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A stiff wind blows snow and ice across the walkway, and America hunches low, tugging his scarf up over his nose. He can feel cold water melting against his cheeks and he wonders, not for the first time, why he allowed Canada to convince him to spend Christmas at his cabin in the La Cloche Mountains instead of his Ottawa apartment.
He slips a little on the stairs and makes a note to ask Canada to salt the path before they go tree-hunting tomorrow, and then he lets himself into the cabin, the key Canada had sent him shaking in his hand.
“Matt?” He calls, shaking the snow from his shoulders. “Where are you?” He kicks his boots off, then hangs his wet clothes over the rack beside the door to dry.
“Kitchen!” Canada replies, so America pads across the front hall into the warmest room in the cabin.
A fire burns cheerfully in the hearth and a pot of soup bubbles on the stove. Canada himself sits at the table grimly reading the newspaper, in stark contrast to the warmth of the room.
“Matt?” He says again, dropping himself into the chair across from him. America tilts his head, glancing at the headline. It reads: Two Hikers Found Dead, Third Remains Missing.
“They were mauled,” Canada says tightly, eyes darting up to meet America’s. “By a bear, authorities think, right in these mountains.”
America grimaces. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s almost Christmas,” Canada continues, mouth trembling. “Their families—”
“You couldn’t do anything about it,” America says gently, standing so that he could lean against Canada. “I know that doesn’t make it better—” of course he knows; all of their kind does, and he can see the way that Canada wishes he’d been there to protect his people “—but you can’t blame yourself for this.”
“They were in these very mountains,” Canada retorts.
“And these mountains are big.” America rolls his eyes, but his expression gentles, and he winds an arm about Canada’s shoulders. “They were miles away from here. They got caught in the storm and must’ve found themselves too close to a bear’s den. It was an accident, Matt. It was a tragic accident, and you couldn’t have done anything to prevent it.” He squeezes Canada’s shoulder.
Black bears aren’t the largest species they have living on their land, America knows, but they’re quick to defend themselves if they think they’re under attack, even if they’re hibernating.
Canada lets America comfort him for one long moment before shrugging his arm away and standing. “Let me get you a bowl of soup,” he says, turning away from America’s painfully sympathetic gaze. “And then we should rest. We’ll be busy tomorrow.”
With that, America knows that this conversation is over, and for all that he has a habit of speaking before he thinks, he is tactful enough to let it go.
Instead, as Canada sets a steaming bowl of soup before him, he regals the other nation with a story of the mischievous new horse he’s recently acquired at his ranch down in Texas. Canada’s responding smile doesn’t reach his eyes, but it’s genuine, and that, America thinks, is enough for now.
—
The next morning is just as cold and gloomy as the day before, and it is with some dismay that America lets Canada cajole him into getting out of bed.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait till it clears up?” He says as he pulls his boots on, trying one last time to convince the other nation that staying inside is a much better idea. Not for the first time he thinks—Should’ve stayed in Texas. Where it’s warm.
“We’re not going very far,” Canada says, rolling his eyes. He hefts the axe up over his shoulder and glares at America till he hops to it.
“Maybe you should invest in an artificial tree,” America replies, grumbling.
“That’s not the same at all and you know it. Besides, it’s too late for that. Now, come on.” Canada turns and pushes the door open, stepping outside without a glance back. A burst of frigid air leaves America shuddering, and with one last mournful look about the warm cabin, he follows Canada out into the cold.
—
The snow crunches under their boots as Canada pulls a sledge along behind them. Kumajiro, Canada’s polar bear, frolics alongside the path, occasionally darting off into the trees. The bear’s growling laughter has America smiling despite himself.
“It’s not so bad now that we’re moving,” Canada tells him with a grin. Their breath leaves clouds in the air, and America likes the way the snowflakes fall on Canada’s eyelashes.
He doesn’t tell Canada this, although he shoves the other nation playfully. “It’s always bad. Now lemme tell ya about Christmas in Florida. Or Texas. Or Hawaii.”
