Chapter 12 — History of a Ho-Ho-Horrible Idea
My voice carried through the sleigh bay like a sermon written by an archivist with too many opinions.
“Entry date: now. Subject: The Binding of Saint Nicholas, also known as The Pact of Perpetual Giving. Compiled from the wizard’s personal journal, which is—let the record show—an absolute disaster of punctuation and remorse.”
The room smelled of frost and old ash. Chuck sat near the cold hearth, the coal beside him glowing faintly, heartbeat-slow. Dax leaned against the sleigh with his usual posture of defiance and concern mixed into one. Nick, still bound, listened in silence.
Dax broke it first. “You sure you want to do this, gnome?”
“I want the truth recorded,” I said, flipping open the cracked leather journal, “before someone writes the wrong version. Again.”
The pages were warped, edges singed, the ink crawling with residual magic. Each line pulsed faintly under my fingers—regret still alive enough to fight editing.
“Entry twenty-two,” I read aloud. “‘Test phase successful. Subject N agrees to parameters of giving cycle. Emotionally volatile, but stabilized by auxiliary rune: G.’”
I turned the page. “‘Side note: regret is manageable. G believes this will heal people. She doesn’t realize it’s meant to punish me.’”
Chuck’s head snapped up. “That’s not what I wrote.”
“Oh, it’s exactly what you wrote,” I said. “Your handwriting’s drunk, but legible.”
“I meant punish guilt, not—”
“Your own guilt,” I interrupted. “Which, if I recall, is the same thing.”
Nick gave a slow nod. “He’s right, Charles.”
Chuck’s hands clenched into fists. “I did it to help you.”
Nick’s tone was quiet but merciless. “You did it to avoid forgiving yourself.”
The coal by the hearth flared in agreement, throwing red light across his face.
I turned another page, reading softly now. “‘Entry twenty-six: Gwen’s gone. She called it cruelty wearing a halo. I call it balance. Either way, the spell is complete.’”
The journal trembled in my hands. Gold light seeped from the seams.
“That’s a living enchantment,” I muttered. “Residual guilt signature. Do not—”
The book erupted in light.
Words tore free from the pages, spiraling into the air like burning snow. Letters rearranged themselves into a constellation of truth that none of us could look away from:
YOU DIDN’T BIND HIM TO HELP. YOU BOUND HIM TO BEAR WHAT YOU COULDN’T.
The words hung there, shimmering, cruel, beautiful. The glow filled the bay until even our shadows seemed ashamed to stay.
Chuck stood slowly, his voice breaking on each breath. “I wanted to protect—”
“Yourself,” I said.
Nick’s voice followed, soft but final. “And it worked, Charles. For a while.”
The journal cracked like a log in firelight and split apart. Ash drifted down, glowing faintly before turning to gray.
Only one page remained. It floated between us, the ink alive. Gwen’s rune appeared at the top—delicate, perfect—and beneath it a single line formed:
Forgiveness doesn’t erase the debt. It ends the accounting.
The page dissolved, scattering gold dust through the air.
Chuck sank to his knees. I stepped forward instinctively, but Dax reached him first, steadying him with one massive green hand.
“You all right?” Dax asked.
Chuck laughed once, hollow. “No.”
“Good,” I said quietly. “Now maybe you can be.”
Nick lowered his head. The runes on his harness dimmed until they looked more like scars than bindings.
Outside, the aurora shifted. Blue and green ripples spread across the northern sky, brighter wherever sorrow was finally being named. The light slipped through the shattered window and touched the sleigh’s brass runners.
The metal shivered, then hummed—a low, sweet note that sounded like the world remembering a promise.
I set the ruined journal on the floor, its ashes cooling between us. “For the record,” I said softly, “I don’t think this was ever about toys or tradition. Being here, watching you , Nick and observing these children, I’m convinced this was about learning that even miracles rot when built on guilt.”
Dax puffed his cigar like a chimney, slowly looking around at everyone else. “So… what now?”
No one answered.
The children stood at the edge of the chamber, silent witnesses, their coals flickering in rhythm with the dying glow of the pages.
Chuck looked at them, eyes red and wet. “Now?” He took a trembling breath. “Now we start telling the truth.”
Nick gave a faint smile. “You finally ready to give without punishment?”
Chuck nodded once. “I…think that might be wise.” Then he leaned to the nearest child and winked. “There’s a rumor that I’m wise, you know.”
The child blinked up at him. “My mama says you shouldn’t listen to rumors…”
I laughed out loud. “Your mama is a very smart person.”
The aurora brightened again, streaking the sleigh bay with ribbons of color. The light touched every surface—metal, frost, and flesh—and for a brief heartbeat, even I believed the world might forgive itself.
Then, from far below, deep under the Prime Gate, something answered the sleigh’s hum with a pulse of its own. Not hostile. Not gentle. Just awake.
I wrote one final line before the sound faded.
Entry complete. The past confesses, the present listens, and the future clears its throat.
