In the week leading to the shortest day of the year, when night overtakes the light and the cold permeates our world, we congregate in the forgotten forest, in celebration of our secret tradition. It is unbroken, spanning the two thousand years since the hay days of the Roman Empire, one remembered by few, and understood by even fewer.
Nested in the mountains of a small snow covered country lies a village, the last bastion between our reality and the forest, that forbidden place where the worlds meet. In the days of old the place held a monastery, a concealed location where priests could focus on attending to that holiest of traditions, that of reviving the sun. Now, in our modern age of fast travel and even faster communication, it is but a stop-over, where us pilgrims congregate for a few days before delving into the old magic that this place hides from the world.
Rationally, we are sure this is but tradition, for there is no reason to believe that any being can actually affect the seasons or the stars. Still, there is a deeper significance to our pilgrimage, to the revival of the sun. The effects may be a myth, a mere rationalization for all the hassle of leaving our comfortable lives and delving into the obscure, but the magic there is certainly real.
After all, there we get to meet a God. It is there that we meet Sol Invictus.
We do not know how the first pilgrims came to discover the Realm of the Goddess. Some say it was a fortunate accident, where Roman legions took shelter in a forest during the winter, and stumbled upon her castle. Others, that the Goddess herself, feeling lonely amongst her subjects, broke the barriers between worlds to reveal herself to local farmers. Some even believe that this tradition is even older, but that the truth was stomped out by a jealous roman noble.
Be as it may, it was soon established that a yearly ritual to celebrate her majesty and to honor her charge. Similarly necessary would be hide it from the public eye, as too many pilgrims would surely upset the Goddess, as humans were nothing if not prone to herd towards where the powerful live. Still, it was never out task to hide it completely, and the realm has received many illustrious visitors throughout the years, artists, scientists, statesmen,including Emperor Aurelian.
In place of the real pilgrimage a similar tradition took place, that of honoring a mythical Sol, one that would reside in our own world. It quickly took in lieu of the real thing, hiding the truth in plain sight, and if the world at large no longer celebrates it for the reasons we do, we take comfort in knowing it is still strong in spirit.
Getting to the realm is a simple task considering how monumental the achievement. In fact, any passerby trekking through that forest should find themselves beyond the barriers of our world, crossing into a place unlike any other. We always go during winter, and only during the week of the solstice, but we know that is unnecessary, and that even in the most sweltering of summers passage is possible. However, tradition says so, and where gods trot humans should tread lightly.
The change is sudden and astoundingly noticeable. The regular forest we entered, inhabited by common woodland creatures, suddenly becomes a dark, foreboding place. The trees acquire a mysterious dark sheen, the snow falls in strangely predictable patterns, and the sky, once a palette of multiple hues, is now flat and radiant, even in the depths of night. Strangest of all is an energy, a constant presence that permeates the air like a veil of smoke, and in that alien realm it is all too easy to interpret that as magic.
From there a long journey still lies ahead. During the ages,and countless pilgrimages a beaten, well defined path was established. I shudder to think how it came to be, how our predecessors could have built this, for we know that leaving the trail is a sure path to a quick death. Maybe they were stronger than we realize, of maybe the forest was more forgiving in those days, not yet subject to the decay that seems to have become the law of this place.
Indeed, our only guarantee of safety is the path. For reasons beyond my comprehension, the forest inhabitants seems to stay away from it, veering clear of our road towards that destination. And it is to our luck, for the creatures here are vicious and various, incredible predators capable of killing with a gaze and regenerating any injure. From time to time, even legendary dragons can be seen, gargantuan creatures capable of spewing fire and gobbling a man whole.
But of all dangers and monsters the worst are certainly the spirits, beings of ice and malice that feed on our fears and feast on our hatred, filling the hearts of the doubtful with the chill of the worst winters. Some consider them guardians, keeping us from further exploring this realm. Others, devils, eternal enemies of Sol, and that our eternal pilgrimage gives her strength to banish those and protect our world. As for me, I always believed them to be just wild animals, as magical as the realm they inhabit, and harmless so long as they are ignored and respected.
Despite all the horrors that surround us there are still tales of survivors, of pilgrims that strayed from the path in foolishness or foolhardiness. And even if most of those die, a few manage to return, broken and scarred, yet alive. Almost all our knowledge of such things come from these souls, and most, if not all, are perfectly willing to accept their tales as truth.
