It was not uncharacteristic to find his charge up at what many would consider a ridiculous hour. That time of the morning when, in summer, the faintest threads of silver wove their way along the horizon as the sun rose over distant lands. When in winter, as it was now, the sky was dark as the Night Below, thick clouds overhead shielding the stars and moon from sight, leaving the world outside the cave black and still, the only noise was the near-silent falling of snow and his own heartbeat. Gelroos rose at this hour to make his daily devotions to the Masked Lord, as was customary, and Xanather having been awake for some time would often as not join him. Though he was long passed needing to follow his mentor’s lead in such things, the older drow knew it brought him some small comfort to allow himself to be lead.

If he’d woken already and had made his own prayers, he would be perched on his bedroll, covered in usually no less than three blankets and his cloak. The boy disliked the cold, felt it more keenly due to his diminutive size. It was almost comical to see him bundled up, dainty arms poking out of his fortress of furs to take whetstone to shortsword, to service his crossbow, to mend his clothes or a hundred other menial tasks that he felt could not wait until true morning. Strange boy, in study and practice he was still as death, every motion as efficient as possible, no effort wasted on flourishes or fidgets. But at rest he was forever in motion, he tossed in his sleep, scribbled notes of the day’s lessons when he took his meals...but he was not prone to wandering.

Gelroos rose without the stiffness one might expect of an older fellow, though perhaps without the speed of a drow centuries younger. He’d seen five and a half such centuries himself, he was damn near ancient for his people. He knew, of course, that like the surface elves drow could live well into their eighth century before their bodies failed and their souls at last departed to whatever final rest awaited them. However most had their lives cut short in half that time due to the violence they surrounded themselves with, if not decades sooner. He sighed and shrugged on a warm cloak, damn but it was cold this time of year. Xanather hadn’t yet seen half a century and already his eyes had the look of one who has seen far too much, suffered too much. He hadn’t yet broached the subject.

The cave was a twisting scar in the rock, narrowing at the entrance where it turned up and exited into the world above. Parked at the entrance was his charge, huddled under a blanket, wrapped in his cloak, looking out at the falling snow. He had not noticed his mentor yet, or else he chose not to react, his gaze far off and wistful. Eventually the older drow approached, and this time the boy did look at him, an unreadable expression passing through his fiery red eyes. He was young, terribly so, but even the cadets exiting the school of his native Eryndlyn lacked the hardness there, the grim acceptance of pain and punishment. It had been chance that had revealed at least part of the puzzle, Gelroos had come across him stripping down into dry clothes after coming in out of the rain. A myriad of scars and brand-marks crisscrossed his flesh, flesh he had always, and continued to, keep carefully concealed by layers of clothing.

It had not been the staggering number of lacerations that had galled the older drow, but the nature. Precise cuts of varying ages and thicknesses, no sign of angry wounds or glancing marks. Each cut had been careful and deliberate, it would have taken decades to mar him so completely. Gelroos suspected that indeed it had.

“Does something trouble you?” He kept his tone conversational, no need to let him know which dark paths him mind wandered.

“No...can’t sleep...” That was not unusual, he woke several times during his reverie, often gasping for breath, batting away an imaginary foe. The older drow had a feeling that those memories filled much of his waking sleep. He did not envy him.

“Hn. Bad dreams?” The others would disprove of the softness that crept into his tone, but the boy’s enduring loyalty would not be won with reproving glares every time he sought some means of comforting the ache at the back of his mind.

“Bad dreams..” He confirmed, nodding, then looking back out at the snow. Again that strange expression crossed his face, not quite sad, perhaps simply remembering something distant.
“Tomorrow is the solstice, isn’t it?”

Gelroos nodded, it was a high holy day for many of Faerun’s faiths, he did not doubt that Eilistraee’s was one of them. Moon-struck bitches would be out parading about in the snow in their skivvies. He smirked to himself, he could understand why Xanather had reason to view that day with a great amount of disdain. The priestesses of the Dark Maiden espoused equality in all things, but they were as bad as the priestesses of Lolth when it came to males. They were still lessers in their callous eyes, and his charge was better off without them. Still, it had been hard to leave them as he had, stealing away under cover of darkness with nothing more than a dagger he had no practice with to guard him against the High Forest. That and a small amount of dark magic that, at the time, he hadn’t understood.

