Christmas Day, 1952 ATTN: Everyone

[Havenshire]

OOC:
Well last year I had a somewhat successful Christmas Day roleplay, where everyone wrote about something that happened to someone on Christmas Day in their country. Generally the aim of this thread is to build up a rough snapshot of what December 25th means to everyone in our fictional world. Maybe clandestine christians are celebrating christmas in a basement in your country. Maybe its a huge party held by the monarch. Maybe its starving muslim beggars in a desert who have no idea it's even christmas. Maybe its soldiers just whiling away the cold hours. Whatever it is, I want to see it. Just post an RP, no less than 3 paragraphs. Only rule is that it has to be December 25th, 1952 in NSE.


IC:

December 25th, 1952

Re-education Camp 11, Northern Havenshire


Shivering in the intense cold, the line of prisoners straggled out at dawn's weary light. Their bellies rumbled. They were eager for food, any kind of food. It used to be they got fed like clockwork, twice a day at sunup and sundown. Now they were lucky if there was anything even at sunup. They took their bowls, clasped tightly between frostbitten fingers, some wrapped up in old scrounged rags. Those who had actual gloves were the toughest and strongest and oldest prisoners there. Anything that could ward off the cold was fought over almost as much as food itself was.

The Guards watched, bored, detached, occasionally slamming a riflebutt into a prisoner that walked too slowly. But their heart wasn't in it. It was too cold and too miserable a day. There wasn't even any snow, though plenty was forecast. It was just freezing rain and howling winds. Everyone in the camp had the flu or the cold. Those who had something worse were often dragged from their cots at night and left to die outside, their pale limbs stiff and blue by the morning. Such was life in the Camps.

Prisoner 1888 shuffled forward as was his turn, as he had done for countless days for countless weeks for countless years. He had lost track of time, having subsumed himself entirely in this mindnumbing routine. He had given up hope, resigned himself entirely to the endless, mind-numbing routine. The idea that he might be released one day was inconceivable to his fogged mind.

He shoved forward, his shaking, scrawny hand pushing its bowl forward for the warm, nutritious broth that he expected to be poured into it. It was foul slop, but it was better than nothing. Anything to soothe the unbearable cramp of starvation.

"Thats it. We're out of broth. Go back to your barracks. Free day, no work today." shouted a guard, stepping forward, slamming the lid down and beating back groaning and protesting prisoners. None of them dared directly address their complaints to the guard, keeping their muttering to themselves. "I said get back!" he slammed his rifle hard, smacking a prisoner hard in the face, he fell back with a cry, his brittle teeth cracking.

Prisoner 1888 couldn't believe it. Less than a third of them had eaten today. Less than yesterdary. Starvation rations was one thing, but this... it was disharmonious. a violation of the order that occupied his entire life.

He shuffled back anyway, grateful at least that he didnt have to exert himself on this bitter cold day. They had been outside for less than an hour, and already they were returning to their toasty wooden shacks, made warm by the abundance of bodies there. Coal was occasionally fed into their boilers, but with a miserlyness that made even an hour with coal a special occasion.

"No coal today. Keep yourselves busy. Any trouble and it'll be Open Isolation for the lot of you." barked the guard. There were more groans. How could they be so miserly? so cruel? worse, how could they defy their own routines like this? The anwser hung like a chord in the back of Prisoner 1888's mind. Could it be? He wasn't sure of the date, but...could the guards be celebrating...Christmas?

The idea appalled him. He had been a composer, a musician, a singer, in a previous life. He had also been an ardent Christian, but that had long been broken out of him. Now, with the zeal of a convert, he was disgusted that those charged with keeping his life routine, to punish him for his crimes, would, would, so flagrantly and completely defy everything that made things that way. It was a thought too huge for his shrunken mind, and he sat, curled up, in his bunk, wrapping his thin cover around him tightly, rocking back and forth, shivering and moaning. It was monstrous! Insane! Evil! It was, was, counter-revolutionary.

He passed most of the day this way, moaning, occasionally falling into fits of fevered sleep. He dreamed of his family again, but their faces were all blurred. Forgotten in the passage of time. He dreamed of a warm fire, of a home. He remembered, his ragged mind reaching back into another time of comfort, of routine, of order. When he had been a boy, in a choir, in a church...A different lifetime, so long ago.

Light was fading when he awoke, his mind ablaze. From some deep recess he had forgotten, he found the energy to pull his skeletal, shuddering body out of his cot, and began to walk, his leathershod feet scraping along the boards. The other prisoners watched him with befuddlement. Did he think there would be food now it was sundown? Others, curious or equally deluded, began to rise and follow, taking their bowls with them.

Eventually a small stream left, heading towards the open yard where the food was served. There were only a handful of guards on duty. They were suprised. They had been lightly dozing, or cracking jokes and swigging contraband hooch. The Camp-Warden had been keen to have a merry day and had shared this merriment with most of the guards.

Prisoner 1888 stood, for the first time, at the front of the line. He shoved his bowl out, in front of a suprised guard. There was no cafeteria station set up. No oven, no large basin full of broth. Just him, standing in front of a locked door into the Kitchens.

"Please sir. Can we have some more?" 1888 said, tremulously.

In another time or place the line might have been funny. Here it was said with a seriousness that was frightening. The guard realised he was alone, with a 5-shot rifle, against 80 starving prisoners.

He knocked on the kitchen door. "They want to be fed." He said, with some growing unease.

"So? tell em to piss off. we're cooking...ah...a special evening meal, for the guards."

Rich smells unimagined wafted from the kitchen. 1888 struggled to remember what had ever smelt that good in his life. He remembered, from his childhood. They were cooking turkey.

Something deep inside him cracked, beyond all sanity. They were celebrating christmas? They DARED invoke the ghost of his childhood, of an innocence long lost? He was enraged. It was an Insult beyond all injury, beyond his sagging skin, his brittle bones, his chillblains, his frostbite, his stomach ulcers, his loose teeth, his bleeding gums and ragged hair. It was...a defilement, of the soul.

"We WANT to be fed!" he roared, and, without thinking, flung his bowl at the guard's head, knocking him back, a bloody cut over his eye. Staggered, the guard fired his rifle into the air, to try and keep control.

Instead, in that moment, the shot ringing in the air, all hell broke loose.

As one the mob acted, like a hivemind. Roaring with years of suppressed fury, now suddenly given vent, they charged, skeletal hands clawing and grasping. The guard never stood a chance as he was brought down.

Those up on the towers quickly came awake, and began to sound the alarm and shine down floodlights. machine-guns were racked back, ready to fire withering hails.

