The Devil in the Mist

The midnight mist fits like a second skin around the mysterious figure walking along the dark pathway. His attention is so entirely focused on his inner turmoil, he fails to appreciate the unearthly beautiful, if foreboding garden bordered on both sides with thorns and thistles. In the far distance is the silhouette of the menacing castle which he had come to despise.

The cloaked form walked with a purpose, imposing, ominous and determined. There was no doubt that his destination was the faintly lit structure rising as if in reverence to the mist laden sky.

.......

Within the garden behind the old mansion, out of sight of prying eyes - another, equally perplexing and peculiar man sits brooding, a curious Raven perched on a high branch above his head. The dark fog-like haze lifts, revealing a strange midnight garden tea party...an occurrence both dreamlike and eerie.

Both men had a presentiment of fate hanging over their countenances...for a meeting between the two had been long written by the weaving of the loom.

The Raven and the Man Behind the Manor

The wind clawed at the hedgerows, the likes of a beggar at a locked door. Thunder rolled across the moor, low and deliberate, as if the sky itself were brooding over old sins. At the edge of the estate, where the gravel path curved behind the manor, a single lantern flickered beside a wrought-iron table, freshly laid out for tea. Upon this fateful chair of destiny, sat Lord Altham, his gloved hand steady around a porcelain teacup, steam curling like ghosts from its rim.

He did not flinch as the raven landed on the stone balustrade nearby, its eyes glinting with uncanny intelligence. It croaked once, a sound like a cracked bell, and Altham gave a faint nod.

“He’ll come,” he murmured to the bird, “as he said he would. And I shall not hide.”

The raven tilted its head, as if considering the weight of those words.

Years ago, Altham and Cedric Vane had been inseparable...two young heirs galloping across the countryside, dreaming of empires and poetry. But ambition is a blade that cuts unevenly. A failed venture, a forged signature, and a scandal buried beneath polite society had left Cedric ruined. He had vanished into the fog of exile, his name mentioned only in cautionary tales.

Now, decades later, vengeance had found its voice.

A figure emerged from the trees, soaked and silent. Cedric’s coat hung like a shroud, and his eyes burned with the kind of fury that had fermented too long. In his hand, a dueling pistol...antique, ceremonial, but deadly still.

Altham did not rise.

“You kept the raven,” Cedric said, his voice hoarse. “Just like the one that used to perch on your father’s shoulder. Always watching.”

“It’s not the same bird,” Altham replied. “But it remembers.”

Cedric stepped closer, the pistol trembling slightly. “You stole everything. My land. My name. You let me fall.”

“I let you choose ruin,” Altham said, calmly sipping his tea. “You forged my seal. You gambled with debts you couldn’t pay. I covered for you until I couldn’t. You know that.”

Cedric’s hand tightened. “You could have saved me.”

“I did. For years. But you wanted more than saving.”

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the two men in stark relief...one cloaked in wealth and regret, the other in wrath and rain.

The raven let out another cry, louder this time, and Cedric flinched.

Altham stood slowly, placing the teacup on the table. “If you must shoot, do it. But know this: revenge is a poor inheritance.”

Cedric raised the pistol, his breath ragged. But something in Altham’s gaze - unflinching, mournful, resolute...stayed his hand. The storm paused, as if holding its breath.

Then, with a cry of anguish, Cedric hurled the pistol into the darkness. It landed with a splash in the garden pond, swallowed by lilies and time.

“I came to end you,” he whispered. “But I see now...you ended long ago.”

Altham nodded. “So have we both.”

The raven took flight, its wings slicing through the night like a final signature on a damning letter. Cedric turned, about to vanish into the trees, where he would only be remembered as footprints and the scent of wet earth.

Altham called out his name, "Cedric, please wait". The large man, his head hung low...did not pause.

"Cedric...Stop"!

His old friend's voice caught in his throat...he heard pain, regret and something more...Loneliness.

Cedric stopped walking. Altham caught up to him. They each stood, uncomfortable, awkward...memories of friendship and better times washed over them.

Both men broke down in tears, their feud forgotten...at least for now. Altham grasped his shoulders...gesturing towards the table.

"Come Cedric, let us have some tea. We should talk, it has been a while and I have been a lonely old man, filled with regrets, for a very long time".

Cedric sighed.

"And I have been tired, old and weary for a much longer time". They both laughed gruffly...familiarity a friend remembered.

They talked until day began to dawn...

Cedric’s Exile: The Hollow Years

After the scandal, Cedric Vane vanished from the circles of nobility. He wandered first to the northern coast, where the cliffs were sharp and the wind unforgiving. There, he lived in a crumbling cottage once owned by a retired sea captain, trading stories for shelter and whiskey. The villagers called him “the gentleman ghost,” for he spoke little and walked with the air of someone who had once mattered.

He kept journals...hundreds of them...filled with sketches of ravens, cryptic poems, and letters never sent. In one, he wrote:

Years passed. Cedric became a myth among smugglers and poets. He learned to carve wood, fashioning miniature ravens from driftwood and coal. He would sell them, left others on windowsills, in graveyards and on the steps of churches. Some said he was trying to summon something. Others said he was trying to forget.

But he never did.

The Raven: Memory, Guilt, and Witness

The raven had first appeared in their youth...a wild creature that nested in the manor’s bell tower. Altham’s father believed it was a sign of wisdom, and often said, “The raven sees what we bury.” It became a symbol between the boys: a secret sentinel, a shared metaphor for their ambitions and fears.

After Cedric’s fall, the raven vanished. But Altham, in quiet defiance of fate, raised another...tamed it, fed it, taught it to perch on his shoulder like his father’s had. It became his companion, his conscience, and perhaps his penance.

To Cedric, the raven was a reminder of betrayal. To Altham, it was a reminder of truth.

When Cedric returned, the raven’s presence was no accident. It was a silent witness to their reckoning, a living echo of the past. Its cries punctuated their confrontation like a tolling bell, neither condemning nor forgiving...only remembering.

Altham invited him to stay and rest at least for one night. He had a whole rambling house where he lived alone with just the raven and an aging couple to take care of the house for him.

Maybe they could work out their differences, grow old and die as friends again.

Cedric was exhausted. He did not want charity...but his bones could use some kindness.

They poured another cup of tea, and faced the fast fading dawn.