SAKURA TAISEN/WARS and all related characters, names and indicia are TM & © SEGA RED.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL is written by Charles Dickens, and borrowed by Ice Spectre for her own nefarious purposes.

Rated PG

Christmas Bells

Part Two: The Ghost of Christmas Past

The past is pain. Say goodbye to your memories. Those who cannot face their pasts are eternally haunted by them, tormented, pursued, hunted and defeated by the shadows and spectres given life and breath, augmented, amplified, grown more daunting and more terrifying with each moment of refusal to turn around and look behind to see the reality of what is in pursuit, so afraid it is far more terrible than what can be bourne by any mortal creature. And before long, demons and monsters of your own creation devour your hope, your will and your soul.

Vershrai moy uchets dva.

When Yoneda awoke, it was so dark that he could barely distinguish the window from the walls of his bedroom. Apparently the streetlight outside had not been fixed. He barely had time to adjust to the new state of being awake when the miniature clock chimed, announcing the time to be one o'clock.

Remembering Kazume Shinguji's ghost and its warning, Yoneda's eyes widened and he pulled the blankets up to his nose. He looked around from this perspective, safely hidden beneath his blankets, and then saw it – a dull glow of light between his bed and the door to his room. It grew slowly and took form as Yoneda pressed himself deeper into the bed in fright. The temperature in the bedroom dropped dramatically – very suddenly. Involuntarily, Yoneda began shivering. It was as cold as the tundra in his room. Snow from nowhere flurried around the room, vanishing before landing anywhere, swirling in an icy wind. A sound like the tap of ice upon glass grew in pitch and resonance to the trembling pizzicato of a stringed instrument, the mournful moan of the wind grew to match its harmony, the tune reminding Yoneda of the smell of hickory wood, the scruff of wool and the heavy, gray-cloud gloom of the Slavic soul.

When fully formed, a spirit stood, regarding him. It was the form of a man, tall and strong but slim, a face chiseled and severe but eyes dark and warm. His beard was thick but carefully trimmed. His coat was wool and fur, his hands mittened and his round fur hat seemed to contain a radiance that was pervasive. Pinned to the lapel of his coat was bouteneer constructed of a sprig of holly, a sprig of mistletoe... and a blooming sprig from a wild orange tree. He was almost painfully brilliant, the light stabbing in white rays through the darkness of the bedroom. And then Yoneda recognized him.

"Do I... Do I know you...?"

Slowly, the ghost inclined his head in the affirmative. This was Maria Tachibana's father. The Ukranian diplomat and his Japanese wife, Suma Tachibana, were banished to Siberia for sympathizing with the uprising revolution and for speaking out against the Czar. They were sent to the icy wastelands along with their nine-year-old daughter Maria, where both parents died of pneumonia almost fifteen years ago. The cold, however, instead of killing Maria, became a part of her. And now, it seemed, a part of her father's ghost.

"A-are you the ghost whose coming was foretold to me?" Yoneda asked, almost demurely.

"Da," the ghost answered him and extended a mittened hand to Yoneda, who recoiled. Despite the strength and severity of the figure, something was penetratingly benevolent about the apparition.

"Who-- what are you?"

"Name was Bryusov Dimitrovich. In life, was noble. Honoured. Diplomat. Tonight, intervene for you, General. For you..." his next words were spoken slowly and very carefully, overcoming the language and dialect barriers, "I am the Past."

"Long past?"

"Nyet," Dimitrovich said kindly, "your past, and past of Hanagumi."

"Please..." Yoneda held a hand shieldingly in front of his face, squinting against the nearly blinding white light. "Can you... cover the light?"

Now Dimitrovich's brow furrowed, and Yoneda was astounded with how like Maria he looked when he wore a troubled expression. "You would so easily try to be blind to past and memories? You turn face from what teaching past can offer?"

"No, no..." Yoneda apologized and stood from his bed, folding his arms against the cold and immediately stepping into the slippers on the floor beside his bed. "I meant no harm nor offense, I only..." He was still having difficulty looking directly at the brilliance of Maria's father's ghost, but lost the words to continue his apology. "What... what brings you here?"

"Your welfare," the ghost answered, his mittened hand still extended.

"My welfare," Yoneda softly murmured, sheepishly, "would perhaps be best served with being able to solidly sleep off the remainder of the alcohol..."

"Your redemption," Dimitrovich clarified, his hand a bit more insistently extended. "Come." The ghost looked to the window, and it blew open, stirring the already cold air and making Yoneda's teeth chatter.

