Christmas Crackers

It was winter, which as always, meant mixed blessings for Skaar and his fellow slaves.

Blessed, on one hand, because it meant that there was no wheat for the slaves to harvest. Horst was an agricultural hub - a big city with big walls, surrounded by fields as far as the eyes could see. The people of Horst lived on one side of those walls, and the slaves on the other. It being Snow Fall, the people of Horst would sing praise to the Empire of Charn, offer prayer to Queen Jadis and wish her good health, and eat, drink, tuck the children in, and fuck. Usually, but not always, in that order. It was a reminder of what Skaar never had, and what he never would, but it was at least a reprieve from the hell that summer brought.

But for a slave, there was no such thing as a free meal. The slaves couldn't work. Fine. That meant that the slave masters didn't have to feed them, or clothe them, or offer them wood either. Oh, they'd provide it, enough to keep their thralls alive, but there was a natural order to this world, one that stretched back as far as the eons when Charn's sun was yellow, and not the blood red orb that was now headed for the horizon. This was the way things were, and the way things had always been. Winter would bring mixed blessings. But he'd seen Old Drue's body be taken out of one of the slave quarters this morning, having passed away in his sleep, and he had no doubt as to what had taken the old man's life. Chances were his body was in a ditch somewhere now.

Skaar shivered - chances were he'd join Drue if he stayed out here for long. He could see his breath in the air before him - cold, insubstantial, something he could reach out for but never take for himself. Not like the wooden fence that separated him from the manor at which Lord and Lady Opia were entertaining their guests. Normally, there'd be guards stationed around the edge of the fields, lest a slave take their chances beyond the 'protection' of their masters. It being winter now, there was little need for it. If they fled, they'd freeze. And this being Snow Fall, most of the guards had been given the night off. But, even so, looking at the darkness of the eastern sky, at the candlelight of the manor, at the empty fields that had yet to be sown...

Do it, the voice whispered. Do it, and be free.

Nay. Better to be a slave and live, than to be free and dead.

He closed his eyes and sighed. So many words, so many false prophets. Every so often there was some madman ranting about forests, and lions, and giants, and who knew what else, but they'd always end up the same way. Hanging from a rope, or in recent times, on a spike on the walls of the capital city. Charn. The city of Charn, of the empire of Charn, of the world of Charn, or-

"Skaar?"

He let out a yell and turned around, breathing like a wounded beast, and turning as red as a tomato.

"Calm down, it's only me."

He managed to, through a combination of sight and sound. The sight of Fae before him. The sound of her voice. One without the other, he might have attributed it to winter fever, but seeing and hearing both, he saw, and heard, the truth.

He gave her a shove. "Don't scare me like that."

She smiled. "You were scared?"

He grunted and turned back around to the fence. "You know what I mean."

"More or less." She leant over the fence with him. "So, is this your usual brooding, or is it something else?"

He gave her a look. "What else would it be?"

She gestured eastward. "You've heard the rumors, right? The rebels are coming westward, and they're freeing the slaves as they go. Soon, they'll reach Horst..."

"Fae..."

"And we'll be free. And the queen's sister will smash our chains, and give us swords, and a place in her army."

"Fae, don't."

"Then we'll storm the capital, and dethrone the queen, and put her head on a pike, and eat, and drink, and-"

"Fae, stop! Just stop!"

She did, and he could see that he'd hurt her. Nevertheless, if eleven years of life (such as it was) had taught him anything, it was that a harsh truth was always preferable to a comforting lie. And sooner or later, Fae had to accept that too.

"Fae, it's all nonsense. The queen's sister is no different from the queen herself. She doesn't want a new world, she just wants the crown that gives her the right to rule it."

Fae shook her head. "No, that's not true. I've heard stuff, y'know? Slaves, rising up, taking their freedom, shattering their-"

"Fae, of course you've heard those stories. You're meant to hear those stories. Same reason the guards pass by us every so often to share stories of all the atrocities the enemy carries out. One set of stories to keep us in place, another set to make us rise up."

"Yeah, but..." Fae bit her lip. "You know the stories the guards say aren't true, right?"

"And the nice stories about the rebels are?"

Fae's face was going red. Redder than his had.

