Chapter Text
Gabriel sat alone in the dim glow of his mountain cabin home, the stone walls echoing with the ghosts of better times. It had been 3 months since the fall of the Lords of Shadow. 3 months since he'd assembled the God Mask and uncovered the cruel truths of his quest. The world was saved, or so they said, but his own salvation remained elusive.
But in this timeline, the seal on the Forgotten One had held firm, a mercy he hadn't anticipated. No desperate call from Laura, no plunge into the shadow plane, no cursed blood to twist his soul. He was still human. Still Gabriel Belmont. And yet, that humanity felt like a heavier burden than any immortality could be.
Snow fell softly outside the frost-laced windows, blanketing the Brotherhood's lands in a serene white shroud. Christmas Eve. Marie had adored this season, the twinkling candles, the scent of pine and spiced wine, the carols sung by villagers under starlit skies. She'd drag him from his duties, her laughter like bells, insisting they decorate the hall with evergreen boughs and holly. "It's a time for miracles, Gabriel," she'd say, her eyes sparkling. "Even for brooding knights like you."
Now, he tried to honor that memory, though his heart rebelled against the effort. The great hearth crackled with a fire he'd built himself, its flames casting flickering shadows that danced like mocking spirits. A single pine branch lay on the mantel, adorned with a few tarnished ornaments he'd salvaged from storage, remnants of happier years. A loaf of bread and a jug of mulled wine sat on the table, untouched. He'd even hummed a fragment of an old carol earlier, but the words caught in his throat, turning to ash.
He slumped into a worn chair, his armor long discarded for simple woolen garb that hung loosely on his frame. The battles had left scars, but none deeper than the void Marie's absence carved. She'd been his light, his anchor. Her death, revealed as a pawn in Satan's grand scheme, hadn't brought closure; it had only amplified the grief. Why fight for a world that took everything? Why cling to faith when God Himself seemef so indifferent?
Gabriel closed the door after he took a look outside, the cross heavy in his palm. He placed it beside the pine branch, its simple beauty a stark contrast to the opulence Marie had favored. For the first time in months, a faint warmth stirred in his chest, not joy, exactly, but a quiet acknowledgment. The world moved on, even if he felt stuck in shadow. Marie would have wanted him to try, to find slivers of light amid the dark.
He poured a cup of wine, raising it to the empty room. "To you, my love," he whispered. "Merry Christmas."
Outside, the snow continued to fall, soft and unrelenting, covering old wounds in a fresh layer of peace.
The morning of Christmas Day dawned crisp and clear, the snow having paused overnight to leave the world hushed and glittering under a pale sun. Gabriel stood at the window, the wooden cross from the boy still in his hand. The faint warmth from the night before lingered, fragile as a candle flame in wind, but enough to stir him from the chair.
Marie had always insisted on a proper tree, a tall fir brought in from the woods, its branches heavy with snow until they warmed by the fire. “A house isn’t fit for Christmas without one,” she’d say, clapping cold flakes from her gloves as he hauled it through the door. He hadn’t the heart to do it alone yesterday, but now… now the idea felt less like betrayal and more like a small act of devotion.
He pulled on his heavy cloak, took an axe from the shed, and stepped out into the biting air. The path to the nearby woods was unbroken save for the already softening at the edges. Gabriel followed them a while, then veered deeper among the pines until he ited straight and sturdy, no taller than he could manage alone. It smelled sharp and green when he cut it, the scent piercing the numbness he’d carried for months.
Dragging it back took no timel with the cyclone boots, the snow dragged at his boots, and his breath plumed white. By the time he wrestled the trunk into its stand in the great hall, his hands were raw and his cloak dusted white, but the effort had thawed something inside him. The tree stood crooked at first; he adjusted it twice, muttering under his breath the way Marie used to tease him for fussing over details.
Then came the decorating.
He had no market bought baubles, no silken ribbons. What he had were the skills of a warrior and a craftsman, and the remnants of a life spent forging weapons and mending armor. From the workshop he gathered scraps: thin sheets of silvered steel left from old gauntlets, wire drawn fine enough to twist, shards of colored glass salvaged from a broken lantern Marie once loved for its stained hues.
He worked through the afternoon by the firelight, fingers surprisingly steady. He carved small wooden stars and bells from pine offcuts, sanding them smooth with a scrap of leather. From the metal he cut delicate snowflakes and tiny shields, polishing them until they caught the flames. The glass he carefully shaped into teardrop ornaments, wrapping their tops with wire so they hung like frozen jewels.
Each piece carried memory. A star shaped like the one on the Brotherhood’s crest. A bell reminiscent of the ones that rang in the village chapel where he and Marie had wed. A shield engraved faintly with her initials tiny, almost hidden, something only he would notice.
When he hung them on the branches, the tree came alive. The firelight danced across metal and glass, scattering glints of red and blue and silver around the room. It was rough-hewn compared to the elegant trees of years past, but it was his. Made with his own scarred hands, born of grief and love in equal measure.
Gabriel stepped back, breathing hard from the work. The hall felt different now warmer, less cavernous. The pine scent filled the air, mingling with woodsmoke and the faint spice of the mulled wine he finally poured.
He placed the wooden cross from the boy at the very top, where a star might have gone. It fit perfectly.
For a long moment he simply stood there, eyes tracing the handmade ornaments, the flickering reflections. Tears threatened again, but this time they carried less sting.
“Merry Christmas, Marie,” he said softly to the quiet room.
Outside, the snow began to fall once more, gentle and forgiving, as if the world itself approved.