Santa apologizes in advance for a) slowness, b) fail at the postal service (although a ~special parcel~ is on its way!!!), and c) fail at fic.
But nonetheless, dearest OzKirkDeanScarLetoTokageHarukaCasshernYuiMerlinBumblebee, merry Winterthing
For one such as Leto, with billions of memories, millions of voices clamouring for attention, one or two more memories go - for a while - unnoticed. So he doesn't really know how long it's been since these new memories started, although he's fairly sure it's been while he's been in camp. Perhaps, though, deprived of his world, his worms, his Ghanima, his thoughts have drawn inwards. He's certainly had plenty of time to reflect on what was and what is and what could be. Not long enough, but then there will never be long enough. Each day must be enough by itself.
The memories are...strange, unlike any he's known before. They seem to flit away if he tries to make any sense of them; he's learned, very quickly, not to try. But if he sits, and waits, and lets them tiptoe up like a sandmouse approaching a desert shrub that may house food or a poisonous sting, they come and wash over him, recalling places long ago...
Snow falls silently, coating trees and path alike. It's bitterly cold, enough to chill bones and freeze the blood. The king hardly notices. His page stumbles behind him, weighted down under the burden of smoked ham and wine casks, following his footprints in the snow. Leto-who-is-Wenceslas realizes, with mild interest, that everywhere he steps, the snow hisses and melts under his feet - and his page, who had been flagging, suddenly picks up his steps again as he follows his king through the winter's night.
Leto opens his eyes to see zombies shuffling past, what remains of their heads dusted by snow. Some bored camper has made Christmas wreaths of holly and ivy, and draped them around the zombies' necks.
He smiles.
Hair stands up down the back of his neck as the tribe howls again, shrieking their rage to the moon. Winter has frozen the world, and the beasts are beginning to starve. The tribe has built a giant fire, roaring into the night, to draw down the sun and melt the winter away. He knows, deep in his bones, that if they can only scream loud enough, convince the dark and cold to flee before their wrath, summer will return. If they don't, it will be a world of endless night. Last year, it was his father standing here and howling fury. Now his father is gone, and Leto-as-Arnþórr doesn't know whether he's strong enough to bring the sun back.
Above him, the clouds part for a moment, and sun glints off the snow as if it's glass. The wind howls around him, tugging at his cloak. It's a long way from his desert - but somehow it feels like home.
He's been in this office so long, it's like he lives here. Leto-as-Francis sighs, and rests his head in his hand. It's late, and he's tired, but venturing out in weather like this is tantamount to suicide. Besides, he still has an editorial to write before the Sun goes to print. But what to write? It's not easy to come by inspiration this late at night, and there's no pressing issues they've not already addressed. He shuffles papers across his desk, hoping for something to leap out at him - anything.
And then there's a letter. Dear Editor--I am eight years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus....
Leto-as-Francis sits up abruptly, galvanized into action, and begins to write.
Everyone's minds are on Christmas, this time of year. He has watched them write letters to home, speak longingly of family and friends who are not here, decorate the trees they cut down - a thing which would never happen on his planet. Trees destroyed for the purpose of beautifying the sietch? Stil would have a fit. Leto smiles to think of it, and then laughs, the sound echoing around him before the forest swallows it up.
The trees dampen the noise of the reindeer's stamping and snorting, and the jingling of the bells on their harness. Leto-as-Klaus can't help but laugh, a huge booming sound that makes his reindeer whicker in response, a smaller version of a horse's neigh. The sleigh is packed full of toys, some balancing precariously in ways they shouldn't even be able to - except Klaus' helpers packed them, and there's a kind of magic in the way they do these things. They gather around him now, diminutive compared to his rotund figure, their voices as high and squeaky as the children they happily toil for. Leto-as-Klaus reaches down to ruffle their hair, tug at their elongated ears, and in return they wrap their arms around as much of his stomach as they can reach. Leto-as-Klaus laughs again, and slowly makes his way through the crowd towards his sleigh.
"Leto?"
He doesn't recognize the voice, but the face is strangely familiar. Like one of the helpers in his memory, or maybe his dream...the little creature is holding out a gift, wrapped in paper that looks as though it's somehow been forged from the teeth of a Maker.