Prisoner 1888 barged through into the Kitchen, the wooden door loose and rotten from years of lack of maintenance. A sumptuous, dizzying cloud of smells and sensations overwhelmed him. good food, cooking. the sizzle of fat. the clouds of steam. the warmth, oh, the warmth! He cried genuine tears of joy. For a brief moment, he felt...free.

Then the rest of the prisoners came charging behind him, overturning the kitchen in their fury, defiling paradise, grabbing food and falling on it, raw, halfcooked, flaming, in a true frenzy. Guards began to stream in, firing their rifles. Other prisoners began to pour out of their barracks.

The Riot had begun.

 

[Danmark]

d

All is Strife

"HOOO-RAH!, HOOO-RAH!, HOOO-RAH!, HOOO-RAH!"

The humble abode of the Family Gregersen erupted in deep guttural Danish accented cheers, sounding like a bunch of blood-lusting vikings, an emphasis upon the 'HOO' over the 'rah', whilst the Grandmother clock chimed and struck precisely at the quarter hour after two o'clock. Delicious smells wafted into the living room on the advance of the little and demur Mrs Gregersen carrying a heavy platter of mouth-watering duck-roast, her hands protected from the heat with oven gloves, and laid carefully on the beautifully decorated festive table for the Lord and Master of what he surveyed, father, to make the first cut into the greasy flesh.

It was a very traditional affair and a scene not too far removed from that taking place up and down the country and across the territories and Commonwealth-Dominion, rich and poor and from whatever station in life. This was the high-mark of the Danish Yule and the Midwinter celebrations passed down from the ancients - obscene gorging, rich food, schnapps, bilberry wine, candle-light ~ a surfeit of pleasure, fun and laughter and the surrounding of loved ones and friends.

And now, most Danes could enjoy it for even longer as the rulers of the land had given them three days to celebrate. Good for the ones who enjoyed their drink.

But despite the outward joviality and normality, inward tension was brewing in the figure of the eldest son of the house, Anders Gregersen. Twenty-one years old, the 'head of the house', by tradition, should father ever 'kick his bucket' and pass to the other side, had been giving deep thought to a dilemma he'd been considering for some time - joining Den Storhertugdømer Fremmedlegionen, the Potenzan Foreign Legion.

The tucking into the Feast of Yule duly ensued with the nicely roasted duck, potatoes, carrots, Fennian turnip, Gallic sprouts and the like heaped up on everyone's plates and duly devoured in ravenous gluttony. Soon after, the day moved onto schnapps and that, horrid to Anders, bilberry wine as well as more conventional alcohol, what ever suited to the family members each and one - red wine from Potenza, Parthian tuica, Fennian vodka, Angelsaxe ale, and other quite clearly foreign imports alongside trusty produce from the motherland.

Anders, by now rather and increasingly drunk and imbued with that they called Vestrasienmod, or 'Vistrasian courage' (1) felt oiled enough to venture the 'legion subject' to his father, in what was intended as a soft approach and one designed, so he thought, to meet the two men on equal and grown-up grounds - father-to-son.

A man most imposing and one that struck fear into the hearts of all his children, Holger, through the mix of intoxication and the coming of age of his son, increasingly resented Anders' independence - a direct threat to what HE had wanted to be though, through force of circumstance, never became. An increasingly frustrated man and who put up a show for all, Holger hated his existence, upstaged by his far more educated son, and so increasingly took to alcohol to give him the bravado he needed or he would be showed for what he was - weak, shy and humble. In essence, a man tortured by a failure in life and one that did not escape for every day that he lived and one that made him, when boiled down, a totally depressed man who could barely cope, his only scope was to lash out in rage and belittle all and sundry if they crossed him, driven by his pleasurable alcoholism, not that they had to even cross him. His intoxication was enough grounds to attack all and all if suited.

Anders, who clearly wanted to make his own way in the world, no matter how it displeased the 'old stick in the mud', was feeling a boiling of rage at his father for his familiar put-down and domineering attitude. He certainly did increasingly loathe and detest his 'old man' and somehow knew that his proposal of the Legion would incur a wrath even if he tried to be delicate, a one-on-one, but did at least try.

Anders ventured his whim from the comfortable armchair at a forty-five degree angle to his father's.

"HELL!!! UPON THE HONOUR OF WODEN! NOT DAMN LIKELY, SON!!!".

Father Holger, the most imposing, aggressive, and bruising father-figure of Anders Gregersen, almost choked on his schnapps though, to be realistic, he had been inbibing a fair few all day. He raised his voice in a manner threatening his eldest son and the rest of the family in brutish and totally un-seasonal overtones and undertones in a manner directly indicating uncontrollable aggression. In essence, Holger was 'floating on the brew'. But then, increasingly, so was Anders.

The Gregersen's were a hard-bitten and poverty-stricken working-class family, very similar to many in working class and industrial Fredrikshavn. In the shadows of the cranes of the shipyards, the smokey chimneys, and the stench of smog, the backbone of the Danish nation for some, they toiled away. But amongst the cranes, chimneys and poverty, some sought to look beyond those limited horizons and searched for something... something beyond. For some, including Anders Gregersen's father, this was totally beyond his comprehension, tolerance and narrow-minded world. And so, the saga of the Gregersen's unfolded..

"If you were any younger, I would take off my belt and fucking PELTER your hide 'til the sun shone! And you aren't too old yet either! YOU'RE NO son of mine if you ever join those effeminate toads clinging to a FUCKING POND!", Holger raged with brows furrowed and face reddening.

Anders gulped and shivered. The overbearing force of Holger was quite threatening and he was momentarily knocked off guard. But the increasingly 'bolshy' steel revived and the young man stood up, over over his father, after a quick swig and deep sighs.

"No! I will... and I AM!".

The family sat in cold silence. A pin may have dropped and all would have heard its discreet fall. Ander's father seethed in rage and apoplexy towards his eldest son for his sheer 'arrogance', grimaced in complete anger-supreme and cast our young Anders in a molten and glassy-eyed glare whilst throwing his glass upwards against the wall, with broken glass and vodka cruising down the face of the portrait of The King that regaled most homes and shocking the family. This was simply appalling.

Anders' mother, Dorethea, looked down at her schnapps glass and meekly ran her index finger over its rim in a quiet and dignified manner in a desperate attempt to make it appear as almost as if nothing had happened. With nimbleness, she was careful to not make a fuss or noise. Silence was her leitmotif - Hr Gregersen wore the trousers in this relationship but she also increasingly resented the brute manner her husband exacted on her eldest and beloved son. She loved both intensely, but her dear husband tore a hole in her heart.

