The flames licked greedily at the logs, snapping and cracking like bones between gleaming teeth.

"’More light!’ were Goethe’s last words, presumably." He held out his glass, nodding appreciatively at the crimson swirl of a ’64 Domaine de l’ Eglise.

"And he provided the world with its share, teaching us the art of a phrase."

A sip of the wine and a glance at the fire.

"Browne: ‘The sun itself is but the dark simulacrum, and light but the shadow of God.’"

"Simulacrum?"

"An effigy, a superficial likeness or semblance."

The glass stem twisted easily between fingers. "Ah, yes. And we have so much of that in the world. Confusion of principle, and truths that are regrettably not for all men, nor for all times. Wretches we are, centered only in ourselves."

They were silent, staring at the flames. "’So, while the light fails, on a winter’s afternoon, in a secluded chapel, history is now…’"

"Eliot?" A nod, sadly.

"Does it seem dimmer, or is it merely that we grow older, acquainted as it were with nights of sorrow and doubt?"

He poked at the logs, and a flurry of sparks erupted in protest.

"’I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven.’"

"As bad as that?"

A faint smile, and a slow shaking of the head.

"’…for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.’"

Their glasses caught the light as they met.

"Merry Christmas, my friend."

A soft laugh.

"And God bless us, everyone."