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It has been twenty Midwinters since my mother died.

There were two reasons I always knew that my father never recovered from her death: the fact that he never remarried, and the look in his eyes during Midwinter. He would tell me stories about her, about the long-fallen Republic of Landis that she hailed from, about her sadness that Midwinter in Dalmasca features light rains, not snow.

Dalmasca still celebrates the holiday, however, but with a different sort of decorations. Rain-dancers, sun catchers and wind chimes replace the pine boughs, candles and gold bells of the northern regions. My father often told me how my mother hated the fact that, as queen, it wasn't proper for her to decorate her own palace. She finally came to a compromise with the servants, and privately decorated the royal chambers in a combination of Dalmascan and Landisian ornaments. Those decorations were hidden in the cellars, and survived the Archadian occupation. I'll have the servants bring them back out, and see if any of the older ones remember how my mother used to decorate. There are none left alive who remember, save them.

It has been three Midwinters since my father died.

I had little time to celebrate Midwinter during the first two years. The Resistance had no use for celebrations; it was simply another day of planning, of preparing. We talked of an attack on the palace during Midwinter, when the security would no doubt be lax, but the idea was too painful for us all. The idea of a battle on a holiday so strongly associated with joy and innocence was repulsive. Instead we stayed in our hidden base, mourning our dead and our lost freedom. None of us pretended at joy.

It has been three Midwinters since my husband died.

The memory of celebrations with Rasler are more potent, more painful. The Royal Family of Nabradia often visited us in Dalmasca during the winter months; occasionally, my father and I would travel to Nabudis. Either way, I have fond memories of games of seek-and-find, tag, and let's-pretend with Rasler and his cousins. And only a few years after we had outgrown those games, our engagement was formally announced to the people on Midwinter. Our gifts to each other that year were our rings and engagement vows. I remember how proud and happy our parents were, to see their children and kingdoms united. How could any of us have known that, less than a year later, I would be the sole survivor of both families?

Every year, I have counted Midwinters in years since someone has died. Even as a child, when I was too young to miss my mother or notice my father's melancholy, I could always tell something was wrong with this time of year. And I as I grew older, as I realized the terrible emptiness of not  having a mother, as my father grew more reclusive, I understood what was wrong. When you've lost someone, you always miss them during the holidays. And their absence overshadows everything.

It is the first Midwinter without Balthier.

I cannot say he is dead, because I do not know what has become of him. And it is too painful for me to accept that he has died. To lose another person I cared for... it is too much to bear. So I live in denial and refuse to accept what everyone else must know. I will not believe that he and Fran died on the Bahamut. I cannot.

I have no Midwinter memories with Balthier; the few months we spent together were late spring and summer, far removed from this holiday. But I can dream... and I dream that he will return, alive and well, bearing no gifts but that of himself. And the knowledge that he is alive would be gift enough.

For him to return... for any of my lost ones to return to me and banish my loneliness, even for this one day, would be a true miracle. But I have lost my faith in both miracles and gods, and no ghosts appear to comfort me this night.

"Your Majesty?"

I turn towards the door where Willeth is carefully peering in. "Majesty, the feast begins soon. Are you prepared?"

I nod and turn from the window, where Bahamut tears a jagged black gash in the horizon. "Yes, of course." A smile appears on my face as I reach the door, and the light of the hallway.

It is the first Midwinter I will pretend to be happy. I expect to count many more.