I had a number of inspirations for this. One was from a volume of the comic Flight. Another is a little story my pastor once told me about a soldier and a boy. All in all, I wanted to try something a little different as I prepare for another year gone by. Hopefully, I pulled it off.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

It was a night of cold and silence. The snow was falling, as expected of it at this time of year, covering all things with a soft gentle blanket. It would melt someday, giving way to life anew, but that day was still far, something of yearning only. A night like this, especially so late, was one that expected all to stay home, warm and huddled close together.

One boy sat alone, far from his home, far from the town itself. Curled up in a tiny space between a pair of rocks, he squeezed his eyes shut and pleaded the monsters around to not eat him. Every low gust of wind that echoed through the empty wilderness was like a dreadful howl or a cruel laugh, mocking him, encouraging his fear to new levels with each passing moment. Winter's chill nipped at him, despite the once warm jacket he was bundled in.

He dared to whimper, then perhaps a little louder, seeking sympathy from the unseen forces that tormented him. Perhaps they'd pity him. Perhaps they'd let him go home…

Then he heard it: there was a series of soft crunching sounds, getting closer and closer. His whimpers silenced at once, and he squeezed himself into a tight ball, pressing deeper into his hiding place. But the sounds knew he was there, for they were getting closer still. A dark shadow was falling on the white snow, sliding over its surface until it threw itself over him like a blanket of gray. Only then did he look up, to glimpse who it was.

It wasn't a monster… at least, he did not think so. It was a man. He looked younger than his father, and all that protected him from winter was a dark, muddy red jacket sharply contrasted by a ruff of white fur. The man was tall, and it was a little scary to look all the way up just to see his face. He could not make out much in the darkness, but he liked to think those were gentle eyes, sort of like the ones that his father had. The man was a stranger, and he knew vaguely that he had never seen him before, but looking at him now, the boy felt something funny in his center.

Father had always called it those strange names grown-ups liked: "relief", "gladness", "trust"… He did not understand any of them entirely, but he decided those were what he felt now. They were telling him that the man was here to make everything better.

The man reached forward, slowly and carefully, and picked him up. Pressed against a warm chest, he noticed a strong, weird smell that he did not quite like. It was the smell of the butcher's shop across the street, with all the meat and the several dead chickens that seemed to increase in number at this time of year. Yet, at the moment, he did not find himself to particularly care, and instead snuggled down, enjoying how warm it was, how safe it felt in the strong arms that carried him away.

He was rocking with each step the man took, the gentle sways calming him from his previous fears. He found himself looking down at the pair of boots that trudged through the snow, each footstep as sure and confident as the last. It felt like flying, and he decided for now, that he liked that. It kept him from thinking about things that would scare him. It told him that they were going to a nice safe place… to home.

He soon saw it – the lights of the town. His fist tightened, and he realized he had been clutching something for a while now. He looked at his hand, and found he was grasping a few fingers that seemed so much larger than his own. His father's hand was like that, but at the same time it was different. The man had that same assuring warmth in his fingers that his father did, but the man had something more… a "strong" feeling came from them, promising to protect him no matter what.

Suddenly, the man stopped walking. He heard a knocking sound, and he looked up to see a door – his door. It was swinging open now, and he saw his father's face. His father looked pale and scared, and suddenly he was back in his father's arms. His father was saying something very fast and in a pitched voice, so that he had no idea what was actually being said. One warm hand was buried in his hair, and the other was supporting him against his body. Only then did he realize he was home, back in the warm hug of the one he loved.

Peering pass his father's arms, the boy watched the man – his rescuer – slowly turn away, shrugging the red jacket with its white ruff into a better position over his shoulders. The man stepped forward, leaving, and the boy spoke his words in a whisper after him, hoping to be heard…

"… Thank you, Santa."

If that tiny voice had been heard at all, the man did not pause to acknowledge it. He kept walking, passing through the snow-covered street. Soon, the only lights around him were from the street lamps that illuminated every corner, the homes already dark with their residents long since in peaceful slumber. It reminded him of the hour, of exactly how late it was. The man turned a corner, and another man – a large sword at his back – was there, waiting for him. They exchanged nods of greeting, and then the second man was pointing at his jacket.

"What happened to you?"

"Some animal wanted its dinner," the first answered. "I already took an elixir for it."

The second frowned, not taking his eyes off the crusty jacket's new uniform color. "You've lost a lot of blood, regardless."

"But I won."

"I didn't expect otherwise."

A low chime echoed from a nearby bell tower, and both men looked up for a moment. The chime sounded again, then again, then yet again…

"… Christmas," the second man concluded, allowing a small smirk to play on his features. "How about it, Leonhart, ready to head back?"

The first seemed to think about it, staring beyond the bell tower, at the night promising more snowfall. "… Alright, let's go."

They moved on, their paces matched, their strides comparable.

"That's not going to wash out," the second man commented again. "You might as well burn it, get a new one."

The first grunted. It could have been an agreement, understanding, or just something to fill the space. Despite the nipping air, he slipped the jacket off, revealing a shredded shirt from the earlier attack he had suffered. He looked down at it, thumbing through the white ruff that had somehow been preserved compared to the rest.

"Maybe this time, you can go back to doing without the fur collar."

"… I think I'll keep it," the first replied. Hooking his fingers into the fur lining, he slung the jacket over his shoulder and pressed on. The ship they rode in on was just ahead, and they would be home soon.

"I thought you didn't like it?"

"It has its benefits," he admitted. "Besides, I need the reminder."

"What of?"

The first did not answer right away. In his mind's eye, he saw again a tiny little boy safe in his father's arms. Not dead in the snow from cold or eaten by the beast he slew, but safe. He was smiling though he did not realize it, and the fur that grazed his neck kept the skin there warm.

"About the job we're doing here, and in the other worlds we visit," he explained eventually. "It'll remind me that, if anything, we're at least doing something right."