"But... it's cold, and... I can't fly!" Yoneda remained where he was and did not take the ghost's hand.

"Take my hand," Dimitrovich's voice was still hollow and cold but kind. "No cold or height will harm you, then."

When Yoneda touched Dimitrovich's wool-covered fingers, the discomfort from cold eased, the brilliance of the ghost's light dampened and he felt... disconnected... detached from the universe. They did not leave via his window so much as the world moved around them, blurring past them both like a wind that touched neither, and halting without jarring either one in a completely different location.

Champagne, France, 1916. They stood before a grand castle belonging to the Earl of the county. France's nobility no longer had the power they did several hundred years earlier, but they still had all the wealth and influence. The sky was gray and dark as the stone of the castle itself. And silent. They passed unnoticed through the chill halls.

"Can they see us?" Yoneda whispered as a maid carrying a stack of crisply folded white linens brushed past Yoneda so quickly that he could feel the breeze of her passing and smell the scent of the soap from the clean sheets.

Dimitrovich shook his head. "Only are shadows of past, can nyet see or hear us."

As they walked through seemingly endless hallways, they encountered no one else at all. "It's deserted..." Yoneda observed.

"Nyet, devushka adna..."

Maria's father spoke in Russian, but Yoneda understood his meaning regardless. The castle was not deserted. One solitary girl, neglected by her family, remained here still. They stopped in front of an iron door equipped with a keyed lock and then a heavy bar. And then they were inside the door. Not by passing through it or opening it... they were just... inside, now.

The room was huge and very dim, lit only by several ornamental and seasonal candles. A small evergreen tree, no more than three feet tall, stood in a corner of the room, trimmed in ribbons and beads, its branches weighted with tiny lit candles. The tiny tree was topped with an angel dressed in pearls and white satin. A child-sized table was set with two taper candles, a champagne flute filled with ginger ale and a china plate edged in gold holding a thin slice of black forest cake drizzled in raspberry sauce. The cake was untouched.

The room's resident sat on an ornate and lace-trimmed canopy bed. A girl no more than seven years old, her hair in golden ringlets and held back with a gold velvet ribbon, sat tailor-fashion in the center of her silk, quilted bed. She wore a velvet and silk dress in deep forest green and rich burgundy, trimmed in the same gold as the ribbon in her hair, ruffles so voluminous that she seemed arranged as neatly on her bed as the skirt of her tree was on the floor. Yoneda would believe her to be a porcelain doll, except that she moved, and that he recognized Iris Chateaubriand the instant he laid eyes on her.

On the bed before her sat her teddy bear, an equally festively coloured velvet ribbon around his neck. "Joyeux Noel, Jean-Paul," the little girl whispered and gave the teddy bear the slightest of smiles.

"I don't understand this, Dimitrovich..." Yoneda shook his head. "You cannot tell me that her parents have neither the time nor the money to spend with her on Christmas?"

"Having time... or having money... does nyet make happiness, General," Dimitrovich's ghost replied, a note of such sorrow in his soft voice that again Yoneda was reminded of the Russian diplomat's own daughter. The Russian continued, "Fear of her keeps her alone, now. Look..."

Dimitrovich turned around and gestured behind them, and when Yoneda turned, suddenly they were elsewhere. A tiny and very poor village in China. The door of a hut with a straw roof stood open. There was no difference between the dirt of the road outside and the dirt floor inside the hut. It was dark outside already, but the inside of the hut was aglow with firelight and warmth. It was cold enough to snow, but the ground was dry and the skies were clear. Again, both men were inside without having seemed to travel or move.

Yoneda did not recognize the man he saw, but he did see he was hurrying to wrap a small bundle in a blanket and stash it in a corner near the fire hearth. The hearth was lined with aromatic branches wrapped with twine and hung with red berries. Other than that, the small house held no decorations. There was a loft above and behind the fireplace, and from what little of it could be seen from the floor, it was filled with cobbled together tools, bits of projects of who knew what destiny, twine, wood, nails, and such a tangle of scavanged parts that they were unidentifiable to Yoneda's untrained eye. And that was what made him certain he knew now who this man was.

Kohran Ri's father.

The pigtailed, freckle-faced, bespectacled girl who came trouncing in at top speed could be no older than ten, and she nearly bowled her father over with an embrace. They spoke in Chinese, and Yoneda did not understand them. He could tell from the expressions and tones and movement, though, that whatever was wrapped in the blanket by the fire was a rare surprise, and – by the way her father managed to keep himself between the gift and Kohran – a surprise which was not yet ready to be revealed. Kohran climbed the ladder to her loft and dropped the thick wool blanket which had been curtained back by the ladder, effectively covering most of her bedroom. She sat at her work bench and began diligent labour on ... something.

