In The Bleak Midwinter
December 24th, 1981, 11:33 p.m.
Noire House, Suffolk, England.
The chapel at Noire House is silent as the grave.
On certain days Arcturus finds himself coming here—for what, exactly, he doesn’t know. Quiet? He has more than enough of that at Noire House. Prayer? The last time he prayed was at Melania’s bedside when she was in the throes of her sickness.
Fat lot of good that did.
Still, it’s a place for contemplation—Arcturus feels something here that he never does in his study, nor in his rooms. The pews may be splintering with utilitarian disinterest, the frescoes faded with the ravages of time, the colors on the stained glass duller—but it still stands, the sanctuary lamp still burns, and the feeling of something still persists, as much as it baffles him.
Arcturus once believed, perhaps not as fervently as he ought have—he was always rather passive when it came to the higher mysteries—but he did believe. And what has that belief done for him? Where was God’s mercy when his wife was coughing up blood? Where was his mercy when he had to look upon the son who he’d molded into his image lying on a cold slab in St. Mungo’s mortuary? There was none. Regulus’s death had more than proven that. But however hard he tries to dismiss the nagging remnants of what’s left of his faith, it persists, rather stubbornly, a candle that refuses to be snuffed out. Why? Perhaps it’s the fault of that strict old nun who used to strike his hands with a ruler whenever he wasn’t quick enough copying bible verses. He’d glare at her, and then she’d strike him again.
But as comforting as it may be to blame Sister Bridget for his ills—he still curses the woman—Arcturus knows it’s something else. What it is, he doesn’t know the answer.
He doesn’t know the answer to many things these days. So he finds himself here—questions that refuse to be answered circling in his mind, and a God he refuses to, yet cannot stop believing in, watching from on high.
The silence is disrupted by the loud creaking of the old wooden door as it swings open, and he has to suppress a sigh as his sister’s clacking heels echo throughout the empty sanctuary.
Lycoris Black is a woman of many contradictions. As libertine as one could get, yet bafflingly insists she’s devout. Not traditionally beautiful by any stretch of the imagination—she’d inherited their father’s long face, overlarge mouth, and small eyes—yet has a certain striking allure to her as well as a charisma that even Arcturus can’t deny.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Lycoris gives him a little shove so she can sit beside him, and he begrudgingly moves to the right.
“Where else would I be?” Arcturus grouses, tapping his fingers on his cane.
She snorts. “Anywhere—though that’s beside the point. Do you so tire of me that you need to run into the chapel just to get away?”
Arcturus sighs, already tiring of the conversation. “I did not run into the chapel to get away from you.” Lycoris raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “I did not.”
Lycoris scoffs, shaking her head. “You always were the solitary sort—even when you were a boy. Always brooding off in your room while contemplating the injustices of your existence.”
“While I may not have come here to get away from you, I certainly did not come to be mocked—“
“—Oh, hush,” Lycoris waved her hand in annoyance. “I’m not mocking. Just observing. That’s what we authors do—observe.” Arcturus thought calling herself an author was a bit much—the books Lycoris writes are some of the most tawdry romance novels he’s ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon. Titles like The General and his Hussy, The Emperor and his Harlot, The Hussy On The River, etc. are not exactly signifiers of highbrow literature. Nevertheless, at least they sell well. Almost every middle-aged witch has one of Lycoris’s books tucked away in their house somewhere, written under a pseudonym of course—he may allow her to write her filth and profit off of it, but he would let himself be consumed by maggots before she puts the name of Black on it—and the income she earns from them saves him the bother of having to give her a larger allowance…most of the time.
“Speaking of observations,” She continues, “I didn’t see you finish your food at dinner.”
Arcturus bristles. “What are you my nursemaid? I don’t need a minder, thank you very much.”
“No, I’m your sister—and I’m concerned at the fact that my brother couldn’t be bothered to finish half his plate, as well as the fact that he looks damn near skeletal.”
