Author's note: This is my entry for Postuhenin's Santa's Not-so-Little Helpers Contest. I chose Los Reyes Magos from Spain as my subject.
I had consistently experienced a sense of discomfort with the concept of spirituality, a product of my upbringing amidst the desolate landscapes that my home, Spain had become. I had never resonated with a lot of the stories that were told by people that tried to use various legends to keep their sanity up; unlike my parents, who reveled in that.
As recounted by my Papa, the conflict had wrought unparalleled devastation upon the city, reducing it to an unrecognizable tableau of desolation. The once-thriving thoroughfares of Madrid had metamorphosed into a dystopian maze of dilapidation and emptiness, a stark counterpoint to the vibrant tapestry of vitality they once represented. The sole vestige of chromatic presence was the uncanny emerald hue of the bioluminescent moss that adhered to the decayed edifices, which were once the epitome of human constructs. The inescapable reality, however, was that the detonations of war had irrevocably altered not only the physical landscape but the very essence of humanity itself, as the inhabitants bore the indelible marks of such cataclysmic upheaval.
I lived with him in the bowels of the city, in a shelter constructed from the remnants of our former lives. The air was thick with the scent of despair and the faint metallic tang of radiation that had seeped into our very bones. Our abode was a grim testament to the resilience of the human spirit, a place where we held onto the shreds of our past identities. After my mama had passed from the blight of pneumonia, Papa and I only had each other, our memories, and the whispers of a world that had once been.
I had grown up understanding how the conflict began, my Papa wanted his daughter to be aware of the horrors that had shaped our world. He would sit me down by the flickering light of our makeshift lamp, a contraption of old fairy lights powered by a dying battery, and tell me about the greed that had led to the war. He spoke of the insatiable hunger for power that had ravaged the Earth and left us in this desolate wasteland. He spoke of the Americans, the Russians, the Chinese, all fighting for something so trivial, something that had brought about our end. Europe had become entrenched in conflict, retaliating in aid of our allies, Papa told me, and we became targets of our enemies in return.
The two of us had a routine that had become second nature, something that we didn't even think about consciously anymore. Each day, we would venture into the ruins, scavenging for supplies amidst the decay. The silence was our constant companion, only occasionally pierced by the distant howl of the wind or the mournful cries of irradiated animals. Papa was a man of wisdom and spiritual guidance, and when he spoke, his words were filled with meaning, at least to me.
He would talk about a lot of things, but one of the things that particularly stood out to me was the time that we had found some solace amongst a group of survivors.
This group, whose spirits remained unbroken despite the cataclysmic events that had ravaged the world around them, had established their sanctuary within the crumbling walls of what had once been a majestic cathedral. The grandeur that had once defined this holy place had been reduced to a mere echo of its former self, with the splendor of its arches and the intricacy of its stained glass now lying in ruins, casting a melancholic shadow upon the earth that bore witness to their survival. The very ground we trod upon was a testament to the transient nature of human achievement, the once-sacred soil now coated with the remnants of a world that had been consumed by the unquenchable fires of destruction.
While I was engaged in the gentle ministrations of a young girl, whom I learned was called Lucia and had sought refuge in the sanctity of the sacristy; Papa engaged in conversation with what looked to be the leader of the group. This man was of a gaunt and slightly haggard countenance, yet there was a sharpness to his eyes that spoke of a keen intellect and a mind honed by experience. The air about him had been suffused with something that I couldn't quite place, zeal perhaps? It didn't matter at the time, I had my task, the young girl, whose eyes held the depths of a sorrow beyond her years. It was my job to provide her with the comfort she so desperately needed.
As I applied antiseptic and bandages to her cut legs and whispered words of reassurance, I had found that I could not help but feel a profound sense of isolation from the discussion that was unfolding between Papa and the leader of this makeshift community. The hushed tones of their conversation permeated the air, carrying with them an urgency that was palpable, even though I was not privy to the exact words being exchanged.
