Hymn Of The Eternal Feast
written by: Verity Mason
It begins before the first toll of midnight.
Frost blooms along the timbers, darkness pools like silk spilling from a wound. Beyond the curtained windows, snow falls in exquisite silence, burying the world beneath a white shroud.
Garlands twitch upon the banister, mistletoe veins pulse faintly, hungry for the awakening of festivities. Ensconced candles stretch tall and trembling, flames bowing, listening for the footsteps. The air hums with a tune older than time itself, a hymn of funerals and feasts.
Unseen breath fogs the hallway mirror.
One by one, the decorations open their crystal eyes. Ornaments sway in unison, their movement precise and spectral.
A porcelain cherub cracks a smile. “Another Christmas… another haunting. Positions, everyone.”
From beneath the floorboards, a drumbeat rises, faint and mysterious, echoing through the marrow of the manor. A harpsichord plucks itself, strings trembling with ancient memories, its rhythm calling them forth.
The candles glide in first. Their wax bodies stretch and sway, flames bobbing like stooped heads as they drift in a ceremonial procession through the carpeted halls. Holly wreaths roll down the stairwell, berries glinting like drops of vermillion.
From the hearth emerges a shape, tall and shadow-thin, cloaked in soot and snow.
The Specter of Christmas rises. His face hidden beneath a hood spun from midnight. Bells jangle faintly on its sleeves, each tolling a different century. With a skeletal hand, it raises a lantern, inside a candle burns blue, wavering under the weight of centuries of memory.
“Awaken. The festival of remembrance begins.”
Portraits turn their painted heads. The Grandfather clock exhales sparkling clouds of powdered time, the chandelier trembles, showering crystal tears. The immense pine tree straightens, black-boughed and jittery. Its star atop spins, shedding sparks like cinders from a broken Heaven. Baubles glow with trapped souls, faces flicker inside each orb, with the echoes of Christmas past.
Dishes glide in on frosted trays, carrying turkeys that gobble their own names. Jellies quiver, silver goblets refill with shadows of dark wine. Noblemen, paupers, poets, cloaked in twilight, raise their glasses in unison, momentarily freeing themselves from their prison of purgatory.
“To the living, whose days are bright but brief.”
Candles lean in closer to watch, laughter echoes from the rafters like breaking glass. The Christmas tree shakes, scattering baubles across the floor, each repeating, “Remember me.”
The Specter stands at the head of the table, lantern trembling in its ivory digits. Frost flowers the windows as it speaks:
“To what is, what was, and what refuses to leave.”
It lowers the lantern toward the trembling tree. The baubles shiver, light rippling through them like breath beneath ice. One by one, they open.
Thin seams split the ornaments from crown to base. Mist drifts forth, fragile as candle smoke, trembling into form. Guests of Christmas past step once more into the eternal feast.
A soldier emerges, clutching a dented cup, eyes hollow beneath his tin crown. He raises a toast to comrades who never came home, swallowing the emptiness of memory. A mother hums a lullaby, arms curved around a child of snowflakes and light, weeping snow that will never warm. A merchant lets coins slip endlessly through his fingers, his gestures tinged with the grief of opportunities forever lost. A caroller with no mouth sways, music leaking from the seams of his soul; for a heartbeat, life flickers across his face, and he smiles.
The smallest bauble cracks open to reveal a reflection. Anyone who dares glance sees their own face, weeping, tasting the zest of life with a sweetness that cannot last.
The Specter watches, unmoving.
They gather around the dining table, the remnants of winter’s gone. Their fingers hover above the feast, poised but never touching. Geese twitch, eyes wide, cackling with hollow joy. Puddings bleed syrup dark as ink. Candied fruits gleam like cut gemstones, each containing a flicker of something once alive. Yet none of it sustains. Every bite, every sip, every note carries the ghost of longing, a reminder of warmth, of company, of what is lost yet remembered.
The guests drink, but nothing passes their lips. They sing, though no sound escapes. The room swells with joy, the echo of laughter that once was real, the phantom taste of love and celebration long faded.
The Specter observes, its sadness folded into the blue flame it carries, weighted by centuries of memory. Outside, time loosens. Snow hangs motionless, each flake a frozen second refusing to fall.
The soldier leans toward the mother, offering his empty cup. The merchant hums the caroller’s voiceless tune. For a fragile moment, they very nearly touch, almost alive.
The blue flame falters.
Dawn presses pale fingers against the curtains. Shadows thin like breath on a mirror. The Specter turns its lantern towards them, light spreading softly, inevitably. One by one, the guests waver, blurring into ribbons of ashen grey that coil toward the tree.
The soldier’s salute lingers in the air. The mother’s arms close around nothing. The last note of the carol trembles and fades. Baubles seal themselves once more, leaving only hush.
When the final bell tolls, only the Specter remains. It bows its head, mourning the fleeting warmth of the night. The blue flame flickers one last time, reflecting in the crystal eyes of the baubles. For a heartbeat, it seems almost human, a shadow of all who have ever cherished this night, mournful in the hymns of a hundred winters past.
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