Page 35 of The Villains of Winter

Barbarity as a means of psychological discipline.

The most cardinal principle of all for the ritual was barbarity as a means of psychological discipline. Mercy was given unto the disciplined. Only the disciplined survived the dire winter that was the barren, unpoetic, unintellectual, unbearably prosaic outside world. The ritual inured the students to the fragile thoughts, bathetic sentiments, and uninspired praxes of the outsiders that would otherwise stifle their greatness and blunt their potential for glory. Their mark on history itself.

If they must sacrifice themselves, let it be for the sake of psychological discipline.

Provost Aldous Tytheridge was known for his hostile laconic countenance, but he was further infamous for his dark presence on the throne of Æthelwulf, named after the Saxon king. Crowned upon his head were massive, stern elk antlers for the ritual. Tytheridge had been provost for nearly fifty years, and now he was ninety-one with a steel, elk head cane that plunged into the earth with every step as he stood forward in his long, funereal-black overcoat.

His withered hands were veined in his elderly age, his right eye milky and opaque with sightlessness. However, his gaze was still sharp. His voice trenchant.

The dark-cloaked professors stared up at the undergraduate students restricted onto the raised wooden platform. The timbered steps were smeared with muddied footprints and creaked beneath the weight of hundreds of nervous students.

War drums pounded against the icy air as the local law enforcement drove in from the interstate. Several vehicle doors opened and slammed as uniformed officers entered into the umbrageous night. They were required to witness the ceremony, temper crowd control, and ensure the sacrifice occurred without riot.

There were some years where the student fought, bit, scratched, and kicked viciously, refusing to be killed. When that happened, there was an appointed executioner. Sheriff Sangerfield and his pistol.

Already, the punishing frost was plundering through the town from the mountains, and the townspeople held onto their little ones and elders in the dangerous winds. The ill baited their breath, frightful of the penetrating cold that extinguished the torches that needed to be consistently relit.

While the rest of the nation sat warm by the television, lazed with grilled hamburgers and zealously entertained with comedy hour shows and sports championships, they were trapped at the stage. With half-frozen fingers, Elliott stood with a woven basket of dried berries and wheat on behalf of his family’s offerings. His hands shook terribly, spilling out wild currants and brambles, as the stringers strummed their lutes in the recitation rehearsal. Where was James Wilde?

The thick crowds were empty of him, which somehow made it all the more hypothermic outside for Elliott, who hyperventilated against the penetrating, bone-chilling squall.

The only source of warmth were the pyres of fire that glowed onto Elliott’s cheeks, however, he could hardly feel it. He was shivery with anxiety.

Soon, one of the students would be led through the pyres by the senior elector into the woodlands to be killed. Then, the recitation would start and in the grand conclusion, the body of the honorarium would be on display–openly exhibited in front of everyone.

Where was James? Elliott skimmed his eyes over the hordes of townspeople, praying for James to emerge through the shoulders of well-cut overcoats and mink fur coats. Elliott hoped to find the upperclassman in his finest tie, well dressed as ever, with his hair perfectly styled as he irately grumbled in hatred of the yearly ceremony, standing beside Elliott, waiting to perform.

James never attended the actual ceremony itself. He typically was granted a glorious entrance for the recitation. However, now everyone expected him.

Elliott imagined they would share a bowl of sweets later, fussing over who had the larger tumbler of trail mix and honey. Their fingers sticky and warm, Elliott’s buttons would be ruined with James’s casual, reckless hands. As they did every year, roughhousing a game of hockey in the dormitories.

Elliott swallowed his rapid breath.

He closed his eyes, envisioning himself soon at the dormitory with its antique leathers and expensive, polished furniture. Kitty would be reading on the Common Room couch, James asleep at the fireplace, and Elliott drinking eggnog as he mapped the night skies.

If he won’t attend…That profane, insidious voice slithered into his ear, like a specter from the crypt. The woodsmen will track him down…

Elliott’s hair raised, feeling warmth at his nape.

“Am I late?” James asked in a winded rush. Elliott didn’t care that thousands of eyes were on him, gazing up at all of the students on the stern, rough-hewn platform, he threw his arms around James.

“No, you’re on time.”

James lit into a smile. “Perfect. I have something for you.”

Elliott’s eye caught the edge of a letter in his sleeve. James’s usual handwriting was hasty, haphazard, as though he spilled his thoughts all over the page. His pens never had enough ink nor time to fully express his words.

James rarely did anything that mattered to him half-hearted.

Elliott saw ‘To Starfall’ written in perfect script and his heart lunged to his throat.

Starfall was his nickname. The name James had called him for a year after they first met. All you do is paint the stars. I’m headed to the valleys. Are you coming, Starfall?

Elliott nudged him. “Don’t weep for yourself yet, Wilde.”

“Who’s weeping?” James grinned, as eager as a schoolboy, which made Elliott’s heart painfully skip. “Have you eaten yet, Elliott?”

“I never eat before the hibernal. I can’t stomach it.”