Author's Note: My apologizes for not individually responding to your reviews. FFnet seems to be having some glitches. So a public thanks to all for taking the time to leave comments. I truly appreciate it.

Now to wrap up this tale. Remember the King's tree in chapter one? If you have ever dealt with trees of the evergreen variety you know how annoyingly sappy they can be. Well all the sap from the huge tree in chapter one ended up here in chapter twelve. You have been forewarned.


The next morning D'Artagnan woke first and carefully crawled out from under the warm pile of blankets without disturbing his brothers who were still asleep. As he padded across the scarred wooden floor to the far side of the room, he stretched his sleep cramped muscles. He had slept on wooden floors often and every time, upon waking, his body reminded him it was not a fan of the idea. But as Porthos often said, 'Needs must'.

Looking back towards the heap of blankets near the fireplace, he had to smile at the other three musketeers who looked like a pile of snoozing puppies. Athos was sandwiched between Porthos and Aramis. The injured musketeer couldn't seem to get warm last night, despite the pile of cloaks and blankets covering him. So Porthos had solved the problem by scooting alongside of him and using his broad body as a human blanket. When that didn't quite seem to do the trick, Aramis had moved on the other side of the shivering man, offering his body heat too. Finally, Athos' body had stopped quivering and the swordsman had drifted off into a surprisingly deep slumber.

Athos was never one to sleep very long or very deeply, which was a plus for a solider, the Gascon supposed as he routed through their meager supplies looking for something to eat. Whenever one did find the former Comte soundly asleep it meant one of two things, he was dead drunk or recovering from an injury. This morning D'Artagnan knew exactly which one it was without hesitation. Athos never should have come on this trip in the first place, but obstinate was the man's first name and synonyms for obstinate made up his middle, and last name.

Snaring a piece of cheese from one of the saddlebags, he munched on it as he walked over to the cabin's front door and opened it to peer out with curiosity to see what the weather was like. A gust of wind hit him in the face, plastering his body with snowflakes. There was a regular blizzard going on outside and one thing was for certain, they weren't leaving anytime soon.

Firmly shutting the door behind him, he shook like a wet dog to rid his clothing of the wet flakes. By this time, Aramis and Porthos had woken and crawled out of their human sandwich leaving the still slumbering Athos behind. Each man was going through his morning ritual.

Aramis' joints crackled a lot, more than the pup's, as he stretched his cramped limbs. The marksman wasn't all that much older than the Gascon was, but life as a solider had been tough on his body. Aramis had seen more than his fair share of battles, which came along with the associated bruises, cuts, muscle sprains, and broken bones. This morning, after sleeping on the wooden floor, every one of his prior injuries seemed to be clambering for a little TLC.

Porthos, as always, shook off sleep within two minutes of being on his feet and was instantly ready to start the day. Aramis always figured it was a by-product of living on the streets, when Porthos was a young lad, where survival meant quick reactions. The street fighter already looked disgustingly alert and was contemplating if the fire needed stoking.

"We'll let him sleep," Aramis gestured towards their fourth, still under the pile of blankets and cloaks, "until we are ready to go. He needs the rest."

D'Artagnan wandered back over to where the cabin's small kitchen area was, if you could call it that, and was soon joined his two brethren. "In that case, he will get a lot of rest. It's a blizzard out there and we aren't going anywhere."

Porthos went over to the door to verify with his own eyes what the boy had reported. A few minutes later, when he came back dusted in snow, D'Artagnan grinned at him. "So, did I get it right?"

"Aye, you did at that, pup," Porthos cheerfully agreed. "It's a regular mess out there."

"Glad to hear that even as the 'pup', I can get some things right," the Gascon teased his companions.

"We all get lucky once in a while," Aramis replied distractedly, with a wave of his hand, before he started rummaging through their saddle bags. "Hmmmm, we're going to have to scavenge for food. We didn't pack for an extended stay."

Porthos glanced back over at the fire again. "I'll check around the outer edge of the cabin for a wood pile. I suspect Mr. Prepared over there would have kept logs nearby. He's not one for needlessly suffering the cold. Of course," he added thoughtfully, "if it was summer when he last stayed, we might be screwed." With that encouraging thought, Porthos strolled over to the pile of blankets and cloaks covering Athos, removed his cloak, slipped it on, and headed outdoors into the storm.

