Moments in a Lifetime

by Gustauve

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, Drama, Mrs. Cake, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Other, Mr. Cake
Length: 10398

To those whom he considers a friend, he's simply known as Spitzer. But his past will always remain as such - the past. Chapter 2: Spitzer witnesses a Christmas Miracle.

For most of his adult life, he'd gone by the name of Spitzer. An apt name, really. It was what his friends called him, and really it was what he preferred to go by anyways. But thirty years ago he'd gone by another name - a name given to him from birth and one that he was more than glad to have destroyed and buried. But without Silver Spurs there would be no Spitzer. After all a man is shaped by his childhood, and the childhood of Silver Spurs was... interesting, for lack of a better word.

These are but a few of the seminal moments within the life of Silver Spurs - a pony who just didn't feel at home within the town of Ponyville... or any place, for that matter.

Chapter 1: The Strange Child Dreams.
Silver Spurs dreams of a life outside of his hometown.

Chapter 2: Silent Night, Holy Night.
Spitzer experiences what amounts to a Christmas Miracle during a bloody war.

Published 2016-07-04 15:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2016-12-25 01:07:14 UTC

The Strange Child Dreams

Ponyville. God Almighty, how he hated Ponyville. It wasn’t a deep personal sort of hate – no – it was the sort of hate that slowly eats at the back of the mind; a hatred born and bred from familiarity and an apathy so deep that it ventured into the realm of disgust. From a very early age Silver Spurs had grown to resent the town of his birth. He could never point to anything definite; it was just something about the town and the people who lived in it.

Mind you, he would be the first to point out that he was far from normal himself; from the start he’d understood that there was something off about his demeanor. He seldom ever partook in the sort of activities the other children did – running around with friends, dancing and singing, having adventures and enjoying the bright sunny days of youth. Such frippery was not for the likes of Silver Spurs.

Instead he’d often keep to himself – skulking amidst the untrodden places, always listening to what was said but never speaking in turn unless absolutely necessary. A frown seemed to perpetually mar his face; his eyes always holding a gleam of cynical skepticism as he surveyed the world around him. As for adventures and the revelry of childhood, well, the young colt was more at peace reading books about distant lands and foreign peoples than he’d ever been while interacting with those around him.

Why was he this way? He didn’t know. Perhaps his dysfunctional household had something to do with it? His parents were far from pleasant – his mother, in particular, was a monstrous tyrant behind closed doors. His father wasn’t much better; the man was a shiftless louse with no higher aspirations and a penchant for hiding within his work to escape his reality. Silver Spurs could openly admit to himself that he held little, if any, affection for his progenitors.

And if he were honest with himself (which he always was), he could clearly see his own strangeness; no normal child would have such dismal thoughts and opinions of the world. Were that it was only he who understood this ultimate truth there would be little issue. Sadly, this was not so. Ponyville has always been a tightknit community where everyone knows everyone, and little remains hidden for long. It was glaringly apparent to a growing number of both children and adult that there was something very wrong about ‘Golden Ledger and Petunia’s boy’.

It never really bothered him that many people saw him as odd or unusual. In fact, he often found that he preferred it when the other children were told to stay away from him. Still, he couldn’t quite snuff out the tiny ember of resentment for the townspeople who whispered about him as he passed by. They thought he couldn’t hear them, or understand what they were saying, but he did. He had become well acquainted with such terms as ‘weirdo’, ‘freak’, ‘monster’ and ‘psychopath’.

His parents were a different matter. Always, it seemed, was he berated for being who he was by his mother. She would accuse him of such petty things as deliberately trying to sabotage her standing within the community, of making her an object of ridicule amongst her peers. At the same time, his father would attempt to have unnecessary and oftentimes awkward conversations to try and understand why he was ‘acting up’. He resented them all the more for it.

The children weren’t much better. Many would taunt him mercilessly for his perceived oddness – often they would try to make him feel excluded and isolated from their ranks. It never bothered him. He found that he could never relate to his peers. To him, the other children were strange creatures who seemed to frolic about in their ignorance, content to simply exist without understanding why things were the way they were. They were loud, opinionated and capricious beings who seemed more and more hollow as time went on.

No, none of these things truly bothered him. None could claim to be the root of his cold, impersonal hatred. Strangely enough, that title ultimately went to a much more esoteric but altogether more impassible concept. What it all came down to was the notion of what it meant to be a pony; a rather complicated abstraction that no child should be attempting to contemplate. Yet contemplate it he did. And the more he partook to understand his self, the more he grew to hate what he was.

