On the shortest day, before the longest night,
we prepare the celebration for the return of the light.
With candles and cakes with the sunflower seed,
and evergreen plants, and bottles of mead.

Be careful this day, for demons arise,
they sour the milk and steal all the pies.
And the cakes and the candles and the evergreen plant,
And corrupt all the wishes they ‘graciously’ grant.

A mother had made a sunflower bread,
It was rather small, but it would keep them all fed.
The children were happy, for this was a treat,
it was special and more than they normally eat.

The demons they hate the laugh of a child,
the thought there is joy will make them all wild.
They sneaked in the house and stole the small bread,
when they saw it was gone, the children were sad.

Tradition requires the sunflower seed,
to summon the light that is what you need.
Who wants to sit through midwinter without,
when the demons roam free and show us their snout?

The youngest child, who only was eight,
the bravest of all, she was not afraid,
she went in the cupboard and put salt in a bag,
quickly she left, before her mother would nag.

She went to where the demons would dance,
she knew this was it, she had but one chance.
Watching their faces filled her with dread,
but she kept her eyes on the freshly baked bread.

The girl sneaked through the tallest of grass,
when they saw her, they taunted the lass.
She faced them with courage, her head held high,
they pulled on her hair, but she did not cry.

They came closer and showed her the bread,
ignoring the taunt, she smiled instead.
She opened the bag and the salt she threw,
cringing in pain, they all withdrew.

She picked up the bread and quickly returned,
going back home, that was what she yearned.
Her family was in awe when they saw what she had,
the children rejoiced and were no longer sad.

Together they sat through the longest night,
And the next morning, they greeted the light.

It was the day before Christmas and night was the house. No lights were to be seen, not even a tree. Where stockings should hang there was merely the ghost of years past. In the absence of merriment, silence reigned; this grieving kingdom stretched its fingers far and wide, saddening every last corner of this lonely little home.

Drowned not was little Sarah who peeked her cautious head around the corner. She peered into the void of her father’s study, spotting him where he always was. Barely uttering a word to her or anyone else, he worked away at his desk and escaped all things living in a bubble of laborious immersion. He muttered a curse and cast aside a crumpled paper, adding it to the growing field of parchment corpses surrounding his seat.

Sarah steadily moved forward, inching along anxiously with her partially torn teddy bear held tightly in her tiny hands. Once she was close enough, Sarah mustered the courage to speak but it came out as barely a whisper. She tried again, and then once more until she got it right. “Father,” she said.

“Not now,” her father retorted, not even turning his head.

“But it’s—“

Her father wheeled around, and Sarah stepped back like a shrinking dog expecting to be punished. “What is so important that you have to interrupt me while I’m working? I told you I had to work tonight, and I told you never to come in here. Now, out with it!”

Little Sarah wanted to cry, but she bit back her tears as she remembered better days where the house was lit, better days where her father did not speak with such awful pain. “It’s Christmas Eve,” she pointed out, “I just wanted to know if we were going to get a tree, or if we were going to put up some lights.” Her voice was weak, lingering on a thin string of wavering hope. “We always put up lights,” Sarah added as a final thought.

“Not this year,” he said, stamping out the vestiges of her dreams, “now, please, I really must be working.”

She understood, and withdrew, but not before picking up a turned down picture frame that lay on the floor. Sarah glanced at the frame, and then at her father in the chance that something inspired might fall upon her tongue. When nothing came she left him alone on her trail of defeat, but little Sarah would not abandon hope. She stared at the frame and made a forceful vow.

Christmas would not end here, nor could it ever die, for Christmas was the spirit of joy, and such a spirit is eternal. At night, when her father was finally asleep, Sarah set her hands to work, doing her very best to set things right. The hours were long and her paths were treacherous, every step carefully made for on this night her father must not awaken or else all her efforts would be for naught.

Sarah went to bed when she was finished, hugging tight both frame and bear, nurturing and protecting that frail little spirit like it were a candle flame caught in the wind.

Morning dawned and Sarah shot up, woken by the shout of her name. Nervously, she left her room and ventured on out to find her father looking none too happy as he stood by the evidence of the previous night’s efforts. “Explain this.” He said, firmly, with an air of impatience.

She scanned the room, from the fireplace where she hung three regular old socks, to the corner where she placed a dead plant but strung makeshift paper ornaments to its brittle and breaking leaves. Everywhere there was red and green paper, and some lights she managed to find in the hidden box she always opened for this time of year. “It’s Christmas,” Sarah said meekly. She just wanted him to be happy, but his expression shared none of her joy. She tried to say that she did this for him, but he interrupted her.

“I want it all cleaned up. This instant.”

“Wait,” Sarah protested, and moved back to her room.