"That's the first of the three 'Fs'. Fire. Now we move onto the second, 'F' food," Aramis said, turning to face D'Artagnan. "We're on a river, but it is frozen so fishing will be a tad more difficult than usual."

"This area is fairly heavily wooded. Might be some game. I'll go scout," the Gascon suggested as he turned to walk away.

Aramis reached out and captured the boy's arm as he shook his head. "No. I don't want you wandering around in this storm. You could get lost."

"I'm not a child, you know," D'Artagnan shot back, annoyed at the way his companions treated him sometimes.

Aramis tried to sooth the boy's ruffled feathers. "I didn't mean to imply you were. I'm just concerned about your safety, as much as I am for Porthos or Athos. And that storm sounds very bad." As if to confirm Aramis' point, the rickety cabin shuddered under a blast of wind and a few stray snowflakes found their way inside.

"Speaking of Athos," D'Artagnan changed the subject as he glanced over at the lump of blankets that contained their friend, "How is he doing?"

"Mentally? Quite well actually, for him that is. Being able to deliver the gifts to Pinon has relieved his stubborn duty-bound mind. Physically, on-the-other-hand, he pushed himself too hard once again. He needs time to recuperate."

"You have to admit; providing those gifts, to the children of Pinon, it is a nice gesture," D'Artagnan declared. "Especially from a man who has renounced his titles, handed over his lands and says he wants nothing to do with his former life."

Aramis shrugged as if to say, Athos is Athos. "I wonder if he can see the irony of this," Aramis pondered about their sleeping friend. "But I suspect asking him would be a very bad idea."

Aramis walked over to the saddlebags and began digging again. "Anyway, nice as it was for him to deliver those gifts, I suspect the people of Pinon would rather have their former Comte alive than dead, which would have been a distinct possibility if he had tried to do this on own."

Aramis' search of the bags for food came up empty. Scratching his chin he said, "I thought there was some cheese in here."

Looking sheepish, D'Artagnan admitted he had eaten it. The boy picked up the thread of the conversation. "Well, if Athos had let us in on his little adventure from the start, it may have gone a whole lot smoother. If one of us had been with him when he was gathering the presents, maybe he wouldn't have been ambushed in the streets. That reminds me, I wonder what was in the sack that was taken when he was attacked." D'Artagnan looked over at Aramis, who shrugged.

"No idea, but I will ask him sometime later today, when he is awake, bored, and in need of mental stimulation," Aramis stated breezily as the door opened and Porthos came inside, along with a brisk gust of wind.

The Gascon cocked his head and raised an eyebrow and Aramis cheekily grinned back at him. "Surely, D'Artagnan, you don't think me that stupid as not to know that Mr. Moody over there likes to verbally spar with me for entertainment."

D'Artagnan grinned, but gave a noncommittal shrug. "So you're saying you knowingly play along with him?"

"Of course I do. It makes Athos feel better and doesn't hurt me. I would do anything for my brothers," Aramis stated sincerely and Porthos, who had walked over to join them, rudely snorted.

"Wanna warm up my ice cold hands? Maybe on your nice warm back?" Porthos threatened, taking a step towards Aramis with his arms outstretched. "Anything for a brother you said."

"Almost, anything," Aramis amended taking a step backwards. Trying to distract the advancing musketeer, he asked, "Did you find wood?"

Porthos stopped his fake frontal assault and tucked his cold hands under his own armpits. "Yep. Big pile. We got no worries. And as a bonus, there are some rabbits living in the woodpile. We have food and fuel."

Aramis clapped his hands with delight. "So that is all three 'Fs' resolved."

"Ah, 'Mis, that's only two 'Fs'," D'Artagnan pointed out. "Food and fire."

Wrapping his arms over their shoulders, he whispered, "The third is 'friends'. We have the perfect triumphant." He gave them a hearty slap on the back. "Now, gentleman, nature calls. Porthos, if I may borrow your cloak instead of trying to extract mine from Athos' clutches. You know he is not a morning person."

Porthos handed over his cloak with a warning not to get it wet. Aramis just gave his brother a casual wave as he flung it over his shoulders and departed the cabin.

D'Artagnan gave Porthos a puzzled look. "It's snowing. How can he not get your cloak wet?"