“You do have an author’s imagination, Lycoris,” Arcturus grits his teeth, hoping she’ll take the dismissal for what it is, but once Lycoris has dug her teeth into something the woman is like a dog with a bone.
“I’m worried about you, Arcturus—is that so hard for you to believe?”
“Considering this is the first time you’ve bothered to grace me with your presence in two years, yes, in fact, it is!” He thumps his cane hard against the floor with the last word, hot indignation overtaking him. Lycoris has been abroad in Italy for the past three years, alternating between writing and hosting lavish parties at her home in Capri—when she wasn’t getting swindled out of her money by whatever gigolo she was entertaining—while he was trying to pick up the pieces of what was left of his family. He has not forgiven her for it—not truly.
Lycoris’s eyes are boring into him, as sharp as the point of a knife. “That’s not fair—you know very well I couldn’t come the past two years because of this war. I wanted to—especially after Orion and Regulus,” Her voice wavers slightly, and he feels, as he always does, a pang of grief in his chest at the mention of those names, “But I was locked out when Bagnold closed the international floo—or would you have rather I traveled here on one of those rickety muggle flying machines, or, better yet, a ship?”
Arcturus winces slightly at the last word, memories of a cold April night and a dreadfully silent sea clawing their way to the surface, but he shakes it off. Lycoris, much like him, always goes for blood in their arguments. “You’ve made your point,” he replies, voice as cold and hard as the soil outside.
They sit there, both stubbornly silent in their assuredness that they were correct, until, rather surprisingly, Lycoris speaks: “I’m sorry. I should not have said…what I said,” She leaves the offense unvoiced, and he’s thankful for it.
“No, you shouldn’t have,” Arcturus frowns, the next words feeling caustic on his tongue: “I apologize as well. I should not have assumed that you didn’t come out of selfishness. It was unworthy of me.”
Lycoris nods, then another tense, uncomfortable silence falls over them. Arcturus never knows what to say when it comes to his sister—Regulus understood her far better than he ever could, and he also understood Arcturus far better than Lycoris ever could. Their brother had served as a bridge between them—but ever since his death, every time they meet, the gaping chasm he left in his wake is more and more obvious. He wonders, briefly, why she even bothered to come. None of his family see fit to come around anymore, and it’s not as if he can blame them—at this point he merely lives because there’s still breath in his lungs. Had he had the choice, he would have gladly died with his son.
“I went to Rouen, recently,” Lycoris says, breaking the silence, “To visit Richard.”
Arcturus sneers at the name, one he blissfully doesn’t hear often—his brother’s old valet, at least officially. Most everyone knew that the two men were far more than mere employer and employee—who works for the same man for twenty-five years, lives in his house, and adopts three dogs with him while being a mere valet?
“And?” Arcturus clicks his jaw, annoyed. “Has he another employer?” He spits out the word.
“No, not since Regulus died,” That certainly wasn’t what he was expecting. “Just the dogs—and who could blame the poor dear? Once the sun has set, how could any candle ever possibly hope to replace it?”
He can certainly empathize with those words. Arcturus could not possibly fathom having anyone other than Melania—not now, not ever. And…however much he may hate to admit it, Richard has never given him any sign of being anything other than unfailingly loyal to his brother—he still sends a card every Christmas that Arcturus never reads. Perhaps he should, he misses Regulus more than he will ever deign to admit to anyone—it would be nice to reminisce with someone who knew him and missed him as much. Arcturus would even try and refrain from any snide comments, for the sake of his brother’s memory.
Bah—he’s getting far too soft in his old age.
The sounds of voices outside the chapel door interrupt the more comfortable silence that has settled over them, and he curses them, as well as his existence.
Carolers.
His mother had always let carolers into Noire House every Christmas Eve, it was something of a tradition. After they made the move to Grimmauld Place following Regulus’s birth, it stopped, but only because mother never got to celebrate Christmas at Grimmauld Place—she’d died in November, and father was too distraught to do anything but sob and drink, much less let strangers into the house.
