#midwinter carol

[littlejuicebox]

Midwinter Carol 10 / The Trunk

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Female Elf Sorceress OC

Word Count: 3.3K

Story navigation: [1][2][3][4] [5] [6] [7] / Click here to read on AO3.

Summary/Setting: 

Fifteen years after the Ascendant and his lover went their separate ways, they run into one another at Wyll Ravengard’s Midwinter Gala. One dance is all they share. A week later, a cataclysm of events, spurned by Eirianwen’s return, uproots the life Astarion had been building for himself.

One thing is made certain: the elven sorceress is the key to any ounce of salvation he may have left, if only she stops slipping through his fingers like sand from an hourglass.

But old habits die hard, and old feelings are pulled to the surface for both the elves. Astarion is forced to confront the wounds of his past and deal with the damage he's done while trying to run from himself. The Ascendant is forced to decide whether he will continue on his current path or forge a new one... perhaps one that leads him back to the love of his life.

Warnings: This will be 18+ / in game spoilers / Eventual Smut / Angst, trauma, fluff / Gore / Violence / PTSD / Astarion’s past trauma

-----

“Wait, Ani,” Astarion warns when the sorceress releases his hand, her fingers ghosting across his as she walks away. She instantly starts to wander when the servants swarm them at the dungeon doors. The entire situation had caused quite a ruckus, and Astarion is caught between quelling his employees' concerns and providing them various instructions. He’s simultaneously signing something to Melga and Thrak as he tells another servant to send the maids upstairs. 

In moments like this, Astarion is reminded that he is constantly surrounded by people and yet always alone. It’s his fault, he knows; he prefers to place himself above others, an easy way to ensure he will be able to look down his nose at them. He holds everyone far beneath him, apart from the one woman he keeps on a pedestal, built up in his mind like a goddess he worships and a religion only he follows. 

Eirianwen glances back at Astarion, where she is paused on the stairwell leading to the second floor, and he lifts his gaze to her, quickly pointing to the ring on his finger before turning to answer another question from his steward, Pascal. The cacophony of voices and questions around him, all needing guidance, is unnerving. Ani recognizes the man Astarion is talking to, but is shocked to see how much he’s aged in fifteen years. He’s almost completely gray. Time is quite different for humans; she often forgets the luxury she has as an elf. 

It gives her more time to hold grudges and run from mistakes. 

She spots the ring on Astarion’s hand and then peers at her own hand resting upon the shiny oak banister, frowning down at the marred flesh. Despite his previous motion, the sorceress is still somehow shocked to see the matching band on her own finger. Her brow furrows as she continues to walk up the steps. 

What had she missed? How long had she been asleep? 

Questions dart through her mind faster than she can climb the grand staircase toward the room she used to share with Astarion. She’s still walking up the steps in a dazed, daydreaming state. Ani’s almost to the second floor when a sudden bolt of pain shoots through her body, culminating in the overwhelming need to vomit. But no, she couldn’t possibly do such a thing, she hasn’t eaten in— 

Eirianwen retches. Hot, acrid bile spills onto the perfectly polished marble of the second floor. She’s doubled over and gasping for air when another violent spasm attacks her body and more green fluid spews from her mouth. She suddenly feels feverish as a throbbing pain pulses in her hand, igniting the entire limb in fire. Two servants rush to clean up the mess as a familiar arm comes around her shoulder. 

“I don’t think you should be standing quite yet, darling,” Astarion murmurs, and without another word he sweeps Eirianwen off her feet and into his arms. He walks to the bedroom with Ani pressed into his chest; she just barely hears the rapid cadence of his heart.

He carefully places her on the chaise lounge in the bedchambers; it’s a piece of furniture she’d picked out, incidentally. They’d made love many times, in many positions, on this same chaise. He’d carried her here, wrapped around him, more times than he can remember. Recollections flash through his mind in rapid fire and he swallows as he blinks them away. 

He leaves her there to speak to the servants on the landing and then quickly returns. Eirianwen feels awful. The taste of bile still sits in her mouth. When Astarion returns he breezes to the carafe next to the bed, on top of one of the side tables, and silently fills a cup with water. Then he hands it to Ani. 

She drinks in silence. Gods, she’s parched. Holding the glass is difficult, never mind the weakness she feels in her hand. Her body is shaking. 

“Who… who was that down in the dungeons, Astarion?” Eirianwen finally asks, her voice sounding hoarse, as she lowers the empty glass from her lips. 

