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The Gamer Chapter 1983 – Approaching the Late Game 28 – Christmas Day
🕑 Added 2025-10-23 18:39:58 +0000 UTC
It was the night of the 25th of December and the hours stretched into a day that the Gamer and his loves decided to celebrate. They awoke in a festive mood, moving from bed to bath to kitchen swifter than usual.
Their breakfast was a sweet treat. Cinnamon sugar breakfast puffs were stacked up across many plates, freshly baked and smelling heavenly. Great compliments went to the chefs, who delighted in watching their loves eat the two-bite puffs. They enjoyed many themselves, of course.
Once they had their fill of treats, they moved to put up the tree. An untouched corner of the mansion was swiftly claimed. A chamber, large yet cozy, filled with red leathers and white trims, offered the embrace of the Christmas spirit. John stacked logs in the fireplace, then stepped away to let Salamander provide the igniting spark.
As the flames flickered and spread their warming light, Gnome planted a seed in a patch of dirt. A bit of her magic, and it sprouted upwards into a pine tree. Its branches and needles were coaxed to space out in an idyllic image. The fragrances of the tree mixed with the spices of the snacks that Aclysia carried in and the warmth of the fire, creating that nostalgic air of Christmas.
While others put decorations on the tree, Lee and John returned to the fireplace. On the little ledge above the marble frame, they put down two picture frames. Each held a picture of their parents, smiling at the camera, unknowing of how important those images taken would be for their children one day. John blinked the tears away and smiled back at those he had lost, eager to show them the happy life their son did live. Lee sniffed and let her own tears flow.
John put an arm around her trembling shoulder. They moved when they were ready to move, sharing a wide armchair, one of many. What differentiated it was solely how close it was to the fireplace. The clothed form of the youngest person in the room nuzzled against his.
Being clothed was universal. There had been an agreement to keep the majority of the day simple and wholesome and the barriers made it easier to stay with that commitment.
“Hey, John?” Lee muttered.
“Hmm?” he hummed, between sadness and mirth.
“Can you tell us a story?”
The question quieted other talks in the room. Those that heard him tell a story before looked with a degree of anticipation and those that had only heard of them looked with great interest. Daiyu’s eyes sparkled at the idea and Momo excitedly tilted back and forth. They were the most interested. Nathalia sat in her chair and Scarlett checked her phone. Even they snuck glances at him.
With such a crowd, how could he refuse?
“Very well then… let’s see what my brain can make…” John said, then began to speak.
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Once, there was a village. It had been a small village of no import. It had been founded near a lucrative trade route, but another village nearby had been favoured by the passing traders. This left the small village poor, while the lucky village thrived. It grew and grew and grew, until it was a city large enough to almost reach the small village’s borders with the outcroppings of its suburbs.
“We should build towards the city,” said the son of the baron, who lorded over the village, “become one with its riches.”
“No,” said the father.
“Why not?” asked the son.
The baron let out a hearty sigh. “Because of reasons that you are too young to see. It is better to be a small tree on your own, than a branch of a big tree whose roots you do not know.”
“A commitment to poverty,” the son confronted.
“If you must experience the truth, then venture into the city. See for yourself their riches.”
The son did as his father suggested. After the dinner, he packed up the things that would aid him on the journey. His purse was light with valuable coins, savings that could buy him much here at home. When he ventured out, he went to the baker and the tanner and the tenders of the fields. They gave the son of the baron many small gifts, for they had many small things to give and the son was popular with the people who had known him from the moment of his birth.
They encouraged his journey into the city and asked that he bring back news, good or bad, and his idea of the future, once it had matured. “I will know what is to know and arm myself with arguments to convince my father of the future,” the son promised, then began his march.
The road was short indeed. A day of travel was all it took to make it to the sprawl of the city. Pungent smells filled the son’s nose. It was not the honest dung of the cows and sheep, but the stink of man, trapped between ever denser houses. The streets of dirt were trampled down by the thousand feet of labourers, who ventured from their shacks to the many places of work in the city.
The son marched onwards, weathering the unpleasant smells, for he was certain that he would get used to them. These haggard and back-bent people must have been, simply, those who would benefit from the city's wealth in a few years. A growing pain, like there always was.
It was an idea that the son felt confirmed when he marched into the inner city, where the buildings were taller, each, than the manor of his father. Opulent displays of wealth covered walls and windowsills. Fountains offered water in sputters, with no bucket and lift needed. The people were clothed expensively and washed thoroughly.
Yet even this part of the city smelled unpleasantly. The cobblestones sealed the dirt and stains that the rain did not wash away were stuck. The son ignored this and marched on, to the great heart of the city.
The trade route stretched from west to east and on it carriages endlessly streamed. Many passed through without pause, many more passed through with pause, and they left part of the money from the trade in the city.
Excited, the son explored all day, under the sun’s rays. He looked around until his stomach was empty and the provisions he had been gifted were gone. His empty stomach drove him to a store where a hundred different cakes were on display.