"Are you okay?" Lucia had said, her voice small and tremulous, as she sat across from me on her makeshift bed of ragged blankets and dusty pillows. Her eyes searched mine, and in that moment, I realized the gravity of her situation, her innocence a stark contrast to the harsh world outside the cathedral walls. This girl, no older than eleven from the look of it, had seen things that no child should have to witness.
I had forced a smile and nodded. "I'm fine, Lucia. You stay strong, querubín."
Once I had finished tending to the young girl's wounds, I had rejoined Papa, who had been waiting outside the cathedral with a solemn expression. He spoke to me in hushed tones, his eyes reflecting a mix of fear and fascination.
I had asked him what they'd spoken about; what those hushed tones entailed, to which he simply had replied:
"Mi hija, do not ever forget the magic that dwells within you. In this world where darkness reigns, we must hold onto the light of hope and belief."
I had found the words uncharacteristically cryptic; it was unlike Papa to not give a straight answer, and so I pressed him upon it, but he just squeezed my hand and said, "It is just a piece of advice, Sofia, nothing more."
I had wanted to question him further, not satisfied at all, but by this point, the sun had almost disappeared over the horizon, casting a sickly red glow upon the ruins. The time to return to our shelter had arrived, and with it, the promise of darkness that always brought its own set of terrors, and it was much better to walk in silence at this time of day, than to lose focus in one's surroundings with an intense conversation.
And it was this interaction that had plagued my mind ever since, the mention of magic and belief in a place where such concepts seemed to have been snuffed out by the harsh reality of our existence. I would confront him soon, but I did not know when.
I rose one morning, my room in our shack illuminated by a feeble beam of light that pierced through the cracks in the wall. My thoughts remained tangled in the enigma of the leader's words and Papa's cryptic response. The silence of the city was a stark reminder of the solitude we faced, a stark contrast to the days when Madrid had been alive with the vibrant chatter of the living.
I stepped outside, the cold air biting at my skin, and found Papa already waiting, his eyes reflecting the emerging day with an unspoken urgency. The sun was out, and Papa was armed with his crossbow, and so I wagered that this could be a good opportunity to mention what had been plaguing me for weeks.
I didn't know what year it was, anymore, but I could still tell it was winter, the harshest one yet. The air was so cold, it hurt to breathe, even though we had layered ourselves in the warmest fabrics we had scavenged from the decayed shops and houses. The city was eerily quiet, save for the occasional rumble of something unidentifiable in the distance. Papa had told me yesterday that he believed it was very early January, the fourth, making today the fifth, if he was correct - he'd said he knew from how the animals had begun to come out of hiding.
He'd never cared this much about dates before, but something had changed in him since our visit to the cathedral. His eyes had a new spark, a hopefulness that had been absent since Mama's passing. I missed her.
As we trudged through the streets, I pondered how best to broach the subject without alarming him. Finally, as we approached the edge of our designated scavenging zone, I summoned the courage to ask, "Papa, what did you mean when you talked about the magic and belief in the cathedral?"
Papa's gaze remained fixed on the horizon, his grip tightening slightly on the crossbow. He took a moment before responding, his breath misting in the frigid air. "Sofia, the world we live in now, it's a harsh place. But sometimes, belief can be a powerful force, even more so than the weapons we wield."
"Papa, please stop being so vague, what are you talking about?" I pleaded, my voice a mix of frustration and fear. His cryptic words had been gnawing at me, and the tension in his body language only served to amplify my unease.
He turned to me then, his eyes filled with a determination that I hadn't seen in a long time. "You know about Los Reyes Magos, don't you?"
I nodded, recalling the faded stories of my childhood. "The Three Kings, they come on January 6th with Saint Nicholas to leave gifts for children. But Papa, I don't understand, what does a silly story have to do with-"
He raised a hand to silence me. "It's not silly, mi hija. In these dire times, people need something to cling to, something to believe in. The group at the cathedral, they've twisted that belief into something... something else. They think that if we follow their rituals and give offerings, the Kings and Saint Nicholas will grant us protection from the horrors outside."
