Disclaimer: Hello! Mozenrath does not belong to me. I'm not making any money off of this, and all that jazz. Image on this page was adopted from Sunshiney Cyber-Adoptions. Banner at bottom of page.

Dedication: This is dedicated to my computer class, for constantly playing Christmas music and inspiring this story. And to Terry Pratchett, since Hogfather was a major influence!

A Yule Tale

Ah, the witching hour is almost upon us, is it not? The fire is beginning to die, and I see the feast is done. The young and unwed are coupling off together, and the elders draw close to the warmth. Why do you crowd around me, children? Ah, to hear your old auntie tell you a tale? Yes, yes, of course. Before the new day begins, you say? Hmm. We have the time. And what shall I tell you of?

You wish to hear a tale of Yule? And of love? And loss? And evil, and good? Well, that's only fitting since the Yule time is nearly upon us. Will the sun come up tomorrow? You and I know it will, for we will keep the fires burning. But what if once, the sun did not rise? What if when the Yulesnight was done, there was only darkness?

This won't happen, you say? The sun will always rise; no matter if there are fires are feasting, or dancing or praying. Really? Well, I'll tell you a Yule's tale then. One that happened many, many years ago. Before my grandmother came to live among our people. You know her story? No! Why children, there is so much to tell...

Her name was Beauty, and she dwelled in the desert, in a dead land. When she was a little girl, many people lived in the city, and servants came and went from the great castle on the cliff. But then the old Lord was killed, and no one came out of the castle anymore save for the walking dead. Many left in that dark time, when the young lord claimed his throne and brought despair to the city of Necra. But Beauty remained, forgotten by parents who had too many children to keep good track of.

There were others who stayed, as well. The destitute, the poor, the unowned. The very dregs of society. Their lord did not even know they dwelled beneath his rein, for they came out only under cover of darkness. It was here that Beauty grew to womanhood, in the shadow of evil. But she remained untouched, pure and innocent as she had always been. Never did she once think to leave, for where would she go? This city had been her home since her birth, and she had played among the crumbling buildings as a child. Her lungs knew no air but the cold, stagnant air of Necra, and no sky but the silver sky over the dead city.

And yet, he was strangely happy. She was named well, and her beauty kept her alive. A warm smile would keep her sheltered, and a few, more personal favors would keep her fed and clothed. She knew no other life but the one she had, wild and free among the degradation. Her days were simple, wandering the vacant streets and empty buildings. But let us leave her now, for her life now is simple…

The same traditions are held throughout the known world, more or less. The winter time is a time for the earth to begin to die, to sleep the sleep that will refresh, and rejuvenate. The people of every land, every kingdom, honor this time. And it was in the city of Necra that the hearth fires were kept burning on that longest night, to ensure that the earth would live through that first night of death sleep.

Earth magic is powerful magic. You may believe that the sun will rise, and the earth will breathe, and the stars will shine on despite what we mortals do. But that is not true. The Earth Mother is a spirit, and even spirits can die. But Earth magic is tame magic, common magic. It is the magic possessed by all peoples. The song to welcome to the new day, to send a spirit to the final resting place, that is earth magic. It's simplicity is it's gift to us, but also, it's flaw.

Let me speak now of the lord of this place. He came into power by usurpation, harnessing the dark arts to overthrow his master. But what can a boy of sixteen know of power, of ruling? And what can he know of dark magic, wild magic that asks a price not many will pay? The answer is nothing. This boy, not that much older than Beauty, knew not the scope of what he had done. For the old lord was a powerful sorcerer, and kept many items of magic in his palace. One of these: the gauntlet of Acateria.

A powerful thing, evil in its creation and its use. A living object, cursed and haunted by evil spirits from the darkest depths of hell. It's magic is the magic of the mind, of pain. It is a siren, with a deadly song to seduce any with the strength to wear it. And the boy had the strength.

His name was Mozenrath, and he came from a distant land. A dark island, in the Black Sea was the home of his ancestors. He came to the city of Necra as a slave, and was taken into service of the old lord. The boy had strength, of both will and of power. The old lord saw that, and took the boy on as an apprentice.

It is a common misconception that all slaves long for freedom. In truth, slaves who are treated well want nothing to change. They are insured food, shelter and clothing. Freedom means starvation, and poverty. And Mozenrath had been born to a kind master, for most masters on the island of Manoa were. But even the kindest of masters will sell a slave for a high prince ,and Mozenrath soon found himself on a slave ship, bound for the desert lands.

He was still a child, not more then a decade upon this world when he made his ocean journey. And he was afraid. How could he not be? To go from simple days of preparing meals and sweeping furniture, to being chained in the galley of a great ship. Where was his kind master? His mother, his home? What hell was he being sentenced to? His hatred began there.