“Delilah. She stole the God Killer,” he replies as he gently takes the glass from the woman and places it on the side table. His brows stitch together as he watches Eirianwen. He’s never actually interacted with someone after Delilah’s poison has done its damage. 

Ani’s eyes clamp shut. Her head is pounding. She’s trying to follow along, but it’s hard to think past the pain in her body. Another wave of nausea flows through her and she retches; no sooner had she made the sound than Astarion appeared at her side with a waste bin. But nothing comes, there’s nothing left to regurgitate. 

“The dagger Edmund used was laced with a very potent poison. You slept through the worst of it but the effects will probably be there for a day or two longer. The rings are… working. But Delilah’s draughts are stronger than anything you’ve seen before, I’m sure. You were out for a few days, darling. Your hand…”

He trails off as his jaw clenches. He shakes his head and gently gathers Ani’s hair into a braid, to keep it out of the way should she vomit. Deft fingers perform the action without much of a thought, as if it hadn’t been fifteen years since he last styled Ani’s hair for her. “Jaheira is looking into it. She mentioned conferring with Halsin.”

He senses Eirianwen’s heartbeat spike up a fraction at the mention of Halsin, and feels that sickening twist of jealousy rise in his gut— perhaps being stabbed by the God Killer had been a moderately better feeling than that sensation— but quickly stifles it. “Now… we can talk more. But let us get cleaned up and then eat something. It’s quite a bit to discuss. Would you like to bathe first, or should I, darling?”

*

Astarion bathes first as Ani waits in the bedchamber. A set of servants bring her a tray of fruit to snack on while she waits, and the sustenance improves her physical state, if only a bit. Her spotted serval cat, perched upon the chaise, meows away. She listens to Umber’s ramblings and scratches distractedly at the large feline’s fur, occasionally murmuring a response or two. 

When he exits the bathroom, wrapped in a plush crimson robe and toweling his hair, Astarion meets the sorceress’s gaze and notices she appears to be staring through him, lost in her own thoughts. He cocks his head to the side just slightly, brow furrowing in concern, before he asks, “Are you doing alright, Ani?”

She blinks and then snaps back into the room, her blackened hand flexing against the feline flicking its tail next to her. 

“Umber says you let her sleep with you in the guest room, and that you’ve been taking care of her while I’ve been asleep. She likes the steak and lamb she’s been eating here far better than the birds and mice she eats on the road… you’re spoiling her, Astarion,” Eirianwen says with a weak smile, glancing to the side before stroking the cat’s ear. Umber purrs and then focuses her jade eyes on Astarion.

He drops the used towel in a basket at the end of the bed as he moves toward the cat and strokes a single curled finger up under her chin. The creature moves to playfully nip at his digit, affectionately holding it between four sharp canines with no intent to cause harm. This must be how Eirianwen often felt, all those years ago, with a part of her body seemingly always caught between his fangs. Doting on a dangerous creature. 

“I think she would’ve preferred to sleep next to you, but Jaheira suggested it would be better to not. She’s smaller and far cleaner than Scratch— it was less of an inconvenience.”

He won’t tell Ani he actually enjoyed the company. It sounds too pitiful. 

Umber releases his hand and then hops from Eirianwen’s side with a flick of her tail. She ducks and hides under the bed before emitting a meow; Ani’s brow furrows almost imperceptibly before it smooths again. After a moment, she moves to stand. Her eyes lift to examine Astarion in the process.

“Your ear is still split,” she murmurs. Eirianwen had never seen a laceration last this long on Astarion; his vampiric regeneration had always kicked in by now. Though she knew the God Killer’s capabilities, it was still unsettling to see. 

Astarion begins to lift his hand to his ear, but before he makes contact, Eirianwen has her fingers pressed to his flesh. A cooling sensation spreads from lobe to tip as a spell mends the slice along his pinna. And then, almost by force of habit, Ani idly traces her finger down the edge of his ear as she pulls away. 

The fleeting sensation causes Astarion to stiffen as his body flares with an unexpected wave of powerful, raw, aching desire. His heart jumps. His cock does, too.

*

“Mm.. do that again, darling,” Astarion purrs from where his head is resting on Ani’s lap.

Eirianwen fills the tent with a soft, melodic tinkle of laughter as she gently tugs on Astarion’s ear once more, coaxing a little moan from his lips, “Oh, you like that, do you?” 