Anders' sister, Mathilde, only fourteen, looked down at the dinner table and blushed profusely. Caspar, the Gregersen's youngest child, a son of only five years' old, appeared to be riven by fear and quivered at the might of his father with his pupils dialated. He felt a strong inclination to let the bladder pour forth.

The sense and foreboding amongst the family was that an incendiary exchange was about to unfold. This was a calm before the storm. Indeed, a storm.

Holger rushed over to the partly-completed and partly-empty plates, making his favoured chair, 'Father's Chair', be skewed to an angle, and grabbed the carving knife that he had used to carve the exquisite duck and, whilst stampeding, kicking dining chairs sideways and overturning them ~ terrifying the Family Gregersen ~ rushed to his son in a dash of lightening, grabbing him by his collar and pushing back his cocky son into the armchair from which he had dared stand up from and contradict the orders of 'father', whilst holding the knife to Anders' throat, the knife smoothered in fat and jellified meat.

"NO! You won't you little fucker, or I'll slit your neck from side to side and cut your fucking head clean off! You HEAR me?! You WILL listen to me one of these days!!!!".

The family gasped in horror and screams exclaimed, echoing throughout the house. Tiny Caspar welled up in tears, quivered, and began to cry and wail. His mother rushed out of her chair and to comfort her young son and kissed him in a desperate attempt to calm her tiny and lovely little son.

"Now, now, don't you worry, Caspar, my lickle darling thing". Dorothea soothed the young boy by smothering him in multiple kiss-kisses. "Mummy, Daddy, your brother and sister all love you", she padded, whilst Caspar sobbed his blessed heart out in sheer fear.

"FATHER!", Anders quivered but felt the press of cold and greasy Fredrikshavn stainless steel on his throat. He looked at his little brother through the corner of his eye and attempted a struggle. "PLEASE!!...".

Anders swallowed and felt his throat dry. He heard his brother wail and wanted to protect him, but the over-powering sense of jousting with his father got the better of him, the increasingly oppressive feel of steel on his neck kicking in a 'fight or flight' response.

Anders was intimidated by his over-bearing and drunken father moreso now but due through sheer preservation of his dear life, in a mixture of fear, almost-urination, but absolute drink-fuelled anger, Anders kicked off. He was incendiary and, due to keeping his life and also complete bolshiness, booted his right leg directly into the 'crown jewels' of his father repeatedly, in a ricochette-fashion, causing Holger to whiff, moan, stumble, grimace, and collapse into a daze of almost unconsciousness, the grease-laden carving knife clean shooting out of Holger's grasp and onto the brown and white fleur-de-lys patterned carpet across the floor and into the skirting boards.

Anders rushed up and stood over his recumbent and agonised father, Father's eyes rolling in total agony and disconnectedness with the world after the striking bolt between his legs and reeling in appalling pain.

Anders screamed, with tears in his eyes and dripping down his face, and spat venom.

"I will do what I WANT!!! Don't you EVER dictate to ME!!! You've dominated ... controlled this fucking house for TOO long!! YOU are despicable and a WASTE!! Don't EVER tell me what I should do!! I fucking HATE, HATE you!!!"

The Family Gregersen, a quite normal family otherwise, quivered at the father-son drama.

"Anders, please..." screamed mother. "PLEASE!!!""

"My DEAR mother", shot back Anders, "I LOVE you".

He rushed over to his blessed mother and gave her a deep and loving kiss upon her lips and rosy cheeks. He then turned to young Caspar.

"I love you my little brother", whilst tears fell, dripping on the little boy's face and mixing with own, whilst our young Anders smothered his beloved little brother in loving kisses, hugs, tickles and coochie-coos, much to young Caspar's delight. "I simply love you, if you were older you'd know". Tears rolled.

"And you, Mathilde...".

Both of almost similar age, they had a click. "I shall miss you". Anders reached over to kiss his sister in a way that suggested he would be away for some time.

"I'm going, I have to - but I will write to you all - I promise on scouts honour".

Anders stood at the exit to the humble household whilst demur Dorothea sobbed uncontrollably.

"Mother, I will be back, please do trust me. And I shall always love you and all my family...". Young Anders' voice cracked and he cried again which was something totally unexpected to most as he hardly ever showed his emotions.

But then he spewed.

"Apart from THAT down there - my supposed...FATHER!!!".

With that, an era in the Family Gregersen ended, a page was turned and a new chapter began.

THAT chapter saw the young Anders Gregersen somewhere in THAT foreign land, the Grand Duchy. Somewhere...



(1) - 'Vistrasian courage' can be read as NSE's version of Dutch courage.

N.B. - This is an attempt at what the genre which is called 'kitchen sink realism' or 'kitchen sink drama' very popular in the late 50's/early 60's: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kitchen_sink_realism

 

[Natal]

24[SUP]th[/SUP] of December
Dialgorod, Democratic Popular Republic of Riff, UDPRP

Fourteen year old Alexey Glushenko was playing football with neighbor and classmate Hakim when he sees a car pulling on the alley. A man came out of the car. Alexey couldn’t see his face’s features as the sun set and it was already dark. The man asked with a fatherly tone:

“Do any of you know Commissar Lev Glushenko?”

“Yes he is my father.” Responded Alexey circumspectly.

“Can you call him to see me?”

The boy approached the block and yelled: “Daaaaad! Come outside, there is a man looking for you!” The city of Dialgorod wasn’t touched by the “Systematization” and so there weren’t any huge 8 to 16 floors high blocks in the city and the highest ones being the 6 floor ones, usually bleached and painted with cream between the floors, in a block like this one was the Glushenko family living.

Lev Glushenko came outside agitated. “What happened? Who is looking for me?”

“Calm down, comrade commissar. Don’t you remember me? I’m Javed El-Hashem. You helped my sister when she… let’s say that she had some problems with the police in Noul Al A’raf. And I promised that I won’t forget that and I said in October that I will bring you some pork for the World Creation Day. It’s just a small attention.”

“Ah, I remember, it’s great. Thanks.” Responded Lev while shaking the man’s hand.

The man approached the trunk of the car followed by Lev, his son Alexey, Hakim and Lev’s wife Farah who came out of the block to join them. The man opened the trunk and had a look. When Lev heard a very familiar sound when talking about pork and felt some movement beneath the blanket, he immediately pushed Javed out and closed the trunk.

“Oh my god. It is alive! You idiot! You didn’t bring me pork, but a live pig!” As Alexey tried to approach and see it, Lev stopped him: “Go and do your homework.”

“But we are in the middle of the holiday!”

“Do them for January! Go! And take Hakim with you!”

“So, what must I do with it, Javed?”

“Cut it.”