After all, what was a pony but a bestial creature that sought entitlement to its lot simply by existing? For time immemorial ponies have followed little else but their own whims, driven in part but a notion that their calling in life was predestined, and that they need not go beyond what they felt made them who they were. Ponies forsook their individuality for the sake of a collective that held no greater aspiration than to simply exist.

And at the top of it all stood the Alicorn, Celestia - a being of near godlike power who ruled over all who would call themselves ponies by right of her own power. Power derived from its own substance – a tyranny without equal that will continue to exist because none question its authority or the authorship thereof. The more he thought of it, the more he hated. He could not comprehend how others could live with such an existence, and so he could never truly be like others of his own kind…

The sun was setting. He’d spent most of the day exploring fringes of the Everfree Forest, lost in his own thoughts. Time had gotten away from him. He knew that his mother would be furious with him for coming home both late and covered in dirt; she would more than likely not allow him to eat dinner for this. This didn’t bother him. He was nothing if not tactful. So it was that, as he made his way from the forest and into the town, he came to a stop outside the local bakery – “Sugar Cube Corner”.

Stepping past the threshold of the establishment, the young colt was met with the familiar smell of baked bread and warm cinnamon that seemed to permeate the very air. The late in the day, there were only a few customers, and most simply chose to ignore him. As he waited in line, he casually observed that the proprietary family’s young son, Carrot Cake, was working the register this evening.

This was advantageous for Silver Spurs. Unlike most people, Carrot Cake did not treat him as a pariah; the older boy seemed to hold a genuine interest his well-being, often times going out of his way to be kind to the child that others seemed to avoid and spur at all costs. Silver Spurs appreciated this on some level; he did not dislike Carrot Cake. However, he could not claim to personally care that much about the older boy either. Ambivalence would be an apt word to describe how he felt.

Still he would be cordial as always to one of the few people who treated him with a modicum of respect. As it stood it was now his turn to place an order. As he stepped forward, Carrot looked up, putting forth a genuine smile upon recognizing the young colt before him. With a wave of his hoof, he happily exclaimed, “Well, hello Silver Spurs, how are you doing this evening?”

With only a light frown, Silver Spurs sternly replied, “I’m well enough, though I appreciate your asking.”

Grinning with delight, Carrot Cake then asked, “I guess you’re here for some food, huh?”

Again, the younger stallion showed little emotion as he answered back, “There will be no dinner for me tonight – so I’ll make do with what I can.”

With a nod of understanding, Carrot went straight to business and asked, “So, what’ll it be?”

Without skipping a beat Silver Spurs evenly replied, “I will take a half a loaf of barley bread, please.”

With a chipper salute, the older boy exclaimed, “A half loaf of barley, coming right up!”

As the young stallion turned away to prepare the order, Silver Spurs absentmindedly noted that a young mare was staring at Carrot Cake from across the room. He objectively understood the look of longing in her eyes to be affection; the dull hatred that gnawed at the back of his mind simply noted it with a cold cynicism. The girl was obviously smitten with the older boy, and if the subtle glances Carrot was sending back to her were any indication, it seemed the feelings were reciprocated.

Still he couldn’t help but feel slightly disgusted by it all. He knew it was a natural process. He understood what lead to it and where it eventually lead to if undisturbed. Still, there was a part of him that found the whole thing to be, well, pointless. All it ever lead to was a continuation of the condition that afflicted all of them. They would not change, they could not change. Still, it was something that could never be stopped, and so he did the next best thing by putting it out of his mind altogether.

From there, he took note of the smell of baking barley. Barley was not his favorite. In fact, he could go so far as to say that he disliked barley bread. However, it was cheap, and in the end it was ultimately a form of sustenance that would keep him going for another day. He wondered once more at the banality of his existence. It truly was staggering how disconnected he felt from it all. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last time, he wondered if maybe he had been born in the wrong time and place.
His thoughts were broken by Carrot Cake's cheerful voice as he exclaimed, “Here you go, Silver Spurs – a half loaf of barley, as requested; that’ll be four bits!”

Casting a despondent glare at the meager bag of currency he possessed, Silver Spurs dejectedly muttered, “I’m afraid all I have are three bits; I’m sorry for wasting your time, Carrot Cake.” He then turned about and headed towards the exit, fully accepting the fact that he would go to bed hungry.

Before he could get very far, however, his attention was drawn once more to Carrot Cake as he said, “Now hold on there – there’s no need to leave! I’m sure I can cut you a deal here!”

