Mirk had been hoping Christmas Eve Mass would bolster his spirits. It hadn't quite done the trick.

The small church tucked away at the very edge of the mage quarter, warded thickly with distraction spells to divert attention away from it, had a different feel to it than those at home. Both the soaring, echoing cathedrals he and his mother would visit on seasonal pilgrimages and the tiny family chapels where their daily prayers were recited had a certain emotional resonance to them. A glow that tempered the low, grumbling voices of their stones with a lighter, airy sound that Mirk couldn't ever find the exact source of. The remnants of thousands upon thousands of earnest prayers, his father had told him, on one of the rare occasions that he chose to accompany them plainly, cramming himself into a pew not built to accommodate a man of his stature. Or someone with wings.

Usually he haunted the rafters, as he had since he'd first ventured out of Heaven. Not participating, but observing, basking in the unconscious magic performed by the believers. A prayer was such a small spell, especially when performed by a mortal, that its power couldn't be felt by even the most sensitive mind-mage. But centuries of them, cried out in alarm or whispered with the utmost devotion, added up.

That same power lingered around all places humans considered holy, his father had explained. Though he'd made it a point to never comment on whether they attracted the attention of a benevolent Savior as well as that of angels seeking refuge from the elemental chaos and chill of Earth. Mirk suspected that was a conversation his mother had told his father not to have with Mirk until he'd finished his time at the abbey. But he had never taken his vows. And he never would.

The family that surrounded Mirk at Mass that night had been missing its most important members. Instead, he'd taken the place of the family patriarch at the end of the pew, beside his uncle, who'd seemed ill-at-ease with the whole affair. Mirk thought that Henri must have decided to accept his invitation mostly out of sympathy for him instead of out of a real desire to celebrate Mass, the children coming along too simply because Henri had told them to. Henri had never been a fervent believer, nor had his wife, Isabelle. Mirk's mother had been the only one among Jean-Luc's children who'd truly inherited their mother's faith. His grandmother Enora had passed long before Mirk was born, but both Jean-Luc and Mirk’s aunts had always spoken of her fondly, albeit with a strange note of almost fearful respect. Mirk's mother had inherited Enora’s faith and her determination, but none of her sternness, his grandfather had always said.

Apparently, the inheritance decreased a measure with each passing generation. All Mirk had to defend himself with was faith. There was no iron in his blood like there was in his mother's and grandmother's. Aside from the sort that was in everyone's, according to the medical grimoires Mirk still tried on occasion to teach himself from.

The words of the Mass had been the same, though the Irish priest's accent gave the Latin an unfamiliar timbre. The gestures, the incense, the song, all of it corresponded with what had been the daily ritual of his life for years. Steady and quiet and sure. But none of the usual certainty that came with listening to Mass made it to Mirk that night. Just the uncomfortable feeling that something was lacking, that he was lacking, the absence of a warm embrace that Mirk had never known he'd been wrapped up in until it was gone. He couldn't be sure whether the absence was his family or God. Or what had caused him to be cast out of that comfort: the sin that had been pressed upon him, that he'd been powerless to fight away, or the one that he willingly let further into his heart with each passing day, in slow inches, in glances held too long and hands clasped too tightly.

Either way, Mirk was certain of one thing, once he parted ways with his uncle and cousins at the infirmary steps: he needed a drink. If the Blood of Christ wouldn't take the memories from him, the Supply Corps' latest batch of homebrew liquor surely would.

Though the Easterners' favorite tavern was packed with infantrymen seated shoulder-to-shoulder alongside working women, huddled bodies massed along the tavern's tables and benches and the bar against its back wall, it was less boisterous than Mirk had been expecting on a holiday. Maybe more of the men had found families than Mirk thought. Brushing the thought aside with a shake of his head, Mirk sidled through the crowd to the bar, taking care to keep his good cloak wrapped tightly around himself to hide the formal and somber gray three-piece suit he'd worn to Mass.

It didn't take him long to spot potential companions for the evening. Mordecai and K'aekniv were at their usual spot at the end of the bar nearest the heat stove. Mordecai was moping over a single half-empty tankard of ale, while K'aekniv pontificated at him on some subject Mordecai didn't seem terribly interested in, gesturing expansively with his quarter-full bottle as he spoke.