I scoffed a little, my hand gripping my rucksack tighter. "You don't actually believe that, do you?" The very idea seemed ludicrous. In a world where survival was a daily battle, how could anyone put their faith in the myth of ancient kings and a saint?
Papa looked at me, his expression unreadable. "You're too young to understand the desperation that has driven people to these beliefs, Sofia. They've seen things, heard things, that make their hope feel real. And in a place where reality is a nightmare, sometimes hope is all that keeps them going."
I frowned. Was my father actually entertaining such an idea? I didn't like how he infantilized me in these kinds of discussions, even if he was right.
"Papa, we cannot resort to fairy tales," I protested, the chill of his words seeping into my very bones.
He sighed heavily, his eyes never leaving the desolate horizon. "It's not about fairy tales, Sofia. It's about the power of belief. They believe in something greater than this destruction, something that might bring salvation. And I've been thinking, we're struggling out here, maybe it's time we join up with them."
My heart skipped a beat. "But what if it's all just a lie?"
"What if it's not?" He countered, turning to face me. His eyes searched mine, the hope in them unmistakable. "What if there's a chance, however small, that it could be real? That they can protect us?"
I stared at him, incredulous. The man I knew, the man who had taught me to rely on logic and reason above all else, was speaking of faith and magic. "Papa, we've survived on our own for so long. Why should we start believing in this now?"
He took my hand, his own trembling slightly. "Because, mi hija, hope is the most potent weapon we have left. And if joining them gives us a sliver of that hope, then I'm willing to try."
I paused, playing with a lock of my black hair, noting the way my breath was visible in front of me in the cold. "Papa, is this about Mama?"
His eyes met mine for a brief instant before they drifted away, seeking refuge in the far corners of the horizon. A profound sigh, one that seemed to carry the burden of his soul with it, escaped his lips. The lines on his face, etched by the years of toil and the ravages of time, grew deeper as he revealed a side of vulnerability I had only caught glimpses of in moments of solitude. "Yes, my dear," he conceded with a heaviness that seemed to make the very air thick with emotion, "it is partly about her."
He paused, allowing the silence to wrap itself around us like a blanket of unspoken grief. "The world has transformed since she left us," he continued, his voice a mere whisper as he grappled with the pain that lay just beneath the surface. "And I find myself in a place where hope is a commodity that I am desperately seeking to reclaim. The thought that she might be at peace somewhere, that there could be an existence beyond this one for her, for all of us, it's a possibility that I can't help but cling to."
The gravity of his words bore down on me, and I felt the weight of his sorrow as if it were a tangible force pressing upon my chest. The realization of his desperation was stark and unsettling. My heart swelled with a mix of empathy and concern as I recognized the depth of his longing for the comforting embrace of my mother's presence once again.
"But-" I began.
"No buts, Sofia," Papa cut me off, his voice firm yet gentle. "We've been living in fear and solitude for too long. If these people have found something that gives them strength, that lets them sleep at night, then I want to understand it."
I bit my lip.
"Life, my dear daughter, is fraught with peril and uncertainty," he continued, with a melancholic smile that tugged gently at the corners of his lips. "Yet, it is fear itself that has often served as our most formidable adversary. When we permit ourselves to be confined and governed by the whispers of trepidation, we are, in essence, allowing our lives to be overshadowed by the specter of what might be. It is akin to conceding defeat before the battle has even begun," he continued, his eyes reflecting the wisdom of years spent navigating the tumultuous journey of existence.
I digested his words thoughtfully, though I could not claim to be entirely swayed by his perspective. A lingering sense of doubt clung to me like a persistent shadow, a reminder of the perils that lurked outside the relative safety of our present abode. Yet, I found myself unable to completely dismiss the hope that burned in my father's gaze, a hope that had been kindled by the faintest ember of belief in a future free from the tyranny of fear.