“Are you mad? It is illegal to cut an animal. Only the Farm Collectives can do it. Simple people like us must buy pork from the shops. How would it look is a commissar would simply stab a pig and cut it in the middle of the alley, in front of the block?”

“Do you want it, comrade commissar?”

“Of course, help me carry it in the apartment. Farah, enter the stairway is see if it’s clear.”

The two men took the pig and put it on the ground. Its feet were tied up so it couldn’t run but Lev didn’t know from where to hold him so he began to pull the pig from the front legs and one ear while the other was holding the back legs. The pig stated squealing uncontrollably but it was calmed down when he was put on the ground. Javed took the blanket which covered it and put the pig in the middle of it and rolled it like a sack so that it could be transported easier.

“What will we do now?” Asked Lev when the pig was in the apartment and Javed was gone. “What do we do with the pig? It’s obvious that we can’t stab him as he already starts squealing only when you look at him.”

“Maybe we can strangle it?” asked Farah.

“Oh god…” sighted Lev while supporting his head with his left hand. In that moment Alexey emerged from his room and said:
“Maybe we can gas it. It will intoxicate it and it will die quietly.”

“Didn’t I tell you to do your homework?”

“I did them all.”

“Do them again!”

As he left, her mother sighted and starting worrying about what goes into the mind of her son, but Lev supported him:

“He is right. We will gas him. I will go to the garage to take the butane canister. Stay with the pig.”

“Wait, what? What should I do with it?”

“I don’t know, pet it!”

In the meantime, Alexey went to the balcony and met with Hakim who was living on the adjacent apartment.

“Hey, do you have some Porfix? “

“Some what?”

“You know, those tapes that can hermetically close windows and doors, do you have?”

“The closing is not hermetic, that is just advertising. But if I look for them and I will give some to you I want some pork rind tomorrow.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on, I saw that the creepy guy brought you a live pig and now you try to cut it. Let me have a look.”

After ten minutes, Hakim returned with the tapes. Alexey returned with the tapes and helped his father hermetically close the window of the kitchen and the door. After they finished, his father tried to push the pig to enter the kitchen. It only started moving after he spanked the pig. When it entered the kitchen, Lev went and opened the canister, letting the butane out; while Alexey went to remove the fuses to that all electricity will be stopped. While waiting for the pig to die, Alexey returned to the balcony, as he was fed up by his mother’s continuing laments about how scared she is of this. There he met with Hakim again.

“Do you want a smoke?” he asked while taking a cigarette from the package.“They are SAVs, high quality. I saved the money for them two
months.”

“Don’t smoke or we will blow up.”

“What? Are you nuts?” as he asked he was already preparing to light a match.

“I said no!” As he shouted, Alexey stretched, took the match box ,the cigarette and the package and threw them out of the balcony.

“Why the fuck did you do that?”

“I said that we will blow…” he stopped and went immediately inside the apartment as he heard his dad calling him.

“I believe the pig is dead.” Said Lev as his son and wife came close to him. “I’ll enter!” he said while taking a deep breath. He rushed into the kitchen and opened the window and then ran away back.
"Is it dead?"

“I don’t know, but it surely didn’t move.”

After some minutes, he went and put the fuses back on. The lights started to shine in the hallway and the living again. Lev and Farah entered the kitchen.

“I hope that its meat will be great so it will worth the wasted canister.”

“Lev, it’s safe to continue? I am scared.”

“Here look!” He took a match and lighted it. “You see? Nothing happened. Now, let’s scorch it so all the hairs would disappear. Alexey, bring me the gas lamp!”

“Oh god Lev. It inhaled the butane when he was alive. Its lungs may be full of it. Look at it now, he doesn’t seem like exhaling it.”
“We vented the room, I lighted a match. Nothing will happen. Tomorrow, on the World’s Creation Day we will eat sausages and steaks, so shut up! Farah, if you are scared, go to the living room.”

When his wife left the room and Alexey was in the hallway looking from distance, Lev lighted the gas lamp. When he approached the lamp to the face of the pig… the whole neighborhood found out that commissar Glushenko was cutting a pig in his apartment.

 

[Hanseatic Republics]

December 25th: en dag senere*

"Mamma! Mamma!" A young girl ran into the kitchen. "What is the clock? I'm hungry for dinner!" She raced around the room as her younger brother followed her with his arms spread wide making jet plane noises. The young girl was displeased with her brothers noises as he spit a little bit everywhere has he did. Mamma did not answer initially has she did not know what time it was and was preoccupied with making that night's dinner. Fish and boiled potatoes. Mamma looked at the clock and replied, "It's nearly five o'clock. Dinner will be ready soon. Jens, please don't knock over the candles, you mustn't start a fire."

Electricity hasn't yet come to the small town of Hølen. They all couldn't afford it. Jens didn't care for his mother's words and continued to race about. "Please! If you want to fly around at least go outside." Jens then flew over to the hallway to the door. "Please put on your coat! You'll catch cold!" The young girl sat down at the dinner table slightly agitated. "Mamma, why did you have to get him that book on airplanes?" Her mother turned to her with a grin on her face. "Now Ingrid, you know I want him to learn to read. It's important for his future. Just like I've given you books in the past about trolls, princes and princesses. You know how much he likes airplanes too." Christmas was a slim one this year. Both of the children received books and one toy. A small doll for her and a wooden train for Jens. The economy just was not going well enough for them to afford much more.

The front door opened and Jens went outside as Pappa came in. "My dearest! I've brought home an apple pie for our dinner! I wish I could have gotten it yesterday for our more festive Pinnekjøtt* yesterday, but unfortunately as you know, Magnus' wife took ill and wasn't in the mood for such things." Mother nodded as she proceeded to cut the fish. "That's quite all right. I hope they enjoyed the leftover Pinnekjøtt we gave them." Pappa nodded, "Aye, that they did. They offered to invite us for dinner to celebrate a New Year." Mamma smiled as she heard.

Later, the family gather around the table and prayed. News from the capital had not been good and they felt most fortunate that Christmas had not been spoiled. Pappa drank a festive Christmas beer along with Mamma as the children drank milk.

Mamma starting conversation with her children asked, "Are the both of you excited for Julebukk?§" Jens nodded as he chewed on his fish. Ingrid smiled, "I've been practicing the songs for quite some time! I really hope that it snows too!" Pappa laughed, "I surely hope that it doesn't. I don't wish for it to be so cold. The docks do not have good heating." Ingrid smiled, "Well Pappa, I would hope that it would not for your sake too, but I would like a proper holidays!" Mamma snapped at Jens before he could respond, "Jens! Do not speak with your mouth full."