When her father felt she was sufficiently distracted, he unwrapped the package again and pulled a small bottle of glue from his coat pocket. The package contained a very old and very broken radio. Yoneda was certain it would not work, but when Kohran was through with it, it would. In fact, knowing Kohran, a broken gift was probably better than one that worked properly. Then she would get to tinker with it. Her father worked with such fiercely contained excitement that it was contageous, and Yoneda found himself flushed and grinning.

Dimitrovich placidly regarded the General. "No money... no time... and such joy," the Russian remarked.

Yoneda nodded, smiling. "I believe I understand, Dimitrovich," Yoneda's smile saddened a bit, recalling Kohran's father's fate. "Can we... can we go home now?"

Dimitrovich lifted a mittened hand in a gesture for patience. "One more Christmas..."

Before Yoneda could protest, the world zipped past them again and stopped in a place so loud and so bustling that Yoneda could barely think straight.

It was a bar, and one he recognized as being in the cheaper part of Tokyo. The crowd was loud and drunk. Every stool was occupied. Three card games were going on, loud music was being played by an amplified jazz band in the New York style on a tiny stage in the corner, and one pool table in the back of the bar was surrounded by observers, cheering, booing and betting.

Towering head and shoulders over most of the crowd was a tousled mop of red hair bound off her forehead by a white sash. It was unmistakably Kanna, wearing the top of her white gi and her loudly flowered tights under a pair of weatherproof boots and a beige down jacket. She was also unmistakable because she was one of VERY few women in the bar – it was a little rough of a crowd. She scanned the crowd, searching for something. A loud cheer at the card table caught her momentary attention, but didn't yeild her the results she was seeking. Then she found it. A fight broke out at the pool table. The game was over and the crowd parted to follow the combatants toward the back wall. The table had the cue ball and four striped balls on it. Whomever had been solids had won. Several bills lay on the green felt, and several more fluttered to the floor from the grip of one of the combatants – the one who had won the pool game, and was currently losing the brawl. That's who Kanna was looking for. Dear God, it was Maria.

The man who'd been "stripes" rushed Maria and pinned her against the back wall, jarring her enough for the winnings to fall from her hands. Maria's head was ducked, eyes closed. ...immediately it was evident that she could not be completely sober. The markswoman's usual lithe agility and speed were useless against her opponent's size and strength when under the influence of a respectable measure of vodka.

Kanna cursed. Maria was in trouble, it must be a day ending in 'y.' The blonde had only been in Japan two and a half months. She hadn't been put up in her first production yet, she was virtually unknown, she was drying out as an alcoholic, she'd managed to earn Sumire's unmitigated loathing and had yet to assert her power over Sumire as Captain, she was extremely difficult to deal with and usually very abrupt and prickly, her Japanese was awful, and she tended to disappear without telling anyone where she was going. In short, the Russo-Japanese Captain of the Hanagumi needed a solid kick in the posterior, especially since the only thing separating Maria from a very public and comet-like tailspin disaster of the self-inflicted variety was the frequent and discreet intervention of the only one who seemed Maria's peer in this life: Kanna.

Kanna began digging – literally – her way through the crowd around the developing fight.

Yoneda lunged forward to intervene, but Dimitrovich's hand on his shoulder restrained him. At first, Yoneda turned in shock to Dimitrovich, who would not even intervene to save his daughter from harm, then recalled that this was all just images of the past. None of it could be touched or changed. Nonetheless, Yoneda saw the fire of fiercely restrained outrage leaping behind the Russian diplomat's eyes, simply witnessing his daughter's misuse and self-abuse.

"It's real simple, doll face," said "Stripes' to Maria, slipping his arms firmly around her waist and hauling her away from the wall, holding her tightly against him. She slumped slightly, unable to keep her feet, her head falling backward, then jolting herself back to full awareness and snapping her head up to glare at her former billiards opponent, her now-empty gloved hands braced against his chest. "I'll letcha keep the money, if you acknowledge that I let you win. You said you needed the cash, you have it now – just seal the deal with a kiss. The bet was, if you win, you get the money. If I win, I get you. Since I let you win, I should at least get something outta the deal, right?"

"How about a black eye?" Kanna scruffed the man and lifted him off the floor by the back of his coat collar. His fearful panting was revenge enough, and Kanna tossed him back away from Maria, toward the gathered crowd. They backed up and let him fall to the floorboards. Maria exhaled and slumped back against the wall, catching her breath.