He wished to purchase many, expecting his coin to buy him much, for it would have bought him much in the village. Instead, he found the prices of even a single slice too much for his entire wealth. He was laughed out of the shop and hungrily went on his way. He went from place to place to find a scrap to eat and when that failed he looked for a place to stay. When that, too, was too much for his means, he resolved to ask for a favour. When he addressed the passing, rich men, he was beheld with confusion as to why he would address them at all.
“If you got nothing for me, I got nothing for you,” a nobleman put it to a point.
The son was left confused and night came. Hungry and alone, he covered himself in his mantle, laying down to rest in an alley. Many sounds of the city kept him awake. The turning of wheels, the barking of dogs, the steps and shouts of drunkards, all of them so much more and so much closer than he had ever been used to at home.
“Hey!” A loud noise rattled him. “HEY!” A louder shout stirred him.
The son opened his eyes, to the view of a guard bowed over him. His breath reeked of tobacco as he spoke.
“No sleeping on the streets, you hoodlum! To the slums with your kind!”
“S-sir, you’re mistaken, I-“ The son began to speak and stopped when he was whacked with a baton. Immediately, the tired, hungry, young man jumped and sprinted towards the outskirts of the city. He did not stop there, running and running until he was hit by the familiar scents of the forest. A damp carpet of moss was where he made his bed that night.
When he opened his eyes next, he was face to face with a fox.
“You rest on laurels not even your own, vainglorious one,” the fox said. “You should rest no more.”
The son blinked and shot up. There was no fox by his side. Had he dreamt or had he received a vision? He did not know. All he knew was that his limbs were heavy and the sun did rise. He dragged himself to his feet and went on the march home.
So hungry that he trembled, he stepped into the bounds of his village. His father received him with a worried gaze. No questions were asked until his son had eaten the stew of the day and taken a seat by the fireplace to warm up. Only when his wellbeing was secured, did the father ask of his heir, “What did you learn?”
“I learned that money is worth nothing in the city,” the son answered.
“It is worth less, not nothing,” the father tempered his son’s mind. “They have more of it than us and their abundance comes at a cost. What else did you learn?”
“No one trusts one another,” the son answered.
“The people do not trust strangers. When three wanderers enter our tavern, we do not trust them outright either. Understand that the city is too large for all to know one another. They trust who they do know.”
“It stinks.”
“That it does.” The father chuckled.
“They are rich but they are poor, the differences are stark, so much starker than here.”
“Those that wish to become rich venture to the city. Those that do not make it are stuck in a place where the only work to be done is work for other people, and there are the few that won and the many that wish to win,” the father explained.
“I understand the roots now, father.”
“No, son, you understand the bark. Not even I understand the roots, for that would require to live in the city. It is a different tree from ours and we graft ourselves to it with consequences we cannot understand.”
“So we should never deal with the city?” the son asked, now listening to his father’s wisdom earnestly.
“We can choose as little to interact with the city as we can choose when the sun rises. We have our roots to tend. They can be understood.”
The son nodded and followed the example of his father for the years to come. He learned of the way of the farmer and the tanner and the baker, to understand what his people needed. When the fated day came that his father passed away, all knew that the new baron would be a great one.
The city continued to advance, its outskirts spreading as its wealth continued to grow. Soon, the leaders of the city approached the new baron, promising him great riches in return for permits to use his land. The young baron, however, negotiated a different deal. The city needed more than houses alone. The baron assured that grain could be sold to the city.
The village grew wealthy off this trade, a wealth that the baron cautioned against spending unwisely. They remade the well, they redid the houses, they invested the money they had into items that would last.
One day, the trade route dried up and the city fell into a deep depression. Rich and poor turned on each other for the scraps of wealth, as the city turned into a ghost town. The village, too, did suffer, but they still had their roots. Their farms were there, their houses theirs, and they returned to a humbler life without any pains.
And so the village remained.
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“…Huh, that was every bit as interesting as I was led to believe,” Lulu said. “You just pull that out of your hat?”
“I try not to think and then just say what feels right intuitively.” John scratched the back of his head. Telling these stories often had the side effect of making him feel overly self-conscious. Luckily that only happened after he was done with it. “It’s a bit of an exercise of presenting my own unconscious biases by telling a story that has no narrative arc designed from the outset.”
“Ya don’t like cities,” Rave pointed out.
“I, indeed, do not,” John agreed swiftly.
“Not like it was that complex,” Momo said. “Nice fairy tale about knowing what things are about before you join them and of listening to your elders.”
“I wonder what the fox was about…?” Daiyu muttered.
The fairy maid nodded. “That is the only-“
“D-d-d-did I think that out loud?!”
“-open question,” Momo finished.
“Well, you are welcome to discuss that… once we have endured the usual,” John said.
A teddy bear seated on a table had just risen to its feet.
Comments
FluffyButt Sr.
I wonder if this is another accidental precognition.
Banric
and so the braiding begins