Mirk yanked the hood of his cloak back and dragged a stool over from the opposite end of the bar to join them, squeezing himself in between the half-angel and the barely-conscious infantryman slumped over the bar beside him. "Hello Niv, Morty," Mirk said, trying his best to force some cheer into his voice. It'd be easier once he had a drink or two in him. "Happy Christmas! Or is it merry..."

"Mirgosha!" K'aekniv cheered, pivoting on his stool to face him. He nearly knocked Mordecai off his perch with one of his wings in the process. K'aekniv had to have already been drinking for some time. "What do you mean, Christmas? It's not Christmas for weeks yet."

"Euh...no? That would explain why it's not as crowded as I thought it'd be, I suppose..." Mirk caught the bartender's eye, gesturing at K'aekniv's half-empty bottle and flashing the man a three with his fingers. "Do the K'maneda celebrate it on a different day?"

K'aekniv shook his head. "You westerners do it early, like the Poles do. But the last of them went back home three contracts ago. So I didn't remember. Whatever! We'll celebrate two times! Bar boy!" he shouted at the barman, not seeming to notice the three bottles he already had in hand. "Drink for my friends! For Christmas!"

The barman looked to Mirk for guidance, but all he could do was shrug in reply. Assured that someone would be paying eventually, the barman left the bottles on the edge of the bar and hurried off before he could get wrapped up in conversation with any of them. Mordecai perked up at the arrival of fresh drink, leaning across the bar and snatching up a bottle, pulling the cork out with his teeth. "I'll celebrate anything as long as Niv is buying," he said.

"You don't celebrate Christmas?" Mirk asked.

"Jewish," the teleporting mage replied, by way of explanation.

K'aekniv nodded, chugging the remains of his first bottle so he could set in on his second along with the rest of them. "We celebrated ha...he..."

"Hanukkah," Mordecai finished for him, rolling his eyes.

"Yes! That. We did that the week before last. Eight days! You Jews have it good," K'aekniv paused, his second bottle halfway to his lips, considering. "Well, not really. But eight days of parties? It's nice."

"Easy for you to say," Mordecai scoffed, poking K'aekniv in the shoulder with his bottle. "All you had to do was eat all the leftovers I stole. I had to work all day, teleport back home every night, and then get through prayer without passing out. But bubbe only caught me once this year," he said, waving a hand that was bandaged across all four fingers at Mirk. He looked at them with a warm, wistful expression, one that only took on a wincing edge when he tried to clench his fist. "She really is special. Even Danny can't figure out how to heal her bruises."

Mirk was a touch lost on how to reply to this. "Euh...the religion isn't the important part for you, is it?"

Both men shook their heads in unison. "I'd feast for Vesna if someone bought me a drink first," Mordecai said with a laugh.

"...better Vesna than Leto..."

Mirk hadn't noticed Pavel, pressed up against the wall on the far side of Mordecai, gloomily nursing a bottle of his own. Mirk leaned forward and waved to him, hoping a friendly smile might cheer him some, despite knowing full well that next to nothing ever did. His visions had been tending toward the negative as of late, judging by how often Mirk had caught Pavel trying to sneak sleeping draughts out of the supply closet whenever he stopped by the infirmary to have minor cuts and bruises treated. Mirk had told him that all he had to do was ask for them, but Pavel had insisted that stealing them was the price that he needed to pay for indulging his bad habit, for some strange, half-arcane, half-superstitious reason. "Sorry, I didn’t see you, Pavel! Are you well?" Mirk shouted over the din of the tavern.

The Seer shrugged, wearily. "More of the same."

"Who's Vesna?" Mirk asked, turning his attention back to K'aekniv.

"The goddess of springtime," K'aekniv said. "Well, maybe goddess is too big. More like really big spirit. Anyway, she's around then."

Pavel shook his head. "Vesna's a man now. Sort of. And Osen's always been one, more or less." He paused, considering the amount of liquor left in his bottle before taking another long drink and continuing. "Always been an asshole too."

K'aekniv waved him off. "Ah, whatever. His and Iliusha's people knew all of them, the season gods."

