,” Ekkehard replied, looking up toward the heavens.

“As life does all mortals, eventually, but you endured to the very end,” the abbot placed a hand on Ekkehard’s shoulder, encouraging him to look at the priest. Zhu was nothing like Ren, Ekkehard realised. He was sage and spoke with poignant precision.

“Thank you, Teacher,” Ekkehard said, feeling somewhat awkward now that he was looking at the abbot. “Your words are most kind.”

The abbot smiled warmly at Ekkehard, his bearded face appearing open and nurturing despite being hidden beneath his hood. “I have seen you before, have I not? Lingering at the back of communions in the temple?”

“I hadn’t realized my presence had been noticed,” Ekkehard replied, stepping back and squaring himself. The abbot’s recognition made him feel vulnerable, and he examined the priest through narrowed eyes.

“I have a good eye for faces,” the abbot responded with a soft smile. “I intended to approach you on many occasions, but you have a habit of disappearing before the end of my sermons.”

“My apologies,” Ekkehard said, trying to predict the abbot’s intentions. “I wasn’t aware of your efforts. What do you want from me?” He worried that perhaps the tale of his apostacy had reached the city, and the abbot suspected him.

“It’s not what I want from you, but what you’ve been seeking from me,” the abbot explained. “A man lingering at the back is usually searching for something undefined. What have you been looking for?”

Ekkehard paused, considering the question. It was true, he had visited the temples, listening to sermons but leaving before the end. He hadn’t considered why he attended or why his visits made him feel disconnected. It wasn’t community or comfort he was after; it was something personal, something beyond himself.

“I suppose,” Ekkehard began, “I find comfort in the house of the gods.”

“In the faith of the Five, one finds divine sanctuary,” the abbot said, echoing Karloman. Ekkehard smiled.

“Security in the knowledge that all darkness is excised in the dawning spring,” Ekkehard finished the passage.

“You’re a student of the Doctrine?” the abbot asked, surprised.

“Maybe,” Ekkehard answered evasively. “Or perhaps I just listen carefully to your sermons, Teacher.”

Ekkehard smiled coyly, momentarily forgetting that as a peasant, he shouldn’t have such knowledge. He chastised himself for his arrogance. He was meant to avoid raising the abbot’s curiosity, not encourage it.

“Those are not the words I think of at your temple, however,” Ekkehard told the abbot, trying to move the conversation away from his blunder.

“Oh? What words do you think of?”

“The words spoken to Emperor Amiel by his brother Roman when he ascended the throne after Karloman’s final sacrifice,” Ekkehard said.

“Ah,” the abbot replied, reciting the passage. “If any advice from Autumn is worthy of remembrance, it’s that it’s not for us to decipher the divine.”

“Trust and have faith that the Father has already set you down the right path,” Ekkehard completed the words.

“You wonder about your purpose?” the abbot asked. “Do you worry you’ve strayed from the righteous path?”

“I worry there’s no path for a righteous man,” Ekkehard corrected.

The abbot nodded. “Next time you attend my sermons, Friend Ekkehard, I hope you’ll stay. Perhaps I can help you see the path the Father has laid out for you.”

“I’d like that,” Ekkehard said. “Thank you, Teacher.”