Finally, after dangers from outside perception and bends on the path too many to be counted we reach it, the true destination of our pilgrimage. It is an old castle, now covered in vines and trees, its moat dry, its walls ruined, and its towers crumbled. Still, that is to be expected of a millennium old ruin in the heart of a forest.
In the old days, if the paintings and stories are to be believed, it looked nothing like this. Then the towers were new, shining even in the moonlight, and the walls stood sentinel against the dangers of the wild. Most importantly, then the castle was bustling with life, surrounded by a town filled with mystical beings. There once walked Ponies, Unicorns, and Pegasi, along many other magical creatures that were sentient and smart as any human. And as our caravan reached the gates, they would be received with great honors and jubilation.
While many would like to treat those as angels, pure inhabitants of a sacred realm, all evidence points to them being no more than normal citizens, peasants no more holy than we that came here, working with their magic as we live with our hands. The intensity of their celebrations certainly suggested an earthly inclination.
Emperor Aurelian himself was received in such a way, in a feast said to last three days. He sworn his men to keep those events secret, but our story says that his commitment to Sol became so strong as consequence of those days. He saw the equine inhabitants as no different than our regular folk, and took Sol Invictus as the pinnacle of all a ruler could aspire to be, a true philosopher queen in the Socratic tradition that cared for the happiness of her subjects with fairness and wisdom. In fact, his greatest regret in life was never returning there before his death.
Be as it may, there is no doubt that things took a decisive turn for the worse, for in our eleventh century a cataclysm of unimaginable proportions took place. When in one year a happy town received the pilgrims, in the next just a desolate ruin met them, devoid of life or joy and scarred by battle. From that point on the forest became more and more dangerous, darker and uninviting, and even the Moon carried a scar in the shape of an unicorn head. Worst of all, Sol was nowhere to be found, leaving the pilgrims alone and scared. Still year after year they returned, lightning the flame and dancing the night away, hopeful that she would return.
As strong as human spirit can be, time is always stronger, and a century of unanswered calls saw the pilgrimage diminish each year, the promise of a trek through a haunted forest to an empty castle appealing only to the most faithful or foolish, until only a lone pilgrim remained. And yet that last solitary keeper of the yearly tradition persevered, facing alone the dangers of the forest to wait for Sol to answer his call, until one marvelous day she did. He, or maybe she, for history is unclear on their identity, didn’t leave an account of that encounter, but from then on Sol returned every year, and has been doing so in the centuries since.
Yet, while she had in fact returned, it was clear that a part of her had been lost, her stature diminished, as if recovering from a great ordeal. The exact nature of the situation was never made clear, for that subject had been undeniably forbidden. Sometimes, Sol will bring one of her old people alongside her, proving that their civilization still thrives somewhere, but that the cataclysm left most unwilling or unable to rejoin us. Even after so many centuries, trying to get precise news from her kingdom is an exercise in frustration.
But, despite all the dangers, the cold, and the uncertain nature of the rewards, we come year after year. We cross the rickety bridge, which more often than not needs repairs, and enter the main hall, still breathtaking despite the ages of neglect. Tapestries celebrate the dual nature of Sun and Moon, and in every facet of its art and architecture we are reminded of the culture that built this place.
And yet, for all its apparent age and disrepair, some mysterious force akin to magic still lingers in that place. Wild beasts never take shelter in those halls, the cracked steps never falter under your feet, and for all the holes and crumbling masonry, the throne room itself is still perfectly sheltered from the elements. It is there we sleep, safe against the cold under the shadow of her former seat of power. By the time our camp is set-up night has already fallen, and we rest from our long journey in anticipation for the day ahead.
We get up with the first rays of light, to enjoy the shortest day of the year in full. The ruins are wonderful, a living reminiscence of days long past. Tributes to Sol and her counterpart can be seen in every corner of the castle, each a reminder of what it once was. The pure devotion of each creator can still be seen even after so much time has passed, their passion much more resilient than the details corroded by time. But despite our excitement, we never lose sight of the importance of this place, at once historic and holy. Not once has a pilgrim shown its contents anything but admiration, and none of the damage was caused by our meddling.
We stop as the midday sun comes, in order to prepare for the night. Tables are set, decorations are spread, food is cooked, and beverages are cooled or heated. We work as one, united in our desire to offer her a feast fit for a Goddess. She never partakes in meat, or other things that would come from dead animals, and while she never reprimands us, or even shows displeasure in case we do, we refrain in her honor. What she does love are sweets, from the mundane to the exquisite. Where previous artists chose marble or brass, our monuments in her honor are built of batter and frosting, and just as impermanent and perpetual.
