A/N: I've had an incredibly difficult time writing this next section of the story. I knew where I needed to go, but just couldn't figure out how to get there. I think I rewrote what happens after the night on the balcony about four times. Finally, I gave up and decided to break what was going to be one huge mammoth chapter into numerous pieces, two of which I'm posting today. I've called this "Prologue II" because nothing really happens here. We're about halfway through the story, but there's going to be some radical shifts in tone, temporal geography, and characters in the second half, and I figured this was a good time to do a second "mini-prologue." Things after this are going to be pretty much all plot, which I'm excited about, because the one thing I've wanted to add more of in this story is action. It's coming, hold on! This story is about to go into kick-ass gear, and I'm really excited about it. Expect another few weeks before the next update however. School is crazy and insane and there's just so much to do. Plus, the next chapter I post is going to be huge, both in scope and length, and I want it to be perfect. Sorry for the wait, I'm writing as often as I can!

Standard Disclaimers apply: The Dark is Rising sequence and all its characters belong to Susan Cooper.

PROLOGUE II

"There is no ideal Christmas; only the one Christmas you decide to make as a reflection of your values, desires, affections, traditions."

Bill McKibbon

Days passed, slow and lazy like spiced molasses. Outside the Davies home, snow drifted from the grey sky and piled upon evergreen branches until they curved heavily towards the white ground. During the night, great icicles grew slowly from the eaves and were knocked down with a clatter when the front door opened the following morning. Inside, a fire blazed and embroidered stockings were hung over a hearth. Christmas music played cheerfully from a CD player. The scrumptious odor of peppermint and cinnamon was everywhere. And Will Stanton said nothing of the incredible quest he had imposed upon the Davies children.

Or at least Peter supposed it was a quest he was on. He could think of no other name for it during the empty days that he sat before the snapping fire, trying in vain to finish his holiday homework. "Mission" seemed too sterile, too prosaic. Missions required maps and guns and super spy gadgets, not supernatural stones and immortal allies. There was a distinct difference.

The only problem was that Peter's own immortal ally remained cryptically silent on the subject of quests. He merely smiled in a friendly professorial manner and teased the children about expected Christmas gifts, as any good-natured uncle would. Peter found such behavior absolutely infuriating. And Annie, who had been expecting extraordinary things such as flying and swordfights and dragons – ("Well, why not dragons, Peter? What's wrong with having dragons?") – grew fretful and impatient. She would sit for hours in an armchair, her eyes glued to the white pages of a book, and not turn a single leaf. When she would finally stand up with a sigh, the skin around her fingernails would be more ragged than usual, and her eyes seemed a little brighter than they should be.

Meanwhle, the Davies and their visitor did all the normal holiday things. They visited the frozen waterfall, went shopping downtown, and agonized over what Christmas tree to get from the local farm. Bran Davies even convinced a reluctant Will Stanton to try the local ski slopes. "Don't tell me you're scared, Stanton," he had joked when Will had first demurred. "I mean, if the academic life has made you soft . . . well, we'll understand. But we will laugh at you."

Will had glowered at his friend. "Scared am I, Davies? I wouldn't say such things if I were you. Unless, of course, you think Peter and Annie would be interested in that youthful indiscretion involving . . . oh, what was it . . . guacamole? Oh, and the squirrel. Let's never forget that poor, unfortunate squirrel."

Bran had laughed, and Jane had choked on her hot chocolate, ruining her favorite white sweater. Peter and Annie begged to be let in on the joke, but their father insisted that the decision to divulge such secrets rested solely upon the discretion of the Heroically Fearless Literature Professor, who boldly went where no participle had gone before. But did he really think that such dastardly measures were necessary? Will, sufficiently placated, chuckled and remained smugly silent.

Bu the holiday's tranquility brought no peace. Even Annie's giggles as she watched Will windmill down the bunny hill contained an emptiness that couldn't be filled. The fireplace's crackling roar couldn't illuminate its darknesses. The most well-loved carols could overcome its silences. Peter, watching how Christmas lights cast a rosy radiance upon snowy tree branches, would be reminded only of other fires, still burning on the world's farther side.

For the nightly news remained grim. Every day, Muscharch's cried of vengeance for all the ancient wrongs visited upon Yeria grew more and more desperate. Sindal and the American President said they would destroy Yeria completely if Muscharch so much as hinted at throwing a burning match in their direction. The death toll from the bombing mounted, as those injured died from their wounds or from radiation poisoning. And there were rumors of vile things, of atrocities committed by the survivors – both Sindalian and Yerian – that defied description.

And Will Stanton said nothing.

Peter swung between despair and exuberance. Sometimes, he felt like the ship had sunk and he was floundering alone in the freezing night waters, waiting to drown. Other ties, he would see the quiet sternness that came over Will Stanton's feature in moments of solitude, and he would believe that anything was possible. The morning after Will had shown them a choking oily darkness, Peter had woken with an incredible word on his tongue, one which had danced through his dreams all night long.

Magic.

Will hadn't spoken it. And neither Peter nor Annie had asked him to name it. Nevertheless, the word followed Peter everywhere.

He would be doing the most tedious of tasks, like brushing his teeth. Suddenly, his head would whirl. He'd grow dizzy and balance himself against whatever flat surface was conveniently nearby. Was it really possible? Could glamorous things such as magic and immortals really exist in the same universe where he could feel the mundane roughness of wool sweaters against his arms and the furry taste of morning breath in his mouth?

They could. And they did. It was enough to make a guy crazy.

Only the upcoming Wraithfell Ceremony, a Christmas Eve tradition, promised any relief from the almost unbearable tension. As it approached, Annie's own restlessness dissipated and morphed into something much more practical.

Nerves.

Miss Annie Davies was the evening's featured singer, and her excitement and anticipation made her forget everything else, even dragons. Peter would lounge for hours upon the staircase and listed as she practiced, the singing interrupted only by her eager demands for criticism and praise. Oftentimes, Will joined them. The Old One would sit majestically in the red stuffed armchair and listen as the girl warbled away, a thoughtful expression on his plain features. Peter didn't know why he came, but it was nice to have even silent company during these impromptu rehearsals. Normally, he would have found Annie's incessant demands on his attention somewhat irksome. But his sister had real talent, as well as the imagination needed to make such a talent meaningful. Peter found it pleasant to lean back, close his eyes, feel the fire's warmth on his toes, and let her young voice dance dreamily in the back of his mind. He discovered that he was looking forward to the Ceremony almost as much as she was.

And so the days passed, slow and lazy like spiced molasses. The town of Wriathfell, crouched among snow-covered hills, slumbered under the winter sky and softly waited for Christmas Eve to come. Outside, the world strained and writhed under an unbearable pressure. Unease spread over the globe. Everywhere, there were people who felt something whisper within them, something invisible that stirred in response to an unheard call. Its coldness and darkness scared them, and they snapped at loved ones and began to ponder things which should have been unthinkable. Inside, a black-haired, blue-eyed girl practiced her song before her quiet older brother, who carried sadness around his shoulders like a blanket. And a man with blue-grey eyes and a face neither old nor young, who looked on the world and saw shadows everywhere, watched quietly over them both.