"And what about the magic?" Skaar asked. "The rebels started using magic, and-"

"And the queen's armies used magic too!" Fae yelled.

"After the rebels did. Probably used it long before it became known however. Least some people escaped from Bramond, what about Haraval? No-one got out of that city and-"

"Enough!" Fae yellled, stamping her feet. "Just...enough!"

Skaar's face softened. Fae was having one of her moments again, and if he wasn't careful, the "moment" could become something much longer, and something much more serious. He sat down, leaning against the fence, and gestured to her to sit beside him. Her face turning to its usual sickly, pale glow, she nodded, and sat down on the snow. He watched as she began to rub her hands together, her breath appearing in the air above.

"Feeling better?" Skaar asked.

"My bottom's cold."

"Okay, so aside from your buttocks, are you feeling better?"

She shot him a look. "That's not a nice thing to say."

"I'll start talking pretty when the world gets less ugly." He glanced around. To the manor. To the eastern horizon. Within his mind's eye was an image of an unstoppable army, slaughtering everything in its path. "Course, it'll be awhile."

"What will?"

"The world becoming pretty."

"You're pretty," Fae whispered.

Skaar ran his finger down his right eye and cheek; over the source of his namesake. "Not really."

A silence lingered between the two of them. What Fae felt, or thought right now, Skaar could only guess at. Half of the time, he wasn't sure Fae was really thinking at all. But he knew how he felt. Cold. Hungry. Angry.

Half of the slaves in the fields of Horst had been born here. The other half had been brought in from the fringes of the empire. The last holdouts in a world that had known nothing but the boot of Charn for eons. Unlike him, Fae had been born here, so named after the fairies of Charnian folklore. Fairies that, according to old tales, would snatch children from their cribs and take them away, never to be seen again. For those born free, it was a story of caution, that their children best be good lest the fairies take them. For the slaves who had heard and adopted the story, it was a tale of liberation. A tale of hope, that some of their children would be taken away from this prison. For Skaar, that Fae was nine years old and still here was testament that the story held as much weight as the air that appeared before him. When her father had been taken away, it had been at the hangman's noose. When her mother had been taken away, it had been with Lord Opia dragging her to the manor. They'd never seen her again, and within a month, the slaves and guards alike had stopped talking about her. Fae included.

He didn't know how long they sat there. Could have been hours. In likelihood, minutes. In practice, sitting here at all could be harmful, because when the sun went down fully, winter's chill would become winter's bite. Fae, for her part, didn't seem to mind. After the winter fever she'd suffered from two years ago, she didn't seem to mind anything. The slaves saw her as a lucky charm, and the guards didn't seem to have it in themselves to discipline her. Occasionally, she'd snap to, and like today, express awareness of how terrible things actually were, before going away with the fairies, as the slaves called it.

"The hell you two doing out here?"

Skaar shot to his feet, as did Fae. On the other side of the fence were two guards. Both carrying halberds, both wearing leather armour and furs, both carrying lanterns, and both looking very, very cold.

"Well?" one of them snapped.

Fae began to speak. "We were just-"

Skaar put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "We're allowed to be here," he said. "No rule against that. Not in winter."

One of the guards grunted and glanced at the eastern horizon. "Thinking of going on a night run?"

"Am I?" Skaar murmured.

"If you are, don't." Both Skaar and the first guard looked at the second. "It's hell out there."

"My heart weeps," Skaar murmured.

"Give it a week, peon. See how much you're weeping when you're in the foundry."

Fae frowned. "I thought we harvested wheat."

No-one said anything. Which for Skaar, said more than even a thousand words could. He looked at the guards, taking note not of what they had done, but what they hadn't.

You're afraid.

Maybe the war was going worse than the rumours said. Usually, one of the men before him would have given him a slap by now, but now, they didn't have the courage to do that. Most guards were cowards at heart, he knew that, protected by their steel, and their armour, and their whips and blades, but by all that was holy, the men before him were terrified.

"Well, get indoors," the first guard said. "It's Snow Fall, and I don't want to waste my time searching for your bodies in the snow."