“No, I will not wait. You made a mess, and you’re going to clean it up! Get back here, Sarah!” He chased after her, only to be greeted by his daughter holding a closed box up to him. It was simple cardboard, no wrappings, but there was a bow on top.

“Here,” she said, “for you.”

He sighed in exasperation, but accepted, relenting for a moment to take the box, and open it. For a while, there was silence. No motion. No comments. It was just him, looking into the box, and Sarah watching. Finally, he reached in, and lifted out the picture frame with a piece of paper attached. He looked over the picture, seeing himself in a hideous Santa sweater, Sarah with a glowing Rudolph nose, and then there was a beautiful woman, his wife, Sarah’s mother, smiling brightly with a pair of deer antlers adorning her head. They were together. Happy. The absence of that smile had never been more keenly felt.

It took another few seconds before he grabbed the paper and read what Sarah scrawled down.

So long as I have you, I will always have Christmas. – Love Sarah

Sarah watched the anger melt away off of her father’s face. She was stunned to see him steadily break out into tears, and couldn’t help but flinch as he came down to her and swept her up into his arms. “Oh Sarah,” he cried, “I’m so sorry!”

He went on like that for a long time, crying, and apologizing, crying, and apologizing again. She found herself giggling when he kissed her cheek repeatedly, sharing in this sudden joy linking them together.

“You darling girl, you magnificent, wondrous girl!” He lifted her high, spun her around, and hugged her all over again like it was the first time he had seen her in ages.

All was right again in little Sarah’s world. For, so long as she had him, and he had her, Christmas would never die.

Alongside the Lands of Men are the Realms of Fae, their mystic kin. As seasons change, so do the Fae who reside behind the palace walls, the living trees of the Wooded Hall. After the shortest day, the Hosts of Winter come out to play. One final feast on that last, longest night of their faerie year and all those spirits of the cold gather from far and near. With their queer music, the air was filled and on white snow, their Fae-light spilled from high doors of the Wooded Hall and tiny windows on lanterns small. On this most holy night, even the Fae themselves will come alight, all in hues of green, blue, and white.

In and out of doors, the Fae all danced with bare feet eager for a chance to prance. The Hosts of Winter had no cause to fear the cold with their steps so light, they never sink into the snow. Their feet dipped not into the drifts as they waltzed to swap their gifts. Drink flowed freely and there were libations abound as they swirled and they sloshed, splashing onto the ground.

A cheer rose up loud from the crowd in answer to howls ringing out across snow-dusted grounds. Strolling in from that year's last hunt, came the Wolves, quite the rowdy bunch. With them, they drug in all sorts of game to be skinned, prepped, then roasted over open flame. All lifted voices in merry songs and even the Wolf King sang along. With a leg of lamb in his other hand, He raised his cup, a clear demand. But, whilst awaiting another round, a Solstice tragedy had been found. All conversation, then, was stopped as every lute and lyre dropped. Some-fae let out a most awful cry:

“The kegs, the kegs, they've all run dry!”

Well, 'waste not, want not,' as the humans say. For every spilt drop, the Fae would now pay. Snow and Frost, those palest twins, quickly lost their fiendish grins, and only just, Night caught the Moon as, in despair, she rightly swooned. There was not ale nor wine left for these spirits. They wailed so loud, mortals could hear it.

But humans, they were very wary of the tricks often played by faeries, so when unearthly Hosts came pleading, not one mortal heart could be found bleeding. Not from one drop, would they part, not from weakest ale nor wine so tart. The Fae were doomed to a sober Solstice and, in their mourning, all did forget which guests had not appeared yet. Fae's feet trekked back in somber step. With no sign of season's pep, the Hosts returned to the Wooded Hall. Yet, high above, a strange light burned.

Finally, Frost turned her pale eyes and pointed a finger to the sky. All there felt blessed, when two brothers, late, yet smartly dressed in fur trimmed suits of matching red, came landing in their deer-drawn sled. With his cuffs and brim of white, Klaus laughed loud with all his might at his friends' faces, grown so long, now quickly turned to joy and song. His brother, sporting coal-black curls, had heard those beggars search for drink, while down chimneys, Klaus had gone to slink. To see their friends in such despair, it was then that Krampus had declared:

“The humans, they will pay their due!”

For every in tavern, there's at least one flue.

The mortals would soon woke to find, in lieu of gifts, they'd been robbed blind. Every bottle and barrel, from tamest wine to the moonshine most feral, had been pilfered and plucked to make Solstice un-fucked. From the same bottomless bag that once had held toys for all good girls and boys, now Krampus and Klaus filled cups, horns, and mouths. In the back, there sat a small, struggling sack. Krampus reached in and gave it a strong pat, and it ceased all of that. Given a choice between old habits and booze, well, he just couldn't choose. Yes, he'd still nabbed a few kids who'd been bad, to take and abuse.

“I saved the Solstice! Why should I have to lose?”