A/N: Merry Christmas everyone. I hope you all have a wonderful day. This is my response to a challenge set by someone for a Christmas fic. Well, here it is. I wish it was cheerier but its 1AM and I've been busy all day.
Wendla had always loved Christmas; the tree decorated with paper decorations her mother had helped her create, candles shining all around the living room, the snow that nearly always fell in December giving the tiny village the feeling of another world. She loved going to Church late at night with Mama, and seeing all the others up late too. Thea would giggle that her Papa had given her a sip of wine, and pretend to be drunk until her mother shushed her and led her away from the others. Moritz would yawn even more than usual, his eyes closing. Sometimes the priest would notice, and have a word with Herr Stiefel after the service was over. Wendla was shocked to see him cry one Christmas, after Church was over, the tears slipping silently down his cheeks. She loved the presents she received; small treasures like a square of chocolate, an orange, a new book, a pretty hair ribbon or a new locket. In return, she spent weeks painfully handcrafting gifts for her family; a wonky scarf for her father, new gloves for her Mama and something that she said was a hat but was so small it would barely fit a child for her sister were all well received the year Wendla learnt to knit.
Her best Christmas took place the year before her death.
"Wendla, child. Please, out from under my feet. Why don't you wear your new coat and go for a little walk?" She had skipped and danced through the snow covered fields near her house, singing every song she could think of. She felt so happy she thought she would burst.
"Wendla Bergmann?" It was Melchior Gabor. She froze; she hadn't spoken to him for so long, his voice unfamiliar now, tinged with the cracks that puberty brought. She was unaware of the changes in her own body that he noticed. She thought the red glow in his cheeks was down to the cold. "Why aren't you at home?"
"Mama is cooking the meal, and I was in the way. I don't mind – I do love the snow."
"So do I. Especially when the snow is fresh like this."
"I did not see you at Church yesterday, Melchior."
"Call me Melchi, like you used to. Wendla, I don't go to church any more. I don't celebrate Christmas – my mother is upset, my father is angry. So I've left them for a while, so they can become accustomed to the idea. I love the peace of the snow."
"How can you not go to Church, Melchi? God will be angry!"
"I do not believe in God." Wendla shook her head, blinking with shock. She mumbled something about having to leave, running through the field, snow swirling around her as she ran. Melchior stared after her; she really had become quite beautiful.
--
She had hoped to share her love of Christmas with her daughter; daydreaming of taking her to the river to ice skate, walking through the snow. But her fantasies came undone; with each thrust of Melchior's hips, her fate was damned a little bit more. The minute her mother's hand hit her face, she knew her days of lighting candles and running through snow without a care where at an end. Her last thought was of holding Melchior's hand, snow falling around them.
In her heaven, it was always Christmas; dancing with Moritz through the blizzards, candles lighting their way.