"Didn't know you cared," Skaar murmured as he watched them go. The guards didn't respond, and he felt his heart tugging in two directions, and his mind unable to keep it in check. In one direction, joy - the feeling of knowing one's oppressors were going to get their due, and that they were shitting themselves as they waited for the executioner's axe. And in the other, terror - the knowledge that the rebels were no better. Not to mention the word "foundry" - slaves worked in foundries all the time, churning out weapons and armour for Charn's perpetual war machine. But this being a war, one where the empire was fighting for its very survival, more and more slaves were being transferred to work in such places. Places that, by all accounts, were much worse than the fields. It was said that when a slave went into a foundry, they only came out when carried by two people.

"Well," Fae said. "Those crackers aren't as bad as some of the others."

Skaar looked at her. "Crackers?"

"Yeah, crackers. Cause of their whips." She made a motion with her arm. "Crack. Crack."

Skaar couldn't help but smirk. "I dunno, sounds like more of a wha-tash to me." He made his own arm move. "Wha-tash! Wha-tash!"

Fae giggled. His smile, on the other hand, faded - it didn't matter what sound the whip made he told himself. When it was used, the screams of the victim were what stayed with you. He rubbed his back, feeling the nobbled skin that had never fully healed.

"Still like crackers though," Fae murmured. "I mean, not so much the crackers themselves, but the Snow Fall crackers."

"What?" Skaar asked. He was barely listening.

"Yeah. Like, there's these things that this guy hands around to people at Snow Fall. People pull them, and they crack, and there's magic fairy dust inside, and-"

"Fae, not now."

"And when you sprinkle the dust, and count to three, you-"

"Fae, stop it! Just for once in your life, stop it!"

She stopped talking.

"Fae, there's no fairies, alright? Your parents named you after some make believe nonsense because they believed in some bullshit that some madman sprouted out. You're a silly little girl, and you have to grow up. And you know why? Because the rebels aren't coming to save us, crackers is a stupid name for whips, and sooner or later you're going to feel it yourself, because good will doesn't last forever, and we mean nothing to them, alright? We're nothing. Nothing!"

He knew he'd gone too far as soon as the words exited his lips. Words that he knew, deep down, were more for him than for the child in front of him. A child that began to back away, her lips trembling, her eyes watering. He took a step towards her.

"Fae..."

She shook her head and ran off, her little feet making little holes in the snow. He reached out, but didn't follow. He could catch her easily, but taking back what he'd said was an impossible task. His mind told him that everything he'd said was true. But his heart, on the other hand, reminded him that Fae had yet to accept that truth. And that it wasn't his role to take that lie away from her.

"Damn it," he whispered. He turned around and looked at the manor, lit up with its lanterns and candles. "Damn it!"

He pounded his hands on the fence, wanting to tear it down. To tear it all down. To find a sword, or a spear, or even a shovel, and find someone to use it on. Preferably the type of person that used one of those first two things with impunity. To stick it into them and watch them bleed. Or failing that...

Taking a breath, he climbed over the fence and headed for the manor.

Late at night, when the world had fallen silent, and was bereft of all light but that of the stars, Skaar could remember his former life.

It was a collection of images that he'd pieced together over the years. There was a city, one with high walls, mighty gates, and no shortage of people. In the memory, there was a child and a woman, whom he assumed was his mother. Try as he might, he couldn't recall any father, and he'd accepted that he may not have had one. Not in any real sense, not in the way that the people of Charn pledged their love to each other, or even slaves when they got it into their heads that their love counted for anything. He liked to imagine that his father had been there on the walls, loosing arrows or pouring pitch. But dark was the night, dark was his mind, and he had accepted it was just as likely that his father had only fathered him in one way.

But in the end, it didn't matter. He was being led through the streets, clutching onto the woman's hand, when he heard an almighty crash. In his dreams, he saw the gates fall, but he couldn't recall being there himself. Perhaps he had been, once, before they had fallen, before his life had ended, but it didn't matter. When and how he saw the attacking soldiers didn't matter, all that mattered is that he'd seen them, and what they could do. He saw the warriors clad in steel-plate armour, wielding shields wider than a man, and wicked spears twice as tall. He saw the brave and desperate alike throw themselves at the warriors of the empire, and impale themselves on the steel, lying in pools of their own blood as the attackers marched on. He could see their sorcerers wield their magic, reducing men to ash with a flick of their hands, and summon balls of fire from the sky, hitting with more power than even the constant barrage of boulders their catapults unleashed.