"'Scuze me, Maria. I didn't mean to steal your fun," Kanna smirked. "You wanna finish him off? ...I mean in the violent way, not in the romantic one. You didn't look like you actually wanted that kiss. Just aim for the knees if yer gonna use your revolver..."

Maria blinked, stunned, at Kanna. A combination of her drunkenness, her surprise, and her unfamiliarity with Japanese served to render Maria speechless.

"I know, I know – ya don't have to tell me again," Kanna said as if Maria was about to give an order. "Show mercy. Especially on Christmas Eve. Well, when you're right, you're right!" Kanna hauled Maria upright by the shoulder so rapidly that Maria almost lost her footing again. Keeping a firm hand around Maria's upper arm, Kanna lead her out of the bar via the back door. When Kanna had all but dragged Maria almost a block away and to safety, she dropped the effervescence and turned, pulling Maria into crushing embrace. "Maria! What were you thinking?!"

"I..." was all Maria managed before Kanna figured her out.

"Needed the cash... Maria! You were going to get those gifts for us, weren't you?"

Maria's embarrassed blush bore its usual indignant and mildly angry overtones.

"What possessed you to try this bar? It's dangerous!"

"Am perfectly capable to handle myself," Maria straightened her coat.

"Yeah, I see that..." Kanna replied, sarcastically. "Have you ever even BEEN in a gang bar, Miss Daughter of a Diplomat?"

Maria glared, insulted. But the truth of her past was still long in coming to the members of the Hanagumi.

Kanna sighed. "Maria, you don't have to participate in the gift circle if you don't have the money t—"

"I have it! Or... would have... had it..." Maria's indignance fell away.

"Would have had the money, ha! We woulda found you in a body bag in the morning – or on the doorstep of the theatre all black and blue..." Kanna put her hands on her Captain's shoulders. "Maria... don't do this to yourself. You don't have to get us anything, we know you care about us... even if you... don't... really... ever show it... at all... That's not what's important about Christmas. We don't need what's on our wish lists. That's why they're just wishes. You... you are a 'need,' not a 'wish,' Maria."

Yoneda gave Dimitrovich a watery smile, but Maria's father's expression was still as elusive and impenetrable as his daughter's most often was. Yoneda watched the shadows of Kanna's and Maria's memories wander off into the darkness back uptown. "I hadn't known that had happened. That must have been five years ago—"

"When you were here," Dimitrovich finished the statement, and in doing so, they were in the Imperial Opera Theatre, in the dormitory hallway. It was dark, but a flashlight beam was moving down the hallway from them. Yoneda was startled to see that it was himself, five years younger. He was patrolling on watch, a job he often assisted in doing when the Hanagumi numbered only four girls, ages 19, 19, 16 and 9.

Down the hall from the opposite direction came Ayame Fujieda. Older Yoneda and Younger Yoneda alike caught their breath in reaction. "Turning in, Ayame?" asked the younger version of Yoneda.

"Yes, if that's all right. I'll be out all morning tomorrow, but back in time for the review tomorrow night to help Maria stage manage. The first time is always hard."

"I think she'll be just fine. Merry Christmas, Ayame."

"Merry Christmas, General," Ayame responded and kissed him on the cheek, then turned to go.

"—Ayame," younger Yoneda called when he summoned the courage from his stun at being kissed.

"Yes, General?" she pivoted on one black patent leather heel and tipped her head, inquiringly, a pleasant smile on her lips.

Younger Yoneda hesitated. "Have... have a good day, tomorrow."

Ayame's smile broadened. "You too, sir."

And she left, never suspecting what was going on inside Yoneda's mind and heart when the beloved of one of their two late comrades kissed him.

Older Yoneda's face was damp with tears. "Now she will never know. Even after we found out who Satani was, I... I still never told her. And now she's gone. I hesitated too long. ...Don't show me anything more, Dimitrovich, I beg you! It is torture, please, Dimitr—"When Yoneda turned, Dimitrovich's face was his own, but also Ayame's, and Kazume's, and Ohgami's and Maria's and Kanna's and Kohran's and Iris' and Sumire's and Ayame again... and again... In desperation, Yoneda gripped Dimitrovich's coat lapels, and the holly, mistletoe and tachibana sprig tore free in Yoneda's hands, and he fell, dizzily...

...into his own bed. He strove to sit up, to seek the spirit, but he saw nothing but his own bedroom... and unconsciousness overtook him.

(Next chapter: The Ghost of Christmas Present)