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no subject
But nonetheless, dearest OzKirkDeanScarLetoTokageHarukaCasshernYuiMerlinBumblebee, merry Winterthing
For one such as Leto, with billions of memories, millions of voices clamouring for attention, one or two more memories go - for a while - unnoticed. So he doesn't really know how long it's been since these new memories started, although he's fairly sure it's been while he's been in camp. Perhaps, though, deprived of his world, his worms, his Ghanima, his thoughts have drawn inwards. He's certainly had plenty of time to reflect on what was and what is and what could be. Not long enough, but then there will never be long enough. Each day must be enough by itself.
The memories are...strange, unlike any he's known before. They seem to flit away if he tries to make any sense of them; he's learned, very quickly, not to try. But if he sits, and waits, and lets them tiptoe up like a sandmouse approaching a desert shrub that may house food or a poisonous sting, they come and wash over him, recalling places long ago...
Snow falls silently, coating trees and path alike. It's bitterly cold, enough to chill bones and freeze the blood. The king hardly notices. His page stumbles behind him, weighted down under the burden of smoked ham and wine casks, following his footprints in the snow. Leto-who-is-Wenceslas realizes, with mild interest, that everywhere he steps, the snow hisses and melts under his feet - and his page, who had been flagging, suddenly picks up his steps again as he follows his king through the winter's night.
Leto opens his eyes to see zombies shuffling past, what remains of their heads dusted by snow. Some bored camper has made Christmas wreaths of holly and ivy, and draped them around the zombies' necks.
He smiles.
Hair stands up down the back of his neck as the tribe howls again, shrieking their rage to the moon. Winter has frozen the world, and the beasts are beginning to starve. The tribe has built a giant fire, roaring into the night, to draw down the sun and melt the winter away. He knows, deep in his bones, that if they can only scream loud enough, convince the dark and cold to flee before their wrath, summer will return. If they don't, it will be a world of endless night. Last year, it was his father standing here and howling fury. Now his father is gone, and Leto-as-Arnþórr doesn't know whether he's strong enough to bring the sun back.
Above him, the clouds part for a moment, and sun glints off the snow as if it's glass. The wind howls around him, tugging at his cloak. It's a long way from his desert - but somehow it feels like home.
He's been in this office so long, it's like he lives here. Leto-as-Francis sighs, and rests his head in his hand. It's late, and he's tired, but venturing out in weather like this is tantamount to suicide. Besides, he still has an editorial to write before the Sun goes to print. But what to write? It's not easy to come by inspiration this late at night, and there's no pressing issues they've not already addressed. He shuffles papers across his desk, hoping for something to leap out at him - anything.
And then there's a letter. Dear Editor--I am eight years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus....
Leto-as-Francis sits up abruptly, galvanized into action, and begins to write.
no subject
The trees dampen the noise of the reindeer's stamping and snorting, and the jingling of the bells on their harness. Leto-as-Klaus can't help but laugh, a huge booming sound that makes his reindeer whicker in response, a smaller version of a horse's neigh. The sleigh is packed full of toys, some balancing precariously in ways they shouldn't even be able to - except Klaus' helpers packed them, and there's a kind of magic in the way they do these things. They gather around him now, diminutive compared to his rotund figure, their voices as high and squeaky as the children they happily toil for. Leto-as-Klaus reaches down to ruffle their hair, tug at their elongated ears, and in return they wrap their arms around as much of his stomach as they can reach. Leto-as-Klaus laughs again, and slowly makes his way through the crowd towards his sleigh.
"Leto?"
He doesn't recognize the voice, but the face is strangely familiar. Like one of the helpers in his memory, or maybe his dream...the little creature is holding out a gift, wrapped in paper that looks as though it's somehow been forged from the teeth of a Maker.
"This is for you."
no subject
That. That was gorgeous. Utterly, utterly gorgeous and sdgdfgdfg it made me so happy, I'm grinning like a maniac ahh ♥♥♥♥♥♥
Thank you so much secret santa. You lit up my day ♥♥