Placing a hoof upon his chin, Carrot Cake silently contemplated for a few moments before smiling and pointing at the younger boy, saying, “How about this; I’ll give you the barley for three bits and I’ll put the last bit in from my own pocket – does that sound like a deal?”

With narrowing eyes, Silver Spurs asked in suspicion, “That sounds very good for me, but what do you get out of it?”

With a look of playfulness, Carrot Cake eagerly replied, “Why, the satisfaction of knowing that someone doesn’t go to bed hungry tonight!”

Casting a dubious gaze first at Carrot Cake, and then at the preferred loaf of bread, Silver Spurs took a few seconds to weigh his options before finally responding, “Very well, I’ll agree to that.”

And so, the bits were exchanged for bread, and Silver Spurs left quickly for home, already cramming the barley loaf into his mouth and chewing furiously; there was no sense in letting his mother know that he’d circumvented her impending punishment.

From within the Sugar Cube Corner, the mare who’d been silently watching everything unfold finally approached the counter and candidly spoke with Carrot Cake, saying, “You know, if your dad finds out that you’re giving food at a discount to the kid, he’s gonna be really angry.”

With a slight frown, Carrot Cake responded, “I don’t care, Cup; it’s not right the way people treat him – I’m not about to let him go hungry just because he's a little different from everyone else.”

The mare smiled at that – she had always adored the compassion that Carrot Cake exhibited for all people…

Later that night, Silver Spurs sat awake in his room. His mother had indeed yelled at him for being late. And she had indeed forbidden him from eating. This didn't bother him. At night, he was free to do what he truly loved doing; reading of faraway peoples and faraway places. He had only recently procured a book from the local library, one entitled “History of the Feline Unification Wars”. What he read not only fascinated him, it stirred something deep within his soul.

Out there, beyond the desert wastes of the west, was a land of people who fought and died for what they believed was theirs. A place where a man could chose his own destiny, where one’s life wasn’t set in stone because of some mark on their flank. Out there was a vast wilderness of unknown hardships and dangers – a place where empires clashed and men proved their worth. This land called to him like a siren’s song. And it was this place that he would soon fall into dreams of as he whispered its name before sleep overtook him.

“Vorosh.”

Silent Night, Holy Night

The razor cold, midnight chill of the midwinter air cut deep through the mountainside; a whipping curtain of snow and ice cast its frigid pallor across the landscape. A thick grey haze of luminescence clung richly to the frozen mud as the light of the fully waxed moon reflected against the winter frost that even now stretched across the mud of the broken no-man’s-land that was the northern reaches of Kalnasšalis[1].

It was here, in what many referred to as the Hügelland, that a bloody war has raged for nearly two years; a conflict the likes of which hasn’t been seen in ten generations. Great swaths of land which had once been verdant and lush now lay scarred and blackened by the constant stream of death and destruction wrought down upon it; where there had once been majestic forests and fertile farmlands there now stood burnt and broken fields of lifeless craters.

And all along the horizon, for as far as the eye could see, a line of deep and miserable trenches cut across this once beautiful landscape like great jagged sutures upon a corpse. The falling snow did little to hide the ugliness of it all – if nothing else it merely seemed to accentuate the wretchedness of it all as the frigid ground slowly grew into an ashen mire of mud and soot-stained slurry. This was the face of a war that only grew more horrid as the days progressed.

From time to time, as the winds settle into a momentary lapse of calmness, the flickering glint of firelight could be seen all along the trenches. It was around one of these myriad fires that a group of Voroshian soldiers desperately huddled in a bid to ward off the deathly cold that seemed content to slowly strangle the life from their very bones. The crackling embers of molten flame cast its smoldering glow upon a score-fold faces.

One of these faces belonged to a recently promoted Equestrian ex-patriot – a weapons specialist first class by the name of Spitzer. Covered in a wind-beaten tarp and looking for all of the world a picture of perfect misery, he did little more than stare despondently into the shimmering flames of the fire. Huddled next to him sat the massive, bandaged figure of Hauptmann Hermann Kuhn; a forlorn look of sadness covering what little of his face could be seen through the soiled linen strips that so tightly wrapped him.

Like so many of the others around them, both Spitzer and Hermann had grown increasingly depressed over the situation they had found themselves in. When the war had first started all of two years ago, spirits had been high. The armies of the Reich had come to aid the beleaguered Melesian[2] army as it fought to hold back the whelming aggressions of the Boar King’s[3] host. It was supposed to be a simple affair – the Reich would help to beat the Boars all the way back to Kiauliniaikrūva[4]. They’d be back home in time for Christmas!