"It's not wet from snow I'm worried about," Porthos darkly explained. "It's windy out there. Don't want him standing there, admiring the beauty of the storm, getting distracted while he is... well, you know, and getting my cloak wet. He's done it before."

D'Artagnan had to laugh once more because he could envision what Porthos described happening. Aramis could get distracted at times. "By the way, Aramis knows that Athos likes to mess with his mind. Verbal sparring he called it."

D'Artagnan had to admit Porthos had a good range of nonverbal snorts, which he could use to convey his opinion and he used one now. The warrior was almost as accomplished as their taciturn leader who was probably the world's best wordless communicator.

"Don't let Aramis fool you," Porthos cautioned, grinning. "He only thinks he knows when Athos is toying with him and half the time he ain't right. Athos is a hell of a lot better at the game. Maybe it is a noble's thing, with all that court intrigue."

D'Artagnan plopped down in a nearby chair. "Athos says he hates all the political posturing that goes on in court."

Porthos snorted again. "Hates it, yeah, but doesn't mean he ain't good at it. Our Comte is a man of many hidden talents."

"Former Comte. Man of mystery," D'Artagnan quipped and Porthos nodded his head in agreement, as he, too, sat in a chair, and crossed his legs.

"Got that right. Every time I think I got him pegged, he does another damn odd thing," Porthos stated, recalling Athos' actions at Pinon.

"That is true," the Gascon agreed as the door opened and admitted a shivering Aramis.

"Who, me?" the marksman queried catching the tail end of their conversation as he walked over to join them. Holding out the cloak to Porthos, he added, "You might want to hang this by the fire to, ah, dry."

"Tell me you didn't! Not after I specifically warned you," the larger man growled leaping up from his chair.

With the piety of an altar boy, Aramis replied, "What? It's snowing out there in case you hadn't noticed. Your cloak got wet."

Porthos grumbled that it better only be snow as he took the cloak from Aramis and headed over to spread it near the fire to dry.

"And it was windy and I got distracted," Aramis added under his breath, softly, so only D'Artagnan could hear.

The rest of the day passed with relative good cheer. Athos eventually woke, stiff, grumpy and out of sorts, a normal morning for the musketeer. Of course, he didn't believe them about the blizzard raging outside and claimed they were exaggerating. In his usual stalwart fashion, he had insisted on seeing with his own eyes, went outside, sans a cloak, and came back in a few minutes later, cold, wet, and shivering at which point he grudgingly conceded they might be accurate in their weather forecast.

When Athos went outside to check the weather and, incidentally, take care of the call of nature, the frigid air had caused his still present headache to flair. The morose musketeer had come inside and crawled back under his pile of blankets to suffer in silence. Aramis, as always, spotted his friend's distress and made a draught to help ease the throbbing. That, combined with a gentle massage from Porthos, who was very good at them, had Athos in an almost human mood by midafternoon.

D'Artagnan, the best cook of the lot, had collected the rabbits from the wood pile and was assembling a meal. Athos had pointed them towards a small larder, which was stocked with a few basics that kept well. When Aramis noted aloud he was surprised that some of the items were still useable after five years, Athos glanced at him strangely.

"I thought you said you used this five years ago," Aramis stated, as he rummaged in the cabinet.

"I did," Athos agreed amicably from his pile of blankets by the fire where he had huddled all day, except for his brief sojourn outdoors. "But, I didn't say I haven't been back here since."

And that started another round of 'verbal sparring' with Aramis trying to draw information out of Athos and the swordsman determined not to spill a bean. It was a fine distraction on a snowy afternoon and the other two musketeers secretly awarded points for the best comeback, the longest amount of time with Athos only using one word replies, how many times Aramis dragged his hand through his hair in frustration, number of nonverbal replies from Athos and a host of other scoring options. In the end, they concluded that Athos had won this round. Porthos informed the Gascon the swordsman usually did win the game, able to drive Aramis to distraction while retaining his own calm nature. Athos was as accomplished with words, as he was with a sword.

They ate their meal later that day as the darkness started to fall. The blizzard had raged all day though it sounded like it might finally be blowing itself out. As they ate, Aramis noted that tonight was Noël. Each man grew retrospective reflecting on his celebrations of the pasts. Some stories they shared with each other and other memories were kept private.