We agreed to return to the cathedral the next day, our hearts laden with a mix of hope and trepidation.
But for now, we had to focus on the task at hand. The cold was biting, and the scarcity of resources was ever-present. We continued our scavenging, but my mind was elsewhere, consumed by the enigmatic words of the cathedral's leader and the haunting prospect of entrusting our fate to ancient myths.
It was fruitful, the scavenging trip, more so than any we had undertaken in months. We found a stash of untouched supplies in the basement of a long-abandoned bodega, hidden away in a corner that had somehow evaded the notice of scavengers. It was a treasure trove of canned goods and bottled water, enough to sustain us for weeks if rationed properly.
Papa and I trudged on back home, the snowfall getting heavier by the minute. The streets, once bustling with life, were now a canvas of white, the buildings mere shadows in the distance. The silence was so profound, it was eerie. It was only broken by the occasional sound of something scurrying in the ruins, a stark reminder of the mutated creatures that had taken over our world.
We hadn't been able to take everything from the bodega with us, so we made a plan to return as soon as we could.
The shack was more than a welcome sight after the biting cold had seeped into my very soul. Papa and I worked tirelessly to organize the newfound bounty, the warmth of the fireplace providing a comforting embrace as we unpacked our spoils. Despite the excitement of our discovery, the conversation from the morning lingered heavily in the air, casting a pall over our usually jovial interactions.
We didn't speak much at all; we simply just ate in silence, lost in our own thoughts. I knew he was thinking about Mama, about the possibility of a future beyond this desolate landscape. And I? I was torn between my skepticism and the desperate need for the warmth that belief could offer. The world we knew had been destroyed by the very same kind of belief that had driven nations to war. How could I trust in something so intangible now?
Papa retired to bed, leaving me to tend to the fire. Its flickering flames cast eerie shadows on the walls, and I couldn't shake the feeling that our conversation had opened a door to a world I didn't fully understand. Eventually, I could no longer keep my eyes from drooping, and so I extinguished the flames, and allowed sleep to finally claim me for the night.
The next day dawned with a heaviness that seemed to cling to the very air we breathed. We gathered what we could carry and set out for the cathedral once more, the path we had taken only days before feeling eerily familiar. The city's silence was only punctuated by the crunch of snow beneath our boots, and the occasional gust of wind that whispered through the city like a mournful lament. I had noticed that Papa had not brought a weapon, and when I asked him about it, he mentioned that it was out of a gesture of goodwill towards the people we were attempting to ingratiate ourselves with. I did no such thing, still not fully convinced of this plan, though I did not tell Papa of this; he'd probably disapprove.
The place was different from the last time we visited, more alive with anticipation. The survivors had set up makeshift altars around the cathedral, adorned with what little they had salvaged from the wreckage of their past lives. There were candles made from old crayons, twinkling lights from salvaged Christmas decorations, and even a few plastic dolls that had survived the ravages of time. It was both heartwarming and eerie, a testament to the human spirit's capacity to seek beauty in the bleakest of times.
"Sofia, Pedro, welcome," the leader, Alejandro, greeted us with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His gaze lingered on our supplies before he stepped aside to let us in. "You've come at a perfect time. The night of the arrival of the Three Kings is upon us. Tonight, we prepare our offerings."
"I did want to speak with you about that, Alejandro," Papa said, his voice steady. "We want to join you, potentially. We'd like to understand what it is that you do."
Alejandro nodded solemnly, his eyes flickering over to the supplies we had brought with us. "Good," he said, "for there is much to learn, and little time before the night of the Reyes." He took a step closer, his breath misting in the cold. "But before you commit, you must understand what is at stake. This isn't a simple game of make-believe for the sake of comfort. This is about survival."
"But, you cannot be serious, I mean, this is just a story, and besides, you do not even know the date!" I interjected, trying to lighten the atmosphere with a chuckle, but it was met with silence.
