The Ritual

	There it is.

	A small caravan travelling through the woods had hurriedly reported this disturbance to you. After all, they saw you all trussed up in that stupid golden sash and knew from a mile away that you could help them. Or, at least, they thought. You don’t really know what you’re doing, but nevertheless it sounds too serious to simply allow it to pass unexamined.

	Deep in the forest, there’s a little black pillar of smog. You can hear strange whispers passing by your ears on the cold autumn breeze, and the whole forest has fallen into a dead, almost hollow silence around it. As you draw closer, drawing your gun slowly and cocking the hammer, you can see more detail in the smog. A seemingly depthless black instead gives way to forms; arms, hands, reaching and swirling towards the night sky. There is absolutely no sound in this ritual but for nearly imperceptible ethereal whispers.

	You don’t really recognize the kind of magic in use.

	Still, you approach. Your fingers flex tightly around your weapon, and your hand trembles just slightly. What manner of witchcraft is this that a researcher such as yourself can’t even recognize it? What manner of nefarious… things… could be going on here? … What were you doing again…?

	Oh. Right. You shake your head a bit, your gun nearly dangling from your limp fingers. You’re getting intensely drowsy; the whispers are beckoning you into slumber. Alarmed, of course, under the assumption that any sleep might result in your dreams being pulled open by the prying fingers of some forest-hag, you fire a shot through the smog, a loud crack shattering the consummate silence of the forest. You aim a bit high up, in the hopes that you don’t hit whoever’s inside.

	As soon as the bullet passes through it, it pulls the entire cloud with it, scattering it into the breeze. The whispers come to a stop, and in its midst is a strange… thing. You look at it, but its form doesn’t really register in your mind. It’s dark, festooned with strange little decorations and jingling trinkets and loose garments.

	“Well, what was that for?” it merely asks, its voice playfully quizzical and unconcerned with the firearm in your hand. “That was very rude. You startled me and threw me off my rhythm!”

	“Wh… what? What do you think it was—… what are you doing out here? It doesn’t look very good, if I’m being honest,” you say. You try to project your voice like a lawman of sorts, like you have any sort of authority. Based on the tittering, kind laughter the form gives, it doesn’t work so well.

	“What was I doing? Well, look at you! You’re wearing a golden sash, so shiny and bright that it ought to reflect all the time you spent researching my works. Or, well, our works. Shouldn’t you know?” it says, tilting its head.

	“… Just answer the question, please,” you sigh. Of course, those useless travellers don’t question your knowledge, but when it could actually be of use to seem like an authority figure, suddenly you’re feeling quite small.

	“Hmm. Okay. I was just casting a spell!”

	You look down. Scattered around its criss-cross knees are all sorts of ritual implements. It is perched upon a stone, which it has carefully smoothed out and rubbed charcoal into. Concentric circles; at the top of each, an eye in different stages of closing, until the last, closed eye is shown with a little glowing white dot on the eyelid.

	You recognize the symbol. That of the Lucid One.

	“… I can tell as much, miss. What were you trying to cast?”

	“Well… this world has been very restless as of late. I thought it could use a little sleep. Don’t you feel it? The sky is always trembling, those storms are rolling in so much more often now. There’s an anxious charge in the air and the animals are all so paranoid. Some nights, when I stand veeeeery still, barefoot, on some loose soil… I can feel something shifting beneath my feet,” it explains.

	You’re stunned. “I—”

	“So I just thought we could all use a little rest! The Light of Judgment has been so harsh upon us lately. The nights have been short as ever, even as the winter comes. The Architect hesitates to leave its creation be even for so little as one, long, restful night. And the night is important! It’s a time when our minds can run free in the comforting isolation of a dream, away from prying judgment, constant watching, from each other, even. A place where we can recover from all the little cuts and thorns we endure just by existing. Most importantly of all… I imagine those who would burn in the Architect’s light are ever so tired now, seeking out dens and hideaways and holes for whatever little scraps of the dark they can offer. I weep for them.”

	It seems to forget that you’re there while it’s talking, almost as if it’s speaking to the stars above. But as soon as it remembers, it looks back to you, a pair of strange eyes looking straight into you. “Didn’t you feel it? Wasn’t it relaxing? Wouldn’t you like a moment to slow down… for the world to slow down? So that we can all breathe?”

	Quietly, you contemplate. You slide your gun back into its holster. Its offering is too tempting by far; you’re so tired of hiding from the sun, and the comfort of dreaming has been gone from your undead body for so long. You slump against the stone beneath it, ready to let come what may.

	“I’ll take that as a yes. And, by the way… I know what you are. I know you have earned the right to hide more than anyone else… and I know the best place of all.”

	Before you can process what it said, you are asleep. Its powerful spell resumes, and the shadow consumes you, the comfort of sleep claiming you quicker than it ever did even when you were alive.

	And when you arrive in your dream… the Lantern is not there.

	…

	You awaken.

	The night has passed. Your back aches, just a bit, and it takes you a moment to realize that it’s because you’d been sleeping propped upright against a solid stone. You drag yourself to your feet and look around… the forest is quiet in the cool morning mist, but it’s not deathly silent as it was the night before. Oh… and there’s a little rabbit sitting right on that stone, in the center of the remains of the ritual circle. It’s calm and sweet as ever, enough that when you reach out to touch it, it doesn’t scurry off, only shoves its nose insistently against your hand.

	Everything just feels a little less tense, and for the first time in a year or more, you feel… rested. Awake. Aware.