polytopia-holidays (January-2026)

The Final Gift to a Comrade. You lie in the snow, out of breath. "It's cold...", you hear, a ghostly whisper from the left of you. "I know...", you respond, body burning, paralysed in place as your hand squeezes something. You try to turn your head, but you can't.

You hear laboured breathing besides you; a rough rasp scraping through the howling winter winds, as you look up into the stars, up into the moon.

"Do you think... it's Christmas yet?", the voice asks, every word a breathless struggle. You close your eyes, as you imagine the blood pooling into his lungs, before snapping them open again. You try to turn your head, but it won't move.

"Maybe.", you say softly, sweat rushing down your waist like a spring erupted on your stomach.

"It's cold..." You hear, once more. "I know.", you reply as you feel like you're immobilised in a fire.

"You know..." you start, after noticing the raspy breaths start I fade.. "for Christmas. ...I got you... I got your sister and mother a caravan."

Silence follows, and so you continue. "It's a rich ret... It's a rich retinue of... Khamel... Khamelk."

Silence, save for the howling of the wind. "She'll receive it... Soon. And she'll be able to..."

Silence, save for the bristling of the tundra trees native to bardur. "She'll be able to sell it and... And... move somewhere..."

Silence, save for your own voice. "Maybe move somewhere away from the war.".

Silence, save for the thumping of your heart.

"Thanks." You hear, or at least you think you hear, as you close your eyes once more