"Father. So you were here, it's about time"
Gholan is staring at the flames, full of life and energy; defying all, submitting to none. It reminded him of himself, of his illustrious days, of the glorious nights; the man he once was, the man he still wants to be.
"Father, let's go. The council is in half an hour; if you want, I can keep you company after we are done"
A light compassionate smile takes shape beneath the old mustaches, but the gloomy eyes are still fixed on the warm dance of the bright flames, it's reflection lightens the mirrors of the soul with flashy yellows and robust reds; like an artist on a canvas, the Fire paints the pale face with vivid pigments and shades, highlighting wrinkles and imperfection on the aged but tough skin.
Yet, there's no response.
"At the very least, cover yourself from the snow, you know what happened last time you got ill"
Erynth calmly says, while delicately hiding his father's polished grey hair with the hood of his cloak.
The man who once rode proud on a horseback on the battlefield, the man who once sat pompous on a chair in the conference room; now stands humbly before the Fire. His mind just a remembrance of his peak, his body just a memory of his prime; now eclipsed compared to his own son; vigorous and sharp has everything he needs to succeed him, everything aside from experience.
Experience in ruling a fief, experience in talking to the people, experience in listening to the people; he does not know when to be merciful, or when to be merciless; nor does he know how to properly deal with lessers, peers or superiors. At the same time Erynth is well aware that he is not yet ready to fill his father's shoes.
"Are you coming?"
No reply, not even a nod to acknowledge him standing by his side.
He doesn't ask if he's listening, he's aware that his father, even if he's not showing, is always aware of his surroundings. Always ready for the fight, in the worst case for the flight, but never freezes.
He knows and understands what's going on in his mind and respects him for who he is: An old man with the weight of countless lives on his fragile shoulders. The young man picks a log from the stache beneath the fireplace, he chooses carefully, he chooses wisely; then tosses the wood in the middle, where the heat is greater, where the Fire is stronger.
They quietly listen to the soft crackling while the intense aroma of the purple oak lightens the mood. The Fire, reinvigorated, brightens the yard; the greater blaze enlightens the shadows, one of which is remarkably greater than the other.
The old count looks above at the grim clouds; an ominous barrier that only a faint light manages to slip through, weakly colouring just the horizon. Snowflakes slowly fall and melt on his face; his expression seemingly unchanged.
"Yes. We should go now"
The two men walk through the deserted snowy courtyard up to an arcade with marble columns and mosaic floorings; they make it to a sturdy but dignified wooden door. Gholan is about to grip the handle when his attention is grabbed by his son, as Erynth puts a hand on the man's shoulder.
"Father, you still haven't told me why you brought me here all of a sudden; you never asked me to come before, what changed your mind?"
The slight smile and the soft gaze of his eyes don't answer his questions, nor does the count turn to look at his son.
"I'm sure you already know the answer"
"I have a couple of ideas but I would like to hear your reasoning. Is it because you want to introduce me to the political game? Or you wanted me to accompany you? Maybe just to see the capital?"
With a great smile the count now looks at him.
"You're smart, figure it out"
A loud moan; Erynth tilts his head and rolls his eyes backward.
"Get a hold of yourself, you are a grown man with a fiancee and the hereditary title of Count of Hilde, what would the other nobles think if they saw you acting like a little boy"
Says the count while straightening his dress and tidying his hair.
"What would the other nobles think if they saw you reading those peasant-written third grade obscene romantic novels"
Replied the young noble while tightening his laces and adjusting his trousers.
A creepy silence rises, broken only by the not so naive whistles of the young man. The old man once again turns towards his son, now with a sinister glare coming from deep within his soul.
"Is that your humble opinion of your father?"
Calmly says while slowly reaching for his sword with a smile so perfect it looks fake.
A bloodshed is avoided thanks to the sudden but sluggish opening of the wooden door.