Canada snorts. “Why anyone would want a Christmas above freezing is beyond me. The songs are all about white Christmases and winter wonderlands.”
“Beaches are white,” America says cheerfully, ducking with a yelp when Canada chucks snow at him. “Hey!”
“You will never convince me,” Canada replies, flicking more snow.
“Next year it’s my turn to choose where we spend the holiday. And I will be choosing somewhere warm.”
With that, he sticks his tongue out at Canada, whose eyes will probably pop right out of his face if he rolls them any harder.
“Anyway,” he continues, blithely ignoring the look, “where are we headed anyway? We’ve been walking for awhile now. I thought you said we weren’t going far.” He looks up at the sky, biting a chapped lip at the sight of the heavy grey clouds hanging low over them. It’s not good to go too deep into the forest with the weather barely holding off like this, but Canada knows these mountains—and this winter—better than he does.
Canada reaches for America’s shoulder and squeezes gently, all teasing gone from his face. “There’s a clearing just past here,” he says. “We’ll find out tree there.”
America trusts Canada, so he allows the other nation to lead him further into the woods, stooping against the wind till they eventually come out from the trees and find themselves in what America imagines would be a lovely meadow in the summertime.
The snow is deeper here, blown into drifts and without the protection of the trees. They lift their legs higher as they walk, and America finds himself feeling envious of Kumajiro, who looks like he’s having the time of his life, darting in and out of the snow.
“See that?” Canada asks, pointing across the clearing to a smaller grove of pines. “I thought over there would be a good place to look.” He tugs the sled along as he trudges through the snow.
“Okay,” America replies, following. “Let’s pick one quickly though. I can’t feel my nose.”
—
The pines’ branches are heavy with snow, and Canada and America both snicker as a whole bunch of it drops on to Kumajiro’s head with a soft thwump! The bear yelps, startled, but easily shakes the snow away before he is off again, leaping in and out of the drifts blown into the grove from the clearing.
“D’you have the axe?” Canada asks absently, eyeing each of the trees in turn before finally looking up and catching America’s gaze.
“It’s right here,” the other nation replies, hefting the tool over his shoulder with an easy swing. “Why? Pick one already?”
America himself had been spending more time focused on the heavy grey clouds than he had on the trees around them. For all he trusts that Canada knows his own weather, America also knows full well that mountain winters are harsh, and storms can blow forth without warning—he thinks, distantly, back to the Rocky Mountains and the old Oregon Trail before he shakes those memories from his mind with a shudder and forces himself to focus on Canada’s voice as he gestures to one pine in particular.
“This one’ll fit in the living room,” Canada tells him. The pine is sturdy but much smaller than the others in the grove, and America knows that it must be a young one. He watches Canada as the other nation circles it and then nods. “D’you want to start?”
“Yeah,” America replies. “Gotta get my blood moving again.” He still feels uneasy, especially as the wind begins to pick up, and the thought of doing something active, instead of just watching Canada, is very appealing.
He lifts the axe, ready to swing, when he hears a low rumbling growl. He frowns, but after a moment says, “Did you not eat enough breakfast?”
“That wasn’t me,” Canada whispers, and America feels something cold and heavy settle in his gut. He does not lower the axe.
“Then what—?”
He leaps back with a shout as Kumajiro appears out of nowhere, launching himself into the trees with a furious snarl.
The forest is silent for a long moment, the pair of nations frozen in shock, before a feral cry startles them into movement. Canada stumbles to the side just as Kumajiro flings the monster into the clearing.
America swears and grips the axe tightly, his eyes wide in horror.
The monster lies in a heap at their feet, reeking of rotting flesh, blood dripping from its teeth into the white snow. America bites back the bile rising in his throat at the sight of the large creature with thin skin and matted, patchy fur pulled tight across its skin as it tries to push itself upward.
“Matt,” he stutters, hands shaking on the axe handle, “Matt please tell me that isn’t a—”
“Wendigo,” Canada whispers as if he could barely force the word into existence.