The image shifted, and they were in the streets. The soldiers of Charn had closed in on them. He could see one of them hit his mother with the butt of his spear, before dragging her away. He could see her screaming, but for some reason, the dream never replayed the sound of that. Which was odd, because he knew what the sound of screaming sounded like - he only needed to remember Fae's mother for that, along with a dozen others. But while here, outside Horst, he knew how to keep himself alive, the child in the dream was a fool. The child charged one of the empire's finest, punching his steel armour. In the dream, the man drew out his dagger and swung it out at his attacker. In the dream, the child screamed, falling back onto the ground, clutching the wound that had been made along his right cheek and eye.

He didn't remember much after that. Only being marched along with thousands of other prisoners, casting a look back at the burning city he had once called home. He remembered the feel of the chain around his neck, and the smell of his arm being branded with the mark that all in the line would receive. And after that, little. Only finally arriving at Horst, being purchased by Lord Opia, and given the name Skaar, when he said he couldn't remember his name. The men had laughed, uncaring or unknowing that a child of two couldn't understand why.

That had been nine years ago. Nine years of this life, such as it was. He'd never learnt the name of the city he'd come from. Few of the overseers cared to answer, and those who did said they didn't know. He liked to imagine that his home had put up a good fight, had given the empire pause, but it mattered little. If its name was recorded in the annals of history, he had no access to any books, nor the ability to read them. But what he did have, he told himself, was a sharp mind. Sharp enough for him to get within ten feet of the manor without being spotted, and a mind sharp enough to ask "now what, genius?"

He bit his lip and shivered. He didn't know. Anger had kept him alive for most of his life, and anger had got him to climb the fence in the first place, but as a hundred slave rebellions had demonstrated, anger didn't accomplish much without reason behind it. That, and weapons, and numbers, and so many other things, but it didn't matter. He was at the manor. The lights were on, but he could see no-one about. Though standing here, in the silence, he could hear the faint sound of laughter. Laughter not cruel like that of the overseers, or the lord of the house, or visitors who wanted some slaves for themselves, no. It was...normal. That was the only word for it. Laughter unmarred by cruelty or despair. Laughter that simply...was.

Laughter that was also coming from the far side of the manor. Taking a look up at the sky, and seeing the light of a crescent moon and the stars, Skaar took a breath and snuck around. As he did so, the laughter became louder, and he realized it was happening in bursts. Laughter mixed with clapping as well.

How nice for you.

Was Snow Fall that important, he wondered? There was a war on, and a war that the empire was losing at that. A war that had involved magic of all things, breaking all the so-called norms of war. Norms that the empire didn't extend to the lands it conquered of course, but still...

But what?

It could burn, Skaar told himself. The manor could burn. The fields could burn. Coming round to the garden, seeing rows and rows of tables, with lords and ladies alike, he whispered that they could all burn as well. He might burn with them, but they'd burnt his home down, and burnt all memory of it as well. Why shouldn't it all end in fire? These people, with their pudding, and their turkey, and their trifle, and all manner of food that made his mouth water...Servants (not slaves, servants, though sometimes the distinction became vague in this life) were clearing the tables, and Lord Opia's guests were all facing in one direction. Desperately, Skaar searched for a knife. One for butter, one for meat, one for anything else. Anything to do...anything.

He didn't find one, though in fairness, he stopped looking quickly. Because the people before him were clapping and laughing for a reason, and he saw it quickly. For there was a stage, and on it, a giant red chair with a handful of items scattered around it. Each was wrapped in brown paper, and bound with a red bow. To the chair came a child, one after another. And on the chair itself was a man, one unlike any Skaar had ever seen.

He was short - shorter than any man or woman of Charn, in whom the blood of giants and jinn was said to flow. His beard was white and long, and his nose was red, like a cherry. He dressed in a brown overcoat, and when he laughed, the sound rang out over all those in the audience before him. The people who clapped and laughed, as one child after another was given one of the boxes. Children who thanked him, and hugged him, and ran off back to the crowd, either to their parents, or to some of the other children who were unwrapping their gifts with glee.

