She smiled, dried her hands, and grabbed one of the cups as the man approached the bar. He stood at seven and a half feet, towering over her five-foot-five frame. Staring down at her, he smoothly removed his helmet. His amber hair fell loosely around his head, revealing a face of dark purple skin—as if a sunset had frozen over in time. His gentle, pale blue eyes stared down at her. His face was a mix of joy and quiet grief. She matched his gaze with her own feelings. This was her oldest friend, the first man she had truly cared for outside her family. She passed the glass to him and smiled.

  Taking the glass, he sipped down the dark brown liquid and moaned in delight. Exhaling a cloud of white mist, he stared down at her and smiled a toothy grin. She knew lots of things about names, and people, and even things she wasn’t supposed to know, but one thing she was too polite to ask was whether or not he could taste, seeing as how he had no tongue. It was good to see him smile, and she decided that was what she wanted to focus on.

  They stood there in silence, conveying themselves to one another, unable to communicate with words, but they knew their way around that. In long, drawn-out, silent stints of time, an immortal learned to communicate with their very being, their essence. Not hiding away or withdrawing into their depths, but instead exposing themselves to the fullness of their nature. Allowing the other individual to take them in within that time, to understand, in a moment, what words could hardly express in a lifetime. They saw each other’s souls, their proper names, if you will.

  His soul told stories of winter and how he had stopped it from spilling out of control, how he had paid prices and made deals that he felt stained by, how this position had taken a toll on him, and how mortals saw him, like a bringer of destruction. Oh, how he hated the way mortals saw him, indeed.

  Since the Resurgence, the other rulers of the Faye hadn't been seen, and the need for a Winter Warden had arisen. He had taken up the responsibility in place of the winter for a more significant cause, but new names molded people, even old friends. That day, something calculating and unwavering was born at the top of those winter peaks. Like an ice storm, relentless and unforgiving, but meaning no wrath by what he was. He was The Winter Warden.

  He read her with similar interests and intensity. She felt like an eternity had passed in seconds. As he held his cup, he realized it had already slushed in his presence. He glanced down at the cup, shrugged, and began to chew the drink instead. The Winter Warden was, for all intents and purposes, pragmatic.

  The way of this was so right. She smiled and allowed herself to feel happy for a good long while. Hosting this meeting of immortals did not happen often. Time would tell when the next meeting would take place, if ever again. She hated waiting for the future, but she had learned to endure it over the decades. She had learned to survive the empty years, empty… No, no, those memories wouldn’t ruin the now. Not today, not when the moment called to be present.

  The Winter Warden sat at the bar and began to stroke his large furry beast gently. It nuzzled its head into his hand, huffing with contentment. Adjusting his black armor, he continued to chew and look around, then sent a side-long glance at her.

  "Yes, I am aware,” she said. “I lost track of time and let the place go under.”

  He rolled his eyes and gave a coy smile.

  "Okay, you're right. I could've hired out. Unfortunately, most of the locals did not make it through the Resurgence."

  He shuddered at the last word.

  “It still gives me chills as well,” she said. “The Resurgence took much work, but, in the end, it was enough; we were enough.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He smiled again at that, but his eyes stared blankly in the distance. Thinking about the past, about what it took to make it this far. What it took from all of them, what it kept taking.

  The sky went dark, darker than average, and the sound of car tires screeching to a halt rattled in front of the old shop. A voice in a broad Australian accent cut through, clear as day.

  "Because responsibility is what we signed up for." A gentleman in a gray tweed suit with a matching bowler hat and black cane stepped into the small space. His face was tan and flushed with a black beard, long and curly, shaped to perfection. As he removed his hat, a black braid fell down to his mid-back. Behind him stood a small, four-foot-tall clockwork humanoid. The young boy had a beautiful gem of dark starlight inside the center of his chest. He hid behind the man’s leg, shy as ever.

  Immortals lived a long time. They sought out or created mortals to help walk this life with them. The never-ending drum of their hearts could easily be drowned out. Mortals tied them to a sense of time, to a sense of reality. This way, they didn't lose touch with the worlds they served. The mortals reminded them to be present.

  Some immortals also took mortal companions to train in the way of their power. Someday, they might even take their position when the immortal retired. She knew the way things were, but was still so pleased to see all the different kinds of mortals that were chosen. But this path she knew couldn't be for her.

  “Ah, Mister D., thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule,” she said with glee, heading to the bar to hand him his drink. The Winter Warden raised his glass and nodded sternly, still holding the smile from earlier.

  Mister D. walked casually over to the bar and gratefully took the drink. He smelled the glass for a good, long while. She wondered if he had forgotten they were there as he relived some memories. Shaking his head, he chuckled as if telling himself a joke and began drinking.

  His eyes rolled back in his head. He paused to take a breath before continuing. The drink was gone instantly, and every drop was savored with a satisfied gasp of air.

  “Miss T., thank you. It’s been decades since I had a fresh cup,” he said, every word dripping with satisfaction.

  He sat down next to the Winter Warden, brushing shoulders with him at the bar. They smiled at each other, giving brief nods. His dark gold eyes fixed on her next, conveying a sense of peace. However, Mister D. was always calm; helping mortal souls ease into the afterlife took an incredible amount of patience and care. Other times, that patience wore thin, but the outcome was always the same.

  "So, is there any more?" asked Mister D. Obnoxiousness was also in his nature. He knew that there were rules to these kinds of things.

  "For another round of drinks, one has to introduce their mortal companion,” Miss T. said, lightly gesturing to Mister D.’s shy friend with a head nod. “And the first one to make the drinks has to tell a story to pass the time," Miss T. said with a dry smile as she cleaned more glasses.

  Mister D. nodded again, saying, “Yes, yes, not like we’ve made introductions hundreds of times, but for the sake of tradition, I will abide.” Feigning great strain, he stood and motioned to the clockwork boy.

  “This is my son Bastion, named after an aspect of my own name and his mother’s. His position is not an inheritor but a reminder that kindness never costs anything, and it should be given freely. Likewise, innocence ought to be preserved for as long as one is able.” The young boy stood awkwardly, gears spinning and ticking, as he gave a slight bow.

  Miss T. curtseyed in return, and the Warden nodded at the young man. At this, the young clockwork boy began to fidget in place as only young boys do when left without instruction for too long. Mister D. gently nudged the boy back toward a chair where he sat on his own.

  Mister D. adjusted his tweed suit, looked to the Winter Warden, and then down at his clockwork son and smiled. "What do you say we tell a story right after you do?"

  She and the Winter Warden rolled their eyes at the same time. She sighed a tired breath and then took a moment to scan through her mind.

  "Any story, really, just to kick off the night,” Mister D. said with his elbows on the counter, his hands folded around his beard. His clockwork son subconsciously grabbed a bit of his father’s suit in one hand.

  “I know a story,” she said. “One that might be based in fact or hearsay with a bit of creative interpretation. A story I may have lived,” Miss T. said with a rueful smile while shrugging her shoulders. “A story I sometimes aim to forget.”