“I pledge my life and loyalty to Mercury, and to Babylon. I humbly request your aid, so that in return I may give you mine.” The words escaped Babylon’s mouth before he was properly ready to say them, but this time he was prepared. When he arrived on the windy mountaintop, he was already wearing his goggles.

Not seeing the older knight anywhere on the crest, the page turned towards the ancient city of Babylon. It glowed blue in the darkness, lit with tiny balls of light that shone too steadily to be fire. “What the hell?” he asked himself, and pulled his coat tighter as he headed down the trail.

He found the old man lighting streetlamps, taking tiny specks of light from an old railway lantern and feeding them into some kind of wick. Half the street was lit the same color blue that lined their uniforms. The other half was dark, awaiting light.

Babylon Page stood silent, watching his ancestor go about his task with total seriousness. When the he reached the end of the street, he gently closed the lantern and turned to look at the boy. “So I see you’ve managed to survive another month,” he said, sounding miffed.

Everything that the page had planned to say fled immediately from his mind. His mouth flapped uselessly for a moment, and then he said the first thing that came to mind. “What are you doing?”

The elder knight gave him a look like he had just asked the world’s dumbest question. “Lighting the lamps,” he said, hoisting the lantern in his hand to about eye level and crossing the street. He began again, opening a streetlight and coaxing a tiny blue spark into it.

Babylon Page followed, pushing against the wind. “But no one lives here!” he protested. “You’re the only person I’ve seen-“

His ancestor gave him a steely look. “How will the ghosts find their way home?” he asked with utter seriousness. Babylon Page blanched. The old knight moved on to the next streetlight. “We are at the base of the Caloris mountains,” he called, not waiting for Babylon to catch up. “It is a thousand kilometers long. The longest mountain range on Mercury. People die trying to cross it.”

He closed the lamp and moved on to the next. The page followed wordlessly. “I am Babylon,” said the old man. “He who lights the way.” He continued down the street. The page followed, struggling with words he knew he had to say.

“I’m Babylon, too,” he stammered, three lamps later. The knight gave him a look.

“Not yet, you aren’t,” he said coolly, guiding spark to wick.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” asked the page. “I said the oath. I’ve got, well, this.” He held up his glowstick, trying his best not to feel lame. The knight seemed to sneer at the weapon, his craggy features tugging upwards in derision.

“You cannot even light the lamps with that,” he said. The whole street now glowed with light. The knight hoisted his lantern to eye level once more and began to climb. The alleys here were stairwells, heading up the mountain. The city itself seemed more Safed’s twin than ancient Babylon, although the page bit his tongue to keep from saying so.

“I didn’t pick it,” he retorted, feeling personally offended on his weapon’s behalf.

“It is the knight of Babylon’s duty to keep the lamps lit,” said the old man, reaching the top of the stairs with surprising nimbleness. “To provide safe passage through the mountains, to shelter the lost and the hidden.”

This street was already lit. They crossed and continued the journey upwards. “To come to the aid of the royal house of Mercury when called upon,” continued the old man. “To keep the lamps lit, to drive back the dark and guide the lost.”

“I can do that,” asserted the page, not fully sure what he was saying. The old knight looked him up and down, messy hair and goggles and glowstick all forming one lackluster package.

“Not yet, you can’t,” he said. The page struggled for an answer, and Camelot’s advice came trickling back.

“No,” he agreed. “Maybe I can’t yet. But I will.”

This was met with a long, singularly nonplussed look from the knight. “Perhaps,” he said, but did not seem particularly cheered by the thought. The page had not prepared himself for such a response, and he spent the next street following the knight in silence as he lit the lamps.

“It’s not fire, is it?” he asked finally, as they climbed the next set of stairs.

“How astute,” drawled the knight. “It is the light of Babylon.”

“What’s that?” asked the page. The knight gave him a long-suffering sort of look, as if he did not like being interrupted on his rounds.

“There are many stories,” he said. “It is a drop of a blue star. The tear of a god. A gift from Cosmos herself. A piece of Mercury’s core. It burns without burning, consumes no fuel. The lamps may go out, but they are merely echoes. The lantern – the light of Babylon – glows eternal.”

The page held up his glowstick, seeking to regain some dignity for his weapon. “This never dims. It never goes out. It’s not a normal glowstick,” he asserted.

Again, the old knight seemed to sneer. “Then perhaps you have been given a small piece of our light. But that does not mean you are its proper guardian.”

Babylon felt once more personally offended on behalf of his weapon.

“Perhaps,” the knight said. He gazed out over the glowing hillside below them, for they had climbed to the top of the city and could go no higher.

“Yes?” asked the page.

“Perhaps,” said the knight, “When you can light all of the lamps, you will be a proper guardian of Babylon. But no sooner.”

The page nodded, watching the city below glimmer in the wind and snow. He turned to speak to the knight, but the wind had picked up, and the old man was nowhere to be seen.

He looked back down to the city, and it was dark as if the lamps had been out for a very long time. The page gripped his glowstick closer and traced his fingers along the scar on his cheek. Strange things were afoot on Babylon.

The challenge had been posed: he would return, and he would light every single lamp, until the hillside blazed blue and Babylon beckoned all the lost souls home.

He was still thinking about this when he arrived back in his bedroom, and his dreams were painted cyan.