• Glowing sparks danced in the night sky with the white winter's snow as cold hands massed about the flames which produced them. Ragged bodies waltzed about the fire; families, friends, lovers, and strangers locked in a communal embrace. Their darkened eyes held a love which their light hearts held in chorus and their lips spoke tender words coated with that glimmer of hope. But nights like this were merely a reprieve from the days they've endured and do so still. These men and women were refugees: of war, of plague, of every nightmarish torture that can befall our race. Their hearts may sing of love, but their minds harbor a discord of darker emotions. They've endured much, suffered greatly, yet somehow they still manage those dangerous days to return to nights like these. Among them stood a boy; a boy too young to understand why he sleeps on a tattered bedroll every night or why the pains in his stomach grow worse with each passing day. All he knew was in whatever he did in this world he was alone. His clothes rot upon his back just as they do upon the others, but he still had no partner in this dance. He could weep just as any of the others could, but there was no kind hand to dry his tears. He could feel his heart beating within his chest, but not the warmth of love the others enjoyed. The boy stood apart from the group, a stranger amongst strangers. Whatever heat managed to reach him was immediately by cold hands and a cold heart. Shivering, the boy turned from his fellows, the slight comfort of his decrepit bedroll his goal. For every ember that flew skyward, ten snowflakes fell to replace them and a thick blanket of snow had formed on the ground. The snow covered the debris, the twisted metal, and this boy's hope of a good night's rest. His heart sank as he saw the world he knew purged with white, with it his place of solace. Franticly, the boy dug through the snow, ignoring how it bit harder through his nearly frostbitten hands. Terrified, he sifted through the powdery white, weeping all the while, his tears on the verge of freezing to his flesh. His search through the snow fruitless, the boy tore at the ground, his hands subject to the jagged edge of the frozen debris, spreading his across pale white. He then lay panting on the ground, his blood running from his wounds. He wept and waited, felt the cold enveloping him. Alone and afraid, he slowly began to realize, no matter how he tried, his fingers would not respond, nor would his arms or legs. As his vision tinged with darkness, he felt as though the blood in his very veins had turned to ice. But suddenly, the boy felt something drift by him, warm as a summer's breeze. It penetrated him, engulfed him, and surrounded him in a feeling unlike any he'd experienced. And then he heard it, sudden yet softly nestling in his ears: the sweet twang of plucked strings. The ice seemed to melt away, his wounds close shut, and his aching heart soothed. He no longer felt alone, and as he saw a shadow pass over him he knew he wasn't. Quickly, he spun about and to his surprise, there sat a man, tall and lean with hair as white as the snow falling around them. The clothes he wore were tattered (though not as much as the refugees): a simple tunic and breeches, heavy boots and fingerless gloves, a worn leather duster and a wide-brimmed hat hiding his eyes. But the boy was focused upon the strange device the man held, the device from which the boy knew the beautiful came. The man's finger's danced upon the strings, each making notes more beautiful than the last. The boy looked around at the other refugees, who still gathered about the fire, unphased by this unequalled music. The boy was captivated absolutely. This performance was for him alone. The man strummed a final chord and let it fade into nothing.
    "You look cold, son," the man said, his voice almost a melody itself.
    "Well, I was, sir," the boy quietly replied.
    "That's what they all say," the man said, reaching behind him, "Here, son. I believe this belongs to you." The man produced the most immaculate bedroll the boy had ever seen. No tears, no frays; never before had the child seen anything that made him feel more at home. The rolled it out and the boy immediately leapt onto it, savoring the comfort it provided. The man removed his coat and covered the boy with it.
    "Won't you get cold?" the boy asked.
    "The cold doesn't bother me, son," the man said, smiling softly, "I've found the way to keep me warm." He hafted the strange device and began to play once again, the melody caressing the boy more tenderly than any mother could.
    "What is that you have that makes such beautiful noises?" the boy asked. The man chuckled.
    "That noise is what many once called music," he said, "And this once called a lute. Though both names have been lost, I fear." Melodies continued to swim about the boy, helping forget all his recent troubles.
    "Can you teach me?
    The man stopped playing and smiled his signature smile. He tipped up his hat to reveal a pair of eyes to match the hair on his scalp: white and soft as the falling snow. He lowered the lute down to the boy's reach.
    "Pluck the string nearest you, son" said the man. The boy tentatively reached for the string, and when he plucked it the returned just as it had before.
    "Did I do that?" the boy asked, awestruck. The man nodded, smiling.
    "How do I learn to play like you?" the boy continued.
    "Time, son," said the man, "Time, patience, and a love for this music. And there will be all of that where we must go." A surprised look spread across the boy's face.
    "Are we leaving?"
    "Yes, son," said the man, "We have a great journey ahead of us." With this, the man put the lute's strap over his shoulder and hoisted himself from his perch. The boy was saddened by the ceasing of music, but his curiosity had grown.
    "Everyone calls me Aaron," said the boy, "What's your name?" The man looked warmly at the boy.
    "My names are many, and many lost," he said, "Azriel was one, but now my name is Bard." Silence took hold of the two, and it was the boy who broke it:
    "You call me son...Are you my father?" The man smiled again, this time to hold back tears of his own.
    "Yes," he said, "To you and many others." The man hefted the boy to his feet, patted his head, and looked into his innocent eyes.
    "Take my hand, son," he said, "We haven't much further to go." The boy slipped his little hand into the lithe one of the bard. The two walked from the fire, from the life it brought. This shepherd and his ward walked into the black of the night and the white of the snow, not to be seen again.