Jens frowned but kept eating without speaking. It was then, a knock was heard on their door. Pappa walked over to the door and opened it to see a man that was fairly out of breath. Mamma could over hear them from the table. Good afternoon, what can I do for you? - I have news from the capital! - Would you like to come in for some coffee or a little bit of food? - No, no, it is quite alright. I have many other houses to visit. - Very well, do come in so that that house does not get so cold. - That won't be necessary, I just wish to tell you that a Queen has been crowned and to meet at nine o'clock in Church so that the town can discuss these events. - This is bold news indeed. Do carry on to the other houses. - Takk! - Takk!

The door shut and Pappa came back to the room with a smile. Mamma was not nearly as pleased. "Nanna, you must come to the Church with me later." Mamma looked down at her plate continuing to eat, "Yes, of course." The children, unknowingly continued to eat around a quiet table.


*Christmas is celebrated on the eve, the 24th of December

§steamed, salted and dried ribs of mutton

†An old tradition, perhaps with reference to the Wild Hunt, is for children to dress up and pay visits to neighbors, where they receive candy, nuts and clementines in return for singing Christmas carols. Traditions vary throughout the country, and some places children do this between Julaften and New Year's Eve, and in other places, only on New Year's Eve. Sometimes adults also dress up as well, but instead of receiving treats, they are given a snaps.

 

[Ashkelon]

24-12-1952

Bazyli Gomulski entered his house a little before sunset. Today's work was good. At least, as good as it could get for a humble white collar desk jockey in the employ of the Malek Aeronautics' Corporation's head office. Ah, Malek. A name fraught with many different meanings. In the most ancient times, it referred to the twin mountains north of Krajenka, part of the Barierowa Range that divided Swiecziema into its "Lower" and "Upper" components. More recently, it had come to mean the name of the corporation that was built in its vicinity during the last years of the Imperial era, a company that had led the Swieczieman efforts to reach for the skies. As such, today, it could now also mean any kind of aircraft that had emerged from the factories of that company, now a massive corporate power that led the aeronautics Coalition behind the Mezhist Air Force. To call something "a Malek" also implied that it was ahead of its time. After all, the Ma-262 was one of, if not the very first, jet fighter to go into service.

But what about Bazyli? No, Bazyli was most definitely not "a Malek". He was just another number in a cubicle, earning just enough to feed his family of four. And now, he was coming home to prepare for Wieczerza Wigilijna, the supper of Christmas Eve. The grumbling in his stomach reminded him of this fact, how he - and everybody else in Swiecziema today - had fasted, in anticipation of the glorious feast to follow, once that first star became visible. It was, after all, an age old tradition that just before Wieczerza, there would first be fasting... He didn't quite understand the spiritual reasoning behind it. However, the physical logic was simple enough in itself - if you fasted for the whole day, then there was going to be a lot more room, and a lot more enthusiasm, when the time to eat finally came.

And this was precisely why Anka was in the kitchen preparing pierniki* of all shapes and sizes, likely finishing them up as the final touches to what was going to be a deliciously superb dinner. This was also why his little Marcin, ten, was kneeling on a seat and staring out the window, watching the skies for that first star, which, as anybody familiar with the story of Christmas could guess, represented the Star that guided the shepherds and wise men to the site of the Messiah's birth. This was also the same star represented by the humble gold-painted star that stood atop the equally humble Christmas tree that stood in the living room, right next to Marcin and the window.

Bazyli smiled warmly at his son's back as he hung his coat on the rack and gave the boy a good little rub on the head. "See it yet, Marz?"

"Papa!" The little boy had a fairly large grin on his face as he turned around to hug his father, before giving his report. "It's not out yet, Papa, but I know it's going to come out soon! I've been keeping watch all week!"

Bazyli gave the boy a pat on the head, mostly for trying so diligently. A good little soldier, if he ever thought of going down that route. But this father of two was pretty sure of two things. That one, Marcin was not going to become a soldier, a noble and Sarmatian duty as that was. He was going to become a top executive at Malek, or perhaps even a top executive at whatever company he chose to enter. Maybe, he would even start his own business someday! But no, he was not going to become a soldier. It would cost him his right to vote, certainly, but Bazyli saw no reason to need to vote. After all, the present government seemed to be doing a mostly satisfactory job running the Union. The companies were on the way up, and there was a great future ahead for those who invested time and effort in working for them.

Two, he was quite certain that the first star wouldn't be out for another fifteen minutes, giving him time to change. How did he know that? The weather forecast this morning said so. This gave Bazyli just enough time to go to his room and change, then maybe relax a little on the couch to read the newspapers before officially opening the Wieczerza for the Gomulski family. Ah, the Gomulski family. It was one that had been brought together in love, one might say, some fifteen years ago, when Bazyli was young and stupid, and decided to get married before becoming established because his colleagues dared him to. He had at first thought it was a mistake when he went through that whirlwind romance with Anka and then sealed the deal at that church with the sickly old priest.

But then, a miracle happened. His little Ela appeared. The most precocious little girl, who as she grew up, inspired him to dream, and reminded him that just because one already had a family, it certainly didn't mean that he would have to give up on his ambitions. No, it only meant that now, he had even more reason to reach his lofty goals. And how did she do that? It was quite simple.

"Papa," she once said, "I want to become a super star when I grow up! Like Ruta Partyka!"

Yes, Ruta Partyka, the actress of Moonlight Liaison fame. A young, beautiful starling who was quickly rising through the ranks of Mikstat's list of stars. It was the epitome of glamour, some would say. And never in a moment did Bazyli, in his heart, doubt that his little Ela, who glowed with the radiance of Cesarzowa Liljana the Great, would one day become a super star. Mikstat was unforgiving, said the news, as if to constantly remind people of what a privilege it was to be on their A-list. Indeed, since the arrival of motion pictures during the Imperial era, Mikstat had always prided itself on the tenacity of its standards. Single films could make and break entire careers, as the critics were as influential as a Steel Army commander giving orders. A glorious movie in line to becoming a classic could cement one's fame forever, while a single travesty of a film, even for a widely acclaimed actor or actress, was a sure-fire way to send their careers on a downward spiral into the graveyard.

But not his little Ela. No, she was destined to become sealed as one of the greatest in history. Bazyli knew that in his heart.

These were the two reasons that he worked so hard, that he logged in extra hours at work today, and came home at this time despite the half-day announcement. Every little work credit was more zloty to be added to the nest egg, from which he would draw funding for anything that his children lacked. The University of Giecz, in particular, had an extremely tight student quota, the "weaker" (quoted since the phrase itself seemed oxymoronic) Sarmatians being filtered out by a test so difficult it had achieved a mythical reputation amongst parents. It took a certain calibre of student to get in... or, a certain calibre of tutor to ensure that they knew how to get all the right answers... and those tutors, as one could imagine, were far from cheap. And of course, Bazyli himself also wanted a higher standard of living for his family. There was no question of that. He wanted his family pampered as much as possible.