Finally everything is set, and as the sun starts its final decline beneath the horizon we light a great pillar of fire, around which we sing the songs of our order. We dance and laugh, remembering their legacy, and what it means to us. And, as the last light leaves the earth, She appears.
Sol is a majestic creature, an enormous flying horse, crowned with a crown of gold and a magnificent horn. Her fur is a pristine white, almost resplendent in its purity, marred only by two marks in her flanks, representing her charge and namesake. Her hair flows in an ethereal wind, ever shifting and ever mysterious, and her face is as unreadable as it is charming. She appears out of thin air, a brilliant flash her only herald, shrouded in flames and power. Every aspect of her being seems to scream divinity, her presence in the room beyond that of any mere mortal. We bow, for no other reaction is possible in her presence.
Yet, when she touches the ground it is with unmeasurable gentleness, softened by the flames in her great wings. And despite the heights of her power she is humble, making sure to raise us one by one, a look in her eyes of the most profound gratitude for us coming to this place. The veterans are received like the old friends they are, and the young as the future friends they will come to be, their fear and awe brushed aside by her caring smile. Just as that we are all equal, our different species but a forgettable detail, her godhood a footnote to our celebration.
Together we sit around the fire, sharing in food and in tales. Sol tells us fantastical stories both old and new, where ponies battle mythical monsters, fall in love, and learn new truths about the nature of friendship. In turn we tell her about our world, our technology that grows akin to their magic, about our own families, our toils, our secret joys. Sol eventually gushes about a personal pupil or other, and a fierce pride will show in her voice, beyond even that of motherhood.
A lucky few will find themselves taken to explored the heavens in her wings, others privy to the equally magical spectacle of her consuming our desserts. We dance and sing, reveling in the intersection of our cultural landscape. Her energy has no equal, alcohol no effect on her disposition, and by proxy so do we become unstoppable, our partying beyond what any of us would be normally able to endure. But, like all good things, it eventually has to end. As the night reaches its final minutes, Sol sounds bell, a magical sound that emanates from her horn to all corners of the castle. It is piercing, without equal in the world and full of finality, the purpose of which can’t escape even the newcomers. She rings it just once more, and silently trots to the courtyard. It is time.
We follow in procession, silent as we can be through ragged breaths and muffled steps. The courtyard is covered with a thick blanket of snow, but when Sol turns her smile to us not the wind nor the ice can reach us. She takes to the sky as a lone point of light in the complete darkness of that forbidden forest, its unfathomable terror now unable to touch our hearts. And from that point a beacon shines, impossibly bright and yet soft to our eyes, as Sol raises the sun from its slumber. I have been witness to it time and time again, yet its magnificence seems as perpetual as Her. Her light is a constant presence as she descends from the heavens, the sun rays framing Her figure, like an angel out of myth. We bow, for no other reaction is possible in her presence.
Once more she raises us, personally wishing a safe return to each and everyone of us. And finally she takes to the sky, flying back to her kingdom with a renewed strength in her smile.
We rest right there beneath the new sun, for no cold can pierce the warmth in our hearts. And as we wake up late in the day we do our clean up for the return trip. We depart with the last rays of the sun, taking pleasure in the last few scrapes of her light , before plunging into the inevitable darkness of the forest path.
There is a world of difference between the arduousness of our pilgrimage, and the serenity of our way back. As if to reflect the peace in our hearts the way seems inviting, the spirits calmer, and even the worst beasts are pacified. We keep a brisk pace, unencumbered by supplies or worries, and finally in that clearer dark we can appreciate the night, how it contrasts with her day and how it shines with its own beauty. The journey is long, but with our days filled with wonder and our nights with beauty, time seems to be of little importance.
We always reach the portal in the dead of the night, and wait. There is no point in rushing things. We sit right there, in the threshold between our world and hers, savoring the last moments of that final night. It is always in those times that I manage to appreciate the small things. I see the age of the trees ringing our clearing, where my family also sat in contemplation and appreciation. I feel the subtle smell of the air, the one I came to recognize as magic, and even the cruel darkness of the woods seems alluring and inviting. And when the right time arrives we stand up as one, brushing off the snow from this alien land to return to the normalcy of our world, to the woods burning fiercely as the first rays of light touch the earth.
And the sun is reborn.
Author's Note
Thanks for reading this little (late) Christmas tale. It was inspired by the Holiday season as a whole, and, to an extent, the song Sol Invictus by Atlantean Kodex.