“You know I do, darling,” he responds while he palms at the bulge forming between his legs as his lover continues to methodically massage his earlobes. Astarion groans and rocks his hips forward as a small, relaxed smile spreads across his face, “and that’s why you always pretend to do it by accident when we’re in the tent.” 

He was putty in her palms, easily molded by her will alone. 

*

Eirianwen seems distracted as she pulls away from him; she hadn’t even realized what she’d just done. Astarion thinks it’s simply a small, habitual sliver of comfort she’d so routinely offered once upon a time, but it causes his breath to catch and all the same. The hope he's kept locked in his heart threatens to break from its cage. His ear feels as if it’s on fire, but when Astarion reaches up to inspect it, he finds a perfectly healed pinna.

He clears his throat and then opens his wardrobe, aiming to pull out a set of clothes for himself as he says, “I’ll speak to the servants about preparing lunch while you bathe; I’ll be in the office when you’re done. You’re welcome to borrow something of mine for today, though I know it won’t fit correctly. I’ve sent for your things from Wyll’s— I apologize, I should have sent for everything sooner.” 

“Oh… it’s not a problem, Astarion,” Eirianwen responds, still lost in a fog as she walks toward the bathroom. Umber meows from under the bed once more. “Thank you.” 

*

After calling down to the kitchen about lunch, and to secure a meal of short ribs for Umber, Astarion returns to his office. The pungent smell of lye assaults his senses and he quickly moves to toss open a window. The room appeared normal, apart from the gauzy white curtains flecked with blood. No one would think a murder occurred just an hour ago. 

Astarion vaguely thinks the curtains will have to be replaced tomorrow just before his eyes settle on the mountain of paperwork precariously stacked upon his desk, all requiring his attention. 

Business never quit. 

He grimaces and grabs half of the hefty stack, trying to move the scrolls into a desk drawer. Surely much of it can wait; had it been truly pressing, his steward would be breathing down his neck this instant. As Astarion relocates most of the documents, the small piece of parchment Pascal delivered – gods, had it been less than 24 hours ago? –  sealed with red wax and an unfamiliar sigil, flutters to the floor, catching Astarion’s attention. He’d forgotten all about it. 

Long, lithe fingers retrieve the letter and deftly undo the wax fastening. Scarlet eyes run across the page and instantly narrow at the simple, foreboding message. 

“You will find me in Elturel when you are desperate enough. 

– Lady Lysandra Morgan”

Astarion re-reads the message. His fingers tremble as they fold the paper and shove it into his pocket. Desperate. He wasn’t desperate for anything, not even for the return of the God Killer. He had no true use for the dagger, nor any plans to use it; he’d certainly slain enough gods for an eternity by now. 

But then a sudden shock of acid through his veins, beginning at the ring and shooting up his arm, pulls his mind to Eirianwen. He hears her stifle a whimper of pain through the walls. A sickening feeling begins to grow in his chest.

He fears he may already know where this path leads. He may have unknowingly carved the way for the both of them. 

*

Astarion is scribbling his showy, looped signature on yet another scroll when Eirianwen enters the office. He turns his head to greet her, but the moment he does, his breath is stolen away and his mouth suddenly feels as if he hasn’t drunk anything in centuries. 

He’s certainly used to thirst, but perhaps not like this. He’s sitting mere feet away from an oasis, longing to delve into her depths.

She’s dressed in his old camp shirt. He must have a strange look on his face, because Ani halts, frozen in place. 

“I— I hope it was okay to borrow this,” Eirianwen says, looking down as she tugs at the bottom hem of the clothing piece, where it grazes just above her mid thigh. 

It’s clear she isn’t wearing a brassiere. The threadbare cotton grazes against the peaks of her breasts, and the darkened patches of skin around her nipples are barely visible through the white fabric. The winter air from the still-open window has chilled the room significantly; the tiny buds hidden beneath the blouse are stiffening in response. His eyes flit across her chest and then back up to her face before she notices.

Is Ani even wearing briefs or is she entirely barren under the— 

Astarion coughs and rips himself from his musings as he forces himself to tear his gaze away. He finishes signing the scroll in front of him and grabs another as he murmurs, “Yes, that's perfectly fine, darling. Though, I wonder… where on earth did you find that?” 

“In the very bottom drawer of your wardrobe…” Ani starts, her voice containing a strange tinge of something he cannot identify, as she settles herself on the tufted leather sofa across the office. She focuses on her blackened hand, bringing the other hand to rub against the marred flesh. “I looked in the other wardrobe drawers but nothing else seemed… comfortable.” 

