I appear from the mists!

[seikilos]

Ayayay. My life the past few months has been insane. I've had to put virtually all ficcing on hold until the last week or so, because I simply did not have the time (or, come the end of the day, energy) to write anything. However, I'm planning on making the most of my brief period of non-busyness, so prepare to be inundated with fic!

This first thing is one of two Christmas fics I'm planning on writing this holiday. This...would be the depressing one. So if you're expecting something jolly (a fair guess, with me), this ain't it. Wait for the second one.

Hope you all enjoy, and lemme say, boy does it feel good to be writing again.

Title: Highwinter
Fandoms: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG
Words: 1815
Disclaimer: I don't own Tales of Symphonia.
Summary: In his first Mithmas living as someone other than the leader of the Renegades or a seraph of Cruxis, Yuan remembers.
Author's Notes: AU, because plot devices suck. This is an odd little thing, but yo_san liked it, so I'm taking that as a good sign.

Yuan hated this time of year. It was still one more reminder of the false religion he and Kratos had put into place so long ago. Even now that Yggdrasill was dead and he and the Renegades—and, he was forced to admit, Lloyd and his friends—were attempting to dismantle the Church of Martel, it was taking a long time. Too long.

As he walked to pick up groceries, all around him people were rushing about, buying their gifts, chattering excitedly about the upcoming holiday of Mithmas. The birth of Mithos, the hero, the saviour of the land. Every wish for a “Merry Mithmas” made within his earshot put him into a worse and worse mood.

. . . Wait. He pulled up short at the sight of several dozen trees in the middle of what was normally downtown Meltokio. What the hell were those doing . . . ?

A memory, on the fringes of his mind. Trees in winter, around a holiday. A celebration of. . . .

“Admiring our Mithmas trees, are you, sir?” A voice interrupted his thoughts.

Mithmas tr— He remembered. That had been his contribution.

He turned and saw a young man standing nearby, looking at him.

“Where do you get them from?” he asked.

The young man acted as though he was asked this question a lot. “From the forests just outside the city. We make certain to select nothing but the best and healthiest trees. Look, each tree is perfect for hanging—”

Yuan interrupted him. “And do you go back and plant a new tree nearby in the spring?”

The tree seller gave him an odd look. “No, we don’t. Should we?”

Yes. “No. Never mind.” He started to walk away.

“Are you sure you aren’t interested in buying one?” the seller called after him.

“No, I” —the memory flashed through his mind again— “. . . I’ll take a look.”

In the end, he selected one of the smaller trees. When the seller began to say that he would find someone to help Yuan carry it home, Yuan had simply engaged some of his angelic strength, hefted the tree in his arms, and loftily assured him that it would not be necessary. All the same, he was certain to make it seem as though carrying the tree was more trouble than it actually was.

Botta was not home when he arrived, and so Yuan shoved the tree through the front door, shedding needles everywhere. Somehow managing to get it through the house without breaking every single lamp and piece of furniture, he found a relatively empty corner of the living room and propped it in there.

He studied the tree for a few moments, trying to remember. . . .

Lights. A few candles on the boughs. No, that would burn the house to the ground. But the Renegades had developed small electric lights decades ago. Would they overload his generator?

He made an amused noise. Well, he’d find out.

He teleported to what had been Tethe’alla Base before the two worlds had come together, arriving in his office. He looked around. So much dust already, and he had yet to be gone a year. What would it be like in the decades to come?

. . . Thoughts like that were useless, a waste of time.

He set off for the storage rooms. Every once in a while, some of the few Renegades remaining in the base would greet him but, taking note of his preoccupied air, didn’t keep him.

Along the way, he noted a few sets of Mithmas lights had already been put up around the base. He didn’t like seeing them, but he had never said anything about them. He removed the comfort of religion from his soldiers—he refused to take ritual from them as well.

Upon arriving at the main storage room, he was fortunate to discover someone had been in the process of untangling the strings of Mithmas lights, leaving them lying out in plain view. Using his prerogative as leader of the Renegades, Yuan co-opted a few sets and teleported back home.

Once there, he strung the lights around his tree and plugged them into the socket in the wall. His and Botta’s home in Meltokio was the only one in the city with electricity. It had taken him several weeks to set up the proper magitechnology, but the benefits were worth the extra work.

He stepped back to examine the tree. The lights made it better, but it was missing something.

He reached back into memory.

. . . Yes, that was right.

He headed out the door, back toward the shopping district of Meltokio.

* * *

As Yuan walked through the gently falling snow, he noticed many of the shopkeepers had Mithmas trees in their front windows. He also noted was many of the trees were in a stand of sorts, the better to display the trees. Perhaps a break with tradition would not be so bad.