"Technically, so did yours," Pavel said, a spark of life coming into him now that he had something to contribute to the conversation. "You got the worse end of it. Zima and Leto are both bastards."

"I know!" K'aekniv groaned, glancing down at the quantity of liquor left in his fresh bottle. He'd already drained a third of it. The next sip he took was deep nevertheless — Mirk could feel the annoyance welling up in K’aekniv at the mere mention of the names of the two seasonal deities he was supposedly aligned with. Mirk wasn't quite certain what Pavel meant by "his people." As far as Mirk knew, K'aekniv had been something of an orphan, raised by a priest and a few aging nuns out in the middle of a forest near some icy, unending sea. And Pavel couldn't possibly be referring to K’aekniv's technical father. Mirk didn't know much about Gaebriel, aside from that he was aligned with Imanael, but he knew well enough what most angels thought about powers that could possibly stand higher than themselves, the Light Eternal excepted. "Zima's a terrible bastard. Leto's worse, but I got to stay on the other side of him."

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"I'm sure he would have found something terrible for someone like you to do," Pavel said, some of his characteristic moroseness returning at the thought of it. "Just having Ilya was enough for him to almost..."

K'aekniv was the one who broke the silence that fell over the three men, as they all pondered the Seer's judgment. He slammed back the rest of his bottle, gesturing to the barman for another. "Fuck them! We're celebrating! If we're going to talk about them, we should at least talk about a fun part. Did I ever tell you about what happened with Zima and Genesis, Mirgosha?"

Mirk shook his head. K'aekniv leaned back on his stool, flaring his wings out for balance as he caught the fresh bottle the barman tossed to him. Which the barman followed by shooting Mirk a pointed look, one that made it clear to him that he'd be the one covering K'aekniv's tab, should the half-angel outdrink the contents of his pockets.

The mingled frustration and annoyance that had passed over K'aekniv's emotions, like a rogue cloud on a sunny afternoon, cleared. Left behind was only warm good-humor that matched his wistful expression, the grin that came onto K'aekniv's face whenever he recounted one of his off-color exploits that was particularly close to his heart. "So! I came here from up north, yes? Far away, in the east. Father Sergei and the sisters gave me all they could to make the going easy, but we were just some poor people in the forest. There wasn't much. I was out of all the nuts and dried elk and fruit by the time winter caught up to me, and I was shit at finding my own things back then. I was fucked.

"I was still in the forest somewhere then. Sister Nadia gave me a map to take with, but what do I know about maps? I was just walking. If I kept walking west, I was sure I'd find something. Anyway, it was cold as shit. And I was starving. So I thought to myself, some sleep helps make hungry better, yes? You forget about it a little. And just when I was thinking this, what did I see? Some big stone table in the middle of a clearing. Which is an unlucky thing, now that I know better, but I was a real idiot back then, not a normal idiot like I am now. And I was tired, so I thought, what could it hurt? There's nothing here. So I laid down on it and wrapped up in all my firs and went to sleep.

"Then, just before dawn, I wake up. I'm all ice. It's so cold breathing hurts. And there's this thing standing over me. I thought I still had to be dreaming, but then he poked me in the face to make sure I was still alive. Holy Mother, was he ugly! A big skeleton man with long black hair full of burrs and black holes for eyes and big bloody teeth. I thought to myself, shit, if this is Koschei, you're finished. Dead. But, no. It was worse. He started talking to me. He said, little angel, you're dying, but I'll spare you and show you back to the road if you make a deal with me. A bad idea, making a deal with someone like him, but what choice did I have? I said, okay, let's hear it.

"He tells me he's Zima, the winter god. He's looking for his granddaughter. See, that's why I thought Vesna was still a woman," K'aekniv said as an aside to Pavel, who had become as transfixed as Mordecai was by K'akneiv's story, despite his better judgment. "He said his granddaughter was from some son he had with Vesna. Anyway, this granddaughter of his, he never learned her real name. He'd never met her. Just that the people called her Snegurochka. The snow maiden, who comes to say goodbye to winter and hello to spring. He wanted to find her and keep her because he was lonely. He had to marry her off to Leto for some bargain they had too, but Zima meant to double-cross him in the end and keep Snegurochka for himself. He told me that he'd heard she was somewhere out west, close enough but too far away for him to go get her himself. I'm going west anyway, so he told me I needed to go find her for him and bring her back. Fine, I could probably find someone like that, and he said I had three years to do it, and three years sounds like forever when you're thirteen. I said yes, it's a deal. So Zima did something to warm me up and he sent me off.