That had been two years ago. Things had not played out as expected. Instead of a quick and easy fight, things had become bogged down in a long series of brutal exchanges across the mountainous northern hill country; a situation which had only grown worse as both sides began to dig in. And now for a second time Christmas had come. And still there had been no change to this whole terrible war. It seems that once again they would be far away from home this Christmas.

The sudden echo of a ghastly sneeze woke many from their bleak thoughts. Spitzer finally tore his distant gaze away from the fire as he caught sight of the shivering perpetrator of the sound – a shivering Ferret who even now rubbed furiously at his nose.

From somewhere around the fire a soldier quietly pronounced, “Gesundheit.”

With a long drawn out snuffle, the Ferret gave an appreciative nod as he responded in saying, “Dank Sie.”

The ensuing silence was only briefly interrupted by the occasional cough or sniffle. From time to time the wind would pick back up, an eerie moan tinging the night air as the vespers ran across the mountainous hills and valleys. Overhead, the clouds seemed to simply vanish. In their place there now shown a hundred-million stars; their uncountable multitude casting a breath-taking midnight blue across the whole of the earth as they hung like diamonds behind the moon!

At the magnificent spectacle that unfolded above them, Hermann Kuhn could only marvel as his breath physically caught within his own throat. He was not alone. All along the whole of the front line, untold thousands of men on both sides looked up and marveled at so beautiful a display. For Hermann, it brought to mind the words of his grandfather (who had been a minister for some twenty-five years); “One need only look up to see the majesty of God at work.”

Visions of his grandfather – indeed his whole family – passed unbidden before his eyes as the floodgates of his memories opened wide. He could remember the first time he’d learned about Christmas; the candlelit sermons that spoke of a truly magical event that changed the whole of the world – a story of love in its truest and highest form. Unbeknownst to him, a smile had quickly blossomed upon his face as he celebrated within his heart.

From beside him, Spitzer took note of said smile and could scarcely contain his curmudgeonly tone as he demanded,

“What are you so happy about, Kuhn?”

Snapping out of his self-reflection, Hermann was only mildly alarmed at the many looks he was now receiving from all around the fire pit. With a sheepish look that seemed so out of place on the face of one who was so large, the gauze-enshrouded Maine Coon quietly answered with a question of his own as he asked,

“Why shouldn’t I be smiling? It is Christmas after all.”

A few of his fellow soldiers smiled at this. Others simply turned to stare once more at the night sky. Still, others seemed to grow solemn at the reminder of the season – no doubt their thoughts were turned to friends and family whom they would once again miss seeing this holiday. However, there were a tiny few who seemed to grow sullen at the reminder – with Spitzer being chief among them.

With a frown that bordered upon sneering, the Pony derisively exclaimed, “I fail to see how that improves our situation as it stands.”

From across the fire, a Lynx sveltely spoke in a purring voice,“That’s what Kuhn’s trying to say – we ought to be celebrating the fact that there is a Christmas, see?”

Cocking a brow at the Lynx’s words, Spitzer softly whickered in slight annoyance. In response to his look, a Horned Toad by the name of Ezekiel Gjunt leaned forward as he genuinely wondered aloud, “You do know what Christmas is about, don’t you?”

At the reptile’s inquiry, Spitzer looked down – apparently finding it much easier to simply glare at his own feet – before defensively muttered, “Yes, I know what it’s about; where I was a grew up in Equestria, we just called it Hearth's Warming Eve."

As a side note he added, "I’m not some heathen burning yule logs to a winter spirit, if that's what you're insinuating.”

Someone to his right then exclaimed, “Really, Herr Ross!? I never took you to be the sort that would believe in such silly things!”

Turning to stare the rather young Calico in the eye, the Destrier Pony reproachfully retorted, “I would not presume to think that believing in the supernatural should be considered a mark of ignorance, Herr Blauage.”

With a lighthearted chuckle, young Ernst Blauage raised his paws in a conciliatory gesture as he openly exclaimed, “Of course, of course; my apologies, Herr Spitzer – I had simply assumed that, like myself, you would find that sort of thing hard to swallow – I hold no disrespect towards believers of such things; I just don’t believe that sort of stuff is all.”

A few of the men who sat around the fire nodded in silent agreement. A majority, however, seemed to feel as Spitzer did, and some even voiced as much.

All discussions instantly ceased at the distant thunder of mortar fire that broke through the night. For a few tense seconds there was a macabre sort of anticipation between them all – a notion that any second now they would be reduced to little more than ash and cinders. It wasn’t until the incandescent glare of a white phosphorus flare some five kilometers to the west hissed to life that the collective tension seemed to leave them all.