Later that evening, Aramis moved off to the side and began to pray, softly, under his breath. Athos, having been brought up a good Catholic, recognized the words of the traditional Noël midnight mass. He knew his religious friend was missing being in church on this most holy of nights.

"Aramis," he called over, interrupting his friend's prayers.

Aramis stopped and lifted his head, annoyed at being disturbed. "Please, Athos, not now."

"Perhaps, you would be as kind as to lead us in an informal service, to commemorate the birth of Christ?" Athos sincerely asked. Aramis' eyes went from displeasure to elation at the simple request, especially since it came from Athos who claimed he had severed his ties with God.

"Yeah, 'Mis. I always liked sneaking into the church and listening to the midnight mass when I was a boy. It's a nice story," Porthos recalled as he patted the floor next to him by the fire.

"My family always went to midnight mass," D'Artagnan reminisced as Aramis rejoined their circle. "Then we came home and had a big meal that my Mom had prepared." The Gascon smiled as he recalled all the special foods she would cook just for that night.

"Didn't have a big meal that night, but the next day was always good pickings," Porthos, the poor boy from the streets, explained.

"My town did a celebration at our church, after service. Everyone brought food and shared," Aramis fondly reminisced. "No one went hungry that day."

Athos didn't offer up any commentary, but that was of no surprise to his companions. At times like this, the difference between how he grew up, and they, was painfully obvious and made the nobleman uncomfortable.

Aramis began the mass, again. Porthos leaned his head back on his saddle, closed his eyes, and let the melodic words flow over him. D'Artagnan bowed his head and closed his eyes too, listening to the sermon. Athos kept his eyes fixed on the fire. However, Aramis noted out of the corner of his eye, the so-called lapsed Catholic would often quietly mouth the words of the mass along with him. The few words that drifted to Aramis' ears were correct and well-articulated; given Athos' scholarly upbringing that shouldn't have really surprised him. When he was done, they all crossed themselves and provided the proper benediction.

A few, quiet, reflective moments passed before Aramis began, softly, to sing Lulle Lullay, the Coventry Carol. Its' poignant words told the tale of the slaying of the male children, by King Herod, in Bethlehem; a song sung by a grieving mother for her doomed son. Aramis' voice was quite good, a clear, crisp, baritone and the haunting melody of the song filled the cabin.

For like the mother in the song, Aramis too, grieved for his son. The babe he would never be able to claim as his own, not without destroying the Queen and France. The best heartbroken father could ever hope for was to watch, from a distance, as he suffered in silence. This holy night, for Aramis, was one of dichotomy; great joy for it celebrated the birth of the son of God and great sorrow, for it reminded him of his son, the one whose birth he would never be able to celebrate. By the end of the song, tears were streaming down his face, as his voice grew rough. When he finished, he bowed his head, letting his sorrow engulf him.

Surprisingly, it wasn't Porthos who went to offer his distressed brother solace, but Athos. The normally phlegmatic musketeer's eyes were glistening with unshed tears as he moved over to Aramis' side and gathered him in a soulful embrace. Aramis buried his face in Athos' shoulder and the stoic man ignored the pain of the pressure on his wound as he calmly stroked his sobbing brother's dark curls.

"I'm sorry," he quietly mumbled in Aramis' ear. "I know how much it pains you, not to be with him."

Athos didn't add the warning that Aramis could never acknowledge his son. Normally, the swordsman felt it was his duty to remind his impetuous brother of that fact, even though he knew Aramis was well aware of the consequences of admitting the Dauphin was his son. Tonight, away from the prying eyes of the world that sorrow didn't need to be voiced. Tonight was just about being there for a grieving brother. In truth, Athos was sympathetic to Aramis' predicament, one that could never have a happy ending. In a way, Athos dealings with Milady were of a similar nature.

But it was his job, normally, to keep Aramis from doing something foolish, even if it meant stating the harsh reality to the father that could ever be. However, tonight, on this special night, in a cabin with only his brothers that would take the secret to the grave with them, Athos allowed Aramis' feelings of hopelessness and sorrow to wash over him and affect him too. Athos let go of his reserved nature and cried along with his brother in mourning. Porthos and D'Artagnan eyes weren't dry either, but they didn't intrude on the rare moment between their free-spirited and laconic brothers.