Astarion hums a distracted response, continuing to place his signature on documents to avoid staring at the woman mere feet from him. There is a silence that stretches a moment too long.

“I found all the jewelry,” Eirianwen blurts, and then her hands come to cover her mouth as if she’s shocked by her own admission. 

Astarion does not need to ask for clarification. She is, of course, referring to the several anonymous commissions he’d made over the years from her parents in Silverymoon. A trunk full of never worn, customized pieces had been locked and tucked away under his bed, until now, when Eirianwen presumably ripped it from its hiding place. The contents alone must be worth close to half a million gold. He’d spent nearly the entire first year’s worth of blood money on unneeded jewelry, designed for someone that would not be around to wear it. Astarion often wondered if her parents thought about their daughter when they, unknowingly, made each piece for her, much like he thought of their daughter when he designed it. 

His fingers twitch just enough to cause a wavering loop in the signature he’s scrawling. His jaw starts to clench as he stares at the parchment before him a second longer before rolling it back up and moving to yet another scroll. “What possessed you to look under my bed?” 

“Umber,” Eirianwen explains hastily, “she… she said it smelt like my parents under your bed. And, of course, I really had no idea what on earth she meant but she was insistent and— and—“ 

Ani stops, her eyes shutting and fingers coming to press into the lids as she tries to form a question from scattered thoughts. Astarion chews his own cheek as he considers how to answer the question she isn’t able to ask, and then he lifts his eyes to look at Eirianwen as he taps the quill upon the desk once, twice, thrice. She opens her eyes to meet his gaze, and he offers a simple half-shrug… his face is unreadable.

“After I performed the Rite and you almost died in the dungeons, I promised I would always take care of you, Ani… did I not? I am not one to make a promise lightly; you, better than anyone, know that.”

A gust of air blows through the open office window and grazes against the bloodied curtains, causing them to drift from the windowpane as the two elves stare at each other. Eirianwen sucks her lower lip between her teeth but says nothing. 

“I…” Astarion sighs and shoots his eyes up to the ceiling as his fingers twist the snowflake signet pinky ring, the only commissioned piece he actually wears, “I… hope the money was… helpful in your travels. I know you had expressed wanting to travel together after— but…”

He trails off, forcing his eyes from the ceiling and back to meet Eirianwen’s gaze. He cannot actually meet her eyes, so he focuses on his favorite vitiligo patch instead. He is horrible at this. This should not be as hard as it is. 

Ani nods and then opens her mouth to respond, but she is interrupted by Pascal breezing into the doorframe with a thick ledger in one hand. He doesn’t peer up from the document as he says, “Lord Ancunin, lunch will be served in the solarium in ten minutes as you requested. Thrak and Melga are currently burning the spawn’s corpse—“

“Thank you, Pascal,” Astarion interrupts, his tone tight with irritation. The steward glaces up, confused about why he is the recipient of his boss’s ire. But his eyes widen in realization when he spots Eirianwen in the room. He snaps the ledger shut. 

“Apologies,” he murmurs, and after an awkward pause, inhales a sharp breath before saying, “Lord Ancunin, when you have a moment, I’ll need to go over the ledger with you. I have some… concerns.”

Pascal makes to leave the door frame, and at the last moment pauses and turns to address the sorceress, “Good to see you awake, Lady Eirianwen.” 

“Spawn corpse?” Eirianwen asks, whatever warmth had grown in her chest toward Astarion instantly freezing over as Pascal disappears from the doorframe, calling after one of the servants as he goes. 

Astarion rakes his hand through his hair and nods with a grimace. He cannot ever outrun the mistakes of his past when the woman before him remembers every single one. He is thankful that she is not running away, at least. “Yes, but– darling, like I said, we have a lot to talk about. Lunch first. You haven’t eaten in days, and we cannot have this discussion until you eat. Please, Ani.”

He only ever says please when he's desperate; he's delaying the inevitable, he knows. But can he not pretend for a moment longer, before fifteen years of hurt cuts him to the bone? He’d already survived death from some version of Eirianwen today, he isn’t certain he can survive a condemnation for his mistakes from this version, too.

But, he supposes, he has no choice. When it comes to her, it unfortunately seems as if he never does have a true choice, at least not if he wants to keep her within his orbit. He has always been putty in her palms, easily molded by her will alone.