Vaguely, America thinks that now they know what happened to the missing hiker; the beast must have travelled for miles through the deserted mountains, desperate for only one thing:
Human flesh.
It’s only bad luck that it has manage to stumble upon America and Canada.
Another growl from Kumajiro jolts both nations from their frozen terror, and they take off, stumbling through the snow away from the monster as fast as they can. America has never wished for his shotgun more than in that minute, although he knows that bullets wouldn’t do much beyond slowing the wendigo down.
America turns to look at the wendigo, to see how close to them it has managed to come, and slips in the snow, falling hard onto a half-buried rock, and feels pain shooting hotly up his thigh. He thinks he sees a flash of triumph in the monster’s sickly yellow eyes as it nears him, and America watches it come with horrified fascination until he feels Canada desperately grabbing at his coat.
“Get up, get up!” Canada cries, and America tries to, even as his leg burns and wobbles beneath him.
“I don’t think that I can outrun it,” America pants, reaching once more for the axe.
“Then we’ll have to face it,” Canada replies. He lets go of America and fumbles through his pockets till he finds the lighter he always keeps at hand. “If Kuma can—”
As if he’d read Canada’s mind, Kumajiro catches up to the wendigo, leaping onto its back and forcing it down into the snow with a strangled howl. The bear’s teeth close around its shoulder, his claws digging into the wendigo’s skin as he drags it onto its back.
America, who remembers the old Ojibwe stories, takes the opportunity to hack at its chest, scrabbling forward on his knees, adrenaline chasing the pain of his injury away. He gags at the sound of the axe blade smashing through skin and bone, but keeps on hacking till between the two of them, bear and nation, they manage to dismember the beast.
“The heart,” Canada says, “we have to burn—” He chokes the words back as America grimly reaches his hand into the wendigo’s chest, pulling it out with a grunt. They do not notice Kumajiro slipping away till he returns with the jug of kerosene that had been stored in the sledge—in case of emergencies—gripped tightly between his teeth.
“Thank god,” Canada says with nervous relief when he sees the bear. “I—I was worried about the burning.” His hands are shaking so badly that he can barely hold the lighter straight.
America looks up at Canada, pale-faced and frightened, and replies, “Hurry up and do it, Matt, please.”
Swallowing hard, Canada grabs the kerosene and starts drenching what’s left of the wendigo. He can barely hold that, too, as he remembers that this monster was once one of his citizens, one of the millions of people he has sworn to always love and care for and—
He is shaken from his thoughts by America’s hands closing over his. The other nation is leaning heavily on one leg, but his presence steadies Canada, and together they empty the jug over the wendigo.
“Light it,” America says quietly, and Canada can do naught but comply.
They cling to each other, trembling, till the wendigo burns away to ash.
—
Canada’s cabin is warm but not nearly as inviting as it had been earlier in the day. The two nations say nothing as they stumble inside and up to the bath, where they wash the blood and grime from their skin.
They will burn their clothes before they leave, and America will have to borrow one of Canada’s heavy sealskin coats, but it is a small price to pay. Neither thinks that he could wear those things again, not after that fight.
They do not speak to one another until much later, when they sit huddled together in front of the hearth, a heavy blanket and Kumajiro curled around them.
It is America who breaks the silence.
“There was nothing else we could’ve done,” he says, gently. He threads his fingers through Canada’s and squeezes.
Canada does not reply for a long time, but in the end he admits, “I know. It’s just—you know how the wendigo is created. Those poor hikers.” He shudders, and America presses closer.
“I know,” America agrees. “I know.”
They lapse into silence again, staring into the fire, lost in their own thoughts. In the distance, they can hear the wind picking up again, and both are grateful to be inside.
Eventually, because he’d rather hear the sound of his voice than the howling wind, America says, “Next year, I’ll show you what a cowboy Christmas is like.”
At that Canada, who understands, manages a weak smile and, squeezing America’s hand, replies, “That sounds nice. Why don’t you tell me more about it?”