Bella trudged through the deep snow, each step sinking in. It had snowed all night, leaving a thick blanket over the ground. The sky was smothered in something between fog and cloud, dim and lightless—it was early morning, but the world looked like late evening.
She was wearing Kamar-Taj's light cloth robe and cloth boots, her arms and neck bare to the air. The thin outfit had alarmed Mr. and Mrs. Beaver, who were half-convinced they'd be responsible for the death of a prophesied savior by frostbite. She'd waved them off repeatedly before finally getting the two small animals back inside.
She'd also firmly refused their offer to come along and fight the White Witch. Unless they could defeat her by being unbearably adorable, sending them onto a battlefield was simply sending them to die—and calling it cannon fodder would have been generous.
Not wanting to draw attention, Bella had been avoiding magic entirely, relying on her body to push through the snow. Now that she was well clear of their home, she murmured to herself, "Using the magic carpet should be fine," and lifted her hand to open her pocket dimension.
At that exact moment, the snow in front of her heaved upward and a human figure burst out of the ground.
No warning. In her field of vision, there had been nothing but an unbroken snowfield. The figure had appeared from exactly where she'd been looking.
"What the—" She dropped back, spell or no spell forgotten in an instant. The moisture in the air bent to her will—gas to liquid, liquid to solid, the entire sequence seamless, under a second—a razor-sharp ice blade condensed and drove toward the figure that had erupted from the snow.
Bella had anticipated several possible responses: dodge, tank it, ignore it, counterattack. What she had not anticipated was what actually happened. The ice blade, half a meter from the figure's face, became a snowball. It lost most of its momentum and went splat against an aged, somewhat befuddled face.
A snowball. What in the world?
Her spell had been taken from her control in an instant—vanished, as though the ice blade had simply ceased to exist.
She stared.
Old. Round. White-bearded. Red-cheeked. A familiar face.
"...Father Christmas?" she called out carefully, keeping a healthy distance. "What are you doing here? Do you remember me?"
The man who'd burst from the snowdrift was brushing off his backside, wiping his beard, his eyebrows, his face with broad sweeps of one arm. He finally looked up at her.
His eyes were confused. She tensed. He didn't recognize her.
Then he rubbed his chin, eyes rolling upward, lips pursed—the expression of a man straining to retrieve something from a very cluttered archive. "You... what was your name again? I can't quite place it."
Bella exhaled. Better. At least she'd left some impression. He couldn't remember her name because she'd never given him one.
She'd almost said "Daisy Johnson" out of long habit—and caught herself just in time. That alias had been getting too much mileage. And in a couple of years, the actual Daisy Johnson would make her public debut and find an entire underworld's worth of records filed under her name. That would be an uncomfortable conversation.
"Snow White," Bella said.
Father Christmas's face split into a warm, grandfatherly smile. "Oh, oh—Miss White! Wonderful name, wonderful name! You must have come to collect your Christmas present! Just a moment—"
"I didn't say—I didn't ask for a present—you can't be serious—"
She didn't even finish the sentence. He was already hauling things up from the enormous pit he'd apparently been lying in.
First came two reindeer, dragged into the open air. Even the dogs at a powerful figure's gate deserved respect—let alone the riding animals of someone like Father Christmas. Bella offered them a friendly smile and a wave. They blinked back cheerfully.
Father Christmas kept hauling. Bella watched and noticed something: his command of space was extraordinary. Two glances were all she needed—the insight alone was genuinely valuable. The spatial mastery he was casually demonstrating operated on a level she hadn't encountered before.
Up came the harnesses. Up came the sleigh. Up came an enormous bundle.
"Here you are, little Miss White! Your Christmas present! Ho ho ho—"
Bella stared. She wasn't a greedy person—she'd gotten good at reining in her wants. She answered honestly: "...That's very kind, but Christmas is still two months away. Isn't this a little early?"
Father Christmas looked at her, then pulled out a calendar, flipped through it rapidly, and mumbled to himself. "Then consider it—last year's present?"
"You already gave me one last year. That's when we met—the God of the Winter Solstice? Remember?"
She had no idea whether he'd remember. Based on her experience with ancient beings, their memories left something to be desired. The Ancient One was seven hundred years old and already a little vague. Father Christmas had been around for over two thousand years—expectations were best kept low.
Father Christmas's expression turned slightly pained. He recovered with a breezy whistle. "Then let's call it a present in advance! We can be flexible—I think we can! Here—this one's for you!"
He pulled a long blade from the bundle.
Bella shook her head. The craftsmanship was solid, the materials unusual—she could tell at a glance it contained metals not native to the material plane—but it wasn't exceptional. Not a divine weapon.
Besides: a blade as a Christmas present felt off.
Father Christmas saw her shake her head and rummaged again. Out came a battleaxe. Then a spear. A rapier. A war hammer. A flail. A bow.
The expression she'd been holding together started to slip. What kind of gift bag was this? Was it full of nothing but weapons?
Who gives someone a sack full of weapons for Christmas? This had to be a fake Father Christmas.
Fifteen minutes later.
"Please bring peace back to Narnia—wait, no, how did they phrase it? Restore its hope! Yes—restore hope! Goodbye, Miss White! Keep going! Do your best! You can do it!" The rotund figure raised one arm in an encouraging gesture.
He left her the entire sack, climbed onto his sleigh, and drove up into the sky, disappearing from view in moments.
Bella stood with her hands on her hips, looking down at what lay in the snow: seven long blades, five war hammers, three battleaxes, over ten daggers, a flail, a cruciform sword, a shield, a staff, and a bow with a quiver. She stared at it for a long moment without speaking.
What was she supposed to do with all of this?
Most of it—the hammers, the axes—she didn't know how to use. Carrying it around would be dead weight. But gifts from Father Christmas had to carry some special meaning, she reasoned. That was the only reasonable explanation.
There was no way to fit everything into her pocket dimension. She sorted through the pile.
The cruciform sword she pulled out and clipped to her hip. The staff—taller than she was—she took in hand separately.