"It took, what, three more months to get here?" K'aekniv looked to Mordecai for a moment, who nodded in confirmation. "It was easy once I found Mordka's village, since he could jump us ahead for miles even when he didn't know where he was going. Anyway, once we all got to the City, there were so many things happening that I forgot all about Zima and his granddaughter.

“But then, one winter, we're all out on the parade grounds doing practice and all these skeleton things come at us out of the snow. Smelled terrible! And had big claws and teeth. And then there was this big fat gray goose once we got rid of them, with a note tied to its neck. It's Zima. He wants his granddaughter. Either I bring her to the forest in a week, or he sends ten times as many skeletons to eat me.

"What was I supposed to do? There’s no Snegurochka in England. Even if she'd gone west, no one comes this far whose magic is part of the forest and the sea and whatever back home. And I don't have time to go back home and really look around for her. So Mordka and I came up with a plan. Genesis, he looks a little like Zima, you know, a skeleton with black hair who has magic that feels like it's going to tear you apart. We can make this work. Zima had never seen his Snegurochka anyway. He couldn't know whether she looked like him or like Vesna. So we went and talked to the girls and borrowed one of the skinniest one’s dresses and that paint they put on their faces and stole something from the kitchen to give him tits and when we're done...eh, Gen almost looks like a woman."

Mirk laughed into his drink, shaking his head. "Methinks it must have been hard to get Gen to agree to that..."

K'aekniv shrugged. "We promised him we'd do some work...anyway, that's not the fun part. So we had Mordka take all five of us back east, to where Pasha said he could feel Zima. But Leto was there too, with all his poludnitsi and big burning men, ready to get married to Zima's granddaughter. Now, we didn't tell Gen about that part, so he was pretty mad at all of us. But it's fine, we tell him we'll just do the wedding and then we'll run away before Leto can do anything.

"But Leto's not an idiot. Zima, he thought to himself, this woman...it could be my granddaughter. I've never seen her. But Leto, he took one look at Gen and said to Zima, since when does your granddaughter have a dick, huh?"

K'aekniv and Mordecai both collapsed into gales of laughter at the memory of it. Even Pavel smiled some, though it seemed like all the talk of Leto and Zima had put him on edge. Their mirth was infectious. Mirk had to put down his bottle so he didn't drop it with all his snickering. "Anyway," K'aekniv continued. "It was shit. We had to fight our way out. But that was the last time I ever saw Zima. And that," he concluded, grinning at Mirk and taking a sip from his bottle with a self-satisfied air, "is why we call Genesis Snegurochka."

"I'd always wondered why you call him that," Mirk said, once he'd caught his breath and composed himself a little.

"Even without the story, it's good. He's a cold bitch, she's the snow maiden...it works."

"That's a little mean, Niv..."

"Ah, he doesn't mind, not really. The bigger the story behind the nickname, the more it means you love them. Anyone could come up with Gena or Gesha, but Snegurochka, it's something special. Close to our hearts."

"Speak for yourself," Pavel said with a snort, though he was still smiling.

"Besides, you know me. I could have come up with something worse. In the K'maneda, you take what you can get."

Mirk sighed, spinning his bottle on the edge of the bar as he thought, appreciating the feel of the other men's nostalgia against his shields — K'aekniv's hot and strong, Mordecai's lighter and energetic, Pavel's still tinged with a hint of sadness. K'aekniv did have a point. Mirk had heard plenty of the nicknames he'd come up with for the officers he truly disliked. Generally, they were vulgar. And they always captured some element of the man in question that he hated about himself, even if he never spoke it aloud. "Do you know where Gen went? He hasn't been back for a few days. Methinks it's a little sad, being all alone on Christmas. Though I suppose he must not celebrate it."

Really, it wasn’t Genesis who’d be sad to be alone on Christmas. He was the one who felt a little disheartened every time that he came back to empty quarters. But Mirk elected not to explain that part. And the three Easterners had enough liquor in them by then not to notice.