The slave markets of Necra were not pleasant. The auctions were hellish, for there were no laws preventing the mistreatment of slaves. When Mozenrath was brought to action, he was starving, dirty and near to death. Already he had been beaten many times, for no reasons he could fathom. And with every lash, his hatred grew.

It was his appearance that caught the old lords eye. The island people were pale of skin, and dark of hair and eye. Mozenrath was the classic example, with skin as pale as parchment, and thick black curling hair. His eyes were as black as ebony, and his frame was light and thin. The slaves of the desert were leather skinned, dark and brown. Their frames were muscular, and eyes of deep liquid brown.

It was his looks that caught the old lords eye, but his power that bought him his freedom. Even across those clamoring to buy slaves, the old lord could sense the power that was there. He paid five hundred dinar for the boy, an unheard of price for a malnourished house slave.

The lord was not a kind master. Though Mozenrath had no true slave duties, he was locked in his room at night, and fed bread rice and water. By day, the boy was kept to his studies, forced to memorize every passage of every book the old lord owned. At first, he rebelled. He had no desire for book-learning. He hated this dark place, and these strange people. But then he began to read what was in the books. Magic, incantations, cantrips of all levels of power. From the simplest illusions, to reanimation.

How foolish the old lord was, to fill a young boy already full of hate; with power! Mozenrath read all, and remembered. But spells require power, and even he at his young age was not strong enough for spells that would kill, or destroy. Had he been patient, his power would have grown with age, and his strength would have surpassed any sorcerer that ever lived. But youth has no patience, especially youth that yearns for vengeance.

Mozenrath kept a tight fist on his hatred, cultivating it, caring for it and nursing it as one might care for a garden, or a child. It grew with in him, and the old lord added to it daily. Mozenrath was beaten, if he failed to remember a lesson, or recite an incantation word for word. He was called lazy, ignorant, stupid. And every day Mozenrath deliberately made a mistake, so as not to seem suspicious. As I said, he was a bright boy.

And then he learned of what was held in the Citadel, for that was the name of the palace. The gauntlet, that was what intrigued him. It would enhance his powers. Ah, his revenge would come into fruition! The old lord was not cautious with his books, and it was easy for Mozenrath to find where the gauntlet was kept. The old lord kept journals, and notes. He knew no slave or servant would ever dare read them, but he didn't think of the boy. He believed the boy to be obedient, a broken slave beneath his lash.

Mozenrath was sixteen when he picked the lock of his room, and slipped into the darkened corridors of the citadel. He slipped along teh walls, to the dark, hidden door. He pulled aside the tapestry, and picked the lock. he crept down the pitch black stairwell, to the heavy black door. He heard the voices even then, whispering out from beneath the door.

They fed on his lust for revenge, and they promised him all he dreamed and more. It was as if the young man had gone into a trance, for he opened the door and crossed the black tiled floor to the pedestal without truly knowing what he did.

Abstractly, he saw the golden pedestal. Abstractly, he saw the gauntlet resting on it, still whispering in his mind. take us. The voices caressed his mind. We are all you need. We will give you everything, and we ask so little in return...

Mozenrath climbed teh stairs to the pedestal, and lifted the gauntlet in his hands. Teh voices rose to a crescendo, singing in his mind as he slid the heavy glove over his right hand. The voices were as tentacles, sliding about in his mind and taking root.

He felt the power surge through him. It filled every inch of him, turning his blood to fire and ice. His senses were heightened, every sight, sound smell and memory were sharp, and clear. Use us! The voices commanded, and Mozenrath obeyed. He climbed back up the stairs, his mind controlled by the voices. He walked as though sleeping, through the dark corridors to the chamber of his master, the old lord. And there he had his revenge, taking from the old man his life force.

But the gauntlet was not satiated. It hungered, and it would feast that night! Through the citadel they moved, glove and man, draining every living creature in the palace. Mozenrath knew not what he did, until the morning sun's first rays touched him, where he had collapsed in sleep on the great onyx throne.

Regret and horror seized him. What had he done? So many lives, so many souls... Twisted into creatures not living, but not allowed to die! The voices, fed, were quiet. They hummed in the back of his mind, content. He belonged to them now.

Soon, his heart turned to stone. No caring man could live with what he had done. In defense against the pain, he ceased to feel. Power consumed him, desire for even more power. It was the gauntlet's desire, but the man and the glove were no longer separate.

As his spirit died, so did the city. Clouds slid over the sun, causing the land to turn dark. Nearly all fled the city, for rumors of the slaughter spread like wildfire. Mist slid into teh nearly abandoned streets, and only the moon would shed it's light.