Bazyli sneaked into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around his beautiful wife who stood at the oven, true enough, watching over the pierniki as it baked. Standing on a table nearby, adorned by other dishes and desserts - excluding any meat, one might notice - was the centrepiece of tonight's festival, one of the biggest carp he'd seen in a while, most likely a special from the wet market railed in from Lake Radtke. It was a miracle that such bounty was still available for purchase, even during this grave time of war. And for that, he was thankful. He gave her a peck on the cheek.

"How was work today, Bazi~?" she asked, song still in her voice from her earlier humming.

"Tiring," Bazyli answered, a weary smile on his face. "But very, very much worth it."

Anka smiled at the variation of his usual answer, how he added an extra "very". Yes, she had done the math, and it was just enough work credits to make sure that this Wieczerza didn't send them into debt. And debt was a very bad thing to get into during this time of war. She gave him a passionate kiss on the lips.

Bazyli returned the favour. Yes. Life was far from perfect. But he never asked for it to be. No, life was good. And it was certainly a lot better than many people in the Himyar who were starving. But one didn't have to look that far to see how well life was going for them. He only had to read the newspaper to see that now on the counter-attack, the Steel Army had encountered a great many mass graves filled with men, women, and children alike; beautiful dreams crushed, bright futures stamped out, by the merciless heel of Communism. How could anybody willing to perform such atrocities be called human? Of course. The hated enemy weren't human. They were monsters. No, worse than that... they were demons. The very thought of such a thing made his blood boil, as should the blood of any true Sarmatian. Had it not been for the fact that he had other priorities (i.e. his family) on his plate than avenging the innocents who were massacred in the Miroslavan offensive, he would have quickly reported to his Reserve CO and requested activation for immediate service on the front lines.

"Papa!" Marcin called out from the living room, interrupting this brief romantic moment, "Papa! The first star is out! I see it!"

Bazyli whispered into his wife's ear before letting go, "We'll continue this after the children are tucked in..." With a wink, he went back out to meet with his son. "Go get your sister, Marcin. She should help with setting the table."

Instead of immediate obedience, Marcin answered his father's command with a most puzzled look. "But... Papa... I thought she was with you."

"What?"

Anka, coming from the kitchen with a pot of vegetable stew, stopped as she heard the conversation. Tried to shed more light on her husband's confusion. "Bazi... we sent her out to fetch you an hour ago. You... did not see her at the office?"

Bazyli struggled to shake his head, as his great anticipation for the Wigilia supper flew out the window faster than a speeding bullet. Instead, the rumbling of his stomach gave rise to a mounting sense of dread. He almost jumped at the sudden knock on the front door.

"Marz... go help your mother." The words from his mouth emerged in an automated fashion, his joints feeling like rusted squeaking metal as he turned and walked to get the door with all the grace of a malfunctioning robot.

A torturous chill ran up his spine, electrocuting him as he grasped the door knob. He shut his eyes and prayed his hardest. Please, let it be Ela, home after the kindly staff at the office told her Papa had gone ahead. Please, let her be safe... Bazyli turned the knob.

"P. Gomulski?"

He opened his eyes to see a young man in the unmistakable black uniform of the FBS. "Y... yes?"

"Podporucznik** Dubrowczick, FBS."

"And... h... how may I help you this evening, Podporucznik?"

"We need to talk, Sir. It's about your daughter."

Bazyli's body, already suffering from first degree robot problems, went completely numb. His mind shut down, like a factory machine that had been hit with a monkey wrench one too many times. There was no dying churning of motors. Just a sudden, calamitous breakdown. The world around him seemed to quickly grow covered with multi-colored television static as he began to faint. Fortunately, Anka was there to prop him back up. But for the most part, he was out.

"... the rehabilitation will take a while..." these were the first words to register in his head, "... at the very least, several months..."

It was the FBS officer.

"... maybe a year or more..."

In the distance, he heard sobbing. This was most likely Anka.

"I'm terribly sorry for your situation. If there's anything I can do..."

The sobbing continued.

Bazyli began to stir.

"I assure you, Ma'am. We will get whoever is behind this depravity, and he will be brought to justice."

"Wh..."

"But for now, the best way you can help your daughter is to be strong for her."

Slowly, he rose from his wife's lap, until he got a good view of the officer, who gave him a nod before continuing.

"The Federal Bureau of Charity will do its best to help her get through this ordeal. She will be able to live normally again, given enough time and effort. From us, from you, and from herself."

"E... excuse me, Podporucznik, but..." Bazyli looked around for signs of Marcin. He was nowhere to be seen, likely sent to his room by Anka, who now knew what was he was about to find out. "What's going on?"

Dubrowczick took a deep breath, and began his explanation from the top.

Soon enough, it became apparent that Bazyli Gomulski was right to have logged in all those extra hours. He would be needing that nest egg very soon, and it wasn't going to be for his children's education. It was a Christmas that would never be forgotten.

----

* - Swieczieman gingerbread, made in all shapes and sizes specifically for the occasion of Wigilia. Families with particularly large batches will go out and perform exchanges with neighbours to maximize on the variety, especially given how their kids very much love it.

** - Effectively second lieutenant. lit. "Sub-messenger", "Sub-Officer for orders".

 

[The Federation]

Baldwin-Whitehall, Republic of Sylvania
Baldwin Shipyards, Dry Dock 03
Christmas morning, 0137 Sylvanian Eastern Time






"We've weathered worst storms lads!" The shift leader said in a reassuring voice as he, his co-workers and the security staff huddled around the managers office fireplace. They had been forbidden to leave by the company, their most precious accomplishment sat within drydock, completed. Gabrielle she was called and she was beautiful, if not a little icy this early morning. A product of Sylvanian ingenuity, craftsmanship and attention to detail. Today was Fat Gabby's birthday, but the celebration would have to be postponed due the gigantic Nor'Easter now pounding at the valiant hearts of Baldwin-Whitehall's citizens.

"I reckon this is the worst storm we've had in all of recorded history!" Said Jean.

"Well Jean the papers only said this is the..... STORM OF CENTURY! Jean's friend Reginald stood up from his chair, waving his arms and screaming out the Tribune's headline in a boisterous voice.

"Pipe down Reggie, now not the time to go screaming about storms and such, don't want curse of current good fortunes. We could be like poor saps that didn't get coal deliveries in time, probably frozen to death by now."