Alejandro's gaze bore into me, his smile fading. "The date is not something we can determine with our broken watches or forgotten calendars, but we feel it in our very bones, the way the world seems to hold its breath in anticipation. We know that the 6th is upon us, and it will be a fruitful night."
I was in disbelief. This man was truly earnest in his belief in the Three Kings' arrival. I went to speak again, but my father spoke up. "What does it entail?"
Alejandro's smile returned, but it was a knowing one, filled with secrets. "It requires faith and sacrifice," he said, pausing for effect, before continuing. "The children are in the back, preparing the offerings. They leave out food and drink for the Magi and their camels, as is tradition. But there's more to it than that."
We followed him through the cathedral, the air thick with the scent of candle wax and desperation. The survivors were all busy, their movements a flurry of activity. Some were crafting gifts from the meager supplies they had, while others were whispering prayers in hushed tones. The atmosphere was charged with an energy that was both comforting and disquieting.
"To appease the kings, and indeed Saint Nicholas himself, we must offer not just material items, but ourselves. You see, we are impure, as adults, we are tainted by the sins of the world before. The only pure souls left are the children," Alejandro spoke with a serenity that was as unsettling as the silence outside the cathedral walls.
I bit my lip, not wanting to hear another word. I knew exactly where this was heading. I pushed past him, my boots echoing through the cathedral's vast emptiness, towards the back where the children were gathered. They were all so young, their eyes wide with hope and fear, their faces smeared with dirt and tears. The knife in my coat pocket was there if I needed it, but I didn't want to escalate things unless I had to, and I didn't want to frighten the children, either.
Among them, I noticed the girl, the one who had captured my heart the first time we visited, Lucia. She looked up at me with a mixture of curiosity and fear. I could see in her eyes that she recognized me.
"Listen, you cannot stay here, these people, they want to abandon you." I blurted out, filled with emotion. It was impulsive, but I couldn't stand a moment longer of entertaining their delusions.
Lucia looked at me, her eyes wide with confusion, speaking in a hushed whisper. "You don't understand, Sofia. They are not just stories. They are the guardians of the new world, the ones who will bring peace."
I shook my head, and tugged her firmly. "You cannot stay!"
Her eyes searched mine, filled with a mix of confusion and sadness. "But why not?" She whispered. "They will protect us. They know what we need."
"What is the commotion about?" Papa and Alejandro had caught up to us, their footsteps heavy on the stone floor. The other adults had paused in their preparations, their gazes flicking between us with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
"Papa, they mean to leave the children alone!"
Papa's eyes widened with shock. "What are you talking about?"
Alejandro stepped in, his tone calm yet firm. "Sofia, it is a misunderstanding. The children are the purest among us, they are the ones who will receive the blessings of the Magi. Their offerings are essential to our survival."
I raised my voice, jolting the other children into a nervous silence. "You can't leave them here alone!" My words echoed through the cathedral, bouncing off the ancient stone walls.
Alejandro's smile never faltered. "It's not a matter of leaving them alone, but rather offering them up to the protection of the Magi." His tone was soothing, but his words sent a shiver down my spine. "The adults must purify themselves through sacrifice, to atone for the sins of the old world."
My Papa was also beginning to understand. "You mean to say that they will be left alone once you...atone?"
"Yes," Alejandro replied with a nod. "Their purity is our shield. With them as our beacon, the Magi and their head, Saint Nicholas, will look upon the rest of the world with mercy."
"But why this ritual? Why not God?!" I said, desperation lacing my words as I clutched Lucia's arm. "This is madness!"
Alejandro's smile remained steadfast. "God has abandoned us. No, it is the innocence of children that holds the key, and this time of year is when their purity is at its strongest. We leave them as offerings to the Magi and to Saint Nicholas, to show our faith and willingness to start anew."
I stared at him in horror, my grip on Lucia tightening. "You're mad," I whispered, my voice shaking. "This isn't faith. It's just cruel."