Skaar watched on, transfixed. What the hell was the man doing here? These people were monsters. Not the monsters who held the whip, but the monsters who could eat and drink and fuck, and do all of that a stone's throw away where slaves were freezing to death. These people didn't deserve gifts. Even if they were given only to their children, those children would become men and women, and would be dutiful servants of the empire. Of Queen Jadis, long may she reign. The man was different, true. There was a warmth to him, a kindness even. But if so, it made no sense that he be here. In this place. He scowled as the last present was given to the last child, and the man got to his feet.

"And so, I bid you farewell, one and all. Merry Snow Fall to all, and may happiness be found in the new year."

The crowd cheered as with a puff of smoke the man disappeared, along with his throne. The stage remained, as did the gifts he had bequeathed to the children. For a moment, there was a silence in the air. Skaar wondered how these people might find happiness in the new year, when the new year promised only more civil war, and all the misery that entailed. Maybe that was why they were initially silent, he thought to himself. Maybe it was why, when they began to talk and drink again, it was without the earnest joy that had given the visitor. Maybe-

Hello.

Servants were handing out something from their trays, and in spite of everything, Skaar smiled. Snow Fall crackers. They actually existed. They were pulled, people cheered, and out of them came blue dust, floating in the air around the diners, causing some of them to sneeze.

Fairy dust, Skaar thought to himself. Fae might have liked this.

Or not. Fae was on the other side of a fence. Fae had run away from him, and might not ever want to see his face again (granted, not many people liked looking at his face). But if he could get one, if he could take it back to her...it might bring him less joy than plunging a knife into one of the crackers pulling the crackers, but he'd at least stay alive to tell the tale. Taking a breath, he began to move forward and-

"What are you doing?"

...and almost yelled, as he felt a hand on his shoulder He tensed, as a chill ran down his spine, and not from the bite of winter. He wanted to run, but slaves who ran tended to end up with arrows in their back. Taking a breath, he slowly turned around, his mind racing as he tried concocting a story as to why he was on this side of the fence.

"I..."

The story didn't reach his lips. In part, because the story would have been terrible, not fit for even the empire's most miserable of libraries. Mostly however, because the one who had approached him was no guard, or lord, or knight. It was, in fact, the man he had seen earlier. The one with long beard and red nose, looking at him not with mirth, but with concern.

"Come," said the man, taking Skaar by the hand. "You best be away from here."

Skaar glanced back at the tables, as another cracker went off. His eyes lingered on the food. On the drink.

On the knives.

"Who are you?"

The words tumbled out of Skaar's mouth like apples from a barrel, or on a bad day, corpses from a wagon. Either way, the man stopped. They were about halfway between the manor and slave field, under a tree whose branches were bereft of leaves. The man looked at him, and while Skaar could see a kindness in his eyes, he felt none of it himself.

"You do not know," the man said. He sighed. "Of course not."

Skaar frowned. "Enlighten me. Tell me why you give presents to the children of tyrants; those who'll grow up to be nice little tyrants themselves. Tell me how you can blink out of thin air, and yet apparently not take any with you."

The man smiled, bowed, and remained unaware just how much Skaar wanted to punch him. "Of course," he said. "I am Father Christmas. Saint Nicholas. The-"

"Stop."

The man did so.

"Saint," Skaar mused. "Saints are those kept on stain-glassed windows in the great cathedrals of the capital. Holy men and women whose divinity is decided by how much they brought the empire." He gave Nicholas a good look. "You're no saint."

"I assure you that I am. For in this world, across all worlds, when winter comes, I visit, bringing gifts to those whose hearts are open."

"To tyrants?"

"To children. Those whose hearts are not yet tainted by the sadness of this world."

"Tainted," Skaar whispered. "I suppose that's why the slaves don't get any."

He could tell that he'd touched a nerve with Nicholas. Good, he supposed. Because while he didn't believe any of this nonsense (a disappearing act was not the same thing as claiming to travel between worlds), he was willing to entertain the possibility it was true. Perhaps this man, this Father Christmas, could do all he said. Perhaps he travelled to bring joy and presents to the bastard offspring of Charn, and who knew where else. If so, however...