When their tears had run their course, Aramis pulled back from Athos' embrace, only then remembering his brother's wound, which he had no doubt aggravated. "Sorry," he ingenuously apologized.

Athos scrubbed the back of his hand over his moisture laden eyes. "Hmmmm. It hurt," he replied in a manner that tried to say that the tears he was wiping from his still emotionally-laden green eyes were caused by the pain from his shoulder, certainly not his soft-heart.

Aramis dashed his own hand over his eyes to wipe away his tears. Capturing his elder brother's eyes, he gave him a sad smile. "Thank you," he said with such love, affection, and gratitude it made Athos blush.

"I must be developing a fever," Athos mumbled, embarrassed, and trying to explain away the latest emotional betrayal of his body. First tears and now blushing. The rest of his brothers went along with his face-saving charade even though they all knew Athos' heart was as loving and vulnerable as theirs, he just hid it better behind his self-built walls.

"How about a cheerful carol to ring in the birth of our dear Lord," Aramis declared to lighten the mood of the room. "I'm sure you all know this one. All the wandering minstrels sing it at this time of year."

Aramis cleared his throat and started off.

"I saw three ships come sailing in

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;

I saw three ships come sailing in

On Christmas Day in the morning."

Drawing a breath, he continued on.

"And what was in those ships all three,

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day?

And what was in those ships all three,

On Christmas Day in the morning?"

D'Artagnan answered the question, picking up the song.

"The Virgin Mary and Christ were there,

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;

The Virgin Mary and Christ were there,

On Christmas Day in the morning."

They sang through the rest of the verses with all of them taking turns but Athos, who quietly listened even though the tip of his boot kept time. As Aramis drew a breath to sing the last verse of the song, he was surprised when a pleasant, strong tenor joined in causing Aramis to graciously bow out.

"Then let us all rejoice again,

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;

Then let us all rejoice again,

On Christmas Day in the morning."

When Athos finished, a quiet descended over the cabin, only broken by the cracking of the logs in the fireplace. All his brothers were staring at him and Athos felt his 'fever' blush returning. "You are surprised I can carry a tune?" he grumbled as he looked down and fiddled with the fold of blanket between his fingers.

"You have a wonderful voice, Athos. Did you sing much as a child?" Aramis asked the former Comte.

The dark expression that flitted across Athos' face told Aramis he had inadvertently stumbled on a painful memory from his friend's past. "Only in church. Otherwise, it was discouraged by my father," Athos said in a dry tone that Aramis knew meant don't go down that path.

Without thinking, D'Artagnan spoke up. "My mother always sang around the house and when we were small, we'd join in. It was great fun."

Aramis saw Athos' eyes go darker and pain had briefly filled them when the boy had spoken of singing with his mother.

Sensing the awkwardness, D'Artagnan glanced over at Aramis who was shaking his head. "But I'm sure you sang in church, Athos, where it was proper," the Gascon awkwardly amended.

Athos gave the boy an unfathomable look and flatly stated, "I sang, in church."

"I'm sure you did and wonderfully," Aramis congenially agreed. "In fact, I suspect you are a man of many hidden talents." The marksman settled back against his saddle and started making a list. "You are great swordsman; dare say the best I have ever seen. You're a good orator, when forced to speak. A brilliant tactician. Outstanding horseman..."

Porthos interrupted him. "You'd better stop, 'Mis. Somethings not right with Athos."

Once again, Athos felt all his brother's eyes focusing on him and he did his version of squirming, which, if one didn't know him well, could be easily overlooked. But these friends knew him and could see his increasing embarrassment as evident by his traitorous blush.

"Better stop, Aramis. I think Athos' fever is getting worse," their youngest noted.

Porthos gave their youngest a grin of approval. "Nice one, pup."

D'Artagnan good-naturedly sighed. "And there it is again."

"In deference to Athos' delicate nature, I shall stop listing his virtues and move on to his not so stellar qualities," Aramis stated as he rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. "He can't cook. At all. In fact, his only kitchen skill seems to be opening wine, at which he excels."

That got a laugh from all but Athos, though there was a small smirk playing around the corner of his lips.

"He's a terrible grouch in the morning," Porthos added next to the list. "And while we are on sleeping habits, he hogs the covers and sleeps with a knife under his pillow. Not a good bunkmate"

"Says the man who snores like a bear," Aramis supplemented which earned him a frown from Porthos.