My Papa nodded, seeming to finally have been won over by common sense; his yearning for my mother had not completely clouded his judgment. "Sofia is right," he said firmly. "We cannot sacrifice our entire future for a hope that is likely just a fairy tale. Let the children go with their families, Alejandro."
The leader's eyes narrowed, his smile fading. "You do not understand the gravity of our situation," he insisted. "The world outside is a wasteland. We need the protection of the Magi. Our way is the only way."
"No, it is not. Come on, Lucia." I said firmly.
Alejandro sighed, and whistled, gesturing to the shadows at the edge of the room. Two burly men emerged, their eyes devoid of emotion. "I am sorry, but you must understand, our faith is not something to be questioned. Restrain them."
Papa and I struggled, and I attempted to retrieve the knife from the depths of my pocket, but I never got to even slip my hand in. They were deceptively quick, and we were no match for their brute strength. They bound our wrists with a coarse rope and pushed us into the corner, the rough stone biting into my back. The children were ushered into a side chamber, out of sight from us.
"Let them go!" I screamed, trying to wiggle out of the ropes, tears streaming down my cheeks. "They're innocent!"
We were ignored, with the two burly men watching over us, as everyone commenced their preparations anew. Alejandro had left us there, his earlier warmth replaced by a cold determination that sent shivers down my spine. The candles flickered, casting eerie shadows on the faces of the adults, who moved about the cathedral with a sense of urgency and purpose that was utterly alien to me.
I glanced over at Papa, his expression a stormy mix of anger, fear, and regret. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I didn't know. I just wanted...I just wanted to find a way to keep going."
"It isn't your fault Papa..." I whispered, my voice shaking with fear. The realization of what these people were planning was too much to bear. The room was a blur of activity, adults moving with a fervor that was both fascinating and terrifying.
The hours dragged on, the tension in the air thick as the shadows grew longer. The adults were readying themselves for their 'purification'. They had donned tattered robes, stitched with what looked like random symbols and patterns. Their eyes were wild with a mix of hope and madness.
They set up tables in the middle of the room, piling them high with the supplies we had seen them with, along with their own meager offerings. The children watched from the shadows, wide-eyed and silent. The adults chanted in a language I didn't recognize, their voices rising and falling in an eerie rhythm. The air grew colder, and my teeth chattered despite the warmth of the fireplace. Children's toys, battered board games, and worn out dolls were placed alongside jars of water and plates of food.
As they continued chanting, I saw one of them bring forward a tray of cups, containing a dark liquid, akin to red wine from the look of it, and they began to pass them around, with the two burly men hauling Papa to his feet, seemingly eager for him to join them.
I watched with desperation, shouting out as he struggled against the two men, and I stood up, trying to aid him, only to be pushed back down. "Papa, no!"
"The ritual is almost complete, now, we offer the first sacrifice, to convince the saint and the Magi of our willingness to repent!" The group leader turned zealot gestured to Papa, and my heart plummeted to my stomach.
"You can't do this!" I yelled, pulling at the ropes with every ounce of strength I had, trying to break free.
And they broke, the ropes snapping under my desperation.
For a few moments, I thought I could save Papa, the children, and escape, rushing forward, only to be met with the cold, unyielding grip of one of the big men, who had noticed my advance. He held me back, and despite my thrashing and kicking, swinging wildly with the knife, his arms were like steel bars, and he disarmed me, the blade clattering to the floor.
With each of us restrained by one of the men, it was much harder for us to resist now, and I looked to my father, hoping to see resolve in his eyes, a spark that told me he had an escape plan. Instead, his gaze was cast downward, defeated.
It was Mama again, I knew it, her ghost in his mind once again reminding him that he had failed his family once before, and now he was about to do it again.
"Papa..." was all I managed, my voice croaky from the exertion of struggling.
He offered one last struggle as the man holding him forced him to drink and swallow the dark liquid, and it was only now that I could smell the distinct scent of almonds as he choked and spluttered, unable to prevent the big man from making him consume it.