"Dear God, how heavy do these doors need to be? Oh my... Count Wartner what a pleasant coincidence to find a familiar face in this moment of need"
A figure emerges from the other side of the door. A plain white overcoat enriched with ruby red ornaments and shoulder pads; a grey undercoat with elaborate patterns intertwined in gold filaments on the neckband and sleeves. On the chest, a pure gold empty circle the size of a heart hangs from a necklace made of the same precious ore.
"Good evening Father Tullivan, I as well, am delighted to see you here well and good. Please, allow me to present you my son, whom I've always talked about but never brought along"
With an elegant bow the count's son enters the conversation.
"Greetings, I am Erynth cui Wartner, son of Gholan cui Wartner; of the Wartner household. It's a great pleasure to meet you"
Without bowing but remaining distinctively polite and graceful he replies.
"The pleasure is all mine, I am Cassian Week cui Tullivan, of the Tullivan household; and the Bishop of Degar"
His appearance, if not for the clothes, is not that of a men of religion; his slender physique and athletic posture resemble that of an athlete; his raffinate speech and quick eyes resemble that of a scholar; his young look and innocent smile resemble that of a boy; and that he was, when he became a men of God.
« At the young age of 6 his life was already set by his family; the Tullivans have always been a strong house with an even stronger connection into the clergy, and Cassian was immediately chosen for his aptitude and potential. During his 14th birthday was officially held the investiture as bishop, ending his joyful life and initiating his political one. »
« I never knew this about him, now I even feel a bit sorry for him. To be honest though, with hindsight and all, he doesn't really look regretful of this; far from it »
« He has always been a smart kid. He quickly understood that with enough power everything is possible; and what better way to accumulate power than climbing the ranks of one of the most influential institution to ever exist? Regarding his strong belief, let's just say that it grew overtime, as of now he couldn't be less interested in his occupation »
« Ahh… Got it! Let's keep going »
"It's really pleasing to find someone near my age in this place, it's not that common to meet young noblemen and noblewomen attending these boring councils"
The young bishop is cheerful, befitting of someone his age; But he also strikes with his precise and refined movements, his fine and steady appearance, and the sword in the polished and imposing sheat.
"Oh, my son? I am very sorry to tell you but despite his still naive look, this year he has reached the age of 24. You have around 8 years difference"
Says the count while his son right behind hides his face a little ashamed.
"Is that so? Matters not; he still is a new and young face and meeting him was by far a much better experience than greeting yet another old man from the nobility"
"Your compliments flatter us. I understand that you are lost, can we be of any help?"
The bishop with the expression of a lost child that found an old family friend replies.
"Yes please. I went to the restroom but got lost on the way back and couldn't find the banquet hall. Would you help me?"
"That's where we were heading as well, if you wish we can accompany you"
"That would be truly appreciated"
With a gesture the old man points at the right way and the trio walks down the elegant hallways, sophisticated stairs and rich lounges.
While casually chatting and exchanging little words they arrive at a grand hall, of which on the opposite side stands a great door, so abundant in colours and expensive ores that one would be hesitant to just touch it; in fear of leaving a single scratch.
The palace that seemed empty of people, if not for the guard's patrols, in this room was packed with all sort of individuals: Humans here, elves there, gnomes in a corner, drunk dwarfs next to the buffet, few vampires aloof and even some beastmen quietly conversing at a table.
Here the echoes of laughters and tinkle of wine glasses fills the void found in the palace; the smell of ale and the fragrance of games heats the cold found in the heart.
"What time is it?"
Aks Gholan to one of the guards standing. After briefly looking at his magic clock the soldier gives the rough time of a quarter past ten.
"Perfect. Come my son, I have to introduce you to some old and boring nobles"
The count is about to say farewell to the young bishop when he notices the sadness in his eyes as they are about to part ways.
"Father Tullivan, how about you come with us? I believe we have some common acquaintances"
His look filled with energy and joy, his whole body emanates happiness, his smile so perfect it can't be fake.