"Why am I here?" Skaar asked.

"Because you would have done something foolish."

"Or brave."

"Do not confuse the two, my child. If your eye had lingered on the knife, and your hand found it, what then? A wound, at best, followed by your death, and the misery of those who reside on the other side of that fence." He nodded towards the barrier between freedom and misery. "Did you consider that?"

Skaar frowned. He hadn't. Not that he was going to tell this man. There was an anger brewing within his stomach, and when Father Christmas put his hand on his shoulder, the anger began to not only brew, but boil.

"Have faith, Skaar. The Emperor sees all. When faith is offered, it is-"

"Stop." Skaar turned the man's hand off his shoulder. "Just stop."

Nicholas frowned. "You should not interrupt one who is speaking to you."

"And you ought to live in the real world." Skaar spat on the snow and began to walk back and forth, his hands in his pockets. "You're like all the rest you know. Madmen, preaching about sins, sinners, salvation, and solutions. Claiming we have to worship a god, or gods, or spirits, or ourselves, or the prophets telling us to do so. I've seen them, and I've sometimes listened to them. Some were even sincere."

"The Emperor is-"

"Enough of your emperor," Skaar spat. He stopped pacing back and forth, met Saint Nicholas in the eye, and rolled up his right sleeve. A finger from his left hand pressed against the brand. "Where was your emperor when this was burnt into me? When my home was destroyed? Where has he been while Charn raped the world? If your Emperor exists, either he is impotent, or uncaring. Either way, he's done nothing for any of us." He rolled up his sleeve and looked down at the snow. "None of the prophets' gods have."

Saint Nicholas remained silent. He too, had his hands in his pockets. The mirth in his eyes were gone, and he seemed older. Certainly quieter. Silence lingered between the two of them - night had fallen, the birds had gone to their nests, and beasts of the earth were in their burrows.

"The empire has its own religion you know," Skaar whispered. "The Giant. Some saviour. One who stood above them all, who offered them forgiveness for their sins. Some in the cathedrals even tell this story, though do not preach it. You know what they did?" Nicholas didn't answer, so Skaar continued. "Tried to kill him. Failed, mind you - there's some apocryphal texts who say that The Giant knew the people were beyond saving, that their evil was so great that even he could not take it upon himself. But what does it matter? The queens and kings of the capital see themselves as gods. They worship themselves. The blood of jinn, the blood of giant, the blood of one called Lilith, they claim it all for themselves, just as they claim the world." He rose his hands and gestured around. "Seems to me they've done a good job of it...depending on who you ask."

Saint Nicholas remained silent, much to Skaar's dismay. He wanted the bearded fool to say something. To utter trite words so he could bury them in the snow so they may join the ranks of the dead. Instead, he just stood there. Looking at him. Looking down at him. As if with his magic and his presents and his honeyed words that he was superior to him. As if he knew him.

Which, Skaar reflected, he might. Not that that changed anything.

"Why are you here?" the slave whispered. "Snow Fall marks the winter solstice. Why now? Why bring presents here? Why show kindness to (he nodded at the manor) them?"

Saint Nicholas smiled. "You are wise, Skaar. Far beyond your years."

"Hardly."

"Not even the sacking of Cohep has taken that from you."

"What?" Skaar whispered – the name lingered in his mind. An echo, that reverberated down to his bones.

"But to answer your question, kindness begets kindness. And this world has not known kindness for so long. Perhaps once, when the sun was smaller, warmer, brighter, when songs and merriment flowed like wine, the line of Lilith had hope. But those days are gone, perhaps never to return. And if this war continues as is, it never will. So all I can do is offer kindness and hope. To do my duty, as I always have, from the first tree in the wood, to when the last tree falls, and all worlds are found within the one country."

