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Caleb Wittebane was born on a gloomy winter evening. Philip hadn’t been alive to witness it, of course, but his mother was so fond of telling her sons the story that both knew it by heart.
Constance had been knitting for her coming child when the neighbors came pleading for help. Their roof desperately needed repairs but the husband’s leg was broken and the woman herself was pregnant. When the storm broke, they were certain to freeze to death. The family had nothing to offer the Wittebanes but their wedding rings, which Abram refused. Being a good christian man, he insisted on helping with no payment save for them including his wife and child in their prayers. Being a good christian woman, Constance watched him go without complaint, despite the anxiety coiling in her chest. The clouds hung heavy, fit to burst any hour, and the neighbors lived a good ways away.
Constance’s contractions had started only an hour after Abram’s departure. She’d brushed them off as a false alarm at first, as it was nearly a month earlier than expected. As they got stronger and more frequent, the reality of the situation became undeniable. Her child was coming whether she wanted him to or not, and the chance of such an early baby’s survival were slim. All she could do was pray for her Creator to deliver her child safely to her arms, or else take the babe into His own with as little pain as possible.
She waited, alone and in pain. Hours dragged on and the light through the windows faded. The storm broke in gusts of snow, wind whipping the icy sleet outside and muffling the screams within the isolated cottage.
It wasn’t until evening that the child finally came. As if waiting for his father’s arrival, their son was born mere minutes after Abram burst through the door. Cold wind gusted through the open doorway but neither husband nor wife paid it any mind, too busy fussing over the wailing infant. The brief joy they’d felt as they first held him slipped through their fingers like the snow piling up outside. Though his lungs were strong enough to scream as any newborn should, he was smaller and thinner than he should’ve been. As the flush of birth faded the boy was left with a pale, sickly pallor, and persistent, hiccuping coughs that kept his parents up all night. His health worsened as the days wore on, but the snow remained too heavy to fetch a doctor. All they could do was bundle up together, rock him between them, and pray.
They grieved over their firstborn, who seemed destined to leave them so soon. But then, the miraculous happened. Caleb’s health lifted in tandem with the storm. His cries quieted as the wind softened, his sickly coughs slowed as the snowfall did. Abram felt a tug in his chest, as he would later tell his wife, and took his newly quiet son outside despite Constance’s protests.
The world glistened in shades of sparkling silver and pure white, faint dustings of snow drifting off branches in a gentle breeze and red berries speckling the bushes that poked up near their gate. Their neighbors, alive and well, rode their cart down the freshly cleared road, waving their hats from a distance. In Abram’s arms, Caleb laughed for the very first time, his hand reaching out as if to wave back, and Abram knew in his heart that the Lord had blessed his son to live. He fell to his knees in the snowbanks and wept over the bundle of red cotton held to his chest, and he gave thanks.
Constance often reminded her children of this story as they grew. She was certain that thanks to them following His word and serving their neighbors that fateful day, God had rewarded them with Caleb’s life. Whenever her boys seemed to drift from their faith, growing restless during nightly prayers or neglecting to read their daily passages, she impressed on them what a miracle it was that Caleb had survived.
Caleb had always been grateful, always faithful, but it was Philip who truly took the lesson to heart. He listened with unconcealed awe each time his mother told the story. He could not imagine his life without his older brother and it seemed to him, too, that Caleb’s presence was a blessing and a sign. He vowed to always serve his community as his father had that day, as their Lord had intended. He would continue earning God’s blessing, for Caleb.
In time, his promise grew to an obsession. He knew the power of God, that He could take Caleb away as easily as He had delivered him. Philip could not allow that to happen. He prayed diligently, studied his bible by flickering candlelight each night and listened to every sunday sermon with rapt attention. He devoted his life to his Lord and to his brother, and let nothing stand in the way of them following the good Lord’s word. And when the witch hunters swept through and warned them that Satan was near, that he had infiltrated their community, that they had been living amongst them for decades, Philip knew God was sending him a sign. This was the debt he and his brother must pay, and he would pay it gladly.