----

Tags: @anukulee @viowolf

[littlejuicebox]

SCREAMING. 😭 IT IS! UGH MY HEART.

Side note and a little update from my MWC peeps: the next chapter is almost all the way written. ♥️

The thought that after Astarion ascends he’s still… in there, somewhere, screaming? That keeps me up at night

[karniss-bg3]

A BG3 Christmas Carol

🎶On the twelfth day of Christmas my True Soul gave to me:

Twelve Karlachs Swinging

Eleven Shovels Swearing

Ten Tadpoles Squirming

Nine Volos Screaming

Eight Scratchs Fetching

Seven Gales a’casting

Six Wylls a'dancing

Five Owlbear Cuuuubs

Four Vamp Bites

Three Netherstones

Two Bhaal Spawns

And a Kar’niss preaching at meeeee! 🎶

[home-ward]

December // Christmas

[iamamythologicalcreature]

"On every world, wherever people are, in the deepest part of the winter, at the exact mid-point, everybody stops and turns and hugs. As if to say, "Well done. Well done, everyone! We're halfway out of the dark."

And so I say to all of you, no matter what your holiday of choice is: Congrats. We've made it this far. We're halfway out of the dark.

[littlejuicebox]

Tagging @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate, @icybluepenguin, @elora-the-slutty-songstress

Little blurb/flashback I’m working on for the next chapter of my AA potential redemption arc fic Midwinter Carol.

"Do you still hold love in your heart for Astarion, even now?" Halsin asks with idle curiosity as he pulls at weeds in his garden, readying the fertile loam for summer crops.

His eyes flash up to Eirianwen, where her hands are busily buried in the plant bed across from him, placing seeds in the patches of soil he'd already cleared the day prior.

The sorceress doesn't lift her head from her task as she nods and responds, tone somewhat dejected and laced with the melancholic air she always uses when discussing her former silver-haired lover, "Yes… I think I always will."

WIP (Almost) Wednesday

Tagged by @razrogue - thanks!

Tagging @tallymonster @leomonae @snowfolly @littlejuicebox @bunnidarling

NSFW - Dubcon below the cut, little loves

“Sera,” his voice was singsong, playful in a way she knew was dangerous. “Wake up, little love.” He called, from where he lay, on his side, behind her.  Sleep was starting to release its grip on her when she felt the press of him at her entrance from behind. Then he was plunging in, her struggling to accommodate him. A sound between a moan and a yelp escaped her, and a hand tangled in her hair, yanking until her eyes opened wide.  “Wake up, Serafina,” he hissed, thrusting his hips, the pain of it lessened by her mercifully growing wetness.  Arching her spine, she positioned herself to give him the best angle to fill her with.

[manicpixiedreamcurl]

Every so often I randomly feel the need to watch the Bleak Midwinter scene from the Ghosts Christmas special just to make myself have a little cathartic cry. Like the fact that Allison hasn't really had a big family Christmas before, and she has this gentle want to sing with her new (living) family. Then the disaster of the day and Mike being upset and it all just becoming clear that it isn't going to happen. BUT THEN!!! That she just sort of knows, actually, that the ghosts will do that with her. The look she does with her eyes closed of just!!! Happiness!!! as they all appear around her and start singing with her!!! Fanny watching the tree get decorated, the HARMONIES of the plague ghosts!!! The fact that every one of the ghosts is just earnestly singing with her I'm emotional it's the found family of it all!!! I love this show I'm not ready for it to end.

[lowlandsofthemind]

Christmas // Halfway Out of the Dark

[katriniac]

Merry Christmas 💝

This post is about one of my favorite Christmas carols and poems, written by the amazing Christina Rossetti -

In The Bleak Midwinter

Here is a version sung by Julie Andrews recorded in 1973:

The full poem:

(In the public domain)

In the bleak mid-winter

Frosty wind made moan

Earth stood hard as iron,

Water like a stone;

Snow had fallen, snow on snow,

Snow on snow,

In the bleak mid-winter

Long ago.

Our God, heaven cannot hold Him

Nor earth sustain,

Heaven and earth shall flee away

When He comes to reign:

In the bleak mid-winter

A stable-place sufficed

The Lord God Almighty —

Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim

Worship night and day,

A breastful of milk

And a mangerful of hay;

Enough for Him, whom Angels

Fall down before,

The ox and ass and camel

Which adore.