Skaar smirked. "You're a fool." Saint Nicholas opened his mouth to speak, but Skaar kept talking. "Kindness has never changed anything. There are those across the empire who speak of kindness, of mercy, of shared decency, but what has it accomplished? Nothing. Kindness doesn't topple queens, and kindness can't end empires. It's why the queen's sister is fighting this war and winning, because she cares as much about kindness as Queen Jadis herself. Only she'd even better at being a tyrant." He kicked the snow, before muttering, "you want to make things better? Next time you turn up, bring something that helps. Weapons. Swords, bows, daggers, even something that could heal wounds. Because the people who need the most kindness in this world are..." He trailed off, his gaze turning back to the slave field. To where a young girl was, shivering in the cold. "The people who need the most kindness are those who have nothing."

Nicholas didn't say anything. Not Saint, Skaar reflected, just Nicholas. He would never be a saint or a father to him. Saints were liars, and his father was dead, perhaps removed from his life before he even drew his first breath. He glanced at the manor and saw that the lights were going out, as Opia and his wife turned in for the night. He wondered, for a moment, if they would ever again be lit. For he had heard some guards saying that the light of civilization was going out, as this war consumed everything in its path, and would not be re-lit in their lifetime. When he turned back to meet the so-called saint however, he found that the man had something in his hands.

"A gift," Nicholas whispered.

Skaar gingerly took it. "For what?"

"To give one as old as me reason to think. To reflect. Reconsider."

Skaar grunted, barely listening as he held the gift in his hands. "A Snow Fall cracker," he said. He looked up at Nicholas. "This for me?"

"For you. Or, maybe one who needs it more."

Skaar raised an eyebrow - how much did this man actually know? But, he reflected, if he knew so much, it meant nothing. He hadn't transferred that knowledge to power, and if he had power, he hadn't used it.

"Farewell, Skaar. I hope that come next Snow Fall, we may meet again."

Skaar glanced at the fence. "Fae might like it," he murmured. "But if she..." He trailed off, having turned back to face Nicholas.

The man was gone.

"Fae?"

She didn't answer.

"Fae?"

The girl remained quiet.

"Fae, are you awake?"

Fae stirred in her sleep, but otherwise made no sound. Frowning, Skaar put a hand to her forehead. She was burning up, a sure sign of winter fever. Biting his lip, he looked around the inside of the slave barracks - men, women and children shivering in the winter chill, bereft of anything but a thin blanket, a pillow, and if they were lucky, a mattress. Having arrived back at the barracks late, Skaar knew he wouldn't be among the lucky ones, but right now, it was the least of his concerns. Fae had the fever. Fae was waking up. Fae was now staring at him with bleary eyes.

"Skaar?"

And talking. Which meant that he'd done it now, and that there was no going back. He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Love, such as it was, and pity. But no warmth. The winter and the world were both too cold for such a thing.

"Hey," he said. "Did I wake you?"

Fae gave him a look.

"Yeah, course I did. But I..." He pulled something out of his pocket. "Got you this?"

Fae's eyes widened and she sat up. "Is that a cracker?"

Some warmth came to Skaar's smile as he handed it to her. "Thought we might pull it together. Get some of that dust."

Fae went to say something, but began to cough. And cough. And cough some more. Skaar fought the urge to put a hand on her back, to offer what comfort he could. There were diseases more contagious than winter fever, but in these tight quarters, they could spread like wildfire. Even the slave masters would take sometimes to reduce the spread of disease, for after all, a dead slave was a slave that didn't do any work.

"Tomorrow then?" Skaar whispered, as Fae finally stopped coughing. "We'll pull it tomorrow."

Fae nodded and lay down on the bed. "Sure," she whispered. "Tomorrow."

Skaar nodded, and after a moment, tightened the blanket around her body. A body that he could easily see through the sheets, her tunic, and the skin and ribs underneath it. "Tomorrow," he whispered.

He sat and waited for her to fall asleep, a process which didn't take long. Yet in the dead of night, it was long enough for him. Long enough for him to cradle the cracker in his hand, and think of the man who'd given it to him. To his words, echoing in his mind, and reminding them of how hollow they were. Wondering about his talk of emperors, and wondering about the chance that he had spoken the truth, however slight that chance may be. Wondering. Waiting. Hoping that come next Snow Fall, he would come again. And perhaps bring something better than presents.

He would never find out.

Fae would never awake. She would never see the blue dust sparkle from the cracker.

And less than a year after that, all in the world of Charn was reduced to dust as well.