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“Come on, Wy. Cheer up a bit. It’s Christmas!”
“Yes. Christmas.”
“Christmas indeed. Now, I’m going to–”
“Don’t you miss it?”
“Miss . . . what?”
“Being a kid at Christmas. How fun it used to be – or might have been, I don’t know.”
“. . . Yeah, sure. What’s brought this on, love?”
“I’m just thinking about what it might have been like."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, you know. Getting to decorate the tree. Playing out in the snow and making snowmen and having snowball fights. Waking up on Christmas morning to see the presents beneath the tree. When everyone was happy.”
“You never got any of that?”
“I mean I might have, when I was really young. I don’t remember any of it, though. When everything changed and mum . . . was sent away, the treatments began pouring in, everything blurred together. But I hear all the stories from people - Inej was telling me the other day about the fun her and her family used to have - and I can’t help but think about how fun it must have been.”
. . .
“Jes?”
“There was a lake not too far from the farmhouse where my Ma taught me how to skate when I was four. Ice-skate, that is. We’d wait until it got cold enough for the water to freeze over and she'd spin me in circles on the surface. Sometimes Da would join us, too, if we were lucky, but he said he was never any good and left us to it most of the time. With him, we’d put antlers on the horses heads, and wrangle the cat into a sweater two sizes too small. We’d put lights all over the stables and decorate all the trees we owned.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. We had sleds, too. Me and Ma would make Da drag us up the hill where–”
*sharp breath, a cut-off*
. . .
“Where we’d go all the way down in the snow. We made angels in the sand. I remember our last Christmas, the angel I made then. The angel she made. I’ll never forget it.”
“Sounds like you had the best Christmas’ a kid could get.”
“Yeah. After Ma died, it was never the same, sure. But we tried to make it just as good. Tried, but never quite succeeded.”
“What was the worst thing you got underneath the tree?”
“See, I always argue there’s no such thing as a bad Christmas gift, so I’d say probably just the typical socks and briefs, perhaps. I got a really foul smelling deodorant once, that was hilarious. Da took a picture of my face the moment I tried it out.”
“Now that I’d pay to see.”
“I’m sure you would, merchling.”
“Hm . . . I don’t think that beats mine, though.”
“Unsurprising. Let me guess . . . full-length novels?”
“Amongst many other ‘useful’ items.”
“Your Christmas present from me this year could be killing him, what do you say?”
“Hm . . . As long as it’s slow and painful.”
“Saints, you’ve been thoroughly corrupted.”
“I thought we established that a long while ago.”
“Just like we established your Da deserves nothing good in life.”
“No, he . . . he did his best. I’ll always believe that.”
“But . . . ?”
“But he could have done better. I mean, who gets their kid fucking Ghezen paraphernalia?”
“He does. Because he’s an awful human being and an awful father. He’ll never understand the gift that you are in yourself, Wy.”
“Which, naturally, is where you come in.”
“Naturally.”
"Naturally."
"As is proper."
"I'm an expert in that field."
"Ah, yes, yes, apologies milord."
*laughter*
. . .
“Thank you, Jes.”
“Always, Wy. Feeling better?”
“Mhm.”
“Excellent. Now come and make some gingerbread with me.”
“We have gingerbread?!”
“Oh boy, we have gingerbread.”