Mordecai laughed. "You can't twist his arm into celebrating anything but the Festival of Shades. And even then, all he does is give us some lecture and then goes off to read a book once the real party starts."

"What about his birthday?” Mirk asked. “Though, I suppose that's probably even worse than a holiday that everyone celebrates together..."

The men all shot each other confused looks. "Who knows what day they're born on?" K'aekniv asked him. "You celebrate your saint's day. And he has none."

Mirk hadn't considered that. Everyone he knew from at home knew when they were born; birthdays were always a suitable, lighthearted excuse for a party or a ball without necessarily having to go to devotions beforehand. But he supposed things had to be different for the Easterners, closer to the traditions of the poor in the countryside that he'd served alongside Father Jean. They only celebrated their name days, and only when there wasn't too much other work to be done. "None of you know what day you were born on?" Mirk asked. Most of the peasants around the abbey knew, though that was more Sister Louise's doing than anything else. She had a certain madness for records. And was the best midwife for miles.

Mordecai mulled the question over, drumming his fingers on his bottle. "I was born in summer, I think..."

Pavel shrugged. "Spring."

"Ah, I do know, now that I think about it," K'aekniv said. "Mother Vera counted days back so she could put better curses on me. But I always forget the number...January...twenty-fifth? The twenty-eighth? Whatever, it's not important. But all you rich people know for sure. The officers always want to do something stupid for themselves."

Mirk nodded, unable to keep from feeling a little guilty about having brought the subject up. And about how readily he knew his own number. "February twenty-second."

"But Gen, he needs to know. Because it's important for some big spells...what was it, Pasha? October....no, November..."

"First!" Mordecai blurted out, grinning, since he'd beaten Pavel for once.

"Oh...so we just missed it," Mirk said, mostly to himself. That knowledge only made the guilt worse, though he knew the feeling was misplaced. Genesis, like the others had said, wasn't the sort of man who liked to draw attention to himself, even if it was for a happy occasion. But if Mirk had known it was the commander's birthday, he would have done a small something for him, just to take the edge off the mundane trials of life that came along with being a K'maneda. Perhaps he could have bought him fresh meat from the market, or found extra components for Genesis to make all his cleaning potions and tinctures and soaps with. "I suppose I'll just have to settle for doing something for Christmas then, even if he doesn't celebrate. And since yours isn't for a while yet, I still have time to find something for all of you too."

K'aekniv sighed, the mental warmth of his friendly affection growing as he reached out and put an arm around Mirk's shoulders. "Ah, you're too good for all of us, Mirgosha."

Mirk smiled, leaning against him for a moment, enjoying the feel of the inhuman heat that always radiated off that side of his body coupled with the warmth of his emotions. Even if it did come along with the smell of musty feathers and dried blood. "It's what friends do. And since I have so much...well, it's only fair."

"Oh...everyone's already here..."

K'aekniv ducked one wing, peering over his shoulder at the sound of the quiet voice from behind them. Mirk couldn't have looked even if he wanted to — the weight of K'aekniv's arm made it impossible to move much. "Iliusha! You came!"

The final member of the group had arrived. He shuffled over to Mirk's other side, prodding at the now unconscious infantryman who was snoring away on the stool beside him, collapsed over the bar. When the man didn't so much as twitch, Ilya shrugged and lifted him up under the arms, setting the infantryman down on the floor, propped up against the bar, and took his place. There was an intense smell of sulfur coming from Ilya's clothes, which were singed in places and smeared with different color powders. "I finished the supplies for next week. They can send as many mages as they want...they won't be able to get every shell...the most beautiful ones yet..."

K'aekniv let go of Mirk's shoulders, shoving himself fully upright on his stool and flexing his wings. "Since everyone's here now, why don't we do some music, eh? I'll teach you the Christmas dance," he said to Mirk, nudging him in the side. "So you're ready for when it comes."

Mirk smiled and nodded, motioning for the barman to bring over a bottle for Ilya as well. If things descended into singing and dancing at the tavern, usually that meant the tab was bound to triple. But Mirk didn't mind. And he wasn't about to let K'aekniv foot the bill.

It was a small price to pay to not have to spend the rest of Christmas Eve alone.