Chapter Text
Laurie was dead: to begin with.
There is no doubt whatsoever about that. It had been a terrible Midwinter tragedy. For years afterwards, the Clifford household had been a place of mourning, and of sorrow: but one man never showed up. As the years turned to decades, the world moved on, and still the man never came.
No, he was left alone.
It was a chill Midwinter Eve morning, as a sullen glower prowled the streets of Baldur’s Gate, the first time in the year it had left the Tower. But now! He strode across the city, clad in dark cloak and hat over faded emerald green, every step punctuated by the tapping of the cane against the ground, a trail of boot-prints left behind to mark his passage.
And everywhere he went, he cast a lethal glare at the passers-by who had the misfortune to cross his path, the gaze of cold, grey, lifeless things spreading naught but fear. This man was not a kind man.
No, he was cold, and hard, broken and bitter. Where he trod, he trod with purpose, as unmoveable as the winter itself. The hoar could not make him colder, the falling of snow was less stubborn - and nothing in Seven Heavens or Nine Hells could change his frosted features from that ever-present scowl!
Each street he walked into the Lower City, those around him gave him wide berth: as he turned this way and that, never stopping, only sparing them the briefest of evil eyes. No one bothered him, no one asked his day or commented on the weather, no thief thought him a target, no beggar thought him generous. And what did he care! It was how he liked things, after all.
His road took him down into Heapside, north the Grey Habour. He stopped not for Ilmater’s Shrine of those suffering, or the sight and smell of celebration, or the annual procession along the streets. He stopped not for good tidings or good cheer, for what reason had men to be merry on this day?
It was like their happiness was a blightable offense, what a wretched curse, there should be a frown upon their face. Down Stormshore Street he went, bringing the storm to the shore itself, his cane step the thunder that made children wail and his eyes the bolt of lightning, the maaring upon the beach that prompted families to pack and leave.
Until, at last, he came upon the glass dome in front of him: the Sorcerous Sundries. It was here he sought a few more ingredients for the latest experiment - the wide doors stood in front of him, closed, and speckling with the faint light of the winter sun.
And yet, the door did not open. Instead, there was a small sign, writ upon next to it: Closed for the Tenday of Midwinter. Enjoy the Holiday!
“Bah,” Bentley Hallwinter muttered, for that was his name. “Humbug.” He was the last scion of that long and ancient line, the blood of wizards and misers running in his veins as he dwarfed them all in both arcana and acrimony.
So too did he turn around. The city was not for him. At the sound of the carollers he sneered, at the march of the parade he scoffed, and as the crowds grew ever bigger, he raised his hands in a flash of azure light, and they did not bother him further.
Without those reagents, each piece of the puzzle he’d have to make himself. And what? Did the shops think they had the right to close one day a year? A poor excuse indeed, this bleak Midwinter.
At last, he returned to the great Tower, the building he had forged out of the dull remnants of Hallwinter Manor, one experiment too many burning down the ancient house. Now it was wrought and wrangled, an ill-fitted thing ill-sutied to the place where it dwelt, casting a long shadow against the city, entire neighbourhoods drowned of their sun by his will.
They said that Tower and Manor alike were haunted, roamed by ghosts of the long dead. They said that the wizard bound them and summoned. Thrice in life had the Flaming Fist gone to investigate these rumours, and thrice were they turned away. And so the rumours persisted. The wizard who dwelt in his dark abode, never emerging, strange lights flickering throughout the witching hours of the night -
Yes, the Tower was haunted, there was no doubt about it.
And at its entrance, the cast iron doors loomed, twice as tall as any man and thrice abreast, daunting and intimidating, the streets around it long since deserted to leave the wizard to his peace and quiet. And upon them there lay a metal door knocker, sitting there, ornately carved with dragon’s features, the kind that lived in the nightmares of little children from the fables of knightly valour.
Yet, it must be stressed, this was no ordinary knocker. For as Bentley reached his hand towards it, there was something most strange and peculiar about it - it shifted, changing, into a face, a face quite similar and yet distinct from his own -
Eyes not cold Graves grey, but the bright blue that was the true Hallwinter tradition - yet the same jawline and nose, but cheeks unlike - the face of Cousin Marty, one that Bentley was not at all surprised to see, appearing for but a moment with his usual mercurial smile, before vanishing into the ether.