Reginald walked away from his chair to look out the window, wind rushed through the tiny cracks in the frame creating an eerie howling noise that grated on everyone's nerves. It was no use to try and look out to the dock, visibility was down to zero now and ice had formed on the glass itself.

"It's a shame we will miss Gabby's birthday though, damn storm."

"Aye, I won't complain though," said Robert, their shift leader, "Gabby will still be there on the day after, in the meantime let us take a glass and toast to a hard job done well." Robert pulled out a bottle of whiskey, "Ivernian, top shelf, me mother brought it from her visit to the Old World last year, it was last year's Christmas present from her." Robert looked upon the bottle fondly, unable to read the foreign words upon it, "Oh how I do miss me dear old mother. She'd be proud of what we've done here."

A resounding "Aye" echoed through the creaky office. "Now's a good-a-time as any to drink this, come gentlemen! Share with me a glass of this fine drink." Robert gathered glasses from a nearby cupboard and poured a healthy helping of the stuff out to his friends. He raised his glass:

"To Big Fat Gabby! May she have the strength to carry Sylvania on her back and bring hell to our enemies, whoever they may be."

"To Gabby!" The men raised their glasses and swiftly downed their drink.

The men began to sing as the fine liquid warmed their bellies:


"Almighty Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep:
O hear us when we cry to thee
For those in peril on the sea."



"Another!" Someone yelled, the men gathered back around the fire and refilled their cups.



200 miles west of Charleroi, off the coast of Port Ferris
Navy Cruiser Thunder Child
Christmas Morning, 0203 Sylvanian Eastern Time


The terrible waves crashed into the hull of Thunder Child, repeatedly sloshing the mighty ship about as it sent information via radio back to Charleroi about the coming storm. Right now, Baldwin-Whitehall took the brunt of the gigantic blizzard, but back in Charleroi the city dwellers worried, unlike Baldwin-Whitehall, with it's strong skyscrapers and much more modern construction, Charleroi had yet to experience a storm like this. Normally Nor'Easters missed Sylvania completely, protected by the island masses East of the country, but not this time, this freak storm was determined to come down upon the small bay city like the wrath of God himself. Forecasters predicted that by this time on the twenty-sixth, Charleroi would be buried in at least two feet of snow at the most conservative estimate.

To make matters worse, the National Guard had failed to convince the President to move his family out of the city toward Lysekil while the storm smashed Baldwin-Whitehall. He said to the guardsmen: "I will not leave this city while others are incapable of leaving! Now set down my coal rations and get back to your deliveries! That's a Presidential order!"

Meanwhile Thunder Child continued to track the storm, the ship's Captain had not been expecting his valiant cruiser to be assigned the task of storm chasing, thinking such activity to be more befitting of a lowly Coastal Patrol cutter. However, when reports of the strong waves and wind had filed in, it was apparent a much heavier and sturdier ship would be needed. Hastily equipped with a newer RADAR device to replace the old one, the Captain had his ship out to sea just as the storm could be seen on horizon outside Baldwin-Whitehall.

The Captain stood on the bridge, bracing himself as wave after wave pummeled the ship.

"Captain! RADAR is showing the storm in a turn toward Charleroi!"

"Dammit!" The Captain swore in his head, the forecast had been correct, right now the storm of the century, as the papers called it, was turning north-east and bearing right down on the capital of Sylvanian government and culture. Once it was finished with the heartland of Sylvanian industry it would tear a path up the coast and bring it's full weight down on the city.

"Alert the Coastal Patrol in Charleroi, they're in for a hell of a day tomorrow. Any signs of the storm letting up at all? The Captain asked the meteorologist attached to his crew.

"None whatsoever." The Meteorologist replied grimly.

"Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!" The Captain clenched his teeth just as a rouge wave slammed the ship with great force. The crew stumbled about the ship, some falling over and injuring their various limbs and appendages.

"Man overboard!" An alert came across the address system. Alarms sounded throughout the ship as rescue commenced. Fifteen minutes had quickly passed and the ship had been pushed far from the fallen sailor's position, the storm had claimed it's first life.

 

[Potenza]

Northern Solaren
Headquarters of the Tenth ("Scipio's Own") Division

A blank sheet of paper faced Maggiore Generale Francesco Ronco as he sat at the desk in the large home that had become his command post. He had sent most of his staff, including Maggiore Paco, out to enjoy the festivities most were enjoying that night. Not too far from the large village the headquarters rested in, Ronco had seen some of his soldiers playing a game of soccer against Solaris locals. Outside a group of his inferior officers were getting rather...well, they had become acquainted with Solaris alcohol, and where now attempting to sing some of the hymns they had heard at the mass earlier that evening, much to the general's amusement. Finding that to be too difficult for someone not an ordained cantor to perform, they settled instead for some popular carols in their native Tiburan as they headed back to their quarters.

As their voices got softer and softer, finally dissolving into the breeze of the cold night air, Ronco leaned against his hands, trying to think about how to write back to his wife, who was back home, on the base positioned outside of Turin. The Royal Army had accommodated the commanding general with a large home that had been built in the 19th century and looked like something from a period piece. Usually around this time, they had a giant tree in the foyer, frocked and decorated. This was usually overseen by Ronco himself, with Paco organizing the logistical side of it. With both deployed, Ronco's wife had to oversee most of it. It pained Ronco that he had to be away from her and leave so much of that to her duty, but he was certain she was strong enough to handle it. It was hard enough that she would have to raise their seven-year old son with cerebral palsy, but she managed to do it without too much gripe or complaint. How he missed that part about her...she was so much stronger than him in so many ways.

Time to begin the letter. Ronco picked up the pen and began...

My dearest Sophia...

A good start. He thought some more...what to add?

We've been settled down good here. I don't know what they report back home, but you shouldn't think we are in too much danger. We're far more safe here in Northern Solaren than in downtown Turin, for certain. Paco is keeping a good eye on me, and won't let me out of his sight.

What else? Ronco thought a good while...then continued.

It pains me I can't be there with you. I'm sure the tree is lovely. I'm sure the house is well decorated. Is there snow yet? My meteorologists aren't expecting snow here, but it is still mercilessly cold. We have power up in some parts of Solaren, but I can only imagine many Solaris tonight will wish they had even a little of what the poorest in the Grand Duchy have.

Too impersonal, thought Ronco. He had to add more...he was writing like a general, not like a husband or a father.

Don't think of me as gone my love. Think of me still there. Every drop of snow is me, every cold gust of wind, and every star in the sky is me looking down on you, and reminding you I am still here, not close by but not gone forever.

