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28 years after the death of the hero Himmel . . .
Frieren heard a tale about the very road they were trekking, once.
Should a traveler be fortunate enough to happen upon a winding cobblestone path just near the border of the Northern Lands, they are always encouraged to follow it. The further one walks along the chiseled mosaics, the more frequently they can spot the blooming cream white petals of baby winter blossoms within the cracks. That was how the traveler could tell that they were headed the right direction.
The multicolored stones embedded in the ground would eventually become one with the blossoms. A traveler would find themselves standing beneath the most intricate woven birchwood arch they’d likely ever see, adorned with vivid red ribbons; stems of poinsettias made themselves at home throughout the crevices, their scarlet and ivory petals outwardly greeting those that entered the town within.
This village, long ago, declared itself the village most beloved by Santa.
“It seems we’ve come at a good time,” Frieren hummed—though it didn’t take much to come to the same conclusion.
The village lights glistened amidst the setting sun, and laughter rang out from what felt like miles away. The elf caught a glimpse of the two alongside her, amused at how contagious the jubilance seemed to be.
There were semblances of smiles forming at their lips, after all.
“Come in, come in! Welcome to Fröhlich, dear guests—grab a drink, the night is still young!”
The party was greeted ceremoniously by clamors of similar messages. This was a tight-knit town where every member seemed to know the other, Fern discerned. They stood out like a sore thumb, and the thought nearly made her uneasy—
“Fern, look!”
With a hand instinctively rested on the girl’s shoulder, Stark motioned to a woman tending to pots of poinsettias in bloom. Fern gasped; butterflies, with glimmering golden wings, made a home of the bouquets.
“How beautiful . . .”
Green garlands laced the carriages of goods passing by, and Frieren continued onward as the two admired the florist’s supply. The jaunty symphony of a street ensemble made it clear where the main festivities took place. She found herself following the beat of the drum, with every step.
“Good grief, Heiter—how many mugs is that, now? Four?”
A mischievous laugh blended perfectly in with the melody in the air as the hero Himmel roped the alcohol-ridden priest into a headlock. Heiter draped like a ragdoll at his friend’s grasp, yet Frieren scoffed at his refusal to let a drop of the spiked eggnog spill from the mug.
“His priorities are equally corrupt,” Eisen retorted.
A sigh slipped from Himmel’s lips, though there was no disguising the reminiscence so clearly in his eyes—not that Frieren thought much of it, at the time.
“It was tradition, having eggnog around this time of year.”
As they approached the town center, Himmel’s gaze slipped back to the drink in Heiter’s hand. “Even when supplies were scarce, there was an adventurer from our village that made sure we’d never go a single winter festival without it. Everyone started to call him our very own Santa.”
“Aaaand one year, Himmel—”
“Heiter,” he hissed, to no avail. Frieren cocked a brow.
“One year, Santa didn’t come when he usually did. Himmel was so worried—he ran into the woods all by himself to make sure he was okay!”
The warrior chuckled. “So, he’s been the same way for a long time.”
As tinted red as Himmel’s cheeks were, his smile persisted. “I’d gotten lost. I went sprinting in with nothing but a lantern and a kitchen knife, but the sun had already set.”
“How reckless . . .”
“Perhaps,” Heiter sputtered, “but we would have had our first year without eggnog, if Himmel wasn’t.”
Children sprinted by the party with fistfuls of candy; peppermint canes, gumdrops and chocolates galore. Himmel released Heiter in favor of picking up a stray sweet on the ground, giving it back to the little boy that dropped it.
“What did Himmel do?” Frieren asked, in passing.
“The adventurer returned to the village, but he— hic— was empty handed. He was ambushed by beasts on his way back, too injured to carry the crates with him.”
It seemed that the hero wouldn’t be returning to them anytime soon. The children gathered and exchanged their goodies before him, showing off their candy store's worth of gifts from the village elders.
“While Himmel was lost . . .”
“He stumbled upon the crates?” Frieren chanced a guess, and the priest shot back a hearty thumbs up.