Within minutes, he was convulsing, foaming at the mouth, his eyes rolling back in his head. My own cries of despair were muffled by the hand of the other man, who had covered my mouth, his grip tightening as I watched life drain from my father's body. His struggles grew weaker and weaker, until finally, with a last, agonizing breath, he slumped over, lifeless. The room was silent, the only sound the crackling of the fireplace, and my muffled sobs.
Within seconds of his body being dropped to the ground by the man holding him, a chill began to flow through the room, growing in intensity, the howling of the winds outside seemed to become deafening, and the church doors swung open, despite being bolted shut. The air crackled with energy, and the candles flickered violently, some even being extinguished by the sudden gust. The adults froze mid-action, their chanting cut off abruptly.
"The Magi are imminent! Do not stop chanting, and drink your own fluid!" Alejandro instructed, his eyes wide with fear and excitement as the wind grew stronger.
They all drank, and as much as I tried to keep my mouth tightly shut, struggling with the last of my strength, I could not stop the burly man who was holding me in place from forcing the cup to my trembling lips. The liquid was thick and bitter, and the taste of almonds was unmistakable.
I coughed and spluttered, falling to my knees as the rest of them began to feel the effects of the poison. Minutes passed, and the intensity of the energy grew, the wind howling like a beast outside the cathedral walls. The candles flickered wildly, casting macabre shadows across the room. I grew weaker as I watched in absolute awe as the wind and snow began to homogenize, the shadows around us coalescing slowly into humanoid forms before us. In a display that seemed to defy the very fabric of reality, the raging elements outside began to meld together in a whirling, chaotic dance. The wind and the snow spun into a frenzied vortex, the individual particles of ice and frost coalescing into a bizarre and disturbing unity. The shadows cast by the frenetic candlelight grew more defined and substantial, their amorphous edges solidifying into the semblance of limbs and torsos.
I watched, my eyes wide with a mix of horror and fascination, as the shadows before us began to take on a life of their own. They grew and twisted, reaching out with shadowy fingers that seemed to beckon us into the abyss of darkness from which they had emerged. The air grew colder, heavier with the weight of their unearthly presence, and I could feel my very essence being drawn into the maw of their inky forms.
The transformation was gradual, yet inexorable, as if the very fabric of the night itself was weaving these dark creatures into existence. The shadows grew taller, more substantial, their shapes morphing into the unmistakable outlines of humanoid figures.
These figures moved with a purpose that was both mesmerizing and terrifying. They circled us slowly, their forms shifting and changing as they drew power from the tempestuous wind and the biting cold of the winter night. Each step they took sent a shiver down my spine, a silent testament to their unspeakable power. Their attire was regal and resplendent, adorned with the finery of a bygone era. They bore the unmistakable visage of the Three Kings from biblical lore, their majestic presence palpable despite the dire circumstances that had brought us here.
And there, at the forefront of this spectral assembly, stood a figure whose identity was as clear to me as if he had been illuminated by the sun itself. Even in the throes of my weakness, I recognized him without a doubt. It was Saint Nicholas, the revered patron saint of children. Yet here he was, a towering, almost terrifying presence, his eyes ablaze with an energy that seemed to transcend the very boundaries of our world.
And it was here, as I began to foam at the mouth, my head against the floor, that I realized why they demanded a sacrifice, why the children were to be spared. We were the old world, the adults, tainted by the sins of the past. The children, they were the future, pure and unblemished by the horrors that had befallen us. The Magi and the Saint were here to claim the new world.
I gurgled, my body failing me, and my eyes glanced across to my Papa, and the rest of the adults, who lay dead, or dying around me. The two men who had been restraining us had collapsed as well, their forms still on the stone.
The children would be safe, I thought, as I took one last breath, watching as the spectral figures began to usher the children in their direction, beckoning them with a gentle grace that seemed incongruous with the chaotic scene that surrounded us. They looked at the lifeless forms of their parents, confusion and fear etched into their youthful faces, but did not resist the call of the Magi.
The new world would be different for them.
It would be good.