His son...he had to write something to his son. Ronco's mind traced back to when his son, Nico, was four, and went to their room on Christmas Day morning. Despite his weakness, he climbed up onto the bed with all his strength, his excited, child state giving him an extra boost of strength as he mounted the bed and shook his slumbering parents awake, telling them with great gasps it was Christmas morning...

What was this? Two wet drop marks on the page? This isn't good. Ronco patted the wet parts down with his hand and then wiped the tears from his cheeks. It was time to continue:

Tell Nico his father thinks of him every day. He makes him so proud with how strong and courageous he is. Tell him daddy loves him.

Ugh, this was too much. An audible noise left Ronco's throat as he choked up, rubbing his eyes a little. It was time to change the subject to something more lighthearted.

Oh yes, tell him that General Battisti is here, and he's brought his dog with him! Yes, that's right, that big doggie that Nico loves so much! He even rode on the airplane, and he took up half the space! I have a feeling he'll be treated like a king.

Merry Christmas, my darling, my mind is always on you all,

Francis

He folded the paper up, putting it in an envelope and placing the appropriate address on it. His staff would take care of it tomorrow. He slid it to the end of the desk and leaned back in the chair. A soft sound of snoring entered his ears, and he knew by now Paco had fallen asleep in the next room. Usually the major managed to stay awake most of the night until Ronco needed him, never leaving until his superior was asleep. Well, no matter. It was Christmas, let the soldiers have a little rest. It was time for Ronco to get a little rest himself. Tonight, he had permitted himself a chance to become a human and enjoy the emotions and worries other humans engaged in every day...tomorrow he would be a soldier again.

 

[Havenshire]

December 26th, 1952

The Moors, Northern Havenshire


Prisoner 1888 clutched his stolen coat to himself tightly, as he scrabbled along the windswept moors, a place whose geography was almost as desolate as his soul. The Riot...the whole night was a blood and pain-filled blur, as prisoners, driven insane by the final insult of the guard's lavish christmas feast and their laxity in indulging themselves in it, had risen up and fought bloodily with their jailers. Something had driven 1888 on, some spark of hope or defiance, and he and about 20 others had managed to flee in the chaos, as sirens wailed and machine-guns had chattered. Most likely everyone at the Camp was being massacred by the guards, and regional People's Army reserve were likely being called up from the nearest towns to help suppress it.

But as a wan dawn broke on the harsh, windswept moors, 1888 shaking all over and numb in every limb, he couldn't help but crack a broken smile. He had escaped. He had escaped. The others might have died or been captured, but every second of freedom was intoxicating, a powerful drug that made him giddy and short of breath. He had one driving instinct, one goal, now. To keep going North, untill he reached the sea. It was all he knew how to do. A more careful or precise escapee might go north to avoid patrols, and to seek some more permanent refuge by fleeing in a fishing boat into the An Lyric sea, and hope that the waves and storm of the winter were not too much to avoid getting picked up by some kinder power's vessels.

But 1888 had no such delusions. He sought only to go North, and keep going North till...he didnt know what. He had followed the Ploughman*, as he had been taught as a child, always following the Ploughman's Lantern. That was the way north.

"Follow...the Lantern bright...when the sky is darkest night...When the first quail calls...and the morning frost falls... follow the Ploughman's light." he half-whispered, half-sung, delirious, memories flooding back into his mind. He would reclaim his humanity. He would reclaim his name, and he would die a free man.

He stumbled, falling down a rough hill, bouncing and shaking as he tumbled down loose slope. The wind abated a little as he fell into a rough dell. He lay panting, in agony, for a few minutes. Maybe he'd broken something. But he would keep going. He crawled out of the dell. He had twisted his ankle, and standing on it sent bolts of unbearable agony through him. He hobbled, crawled, ever forward across barren, exposed land. He was amazed they hadn't caught him yet, but he told himself that every inch, every yard, was a step closer to...something.

After a while, starving, exhausted, panting, in agony, he slumped down, and fished the one crumb of food he had managed to salvage from the Riot which had torn the Camp apart. A hunk of stale bread, he tore off a chunk and wolfed it down hungrily, savouring every morsel, even licking his fingers afterwards. Somewhere he could hear the bark and growl of dogs, far off in the distance. They were hunting him.

He hauled himself up, on uneven, bleeding, sore feet, the soles of his shoes worn and held together with rags. Still he would go North. "Follow the lantern bright..." he whimpered, reciting the old children's ditty. He couldnt see the lantern anymore, the sun was up and day had begun. But still he was sure he was heading North.

He saw what looked like a barn in the distance, with a narrow tiled roof and a small wooden fence around it. He made for it. Shelter, refuge. Maybe people who he could get some food from. He didnt even care if they turned him in to save themselves. Just some comfort before he died was enough.

Suddenly he heard something, drifting on the wind. At first he thought he was imagining it. Impossible. He stood mute, transfixed, for many minutes, trying to reconcile what he could hear with the reality he had experience for so many years. But it was unmistakable. Someone was singing...a Hymn.

"Hark now hear! The Angels sing, a King was born today
and men will live forevermore, because of Christmas Day..."

Tears came unbidden to 1888's eyes. Salty, acrid, running down old furrows on his lined and sunken face. So, even out here they celebrated it. In the Camp he would have been furious. But here, with hounds baying at his flanks, he didn't care. He scrambled on, towards the music.

He saw a small gathering of people- farmers, most likely- huddled around the Barn. They all held a candle, something they must have saved and scrimped for all year. Memories returned like a torrent, drowning his senses. They were celebrating Mass. If anyone reported them, theyd experience a fate similar to his own. He couldn't let that happen.

He ran out yelling, scaring the farmers, who quickly scattered. He shouted and waved, and they scattered in every direction, perhaps to get their shotguns and drive this crazy man off their property. He saw a mother clutching two girls, and hauling them back across the fields with speed. He didn't pursue, he just stood in the abandoned mess of their impromptu Mass.

The hounds were not too distant now. Here was as good a place as any.

He took up one of the discarded candles, sat down, and began to sing, in a voice broken by years of abuse, but still reminisicent of one of Havenshire's more prominent Christian Musicians of yesteryear, for that was indeed who he was.

He sat, and sang, content he had found some small corner of hope. His ankle was twisted, he had no food, he was out of breath and just...so cold. He could keep running, and die tired. Or he could sit and wait, and sing. They would find him, and probably kill him, but untill then...

He had found his peace.

Hark! the herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King
Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!"
Joyful, all ye nations rise;
Join the triumph of the skies;
With angelic host proclaim
"Christ is born in Bethlehem!"
Hark! the herald angels sing
"Glory to the newborn King!"



*= rural Havenite slang for Polaris and the constellation called variously the Big Dipper, the Plough, etc.