“Oh, these are...” Ban looked at the pair of red mittens and smiled. “These are nice, yeah. Uhm. I kind of.” Ban let out a long sigh and shook his head at Imogen with a wry grin. “I didn’t get you anything. But I can make it up to you? Come over and I’ll make dinner sometime? Unless that’s weird. We could grab a drink, or something. I dunno. Thanks.” Best to just shut up.

The war.

Imogen’s hand grabbed hold of something wet, something hardening to ice in her hand. She shoved herself up, snow falling from her hair and shoulders as she looked around, trying to keep her panic at bay. How long had she been out for? Several more moments passed, ones in which she tried gripping at the fleeting memories of the past few hours that circled jumbled in her brain.

The war was over. It had been the poltergeist, a minor demon, Arlo. She had been in the town square, and now she… wasn’t. Imogen’s hand reached for the back of her head, it was pounding. She must have hit it when she was brought– here.

‘‘Where the hell am I?’‘ Imogen spoke out loud, a wince at how deafening her voice sounded to herself. A minor concussion maybe. She patted herself down, checking for any injuries, satisfied when she couldn’t feel any. The dark haired witch pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly in the snow before catching sight of someone else laying a few steps away in the snow.

‘‘Hey, hey you–’‘ Immy walked towards them, her eyes darting around her surroundings. She couldn’t hear Charlie, or see him. ‘‘Are you okay?’‘ Her first priority was anyone else she could see. Charlie was capable, he could handle himself. She would look for him afterwards. ‘‘Where the hell are we?’‘

@imogenhayes 

Good question.

Valko blinked up at the hazy blob hovering above his face. It moved and made noises, only half of which registered in his brain. Where the hell was he? Or we as it had been said. He blinked a few more times until the lines of her face came into sharp focus, and shook his head. This was not the face of one of his.

He groaned loudly as he tried and failed to push himself up to sitting. The last thing he remembered was holding hands - a task he would just as soon avoided - and now he was freezing his ass off in the middle of nowhere. A handful sized clump of snow fell from the branches onto his face, solidifying his resinment to laying there until he couldn’t move at all.

“We are... in the snow,” he muttered.

Eyes tipped skyward for an instant, Cypris considered the words, the year prior, trying to sort out if he could recall where he even was December twenty-fifth exactly one year past. Unsteady memories of cold nights, some vague awareness of the season but no real idea of what the exact date may have been. Perhaps he’d been out scouting or planning, tense with worry that the tattered lot of his almost-friends might have been spending their last breaths without knowing it, restless sleep or, the worst of it really, maybe he’d been busy spreading death with a subtle effort. 

What day had it been? So many had felt exactly the same and his eyes swung back to the level line of the horizon with a draw of frosty air inward, back out warm from nestling inside his lungs the span of seconds before being expelled. 

“Thank the Gods for that.” 

1996.

Malle was yawning, barely able to keep her eyes open. The party carried on all around them, though, the children relegated to one of the smaller parlors as the guests filled the ballroom. Her dress was tulle, and made her legs itch.

Charlie’s voice carried over the air, the softer voices of the other children fading into the distance. Dark brown eyes snapped open, peering at the English princess as she prowled closer to the Christmas tree.

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“This isn’t your house, Alexander.”

2012.

Greengardens was loud, music pouring out of seemingly every corner. It could have been the eggnog talking, but Stella was reasonably certain that the presence of plants amplified the sound just then. She was on her way for another cup when she nearly bumped into a brunette.

“Why, Imogen.” She recognized the woman, of course. Always intense. Pretty though. Sat near the middle of the room in her lectures. “Merry Chri--”

She stopped. Blue eyes blinked once, the smile fixed placidly on her face. Stella didn’t need to look over her should to see who’d just walked in.

A hand rested on Imogen’s shoulder for just a second, squeezing lightly.

“Merry Christmas, Imogen.”

Don’t be such a witch.

2009.

“It smells like cra--”

Zadie stopped in the doorway, looking around the smoke-filled room. In the front of the house, nearly twenty MacLains and Hayes were gathered, getting loaded up on punch and crackers. She’d caught one of the younger Hayes dipping his finger in the sweet potato casserole already.

Maybe it was the timing -- Aunt Sarah was getting shrill, already a little drunk -- or the good mood Zadie found herself in. Maybe it was the smoke in the air, and the undeniable scent of burnt ham. Maybe it was the look on Imogen’s face.

She leaned against the doorway, tilting her head back, and laughed.