Angels and Archangels

May have gathered there,

Cherubim and seraphim

Thronged the air;

But only His Mother

In her maiden bliss

Worshipped the Beloved

With a kiss.

What can I give Him,

Poor as I am? —

If I were a Shepherd

I would bring a lamb;

If I were a Wise Man

I would do my part, —

Yet what I can I give Him, —

Give my heart.

Oof. That last line, regardless of the musician who sings it, always makes my throat catch. 💓🥹

The poem was originallly published under the title "A Christmas Carol" in January 1872 in a magazine, but wasn't printed in book-form until 1875 along with Rossetti's best-known poem, Goblin Market.

In 1906, the composer Gustav Holst composed a setting of Rossetti's words (titled "Cranham") in The English Hymnal, which is the most commonly sung version of the song.

I admire her poetry a great deal. The Romantic period gave us many remarkable female authors and poets (my favorite being Jane Austen), however Rossetti was right at the tail-end of that era. The years her works were published straddle the dreamy idealistic Romantic period and the grainy gritty Realism movement. Her styles and themes follow this growth of artistic feeling as she continued to write.

Christina Rossetti (5 December 1830 – 29 December 1894) was born in London to Italian parents, was home-schooled by her mother, and grew up among artists, writers, and poets. I can't help but imagine that living among creative family of political exiles, often hosting a bohemian assortment of traveling artists from across Europe, would be anything but boring.

The amount of genius under that one roof!

Anyways, happy holidays to all, even though this current midwinter is anything but bleak and we have no snow.

Yesterday, we hit the record for the warmest Christmas Eve in Minnesota: 55 degrees. Not a single flake on the ground. But there's been plenty of rain! So weird.

[thosekillerheels]

Happy (belated/yesterday) Birthday to this beautiful record. When she was released, my dream expectation was that the songs would make me feel the same way all the Christmas music of my childhood makes me feel-deeply nostalgic, contemplative, overwhelmed by the magic, beauty, and love of family traditions that makes my heart grow three sizes. To my admitted surprise, Tori nailed it!! From the harpsichord lullaby of Nowell, to the reimagined fire of Star Of Wonder, the sentimental love letter of A Silent Night With You, the Medieval memoriam of Candle/Coventry Carol, the moonlit snow dream of Snow Angel, the verdant, bounding lift of Holly, Ivy, and Rose, the austere hymn of Emmanuel, the NYC boozy swing of Pink and Glitter, the mystical dark forest fairytale of Winter’s Carol, the smiling through the pain orchestral grandeur of Our New Year, the historical fiction Sonic photograph of Comfort & Joy, the lilting cradle song of Silent Night, and the midnight trek of Good King Wenceslas-it’s all festive the Tori way-from a historical storytelling point of view. It’s perfect (I don’t like Jeanette, Isabella much at all, but I love everything else. She’s everything I need in a Christmas album! Yay Midwinter Graces!! 13?!!

[marchsfreakshow]

New Yule/dark Christmas theme for the festive month! 💜

Hope you guys like it <3

[bahoreal]

i saw a christmas carol (with chris eccleston!!!!) yesterday and they sang part of in the bleak midwinter and it punched me Directly in the emotions i Love that song and now its ghosts and a christmas carol that used it???? in the bleak midwinter appreciation! we love to see it

(also would strongly reccomend seeing a christmas carol if you can! chris is brilliant and the stage design and ambiance is inspired)

[thedaveandkimmershow]

I won't lie. I'm pretty sure I equate watching Christmas movies and TV shows with actually doing something at Christmastime. For sure the experience conjures that Christmastime vibe for me.

This year, for whatever reason, Christmas movies and TV shows didn't make it into our Christmastime experience.

Full disclosure: we've been watching Big Bang Theory and The Diplomat. Don't know what to tell you. Our brains are just in that gear this season.

So.

What have we done???

Well, we managed our enduring tradition of mailing our friends and family this years' Collision-Ris Christmas cards along with the 411 on our year. The lovely thing about this tradition is that, for the time that I'm actually writing inside the Christmas card to a specific family, a specific friend, I'm actively thinking about them, about their year, and about our wishes for them in the New Year.

Kimmer's already got a bunch of Christmas baked goodies cooked. Therfore I've already got a bunch of Christmas baked goodies tasting done.

HUZZAH!