“The adventurer went pale as a sheet when we told him Himmel ran in! But he came back with the crate in tow, all covered in brambles and scratches. Smiling from ear to ear!”
“I see.”
The elf looked back to Himmel, trying to envision the story as it must have appeared—a boy no older than the one excitedly showing Himmel his gummy candies, scurrying into the woods without a hint of hesitation.
. . . It wasn’t difficult.
“He was Santa’s helper, then.”
“Miss Frieren, you have to try this fresh gingerbread.”
The soft enthused voice broke the elf from her memories. Before Frieren knew it, she faced a staggering army of gingerbread men in a tower atop Fern’s plate. She and Stark were already munching away, cheeks rosy in glee.
“This place is no joke. If I was Santa, it’d be my favorite village too!”
Stark took a swig of the eggnog in his hand, washing down the bite.
“Why don’t we head to the village square? It seems like the main event is about to begin.”
Frieren led the way, equipped with a gingerbread man in both hands. She and Fern were one and the same—how could anyone resist a freshly baked treat?
The baskets of poinsettias lined the streets, making a parade path of the walkway. It was easy to see why—Frieren craned her neck upwards to see the pine tree in its entirety. Tinsels glistened, reflecting the lights of the town; and it was astonishing that even if the lantern ornaments were yet to be lit, the tree was already bathed in the afterglow.
A statue stood at the base of the tree, rusted over to a mint green. It was a statue of Santa: even in the absence of red and white, intricate carvings of the fur trimmed lining made his cloak look soft to the touch. A grand beard covered the mouth of the figure, and only his sharp eyes remained unobscured.
“Say, that statue . . .”
Stark’s words only served to cement her suspicions. Not that he would know; Frieren made no response. The closer they approached, the more certain the mage was.
Right below Santa’s left eye, a beauty mark was etched in—there was no mistake.
“It’s Himmel.”
“W - We have a problem!”
A frantic townsman cut through the crowds, and the eager chatter amongst the townspeople faded—replaced with concerned murmurs. Himmel rose, stepping forth.
“What is it?”
“Thieves—these monsters, t - thieves! The childrens’ presents. . .”
For a moment, Frieren thought she was seeing things. In no time at all, she thought she’d seen a flicker of disarray flashed past the hero’s eyes.
“They couldn’t have gone far yet. Come on!”
“Thank you all for gathering once again this year! Frölich is blessed to celebrate another year of the Winter Festival. Our tree lighting ceremony will begin soon, but first . . .”
The ensemble proudly flourished to signal the entrance of a carriage.
“Ah, it’s that one . . .” Fern muttered, “. . . The townspeople have been decorating it, right up to the very last second. I was wondering why it was so special.”
Fern was certainly right—and it was no walk in the park to outshine the other carriages they passed earlier. Even the horse had a festive checkered caparison, lined with fur and clasped together with a shimmering golden bell.
Atop his back was a young man cloaked in a satin white cape, waving left and right. He donned the same apparel as Santa, right down to the star emblem on his chest. The children of the village squealed, with fruitless attempts by the adults to keep them from rousing too much excitement.
“Happy Winter Festival, everyone! Ho ho ho!”
The cart came to a steady stop just before the grand pine tree, and Santa set foot on the ground. The sack of presents tossed over his shoulder made him seem even more grandiose.
Stark chuckled as the children swarmed around him. Fern, on the other hand, had a sense to her stillness that Frieren recognized all too well by now.
“Miss Frieren, it’s odd, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Santa . . .”
Perplexed at first, Frieren looked at Santa once more. She began to see where Fern was coming from. Although this Santa wore the same clothing as that statue, he had no beard—the more she scrutinized, the more she understood what the girl was insinuating.
The robes were the only similarity between this Santa and the statue. It even seemed like there was no effort spared to make them look alike—the Santa in the square didn’t don a fake beard, and his hair beneath the cap held no resemblance to Himmel’s.
