A tradition of memory and hopes to help the fables make it through another year. A tradition fuelled by perhaps the things Won Bin had the least of. Memories of the past were his curse, and with such tremendous power they held, always prevailed against any type of hope he might have for the next year and all those to come.

Sitting  sideways in his window sill he glanced up at the dark night sky, the only light being the cigarette between his lips. There was barely any wind, only the faint rustle in his disheveled hair exposed it’s presence. He reached for the bottle of whisky, taking a long swig of it, before even daring to look over at the lanterns. With a distinct sound he placed the bottle against the wooden floor and stood up.

Red, wishes and hopes for the next year to come. What wishes had the exiled King even, or did he have none at all? The latter was the only thing that made sense to his mind. No wishes for anything that would never happen regardless how much he wished. Because as much as the white-bear ignores his own heart, he wishes to find back to the great man he once was. He longs for his country, his people, his children and his long lost love. But those are not wishes that will come true, and to the broken soul of the King of Ultima Thule, he dares not even utter them let alone think it. Thus, the red has no inscription on its sides. He lights it, the red light illuminating the area around him, he lifts a hand out the window and let’s it fly away.

White, regrets about the year that has been. And not just one flimsy year covers his memories in regret. It’s the decades of living in a mundane world that has etched more, and more regret into his flesh. Regret that has taken up his very being into the core of himself. White would have to be the toughest to send, to spend time on, for the fable. He stood before the window with the lantern in his hands, staring at it. The light reflected onto his face, and oh how grim he looked. It was due to these things his memories flooded his mind. His Queen and his children, whom had not been seen since the homelands.

"Hvorhen De måtte være mine nydeligste små, og deg min aller kjæreste dronning.."

His voice is barely above a whisper as the words of his mother tongue escaped and it catches himself by surprise. How many years had he gone by without even uttering a word of it and now here suddenly, while even calling for the ones he loved in the past, they come without him being able to control it. Unconsciously his grip on the lantern tightens. Without any further sound or remembrance he sends it blank up into the sky, harshly closing the window he grabs the whisky bottle off the floor. The dark haired man collapses  against the couch, frightened by his own words and action. Lifting the bottle up his lips, he drinks, drinks and drinks again.

Won Bin had one thing he needed to survive, and that was the knowledge that what once was must never be and never will.