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Night fell across Krakoa like glitter. Fireworks twinkled in and out of existence as houses glowed steadily, spilling golden light onto the gentle dusting of snow that covered the ground. Bonfires flickered, their flames driving away the dark of the longest night of the year.
Emma Frost stood at the highest window of the White Tower, watching the revels below.
There had been a time where she’d don a diamond-spangled white leather corset and silk nothings at a holiday party, ready to entertain, seduce, and distract. These days, she wore her support garments on the inside of her clothes. Chilly weather gave her the excuse to swathe herself in white furs. Underneath was a satin dress that glittered like newfallen snow, covered in tiny lab-grown crystals shaped like six-pointed stars. The dress fell around her body like snow did, exposed the white hills of her collarbones, drew the eye to the diamond and sapphire snowflake choker around her neck, matching the sapphire drops dangling from her ears and the color of her eyes. White leather boots and matte satin gloves completed the look, a sapphire bracelet like drops of ice in snow, and in her hand she held a Waterford crystal goblet filled with a spiced orange liqueur.
Mutant culture, Emma mused, was taking a turn toward the pagan. The younger mutants in Krakoa were keen on experimental culture, and starting end-of-the-year festivities on the eve of the Solstice was becoming more and more popular each year. Fireworks and bonfires drove away the dark, concerts in every square and park kept people dancing and moving, and food and drink flowed freely from homes and restaurants alike. It made trying to get any business during the last two weeks of the year absolutely impossible, but she had to admit that it had been wonderful for building a sense of community.
She took a sip of the liqueur. It played bright and thick over her tongue, so insistently flavorful that her palate nearly turned to diamond for a moment. Perhaps the clove had been too much? But when the liquid trickled down her throat and hit her stomach, the sense of warmth was worth it. Good, she decided, and took another sip. The warmth spread through her limbs, but the pleasant sensation in her stomach remained the same.
“Perfection,” she said to her drink.
“I should say so.” The rich, deep faintly German-accented voice was familiar, but unexpected. “Sufganiyot?”
Emma debated simply glancing over her shoulder, then made a slow, full turn, like a good hostess.
Magneto held out a box of jelly donuts.
He had on his customary crimson and purple helmet, which was why she hadn’t noticed the psychic traces of his presence. She’d seen him without it, but he always wore it when he was someplace in an official capacity. Today, he wore one of his brighter red three-piece suits, with a purple tie and pocket square, as well as a purple cape trimmed with red fur. It made him look festive and somewhat regal at the same time.
“Jelly donuts by another name are still fattening sugar bombs,” Emma sighed, but she used two cocktail napkins as tongs to pick out a donut. With her goblet--wielding hand, she gestured vaguely to a glass coffee table, where five more goblets stood around a crystal decanter of her orange liqueur. “Do help yourself to a glass. It turned out just the way I wanted it to.”
“Ah, but there’s a difference.” Magneto set the box on the table and poured himself a glass, then held it up before he took a sip. “L’chaim.”
“To your health,” Emma said, and took a bite of the donut. It was greasy, caked in sugar that cracked and slid around her fingers. The filling was thick and tasted rich, like fine port, and it slid home into the brightness of the orange. “Mmm. Plums?”
“Prunes, actually,” Magneto said. “And the donuts are fried in schmaltz.”
“Chicken fat?” Emma’s eyes widened in horror, but the donut was so good. She swallowed and chased it down with more of her orange elixir. “I can’t believe you fed me chicken fat donuts.”
“The goyim fried them in pork fat,” Magneto said. “My mother made ours with chicken fat. I don’t think mine are as good as hers, but nothing I make is. Nothing will ever taste as good as a memory.”
“Would you like to taste it again?” Emma offered. “Just as you did the first time, as vivid as anything. I promise not to poke around too deeply. A present.”
“Thank you, but no." Magneto shook his head. “I prefer the memory as it is by now.”
“Wise, I suppose.” Emma shrugged and looked back out the window. “My memories of Christmas aren’t terribly pleasant. Glittering parties where we all had to get along and play happy family like little dolls, good food I vomited up afterwards, the pastor rattling on about the sanctity of the Holy Family in church, my brother having a panic attack in the janitor’s closet. Absolutely awful silences, worse than the shouting.”
“I’m sorry.” Magneto’s hand was warm and solid on her shoulder. “At least my family was happy. Before.”
“Childhood’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Emma asked. “I suppose you don’t hate Christmas as much as I do. Well, you might.”
“Our town had a Christmas market when I was a boy,” Magneto said. “They set it up in the square. The lights, the smell of the pine trees and the mulled wine… It was a treat in the winter, like it’s supposed to be. I went with the other children, bought cookies and skated. Until I was, oh, six.”
Emma mentally calculated his age. It felt like new information, despite all she already knew about him. Magneto has never been closemouthed about his past, but every new facet of him seemed to paint him in a totally different light for her.
“And then it wasn’t really Christmas anymore.” Magneto’s lips curved upward in a sardonic smile. “Jesus was too Jewish, you see. It was simply a solstice celebration. Where you used to see stars and angels, there were swastikas mapping the wheel of the year into the heavens. Saint Nicholas was too Catholic, so obviously he had to become Odin. They took everything that represented their enemies, scrubbed it out of the holiday, and pretended it had been that way all along. Like we were to blame for it, somehow.”
Emma remembered why she hated chatting with Magneto. It wasn’t the solemn reminder of injustice at a time when she wanted to be far less sober than she was; he’d earned that, and she seldom disagreed with his bitterer assessments of humanity. It was the damn helmet. Conversation was easy when you had a sense of the other person’s mood, the thought behind each microexpression, could watch the flitting fish of their thoughts. Deprived of her ability to casually connect, Emma had to feel out the conversation slowly, like groping along a wall in the dark.
“Mm.” She settled on a solemn but affirmative sound, then let a few moments go by in acknowledgement of the depth of his statement, searching for something else. “Odin as Santa, though. Can you imagine that regal old bastard dressing up in red and showering snot-nosed brats with Barbie dolls and Transformers? Eating milk and cookies? I can’t.”
“Having his ravens spy on children so he can reward the virtuous and punish the wicked?” Magneto shrugged. “It sounds right to me. The funny thing is, the old bastard apparently slept through the whole thing. Missed the adulation. Imagine pouring out your soul and blood to a god who doesn’t care because he’s taking a big nap after dinner.”
“I take it you don’t care to join the Solstice revels, then?” Emma asked, tilting her face up toward his. “Just like I don’t. Odd, how something horrid that’s supposed to be fun can turn you off the idea altogether.”
“I’m girding myself.” Magneto took his hand from her shoulder and stalked back toward the coffee table. He topped up his goblet with the orange liqueur and swallowed half of it. “I ought to. I’m not fond of bonfires and street parties. Too old, maybe.”
You don’t look too old for anything. Emma considered Magneto’s face. He was nearly a hundred, but the cragged lines and distinguished grey hair that peeked out of the rounded corners of his mask seemed to arrest his aging at the youngest point possible.
She thought she’d lost her taste for older men, but possibly not.
“Stay in with me, then.” Emma offered her hand. “We’ll watch the party from above.”