The custom went thus:

On the eve before the Summer Solstice, the people gathered.

In certain places scattered around the world - each with their own particular tale to make it a place worthy of the ritual - the people of the Russet Kingdom, wherever they happened to be wandering, gathered to mourn the fallen of the past year.

It was easy enough to see who had come alone - those with no partner dressed in black and white, while those with companions dressed in one color or the other; and, after a short while of observation, he noticed that what groups there were always consisted of an even number.

Each person brought with them a pair of candles.

"Black," Catherine murmured in explanation as he handed her each one from the pack at her feet. "For the sorrow of parting, and to burn away the dark memories left behind. And white, for the joy of remembrance."

Time passed, and midnight drew closer; at some unseen signal, almost as one, they all began gathering on the cliff’s edge, staring out over the starlit waters calm and deep, a distant rustling far below their feet. The candles were lit, a line of golden stars blooming into existence up and down the coast, and the vigil began.

For one hour, as the old night turned over into the new, the candles burned.

There seemed to be a hierarchy of dedicacy - those who were here simply here to “pay their respects” out of obligation did little more than huddle together on the grass or the rocks, haphazardly placing their flames beside them and speaking in low murmurs; others stood for ten minutes, a quarter hour, before relenting and placing their candles (and theirselves) on the ground; and then there were those who, whether infirm or hale as the sea itself, stood the entire hour, candles held aloft and lovingly offered to the sky, the faint summer breeze teasing sparkling trails of gold into the air, tracing constellations of an intensely personal sort for each bearer.

The golden dust was the departed’s path to release, the folk of old said. They needed to be set free, so that they may enjoy the Solstice with no pain, and from there move into whatever new world life had to offer them.

Catherine stood unmoving throughout, watching the skies and the twisting glitter with an intense sadness. He heard soft tears and unintelligible praying; faint, sorrowful laughter; someone recounting a string of memories to the moon and the ghosts. The breeze wound itself tighter around the group, lifting skirts and hair and spirits; as if those who had passed were there, sharing their gratitude, letting the entourage know that what they did was not in vain.

He reached out to gather her hair back, away from the swiftly lowering flame, and caught Catherine’s eye for the first time in nearly an hour - green, not masked as she so often did in public - and she smiled.

It was faint, and fleeting, but it was enough.

_{Featuring Malcolm, the OC of Owlion}