When they fell into another world of witchcraft and sin, Philip only grew more certain of the path God was setting him on. All sins were equal, his minister had said, as were all good deeds. His father’s deed had been helping that family. Philip’s was to cleanse the Boiling Isles of its sin.
Somewhere along the way, Philip failed. Perhaps he took too long, or was not ruthless enough. Perhaps he simply had not kept as close an eye on his brother, weak since birth, as he should have. Caleb was lost to vice, to a vile seductress. Philip had no choice. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. So, with a heavy heart, Philip did as was commanded of him. Caleb was felled by his hand, and Philip continued his quest to purge the Isles.
The work of the faithful was never finished, and though Philip was now alone in the harsh storm of the Isles, he never faltered. He did what was necessary to advance his plan. He rose in power and control, gradually laid the groundwork for the draining spell, and prepared to do what should have been done long ago. He raised a hundred grimwalkers to aid his plight and slaughtered each and every one of them, to prove his commitment, his sacrifice. He would do what must be done.
And when the time came, Philip knew he would be blessed as his parents before him.
—
Hunter was “born” on a gloomy winter evening. Belos had always been careful to time his creations to avoid this time. Unfortunately, the last grimwalker had destroyed his backup stash of grimwalker materials. Belos had to gather it all from scratch, forcing his timing off.
By the time the grimwalker was ready and Belos returned to the field in which he’d buried it, the ground was thick with snow and hard as snow. Had he any other choice, Belos would have waited for it to thaw. But he had never left a grimwalker in the ground longer than the book called for. He worried the extra time might ruin it and he’d have to begin anew. He’d hate to waste all those supplies without good cause. So Belos grit his teeth and set to work.
Even with both artificial magic and his own physical labor, it took Belos all day to dig deep enough. Normally the grimwalker would have grown enough to meet him halfway, but given the frigid state of the land he wasn’t too shocked to find it hadn’t. What was shocking, however, was breaking through into the hollow he’d constructed months prior to find not a shivering toddler but a newborn.
Belos’s breath caught as he lifted the child and himself out of the shallow pit. As if responding to his touch, the boy’s eyes - that cursed, damnable crimson - blinked open and began to cry.
Belos stared as it sobbed its lungs out. At first, he felt only disgust and dismay. He’d have hesitated to keep an infant grimwalker under normal circumstances, but this one looked frail and sickly. He doubted it would survive long even if he didn’t dispose of it. What had gone wrong? Was it the cold? The haste with which he’d prepared its ingredients? A simple abnormality? He had experienced mutated grimwalkers before, wild magic could be so unpredictable...
In any case, he really should kill it. The wretched thing would be of no use to him like this. No use to his purpose, to his God.
But then a snowflake fluttered down upon the babe’s nose, and the boy stopped crying. It went cross-eyed trying to track where the sensation had come from. And then, abruptly, the child giggled.
Constance’s voice rang in his ears, telling that old tale of Caleb’s first peal of laughter. Belos glanced around, his pulse thundering in his ears. Even in this unnatural realm, the world shone in hues of silver and white, just as his mother had described. The glow of the setting sun warmed his chilled cheeks even as an icy wind blew across him.
All at once, Belos understood. He had been blessed, finally, for his service. The Day of Unity was fast approaching. This was likely to be his last grimwalker if it reached adulthood. And God, in his eternal kindness and wisdom, had blessed him with his brother’s life once more. Belos hastily ripped off his cloak and wrapped it around his prize. This was Caleb in his arms, he knew it. Still, he could not allow the child to be Caleb. This boy could not be tainted and ripped away as Caleb had been. Belos would ensure this second chance did not go to waste. He would raise this grimwalker, not just as his golden guard, but as his family. Brother seemed too unlikely given their age gap, and father made something in him recoil. Uncle, then. He would be the boy’s uncle.
"Hello Hunter,” he whispered, smiling at the holy gift in his arms. Caleb smiled up at him and oh, yes, Belos could see the resemblance far clearer than in the grimwalkers that had come before. “Welcome to our purpose.”