Chapter 21 — The True Gift
The world slept.
For once, it wasn’t the exhausted kind of sleep that follows disaster, but the deep, contented kind that follows forgiveness. The sky had the color of candlelight caught in ice. Every horizon shimmered, faintly gold, as if dawn had left its lamp burning just to be kind.
It was lovely.
We drifted low over the tundra, the sleigh whispering instead of singing. The runners didn’t scrape anymore; they hummed, pleased with themselves. Behind us, the Prime Gate glowed in quiet rhythm, its repaired rune pulsing like a heartbeat in the snow.
Dax leaned back in his seat, bare feet propped on the edge, cigar resting behind one pointed ear. “You realize,” he said, “we technically just saved Christmas.”
Chuck smiled without looking at him. “No,” he said. “We saved the people who thought they had to earn it.”
I jotted that down. A historian knows when a line deserves ink.
The bear—what was left of it—sat between us. The fabric scraps shimmered faintly. Each time Chuck glanced down, the glow brightened, as if the little charm approved of his progress.
Below, the snowfields rolled in soft waves. Here and there, clusters of light blinked where villages stirred under the dawn. Candles flared in windows. A child stepped out onto a porch, craning upward, squinting toward the streak of light we left behind.
She waved.
Chuck laughed quietly and waved back. “She can’t possibly see us,” he said.
“Then why’d she wave first?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Some questions don’t need logic.
The sleigh banked west, following a line of mountains that looked like frozen spines of ancient giants. For the first time since the Pact began, the air didn’t taste of obligation. It smelled of pine and snow and maybe cinnamon. If grace had a scent, that was it.
Dax yawned. “So what happens now? Do we make toys again? Deliver goodwill? Host a parade? Cause whatever it is, I want a drink first.”
Chuck shook his head. “We rest.”
“Rest,” Dax repeated, like it was a foreign word. “Yer gettin’ old.”
“Shut it, monkey. I just think it’s time we let people remember how to be kind without an audience.”
I scribbled it down. “Note to future civilizations: Miracles may require naps.”
“Hey,” Dax grunted, “I was serious about that drink.”
Chuck laughed. “Of course you were.”
The aurora flickered overhead, ribbons of green folding into pink, then back to silver. In the midst of it, faint new constellations shimmered—tiny sparks forming the outline of a small bear, stitches of gold connecting the stars.
“Look,” I whispered.
Chuck followed my gaze. His smile was soft, quiet. “She really is everywhere.”
The bear remains on the seat flickered in reply.
For a while, no one spoke. We just listened to the sound of wind moving the world along.
Then Dax cleared his throat. “So… I’ve been thinkin’.”
“That’s never good,” I said.
“Shut it, gnome. What I meant is, if the whole point is people givin’ without magic pushin’ ‘em, what do we do? We’re kinda the middlemen, right? You two with your guilt, me with my charisma.”
Chuck laughed from the belly. “We start small. Fix a few wrongs. Tell the truth.”
“Truth,” Dax muttered. “Right. That thing that gets us punched.”
“Worth it,” Chuck said.
He reached into his coat and pulled out the coal. The rune gleamed across its surface, alive but calm. He held it up to the dawn.
“It’s warm,” he said. “Not magic-warm. Real warm.”
Nick’s voice wasn’t there anymore, but the echo of it lingered…steady as breath in a cold room.
“Keep it close,” I said. “Reminders matter.”
Chuck slipped the coal back into his pocket. “Maybe we don’t need reminders anymore.” He nudged Dax softly with an elbow. “Maybe we just need each other.”
The sleigh climbed higher. Sunlight spilled across the runners, turning them to liquid gold. The bear hummed softly, a lullaby without words. Below us, rivers broke their ice. The world was thawing.
Dax squinted toward the east. “Is that… spring?”
“Possibly,” I said. “Or maybe it’s divine approval.”
“I’ll take either.” He grinned and leaned back again. “But if this turns into a musical number, I’m out.”
“Noted,” I said, writing it down.
We crossed the northern ridge where the mountains tapered into forest. Pines dusted with new snow caught the light like mirrors. The sleigh’s shadow raced ahead, long and lean, stitched across treetops like another rune being written.
Chuck guided us lower, voice softer now. “We’ll drop supplies at the old outposts. There are still believers who never stopped giving. They deserve a little help getting started again.”
“After that?” I asked.
He smiled. “After that, I’ll visit Eva’s grave. She deserves to know I finally kept a promise.”
My throat tightened.
He looked at me. “You okay?”
“I,…I’m really sorry, Chuck,” I choked.
“For what?”
I sniffed. “For all the pain you’ve been through. Losing so many you’ve loved. Wife, son, the second woman who loved you…”
Chuck coughed. “Gwen wasn’t the second.”
I blinked. “Oh, I’m sorry, the third?”
Chuck shook his head and made a motion with his thumb, upward.
“Fourth?”
He kept pointing upward.
“You have GOT to be kidding,” I said.
Chuck shrugged. “What can I say….ladies man.”
The sleigh leveled out, coasting over the last curve of wilderness before the horizon opened into daylight. The aurora dimmed, but not entirely; a thread of green lingered like a signature.
“Tell me you’re writing this down,” Chuck said.
“Of course,” I replied. “Every word. Especially the parts you’ll deny later.”
Dax groaned. “Oh great, history with footnotes.”
“I call them embellishments,” I said.
He looked at me sideways. “You call everything embellishment.”
“Accuracy is relative to artistry,” I countered.
Chuck laughed. “Never change, Höbin.”
“I’ll consider it,” I said.
The sleigh crested the final bank of clouds. Daylight broke across us full and clear. Snow sparkled below, endless and clean. For the first time, the world didn’t feel like something we had to save.
It felt… safe.
The bear’s remains glowed dimly to a steady warmth. Chuck placed a hand over it.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Did you just thank a scrap of cloth and ash?” Dax asked.
Chuck smiled. “Why not? Gratitude doesn’t care who hears it.”
I tilted my head, quill poised. “Good line. Needs context.”
He chuckled. “You’ll find it.”
And I would.
Because somewhere below us, children were waking to a world that no longer needed miracles to remember how to be kind.
As the sleigh tipped its nose toward the sunrise, bells chimed softly. Shy but true.
The sky didn’t demand anything from us, either.
It simply listened.