It would be the only one of which he would approve. Each tree in the window seemed to be gaudier than the last, full of bright, flashy ornaments.

He frowned as he walked. Humans forgot so easily. Then again, it was partially because Cruxis hadn’t let them remember.

After a while, he found a likely-looking store and walked in. A bell rang over his head as he entered, bringing a shopkeeper to the front.

“How can I help you, sir?” she asked, sounding not at all harassed.

The woman must be a saint, he thought cynically. Aloud, he said, “I want to see your Mithmas ornaments.” He hated even saying it.

“Of course, sir. They’re on display over there.” She pointed to a bold and glittery display.

Yuan’s eyebrows snapped together in a frown. “Don’t you have anything that doesn’t sparkle?”

“But, sir—” She broke off as he turned his frown in her direction. “Well, yes, we do have a few things out back. . . .”

“Let’s see them.” He added, “And stop calling me ‘sir.’”

She wasn’t under his command. She hadn’t earned it.

The woman’s mouth compressed. Without a word, she turned and walked past the curtain behind the counter, into the storeroom. She returned a few moments later with a shallow box of ornaments, which she dropped onto the counter with a thump.

Hm, not so much a saint, after all, he thought in sardonic amusement before turning his attention to the items contained within the box.

Strings of berries. Pine cones. Yes, that was right. That was what they had used.

He looked up from the box. “How much?”

“Fifty gald, though I don’t know why you’d rather that old—”

He interrupted her again. “And how much for a stand that won’t blind me?”

She went back into the storeroom and retrieved a metal stand, painted a dull red. She plunked it on the counter. “Two hundred gald.”

Yuan reached into his pocket and fished out the right amount from what was left of the grocery money. He dropped it on the counter, scooped up the stand, and left before the woman could wish him a “Merry Mithmas” —although he had a feeling she wouldn’t have done so even had she time. A wry smile graced his lips as he returned home.

* * *

The tree was in its stand and Yuan was sorting out the strings of berries when he heard the front door close and felt the mana signature of his lover enter in the house. He didn’t bother to call out a greeting, waiting instead for Botta to come to him.

He heard Botta’s footsteps enter the room and then stop. There was silence for a long time before Botta finally walked over and sat on the floor next to him.

“Yuan,” Botta asked, “what are you doing?”

Yuan didn’t answer for a few moments. He kept untangling the string.

When he did speak, he kept his eyes on his working hands. “It’s not a Mithmas tree. It’s a Highwinter tree. You wouldn’t have heard that name for it. Probably they still only use it in Heimdall. I took the idea from there when we were forming the Church of Martel. I thought then that people would be more inclined to adopt a new meaning for a holiday if it used traditions they already had. I was right.”

He felt a strong arm settle around his shoulders. He set a string aside and began working on another.

“It was originally a holiday for the elves, though half-elves and even some humans used to participate in it. Every winter, they cut down a tree and brought it home, supposedly to give the tree spirits someplace warm to live for the winter. They decorated it with ornaments, strings of berries, pine cones, whatever they could find, and put lit candles on it to drive away the dark of the winter. In the spring, they went back and planted a new tree, a new home to replace the one they had taken from the tree spirits.”

Another string was laid aside. “My first year away from home as a mercenary, during Highwinter, Kratos and I were in a town in this area. I can’t remember the name of it anymore—it’s been gone for centuries.

“Kratos didn’t celebrate Highwinter. His family were fishers. They worshiped ocean gods. He remembered anyway. One day, he bought a hatchet and went out into the forest nearby. I’ve no idea how he managed it, but he dragged a tree all the way back to the dive of a hotel we were staying at. He set it up in our room and, like an idiot, he went and used up his money for the day’s food to buy berries and string. Then he decorated it. When I came back to the hotel that evening, there it was, leaning in a corner.”

He leaned back against Botta. “You won’t believe me, but Kratos was a cute brat. Sickeningly sweet. I can just barely remember the look on his face when I first saw the tree. It was painful with hope. I can remember, too, that when I looked at that Highwinter tree, I was half in love with him. How could you not love someone, a mercenary, as hopelessly naïve as that?”

His gaze flickered to the ceiling. “He’s probably dead now. After getting rid of all those Exspheres. As stupidly, stubbornly proud as he was, even he wouldn’t condemn himself to an eternity of drifting through space alone.”

“Do you miss him?” Botta murmured.

He turned to look at his lover for the first time. “I miss who he was.”

He got to his feet and picked up a string of berries. Silently, Botta did the same.

They finished decorating the Highwinter tree.