Arcturus had, for whatever reason, continued the tradition when he’d taken control of Grimmauld Place. Every year during the Black Family Christmas party, he’d let them in, they’d sing a song or two, and then they’d leave. Even after he moved to Noire House with Melania following Orion’s marriage, he continued to do it. Melania had enjoyed it as much as mother had, for those happy few years that they had here before she’d been cruelly ripped away from him. Still, he continued welcoming them even after she’d passed.
After Orion’s death, however, he finally stopped. Whenever the carolers come, he ignores them, or has his elf make some excuse as to why he cannot see to them. Every year they come back, and every year they’re rebuffed.
Still, they keep at it. Persistent, these bloody people are.
“Are those carolers?” Lycoris smiles, the oddly girlish glee on her face looking so distinctly different than her typically smirking expression that he does a double-take. “Oh, do let them in, Archie!”
“Why should I?”
“You always used to! Like mother did, I always that was rather sweet of you—keeping up with the tradition.”
Arcturus shifts in his seat, uncomfortably. “Yes, well—that’s stopped. It’s stopped for a long while, now.”
“Oh, Archie, please!” Lycoris tugs on his jacket, incessantly. “Don’t be such a curmudgeon—let them in!”
Arcturus lets out a long-suffering sigh, relenting. “If you wish to let them in, do so—I couldn’t care less.”
Taking the reply for what it is, she stands up, walks over to the door, and with a grand wave, directs the carolers wandering around Noire House’s southern gardens into the chapel. After a minute of this, they come, and after Lycoris once again takes her seat, begin to sing a familiar melody.
“In the bleak mid-winter, frosty wind made moan; Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone…”
“This was mother’s favorite,” Lycoris says, taking the seat beside him. “Do you remember?”
Memories of his mother—the first loved one he ever lost—seating him on her lap, whispering the lyrics into his ear, lovingly stroking his hair with her soft, soothing fingers, flash through his mind, and he feels his chest grow uncomfortably tight.
“Yes,” Arcturus clears his throat. “Yes, I remember very well.”
“It never fails to move me,” She sighs, “Even after all these years. Such beautiful words.” Lycoris turns to face him. “And you?”
“Perhaps once—not anymore.”
“In the bleak mid-winter, A stable place sufficed, The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ…”
“You don’t believe anymore?” There’s no judgement in her voice, and the question comes out sounding more matter-of-fact than anything.
“No.” That’s not entirely true, to his chagrin—Arcturus is not one to do things half-way. “You want to know what it is I believe?” He snorts, humorlessly. “Somedays, I’m convinced I’m in hell already.”
“Oh, it can’t be that bad, Archie—truly?”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what it was to lose a child,” Arcturus snaps, gripping the hilt of his cane tighter.
He feels her hand on his, squeezing comfortingly, and when he looks up there’s sympathy in her face—not pity, Lycoris knows he despises pity. Not knowing what to say, he squeezes back, nodding.
“Angels and Archangels, May have gathered there, Cherubim and seraphim thronged through the air…”
“Well, I still believe, strange as it may sound for someone like me,” She chuckles, but it sounds tired and weary more than mirthful. “Even after all this horror that’s befallen our family, I can’t quite let go, even on days when I want to.”
“Much like that blasted lamp,” He says, motioning to the lamp above the tabernacle. Arcturus hasn’t so much as touched it in years, nor has his elf, yet its light persists. Of course, he had enchanted it shortly before Melania died, but the magic should have worn off by now, the spell used was a simple, impermanent one. Yet stubbornly, every night that he looks out his window, the light in the chapel is visible. The wood of the pews splinters, the frescoes fade, the stained glass goes dull, the altar is dusted over, but still, somehow, the light remains.
Could it be Melania? Perhaps the notion is a childish one, what use would his wife have to keep that old thing burning? Wherever she is, she surely has better things to do than keep a lamp lit for her miserable old ox of a husband.
“Yes, much like the lamp,” Lycoris replies, a queer smile settling on her face, as if she’s remembering something. “It could not have been lit but for the builders and tragedians, and there I found it this morning, burning anew among the old stones.”
