We trudged up the hill in complete silence. The snow fell steadily around us, soft, perfect flakes, twirling about each other in their languid dance downwards, each glowing performer accentuated by the darkness surrounding them. There were five of us walking together, our march, though steep, seemed to be not in the least bit tiring and I felt in the air a generally camaraderie between us.

Though I was unsure of who any of these men I was with were, I knew that I shared special bonds with each of them that had culminated in this very night. We were all wearing tuxedos and I was vaguely aware of the fact that we were part of a wedding party. Which one of the men the groom was, I’m unsure, but he was among the group. So often I find myself coming to in situations like this; filling the heads of people in important moments, and I with no way to make heads or tails of the situation, merely moving along with things looking for some context to hold onto.

The path we were climbing was winding and narrow, the dark grey/blue mountain provided a contrast to the fallen snow that defined our walkway. As we rounded what I was soon to learn was the final corner, I came into view of one of the most amazing views that I’ve ever seen in my life. A climbing series of hills laid out before us, snow covered fields moving off to either side stretching into the blackness, eventually gave way to a small village nestled into the mountainside with a huge, gothic castle as its center point.

The buildings of the village were angular and artistic in design, though they lacked any special ornamentation. Ranging from closely packed brick housing blocks to what, in my mind, equated to the small villas you’d find in places like Sweden, all wooden and provincial, they situated themselves below the castle, whose long thin spires rose threateningly above the town. I say threateningly, because though everything felt serene and calm to me in this place, there was something possessive about the presence of the castle. I would almost go so far as to say that something sinister existed beneath the placid surface of the scene before me. Unfortunately I’ve been unable to find out what that is yet. The castles towers all ended in sharp stabbing peaks that you could almost imagine piercing the sky.

It was right about now that I realized the hushed silence that had pervaded the entire experience thus far. In observing what this lack of sound sound is, I have only been able to equate it with early morning or late night outdoors in Colorado during a snow. The snow on the ground and in the air mutes all sound so that everything seems to be at rest, only the silence is not complete, for the air itself is making an indescribably comforting background noise. What you hear is the sound of each piece of snow hitting the ground, or tree branches, or roof, or your head and coat. Alone, this wouldn’t be enough to hear, but thousands and thousands of instances of it at once create a sound that brings out feelings of warmth, safety and happiness in me every time that I hear them.

There are no lights in any of the buildings, nor in the castle. The only illumination comes from the regularly placed spotlights at the base of the city. They shine up over the village and plant their circles of light in various places on the face of the castle. As a result the city itself is bathed in incredibly bright, white light, which cascades down the hills towards us, becoming almost non-existent by the time it reaches our position.

After standing and taking this scene in for some time, we all begin to trudge to the top of the first hill and then slide down it on our slick black shoes. I can see that everyone is hooting and hollering, but the calming non-silence of the night is not broken by any of the sounds we make. I take my turn climbing to the top of the hill and sliding down. As I begin my descent I fling my arms out to my sides as if they were wings and the tails of my coat fly out behind me as I shoot to the bottom, where everyone is waiting for me, smiling and laughing. This goes on for some time, the five of us, dressed in our finery sliding down the hill, and eventually beginning to wrestle each other to the ground and toss around snowballs.

Soon though, somehow, it becomes clear that the bride is coming. I learn, by the sudden appearance of a photographer, with one of the large old style cameras, with the black cloth that you place your head under, and the flash that you hold up above you and burn with a flame.

After his appearance, what else becomes clear is that she is not to know that I’m there. Although it seems to me, that these men are like brothers to me, but for some reason, I’m to be excluded in certain parts of this ceremony for the sake of the bride. So, I won’t be in the wedding photos.

I walk a ways downhill from the group and sit on a black stone bench, my elbows resting on my thighs, my hands clasped in front of me.

The bride walks up to the group from off in the darkness. Her dress is huge and flowing, drifting behind her in the snow. Her hair is dark brown, almost black. Her high cheekbones, sharp almond eyes and delicate full lips capture my attention as she makes her way to the wedding party and photographer.

I pull a pack of cigarettes and silver zippo lighter from the inner pocket of my coat and begin to smoke as the group positions itself for the photographer. The way that he is shooting them, the town and castle will appear in the background, above the heads of my friends.

I wonder for a while why it’s important for her to not know of my presence, not once wondering why I seem to have been made invisible by walking thirty feet away and sitting down. As I watch my friends take picture after picture, an idea of what has occurred to make things this way begins to take form in my mind…