Santa was always depicted as an ageless, timeless being. Near akin to an elf, she thought in passing. To a village that proudly proclaimed to be Santa’s most favored, wouldn’t it make sense to maintain the illusion?
“. . . Long, long ago, it was Santa himself that protected the joy of our Winter Festival.”
The elven mage tilted her head. Was he speaking in third person?
“Children, you’re far too young to know just what transpired. That is why it’s tradition, every year, to tell this tale. Settle down, now—take a seat.”
With passing years and clockwork seasons,
The village of Frölich shined bright.
Joy unabashed has always had reason
To be safe every Festival night.
The time has since passed when Santa appeared
With the town’s presents protected in tow.
Yet, year after year did the man come in time
To ensure that the star is aglow.
The village of Frölich is loved by the being
Who returned to us, over again—
Warding off beasts and defending the path
With the power of hundreds of men.
Decades descended, one after the other,
And to Frölich’s chief, Santa confessed:
“My weariness grows, so from one soul to another—
may I impart one last request?
The children of Frölich, with glimmering hopes
With fruitful and sweet lives ahead,
Must know that a “Santa” is not so elusive;
Do not let their minds be misled.
For “Santa” is truer than one would believe!
He need not be confined to a myth.
Any and all with the will to do good
bears the spirit that “Santa” is with.
I wish it for you to instill this ideal
To the children this village shall raise.
You may don my red cap, my cloak and my heel
As the Santa for this coming age.
Let this be a mantle for Frölich to upkeep;
Let this candle remain ever alight,
So that children for years, for centuries to come
Have a Santa each Festival night.”
Santa glanced around at the awestruck children with a somber smile across his lips. Unbeknownst to Frieren herself, she’d done the same. He produced a scroll from his pocket, motioning for the children to scoot closer. Frieren only needed a glimpse to surmise what—or rather, whom— it depicted.
Photography magic. A thin, luminescent veil enchantingly coated the frozen moment in time. It was immune, even to the same weathering that yellowed and cracked the parchment of the scroll itself.
There was Himmel, somewhat older than he was when she last visited the village. At this point in time, Frieren thought, the beard on his face must have still been false. His kind, sharp eyes were confident as ever, and the children surrounding him had bright presents—and even brighter smiles. It was just like the tale implied: he must have returned here, year after year.
“It is tradition for Santa to light the first, most important light on our tree; the star, at the very top. So without further ado . . .”
Santa stood before the statue, and he smiled assuredly as he beckoned a staff to his hands. An illustrious, ruby red gemstone rested in the center of the birchwood staff—it must have been the same, Frieren noted, as the wood of the village’s arch—and a vivid green garland wrapped snugly around the stick.
He raised the staff, and the gemstone glimmered from its core. Soon, particles of light seemed to flock right to it! The warm glow of the lanterns on the streets imparted some of their shine, and a myriad of lights spiraled into the core.
And as Santa faced the staff to the resplendent star above, the eminent light outpoured.
“Wow . . .”
The golden star glistened with endless light; one that it soon fragmented, dispersing the bounty amongst each and every ornament throughout the tree. Radiant reds, boisterous blues, gallant greens and crystalline hues adorned the tree from head to toe.
The crown of poinsettias atop the statue’s head shined, as Santa was bathed in light.
“Have you noticed, Himmel? All the kids in this village have started calling you Santa~.”
They lost track of how many eggnogs they’ve lost Heiter to. It was harrowing that he could still hold conversation in such a state.
Himmel sat adjacent, one leg crossed over the other and eggnog of the non- alcoholic variety in hand.
“Quit pulling my leg, Heiter—you will never let me live that down, will you?”
“He isn’t lying, you know. Now they’ve all gotten it in their heads that Santa’s a sword wielding Hero that slew monsters to bring their presents back.”
“Is that not a good impression to leave? It grants Santa the likeness of a warrior.”
Eisen laughed, with the party chiming in in kind. The night was still young, as the townspeople declared earlier; and the spirits were as high as can be.
Himmel’s eyes rested on the hopeful star above, resolute.
What a beloved town this was.