For a year, the gauntlet was content with what it had consumed. But soon, it hungered again. And it would not wait long. If life-force could not be had, it would feed on flesh. And feed it did. The skin on Mozenrath's hand, the skin touched by the gauntlet, began to bleed. And then it was gone. The gauntlet consumed it, in a slow and painful process. After another year, there was nothing but bleached bone beneath the cursed leather.

Mozenrath's lust for power began to take direction. He longed for the power to be stronger than the gauntlet, to harness it's power without paying the price.

But that power was not to be had.

A bargain struck is a bargain sealed, and Mozenrath could never harness the gauntlet, or be free of it. It was his skin now, a part of him. It's thoughts were nearly his own, and it hungered still. Soon, it began to feed on Mozenrath's life-force.

Desperate men do desperate things. Mozenrath knew he was dying, and that he could not stop it. The gauntlet would not be appeased, and would drain him of his soul, leaving him no better than his half-dead slaved.

Why do you stop me? Yes, I know this is supposed to be a Yule tale, it is! Now, hush and listen.

Mozenrath's mind was not clear, and he decided if was to die, he would not go alone. It was the time of the year that the nights were long, and the days short. The earth was preparing for her sleep, preparing to rejuvenate the world. And, if Mozenrath had his way, she would not wake up.

The sorcerer would not allow the world to continue without him. If he was to die, than the earth would die with him. Earth magic was nothing, a child's toy for Mozenrath. And he had the gauntlet's wild magic. With his last strength, he would invoke teh spell that would stop teh sun from rising. The preparation for that spell is a long and arduous undertaking, so we will leave Mozenrath to his tasks, and return to Beauty...

Beauty had grown tired of the city. She knew every nook and cranny, every alley way and abandoned building. And the castle in the cliff held her in thrall, for her eyes would turn to it every night, and watch as the moon hit the black surface, and seemed to disappear.

It was only a matter of time before she made her way to the castle door, and slipped past the Mamluk guards, into the dark Citadel. The fortress was dark and empty, and Beauty wandered the corridors, her eyes widening at the gothic beauty that surrounded her. So black, so stark, so dead was this place! Hatred seeped out of every wall, every black carving. But something drew her on.

Soon, she came to a tower. Teh stairs rose in a spiral, disappearing into darkness. Beauty, hesitating only momentarily, began to climb. She kept her head high, her eyes focused ahead of her. Soon, she came to the door. It opened easily, and she stood, transfixed.

Beauty was no fool. She knew the lord of Necra was a necromancer, a sorcerer of the dark arts. But she did not expect to see the evil symbol, drawn in some white powder that covered teh floor. She did not expect the fire, or the dragon's skull. She knew of the dark ways, and she knew of power. And she knew what would be invoked by that symbol.

The Citadel was not as empty as Beauty thought. The lord was at home, and he knew Beauty walked his halls. He stood behind her, silent as a panther, watching her watch the room. And then he coughed, a small dry sound.

Beauty whirled as if struck, her golden braid whipping around her slender face. Her eyes widened, for the eyes she looked into were dead, cold eyes.

"What are you doing?"

It was a simple question, but Beauty had no answer. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she gasped for breath.

"I asked you a question, girl. What are you doing here?"

Somehow, Beauty found the strength to speak.

"I was just looking, my lord."

"Looking? Whatever could you be looking for in here, might I ask?"

"Just...looking." Beauty repeated. She was well aware that any man who would wink out teh sun would kill her without a thought.

"I don't believe you. But..."

"I'm sorry, my lord." Beauty stammered. "I didn't mean any harm."

"Of course. Now, where did you come from?" Mozenrath had closed the door to the room, and left himself and Beauty in the hallway at teh top f the stairs.

"The city, my lord." Beauty answered, her gaze locked in those deadly, black orbs.

"The city? No one lives there."

"Some do." Beauty said. "Those who have no where else. Thieves, cutthroats, diseased."

"And which are you?"

"None." Beauty tore her eyes away from his. Blush colored her cheeks, and she stared at the floor.

"I see." Mozenrath said, and from his tone she knew he did. "And why are you here again?"

Beauty gulped. Her heart was a thunderstorm in her ears, and she felt as though she would cry.

"To ply my trade, my lord." Beauty gasped out. She raised her eyes, trying to look seductive. Mozenrath only chuckled. But Beauty was not turned out of the Citadel that night, or the next.

As I said, Beauty knew of what Mozenrath planned to do. And in the Citadel she knew why. In a sick way, it made sense to her. She knew Mozenrath was not as he should be, for he was cold and mechanical in all things, as no man should be. She knew what he wanted, but she couldn't allow it to happen.

