It started in Thargelion.
A surprise to be sure, for some, when they learnt of the origins. And yet for others there was no where else that it could have started.
One midwinter, as cold and bitter as Thargelion could remember. A midwinter where orcs had managed to pierce down and destroy a mannish village.
A few scant buildings still stood, and it was in them that the villagers gathered, huddling for warmth and sharing what scant supplies had survived.
It was to this village that the elven lord of the land visited, garbed in his cloak of scarlet, bells on his horse heralding his arrival.
With him was supplies for the village. Good enough that none would hunger until spring, and building materials so they might start to rebuild their homes.
And within his own saddlebags, handed out by his own hand, were candied fruits wrapped in squares of bright fabric. A packet enough for each child of the village to have for their very own - from the boy mere days from his majority to the babe born two weeks past.
It was a gift which brought much light and joy when the days were darkest.
The next midwinter the children of the village recalled the visit from the elven Lord in his cloak of scarlet. They pestered the adults, asking if Lord Caranthir would visit again, if they would hear the bells and see him ride towards them.
The adults could not answer - for how indeed would they know the mind of a great elven lord such as he? Yet word reached the ears of the lord; carried by bird and elf and man in his great network that spanned much of Beleriand.
Cheerful, kind, and nice had never been and would never be words used to describe Caranthir Feanorion. Yet, upon hearing of the wishes of the children he suddenly declared that he would visit once again.
He busted that same village, and all others on his route, offering the children small treats and assurance that the days would get longer again,
And so it became a tradition of the lord, that each midwinter he would visit those of the Edain that had settled his lands and give out small gifts and sweets to the children that resided there.
(For ever had Carnistir Morifinwë had a soft spot for children and their wishes.)
When the flames of the Bragollach came, and Thargelion burned, the Edain that had once called it home were scattered. Left to wander and resettle in new homes around Beleriand. Some were by Amon Ereb, others around Doriath, yet more found themselves settling in the small harbour town of Sirion.
There were no more midwinter visits from Caranthir, barely even a midwinter celebration at all. Not in Sirion, where the icy wind and fog from the sea seemed even colder than that which had come from the mountains.
Not in Sirion until a man who had been one of the first children to be visited, a man now crooked and bent with age, pulled on the cloak he had once worn as a member of Thargelion’s army. A cloak that was a red as (if not quite as fine material) as their elven lord’s once was.
He donned his cloak, and handed out what scant treats could be found, and to the children of Sirion - elf and man alike - it seemed as though magic had taken place.
The tradition carried on, of gifts brought by a red cloaked figure on midwinter. Through group after group of refugee joining their ever growing settlement. Combining and melding until the figure became almost a tale of myth and legend, one guarded and guided by the adults to help keep some wonder and joy alive in the midst of despair.
And when Sirion fell, when it fell to figure garbed in red, when its people were made refugees once again, so did the tradition continue to spread. To Balar, and the Host of the West, and even to Amon Ereb in the tales of two tiny twins.
It spread and it grew, combining so many traditions and stories, tales of a gift giver, a maker of things to bring joy in the winter.
(And how his brothers laughed when, upon their release, they discovered just what of Caranthir’s legacy lived on.)
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