Arcturus furrows his eyebrows, confused. “Where is that from?”
Lycoris hums. “A book I read some years ago.”
“If I were a wise man, I would do my part, Yet what I can I give him, give my heart.”
His sister claps for the carolers, rather loudly, and then ushers them out of the chapel, thanking them effusively. Arcturus thinks that he can hear her faintly telling them not to ‘mind my brother’s sour face, he enjoyed it well enough’.
She reappears in a flurry of black skirts, before grabbing him by the hand and tugging, much like she used to do when she was a child and wanted him to play dolls with her. “Come on now, let’s light a candle.”
As much as he wants to refuse her, he’s too grateful. Grateful that she bothered to show up for him, grateful that she’s staying for the next few days. He spent the first Christmas since Orion and Regulus had died with Ignatius and Lucretia, and though it had been tense and uncomfortable, he was still with family. Last year, in the aftermath of his row with Lucretia, there was no one. Last year all he had was a bottle of pear brandy, a slightly stale cigar he’d planned to gift to Regulus upon his wedding to the Fawley girl he’d had picked out for him, and the enchanted ball Orion had made for him as a Christmas gift a little over forty years ago. For all her faults—as well as the ever-present chasm that Regulus had left after his death—Lycoris is his sister, and the last family member left living that he hasn’t pushed away. Her being here means more to him than he’ll ever truly let on, so he’ll indulge her just this once.
“Very well,” Arcturus finally says, standing up with a slight groan and following her to the altar.
They approach the bye-altar in silence, the figure of the Virgin Mary drawing nearer. Arcturus has not done this in a long while, and, staring up at the face of the statue, almost struck at the near palpable feeling of life he feels radiating off of it, he is frozen to the spot. Lycoris beside him lights a match, then her own candle, and crosses herself.
“Here, Archie,” A voice came to the right of him, and he near dropped the matchbox he was holding. He knew that voice—better than he knew his own, and how could he not? Even to this day, he thought of her often. Arcturus turns, expecting nothing, then almost collapsing onto the floor when he sees—
“Mother?” He asks, his voice strained.
His mother smiles, kindly. She’s just as she’d been before the illness had taken her—Her brown hair is done up in a loose chignon, her watery blue eyes shimmering in the light from the sanctuary lamp. There are none of those horrible pustules on her face as there were the last time he’d seen her, bedridden and weak; nor is her form emaciated. She’s here, she’s alive, her face is smooth and the hands that touch his arm still so soft. For a few seconds, he feels like a child again.
“You remember how to light the candle, don’t you?” Her smile grows. “Just like I taught you. Light the match,” He does. “Then, move it to the wick,” Her arm guides his down, just like it did on her last Christmas here. “Hold it, and…”
The candle is lit. “Now, cross yourself,” Arcturus follows her movements—not that he forgot how to do the sign of the cross, he’s not an imbecile, he just feels strangely reverted in this moment.
But before long, he blinks, and she’s not there anymore, there’s just an empty space. No, there was always an empty space—it’s his mind, it must be. On top of all he’s suffered, now he has to contend with the fact that he’s losing his wits, because this surely couldn’t be real.
And yet it felt so—
“Archie?” Lycoris’s voice cuts through his inner ramblings, and he turns to see his sister regarding him carefully. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” He answers, tersely. “Of course. I was just…lighting the candle.”
She nods. “Did you light it for anything in particular? I lit mine for mother, strangely enough—I haven’t done that in years. Just felt the urge.”
Before he can disgrace himself by gaping, he nods his head, dumbly. “Yes, me as well.”
They stand there, the both of them, for a decent while in silence. Lycoris in silent prayer, Arcturus still at a complete loss for words. Before long, he feels Lycoris’s head on his shoulder as she leans into him, and he can’t help but think how she hasn’t done this since she was a girl—as well as the fact that he missed it.
“Happy Christmas, Archie.”
“Happy Christmas, Lycoris.”