She tried everything she could think of. She pleaded with Mozenrath, who only laughed in her face. She threw herself at his feet, tears streaming down her cheeks, but he dismissed her. Unbeknownst to her, he had begun to think. The gauntlet was assured of survival, and it had loosened its grasp. Bits of what was truly Mozenrath began to surface.

What was he doing? What would it serve? Why not just die, as he should have so long ago...But the gauntlet sensed these thoughts, and screamed in outrage, rooting themselves more firmly in his mind.

The longest night grew closer, and closer. Beauty stayed by Mozenrath's side, for in some strange way she had come to love him. She discovered among his journals the whole story, how he had become what he was. She felt for him, and for the man he could have become. But her words and tears would not sway him. She watched, on her knees as he ascended the tower as the sun went down on Yule's night.

The door was closed. he shut if behind him, and he looked for the last time upon the black sands, and the dark buildings. He shut tight the windows, and turned to the task of the spell. All was in readiness, and all that was needed now was for Mozenrath to invoke it.

He stood in the center of the evil symbol, and began to chant. He could feel the power it was taking, could feel the strain. He threw himself into it, for even the slightest waver would destroy the invocation.

Beauty would not stand by. She threw herself against the door, for she heard the chanting. She scratched at the wood, clawing at teh door. She could tell the spell was nearing completion, for the chanting was getting louder, more ragged.

The door opened. With a sigh, it gave and swung open. Beauty burst in, tears on her cheeks. Mozenrath stood in the center of the room, on his knees. His hands were thrown up, and his eyes stared ahead unseeing.

"Stop!"

Beauty screamed, her throat feeling raw. But Mozenrath did nothing, but continued his chanting. teh room was freezing, and seemed to glow black. Beauty could not enter the symbol, but stood at its side.

"Stop! I beg you, stop! Think what you're doing! You're killing everything! Every man, woman, child, animal on this world!" She sobbed the words out. "If you're to die, then die! But die with grace, with dignity! Throw off that cursed glove, and die as yourself! What will it matter, killing your slaves, your people...killing me!"

Beauty was never allowed into Mozenrath's mind. She as never allowed to know his thoughts, for he never wrote them or spoke them. But she could guess.

His eyes turned to hers, and suddenly the room was unbearably hot. It began to glow red, and the symbol erupted in fire. Mozenrath collapsed in the center of the symbol, his strength gone. Beauty leapt through teh flames beating them back as she went.

It was obvious Mozenrath had little time left. She knelt by him, and pulled his head onto her lap. He was pale, and his breathing shallow. But his eyes were open.

"Take it off." He hissed, and Beauty slid the gauntlet from his hand, tossing it far from them.

"It's all right." Beauty said, stroking his forehead.

"I'm dying." Mozenrath said. "But I die myself." He gasped, and looked into her eyes. Beauty met his gaze, tears welling as she saw the pain and hurt reflected there. She held his skeletal hand, not able to speak.

"Oh Gods, what I could have been!" He choked. "I see it now, I can see it all. What I gave up...I would have been great."

"You are." Beauty whispered.

"I am a monster. And you say you love me? I don't deserve your love."

"Yes, you do." Beauty held him close, and she tried very hard to choke back the tears. She would not let him see her cry, she would not let him see her weak. Not now.

"I...regret it all." He said. "But they never broke me. Not even now!" He gasped again, and Beauty knew he was nearly gone. He looked at her once more, his chest barely moving. "Tell everyone what happened here tonight. I die a clean man. My enemies will rest well knowing I burn in Tarturus."

"Don't talk." Beauty said, though she knew it would do no good.

"I could have loved you." He whispered, with his last breath. "I would have..."

And there among the fire and darkness, held in the arms of a woman who loved him, Mozenrath died. He died free of the gauntlet, for it had been flung into the fire and destroyed. The living dead were allowed rest at last, freed from their cruse. And the fire receded, and the sun rose the next morning, and the earth was reborn in it's proper time.

Beauty left that place with nothing but the clothes on her back. She laid Mozenrath in the royal tomb, and prayed that his soul would be rewarded for what he had done. She never returned to Necra, but she told all she met of what she had seen. And soon she came here, to our people, and was forced to stay.

For Beauty had taken something from Necra. A boy child, Mozenrath's son. And when he turned sixteen, she told to him this story. And when he took unto himself a wife, he told her the story. And when he had a child, and she turned sixteen, he told teh story to her.

And now I tell the story to you, for I am barren, and have no children. Mozenrath's line ends with me, but his story will live on. You will take this story and tell it to you children, and bid them tell it to theirs.

And I have told you a story that pleases you all. Now, the fire is nearly dead and the sun has nearly risen. I am an old woman, and I wish to rest. Perhaps, another day, I will tell you another story.