“Yes...this will be your first Midwinter Night, I imagine Andzrel will have you run off your feet making preparations. I myself have to preside over the ceremony, the new moon graces us which makes this night particularly auspicious...but they’ll probably take you on the hunt.” At this his attention turned from the falling snow back to his mentor.

“I’ll...be allowed to participate?” Gelroos laughed, a blasphemously loud sound in the stillness of the night outside.

“Of course! Xanather, you are young and new to our ways, but you are not any less important than any other acolyte. You are a Favoured, the only one in perhaps the entire faith, we would be remiss to exempt you from the holiday and its proceedings.” He shook his head. “I swear, you are a quick study but you can be damnably thick sometimes...” He grinned when the younger drow’s face flushed and he turned back to the snow.

“...Tomorrow...” Gelroos arched an eyebrow.

“Yes, the solstice is tomorrow.”

“...So is my birthday.” It was hushed, as though he expected to be chastised for the remark, or afraid to speak it aloud in the presence of the deepening darkness. The older drow’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. He was not lying....so what did that mean? It was an auspicious day to be born, on Midwinter Night, the longest night of the year.

“Truly? Is that why you are sitting out here in the cold?” He nodded absently.

“I think so. I couldn’t get back to sleep after I woke up, I thought perhaps....I don’t know what I thought. But I came here and I started remembering that night.”

Gelroos nodded, he knew what Xanather was talking about, the way his words felt heavy as he spoke them. The night he’d stumbled into the Vhaeraunite camp, half-mad and streaming shadows with every erratic motion. Gelroos himself had been roused from sleep by a waking vision to attend to the newly fledged Favoured, and shortly after he arrived the young drow had slipped into unconsciousness. He’d remained that way for two days before waking, and he had little to say about the incident. He had thought the events had been burned from his mind...but apparently not. The senior priest was interested in what he had managed to recall.

“And what do you remember?”

“...It was late, I had become lost on the paths. I worried about doubling back by accident, or stumbling into some unknown danger...but I never thought of turning around. I was leaving Silveroak, to hell with Eilistraee and hers.” There was a brief grin of pride at his first act of rebellion against the world that had seemed to conspire against him since birth. It faded back as he continued.

“That’s when one of the scout found me. I can’t even remember her name, but she hated me from the day I emerged from the Underdark with my sister. I never understood why...she accused me of treachery, of stealing off to rat out the location of the village to enemies. I denied these claims, false as they were, and then she drew her sword. ‘One little whelp.’ she said ‘they won’t miss you.’ I’m...not really sure what happened. It all went so fast, but when I came to my senses she was dead, her body pierced over and over again and my dagger was bloody.” He shook his head.

“I’m not certain what came over me then, what fear and hate drove me to act as I did. I do not regret it. At the time I was scared, but even then it felt terribly right. I took her armaments and ran.” Gelroos studied him quietly for a long moment.

“And after that. Do you remember what happened then?”

“...I’m not certain how or when it happened, but I stopped and he was there, standing on the path. I’d seen him once before, years ago...it had been the solstice then too, I wandered away from the dancers.”

“Vhaeraun’s avatar.” It was not a question, Gelroos knew his deity was active in the world.

“Yes. He said that I was ready....and he offered me power.” At this his eyes seemed to flare, like breath being blown into embers. “The power to control my own destiny, to make myself strong enough that I would never be at the mercy of another. I was scared, I did not understand what was happening, only the gravity of the situation.....I accepted.”

Gelroos was no longer looking at the smaller drow, eyes peering out into the gloom, beyond the thick veil of snow. He could sense more than see a presence, a very familiar presence out there, just beyond the reach of his vision. In all honesty it failed to surprise him, really, though he had to wonder if Xanather had been draw up here because of him, or if it was the other way around. It seemed to him that this boy was important to the Masked Lord, that he had yet to play some important role that he had, in all likelihood, been born for. He felt the presence fade, and the stiffness about Xanather’s shoulders swept away, and he suddenly looked very tired. Gelroos offered a hand.

“Come, you’ll take ill if you sit here much longer.” The younger drow nodded, taking his mentor’s hand and rising to his feet with a yawn.

“I think I’ll try to rest again...” And Gelroos did not doubt that his memories would trouble him this night again.