The Lantern March

In the land once known as Carovingia, it was long tradition to hold a Lantern March on the night of Wintermas - the longest night of the year. The lanterns were carried by the children of each community, and their flames represented the souls of those who had passed during the year. As they walked, the children sang hymns to God in Heaven, imagining the departed joining the Divine Choir in eternal song. The Lantern March (La Marche des Lanternes) was a celebration of faith and family, and one of the most cherished observances of the year. After the march, the children would receive presents at the church, given in the names of those who had passed into Heaven, followed by a midnight feast to honor both God and the souls now part of the Divine Choir.

In 1803, that ended. In that year, King Antoine the Fair revealed himself as the Little Dragon, leader of the Cult of the Leviathan. He had long prepared for this moment, and acolytes of Leviathan already held positions of power across the kingdom of Carovingia. Many who had been believed to be good and upstanding citizens - including members of the clergy - were unmasked as cultists. The people of Carovingia were presented with a choice: join the Cult, forsaking the hope of Heaven in exchange for earthly power should the Cult prevail, or become martyrs - sacrificed on the altars to fuel the occult rites of Leviathan's worshippers. That year, there was no Lantern March. No Wintermas. No celebration at all.

And so it was for thirteen years. Many joined the Cult rather than die, and the Little Dragon's armies were filled with converts and monsters. Ritual sacrifices were held across the country, and Carovingia turned the magic they summoned against their neighbors - cursing them and their lands before marching across the continent. Nation after nation fell before the invasion, and the knives were never idle. The Empire of Albion managed to halt the advance with its armies of Taloi and other constructs, aided by artifacts obtained through bartering with the Sidhe Courts - but even then, they could only force a stalemate. The war ended only when the Living Gods of the Mu Confederation joined the conflict. The Little Dragon was defeated and destroyed by a great stone called down from the skies upon Carovingia's capital, obliterating all within its walls.

After the War

After Carovingia's defeat, the nation was carved into four pieces and placed under the rule of its enemies. The war had devastated the population, with more than two-thirds of the surviving children left as orphans. In many cases, even those with living parents lost them - either to the courts, which tried them for war crimes and blasphemy, or because they fled the executioners and disappeared, leaving their children behind. In Arvoringia, the portion of Carovingia governed by the Empire of Albion, the children were gathered into enormous orphanages, administered by the Church of Albion.

Many who worked in the orphanages had lost family and friends in the war, and made no secret of their anger and grief in front of the children. The orphans were told in detail of their parents' crimes and the fate of their souls. Some caretakers implied - others outright stated - that the children themselves bore the stain of those sins, and would have to struggle to overcome it, if that were even possible. The institutions were overcrowded and underfunded, and even the kindest staff were sometimes gripped by fear and suspicion, worried that the children might carry the beliefs of their forebears and become seeds of a reborn Cult.

No one recalls who first suggested reviving the tradition of the Lantern March in 1816. In retrospect, it was a poor idea - but those who planned it believed it might help restore the old ways to the children. Some among them had witnessed the marches before the war, particularly the Carovingians who had fled the Cult and worked against it during the war years. To them, the Lantern March seemed the very antithesis of the Cult's practices - pure, beautiful, and devoted to God in Heaven. The plan was approved by the newly appointed Archbishop of Dises, and preparations for the March were made across Arvovingia.

The children listened carefully to the instructions they were given, and none asked questions. They knew better. They were dressed in the finest clothing that could be found for them - clean, at least, since they had washed it themselves. They practiced the hymns they were to sing and clutched their lanterns close. None had seen the Lantern March before, and few had even heard of it - but they had long since learned the consequences of disobedience.

The Darkened March

On Wintermas night, the March began. At first, it seemed to be going well. The children sang, carried their lanterns, and walked in orderly lines. The adults who had organized the March quietly congratulated themselves and looked forward to the feast planned for later that night.

Then the lanterns began to go dark.

To this day, the children insist it was not a coordinated action. But in every group participating in the March, at least one child chose to extinguish their lantern. Once the first light went out, the others saw it, understood, and followed. Within minutes, entire columns of children marched in silence and darkness, their unlit lanterns swinging quietly as they walked the road.

They bore no lights for their dead - for their souls were not in Heaven. They sang no songs, for their elders were not welcome in the Divine Choir. They would walk the path laid before them, for they had little choice - but they would not, could not, ignore the lessons they had been taught. Their families were tainted, and the souls of their dead had not ascended. They had been consumed by Leviathan.

The caretakers watching were aghast. Some believed it was proof that the children were scions of evil; others found they could not argue with the children's decision. It was, after all, exactly what they had taught them.

With darkened lanterns, the children marched into the churches of Arvoringia. The presents - what few there were - were handed out, met with solemn and unenthusiastic thanks. The feast was eaten in silence, and they returned to the orphanages in darkness. That night, once the children were asleep, the caretakers gathered and agreed: they would never again attempt to revive La Marche des Lanternes.

A New Tradition

But the children had other ideas. In 1817, there was no official march, no preparations. No feast, no presents, no plans. And still, the children marched. They carried whatever lanterns they could find. They did not light them. They did not sing that year. But they marched to the churches and sat in the pews.

The caretakers tried to stop them, but they would not be stopped.

It became a symbol to them - that they could walk into the church if they chose, that they could carry the darkened lantern. The tradition had changed, but it was not gone. And it would not be taken from them.

In the thirteen years since, the March of the Unlit Lanterns has evolved - but it has not stopped. The children have grown older, and many have rejected the idea that they bear the guilt of their parents. They sing now - but not hymns. They sing songs of life and love, of youth and freedom, of beauty in the face of darkness. They sing of who they want to become.

They no longer march to the churches, but they march. They march to the ruined mansions, to the empty and decaying villages, to the graveyards where their ancestors - but not their parents - are interred. There, they hold a feast of their own and give gifts to one another. They dance, and make love, and declare themselves alive, and young, and unwilling to bear the weight of another generation's sins.

They are bright young things, and they will shine more brilliantly than any lantern, even if they burn away to ash before the sun rises.