Interestingly, this season we picked up the morning habit of setting in motion a YouTube video of a Christmas village with sweet Christmas carols played on piano to soundtrack the beginning of our days. We both decided this year that "In The Bleak Midwinter" is one of our favorite Christmas carols now because of the BBC series "Ghosts". Without that framing, though, we'd never think a song with "bleak" in the title could possibly be a Christmas carol.

I don't know where Kimmer 'n Linzy are with their Christmas shopping... but I'm done as of today. Managed that over the last two-and-a-half weeks, accomplished through a combination of in-store and on-line shopping that did not make me crazy. (More on the specifics after Christmas 😉)

Blogging this month turned into a protracted meditation on Hope and what it means and takes to successfully and sustainably help people in need. Even all the different things "in need" can mean.

Charles Dickens and his book "A Christmas Carol" are on my mind every day as I pick through certain pages of that book for deeper dives.

During our days at home, I've got a coupla soundtracks going: a classic rock Christmas YouTube playlist and a playlist that contains only covers of "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" that range from voice and acoustic guitar to full choir and orchestra.

As soon as lights and decorations went up outdoors and in stores this year, I started documenting them in photographs at thrift stores, neighborhoods, and downtowns.

We haven't listened to specific advent podcasts but our morning routine does include podcasts about faith and the implications of faith in the world.

I think our Christmas tree's been up for a weeks. Which is different 'cause we had our original, immortal tree that we bought from Target when Linzy was three... we had that tree up for twenty-two years, only taking it down (along with the tree in our apartment) when we moved back into the house earlier this year.

So yeah. For the first time in twenty-two years we actually had no Christmas tree in our house, lighted or decorated.

That first tree wound up with our friends at the local Value Village, hopefully for the beginning of some other family's Christmas traditions. We're using, instead, the tree from our apartment that's narrower and fits the space better.

And yeah.

We already know it's staying up.

No question about that. It looks perfect right where it is.

It makes our living room work.

So far, the new tree has a string of multicolored lights running up the trunk with at least two strings of white lights circling the tips of the branches, a compromise Kimmer 'n I settled on probably the first year of our marriage as her family was a white Christmas tree lights family and my family was a multicolored Christmas tree lights family. Not exactly the Hatfields and McCoys...

But still a thing to navigate.

Which we continue to do.

As for Christmas tree ornaments?

Yeah. Right now we're starting from scratch with at least three crates of ornaments representing different phases of our family Christmas tree aesthetic.

So.

Do we choose one of those?

Do we conjure something new?

Or do we fashion something in-between.

Three sleeps to go until Christmas Day... we're gonna figure that out right soon.

This recent Saturday, we set up lights around our living room window and around the French doors of our dining room french doors. Also put one set of mesh lights on the bush next to our front door and quickly realized that one is not enough. Too narrow. So it's supplemented with a random string of lights that, just as randomly, works.

Hand to God. I threw it on there... and the whole thing looks of a piece.

Sunday we strung icicle lights along the gutter from above our front door to the edge of the front face of our garage. Which means we no longer look like we're the only ones in the neighborhood NOT celebrating Christmastime.

One December tradition I don't always manage but sometimes I do... I managed this year a visit to the gravesite of my old neighborhood bible school teacher for whom I had not an ounce of respect when I was an A.D.D. grade school kid and for whom I developed a ton of respect as I, you know, grew up. She used to visit my parent's home this time of year to drop off a card and a gift for my birthday and Christmas... and then later when she couldn't get around so well I would walk the couple blocks to her home instead this time of year.

It's a habit, a tradition, that continues to this day (as I can), with flowers and a card at her gravesite.

So yeah. It's been Christmastime for us in a bunch of different ways that suit the season.

With three sleeps until Christmas, one sleep until my birthday, and New Year's just around the corner, the Christmastime vibe is gonna shoot up even more as we head into downtown Seattle tomorrow to do a bit of our own Christmas adventuring and photography which is a thing we used to do a ton with 35mm SLR cameras slung around our necks when we first started dating. Then it's Christmas Eve day and then literally Christmas Eve and then finally Christmas itself... all three days for which we already have plans across 'em. With peace, rest, and relaxation baked into those plans.

So with any luck...

It should be a lovely next few days.

Merry Christmas!

☺️

[mysticalblizzardcolor]

Listen/purchase: The Holly And The Ivy by Jenna Nash

[gaudete-christmas]

It's very annoying trying to find metal Christmas songs that are actually Christmas songs. Reindeer this, Santa that, 400 versions of Carol of the Bells. Say the Name of Christ, I dare you.