D'Artagnan added to the list next. "He is certainly not a good conversationalist. Trying to get information, most vexing. Single word answers and nonverbals."

Athos gave D'Artagnan a 'nonverbal' that the boy clearly had no trouble deciphering. "Of course, when he does speak he is most eloquent" the Gascon added, trying to appease his displeased mentor.

"Hey," Aramis cried out in mock horror, "we are doing the negative aspects of Athos. Get with the program. Now," the marksman gave a sly dip of his head, "we know Athos is totally oblivious when it comes to the opposite sex. Why, he doesn't even recognize when a beautiful woman is trying to seduce him. Case in point, the lovely, Ninon. She practically threw herself into our ruggedly handsome Comte's arms,"

"Former Comte," D'Artagnan reverently corrected.

Aramis tipped his head in acknowledgment. "Former Comte's arms and our dear Athos stepped aside and let her fall flat on her face."

"Now, Aramis. He did save her from burning at the stake," Porthos solemnly reminded the marksman.

"True, but he let her go without even a proper goodbye." Aramis' suggestive leer and phrasing left no doubt in anyone's imagination what the declared lady's man thought was a proper send off. "In fact, I bet he didn't even defrost enough to give her a farewell kiss."

Once again, the telltale 'fever' stained Athos' cheeks and he silently vowed, once this supposedly holy night was over, he was going to punch Aramis, hard.

Aramis watched with amusement as Athos' face, once again, betrayed him. "Well gentlemen. I stand corrected, or sit as the case may be. Apparently, our hidden romantic did lock lips with the luscious Comtesse."

Athos' sudden fascination with staring at the fire said it all. His scowl deepened as he needlessly fiddled with the blanket covering his legs.

"But, my point remains valid. Athos' behavior, when it comes to the fairer sex, how shall I say this…" Aramis did a dramatic pause, "...sucks."

The marksman grinned like a Cheshire cat and Athos nimble mind immediately knew what was coming next. He glanced around and wondered where his pistol was and if, by chance, it was loaded. His main gauche would be fine too.

"This brings me to my next point, though I will need some help here as to which list to put this on. Athos," he started as he turned his guileless brown eyes on the helpless, weaponless, musketeer who knew he was being set up. "How are you in bed? Since you were married, we will assume you are... shall we say, deflowered. But as for your technique...would that be on the naughty or nice list?"

And the sacred night disintegrated into a bawdy story festival with tales being swapped by three of the musketeers, while the fourth kept hoping the earth would open up and swallow him or better yet his rowdy brothers. He loved his brothers with all his heart but even he had his limits and he had reached them tonight.

Rolling up in as many of the blankets as he could scoff, not caring if his libidinous brethren froze, he yanked them over his head, tried to ignore his friends, and drift off to sleep. Just as he was about to join the land of slumber, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Joyeux Noël, Athos."

The stoic musketeer sighed, took the covers off his head, rolled over, and peered up at Aramis who was kneeling next to him in the waning firelight.

"Thank you, 'Thos, for earlier. I do truly understand he can never be my son and my heart aches for it. Something I imagine you understand… wanting something that seems inconceivable. But I..." Aramis' emotions overcame him as he bowed his head.

Athos quietly watched his brother mourn in silence, knowing nothing he could say would ever cease that pain. Doing the only thing he could think of, he eased his hand out from his cocoon and laid it in a comforting manner on the grieving man's thigh. "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit," Athos quietly quoted in Latin from the book of Psalm.

Aramis raised his head and smiled at his friend. "Impressive. From a heathen. But look to your own words. All the brokenhearted shall be saved my brother."

A meaningful glance passed between the brothers, one believing, and one remaining skeptical. Aramis clasped Athos' hand briefly. "Joyeux Noël." With a nod, marksman released Athos hand before moving back towards the fire.

Athos pondered his brother's words, on this holy night of hope, wishing he could believe.

The End


Author's Note: Originally, I wanted Aramis to sing Oh Holy Night since it is a holiday song that originated in France. But alas, it was written 1847. The history of the song, if you like those things, is an interesting to read. So instead, I went with the Coventry Carol, which was used in one of the episodes and fits the canon even though it is more of an English carol.