However, while Bentley was unphased by such a sight, I must insist that you loyal readers of the audience should be. Your very minds should be astonished! For Marty was a Hallwinter, and Bentley was the last Hallwinter - it had been seven long years since Marty passed, lost on some fool’s errand in the Fields of the Dead, no heir to survive his branch of the family.
Indeed, like Laurie, Marty was dead - to begin with. There is no doubt whatsoever about that, the register of his sarcophagus was signed by the clergy of Kelemvor, the clerk, the undertaker, and Bentley himself, the last Hallwinter. Old Marty was dead as a door-nail.
And Bentley knew too that Marty had been dead. Of course he did. Few men had shown up for his funeral, in the end, save the cousin so alike to a brother, who died alone to save so many, yet never earned the fame he had spent his life craving.
All he earned was the respect of one man. And that is all he had truly been seeking, in the life before death.
So it should come as great surprise to you that the dead Marty might somehow appear, wrapping upon the Tower door, a knocker in death as a knocker in life - but it drew no reaction from the wizard, not surprised to see that face in the same way one returning home would be unsurprised to see their cat, licking itself by the door.
For, one must see, Bentley was no ordinary wizard. He had not wished to let Marty go. Not another person he cared for. Not again.
And so it was that the Tower was haunted. There was no doubt about it.
“Welcome back, cousin,” the spirit muttered, a solemn smile on his face, never quite as bright in death as he had been in life. It was not really Marty, the ghost that stood before him now. An imperfect copy, chained to that old signet ring, which he’d kept so long on him in life. Still they chained around him now, binding the copy to the Marty That Was, long lost and long ago.
There is no words Bentley said to him now. Grateful as he was for his presence, he was not grateful enough to bring utterance to his lips. He had kept this Marty around, but how many words had they exchanged in the last seven years? Far fewer than perhaps either of them would like.
But that had been true of life, as well as death, hadn’t it?
But here, Marty turned to give him a look, one so… un-Marty like. Emerging from the impenetrable shadow of the Tower, there was a dismal light about him, hair curiously stirred, as if by breath or hot air - the solemn smile lingered, but something was different, something strange. Something new.
“I’m sorry, cousin. There will be visitors tonight.”
His words were heavy, his chains heavier, the spectre captive, bound, and double-ironed - the magic of the Hallwinters nearing their apex upon Midwinter.
“Send them away then. That is your function, is it not?” Bentley snapped, at the ghost, who winced. Not a true Marty, merely… some ill-fitting replica, suited for purpose, a meddling mix of illusions.
“Without their visits, you cannot hope to shun the path you tread,” Marty replies, shaking his head.
“Bah. What is this, an intervention? Quite unlike you to be in a union, Marty.” But here Bentley worried, for the ghost was not truly him - they were meant to be obedient, bound by the arcane magic of the Hallwinter tower.
What were they bothering with? Bentley was quite happy where he was. He was happy, being alone, and silent, and away from the wounds of the world. There was no loss that bothered him. Nothing bothered him. He was well. He needed no help.
And yet, behind Marty, all the other ghosts were behind him in the great hall, a great cacophony of confused noises in the air; incoherent sounds of lamentaton and regret; wailings sorrowful. A mournful dirge.
“Expect the first to-night, when the bell tolls One.”
And after that, the phantasm joined his chained crowd, that horde of restless phantoms wandering hither and thither, descending into the dark basements of the Tower, pulled away, leaving him in silence. It had been a long day, full of fatigues and glimpses of the Invisible World, and he was in need of repose.
So too did he then retire to bed, and lie restlessly, waiting against the endless chimings and bell ringings of time throughout the night. Each gap an eon, as he marked the quarters of the hour as they sounded upon the clock, lying motionless, waiting, unable to sleep or rest with the pain echoing across his entire body.
He was not in need of any help! He needed no one! If they’d bother him again like that, best they shuffle off this coil, and decrease the surplus spectre population! He’d make them, too. Their words of delusions. He was Bentley Hallwinter. He was in need of nothing. He was certainly not lonely, or regretful, or sad. He did not miss anyone.
These thoughts did loop over and over in his mind, ebbing and flowing between each chime, every ding and every dong, interrupting as he counted the night away.
Until at last, the hour bell sounded - that deep, dull, hollow, melancholy One.
It was time.