One of the men softly muttered to themselves, “It’s just a Phosflare[5]; the pigs are probably just looking for their wounded, is all.”

Having thrown another log upon the fire, Hermann was set to continue the prior conversation on matters of faith until he caught a glimpse of the flare as it made its ethereal descent through the snowy night skies. Like a scene straight out of the Book itself, the flare became like the Star of old in his mind’s eye.

As it hovered in the air, its light catching across the numberless flakes of snow and ice, the flare seemed to grow in its intensity – the night became all but daylight beneath its dazzling splendor! He was not the only one to be mesmerized by the cascading light; whispers of awe and disbelief rose up unbidden from the lips of his comrades. In fact, unknown to him or anyone else for that matter, a similar reaction was being felt for kilometers around on either side!

In the distance there came a sweet and gentle sound. It was subtle at first – like a murmur carried across the wind, soft and gentle. But soon it grew into the distinctive resonance of a song that only grew in stature and strength. The collective singing of countless hundreds of voices soon permeated the air in a clear and harmonious timbre as the heart and spirit of those who sang gave life and power to a song that even now Hermann could tell was both ancient and powerful.

Veni veni, Emmanuel
captivum solve Israel,
qui gemit in exsilio,
privatus Dei Filio.
Gaude! Gaude! Emmanuel,
nascetur pro te Israel!

As if in a trance, one of the soldiers breathily asked, “Where is it coming from?”

Another whispered, “It’s beautiful – what language is that?”

Still, another soldier who seemed less enthralled by the sweet refrain stonily replied, “It’s Melesco[6]; sounds like the Badgers are having a little celebration of their own tonight.”

With a start, Spitzer exclaimed, “The nearest Melesian detachment is nearly a kilometer west of us; they’ve got to be singing at the top of their lungs for us to hear them this far out!”

Veni, O Sapientia,
quae hic disponis omnia,
veni, viam prudentiae
ut doceas et gloriae.
Gaude! Gaude! Emmanuel,
nascetur pro te Israel!

With a frown of concern, Ernst Blauauge muttered, “That’s an awfully easy way to wind up being a target around here; if the Pigs have any common sense at all, they’ll be calling down a mortar strike any minute now.”

At his blunt statement, several of the less experienced soldiers subconsciously grabbed ahold of their weaponry and prepared for the worst. From his higher vantage, Spitzer peered into the illuminated darkness as his ears stood at alert.

Veni, veni O Oriens,
solare nos adveniens,
noctis depelle nebulas,
dirasque mortis tenebras.
Gaude! Gaude! Emmanuel,
nascetur pro te Israel!

As the chorus finally died away; as the gliding, ephemeral flare that so brightened the bleak midwinter night began to fade into darkness – there was only the sound of silence left to stand. The wailing of the wind and the biting chill of the icy air was all but ignored as the tension of expectations began to rise. But then, like a knife tearing through the veil there rang out a most unexpected noise! It was neither the echoing rumble of mortar-fire, nor was it the ringing bark of a ribault[7]. Instead, it was more singing!

Vai atvažiuoja lėlių Kalėda
Lėlių Kalėda Kalėda!

Auksiniais ratais šilkų botagais
Lėlių Kalėda Kalėda!

Vai ir atveža mergom prausylų
Lėlių Kalėda Kalėda!

Baffled looks of surprise were exchanged between comrades as the deep and hearty – near bellicose – choir of foreign voices grew.

With a mystified laugh, a thoroughly bemused Calico by the name of Renni Stimpfurt exclaimed, “Are they for real!?”

He was not alone in that sentiment, for if what they were hearing were true, then it would seem that no small number of Boars from across the way had taken to singing their own Christmas carol!

Mergom prausylų balto muilalio
Lėlių Kalėda Kalėda!

Atkelk tėveli vario vartelius
Lėlių Kalėda Kalėda!

Inlaisk tėvuli ant didzio dvaro
Lėlių Kalėda Kalėda!

Tai nusiprausiu tai balta būsiu
Lėlių Kalėda Kalėda!

Tai pasrėdysiu, tai graži būsiu
Lėlių Kalėda Kalėda!

Vo kai nuveisiu in jaunimėlį
Lėlių Kalėda Kalėda!

As if by some primordial magic, the moon chose that very moment to cut through blackness of the night. Like a brilliant white dove, the soft luminescence rained downward from the sky, whereupon its transcendental rays gently set to rest upon a hill in the middle of no-man’s-land. As the radiant shaft bled into the whipping snow, a pale glow of milky-white light spread across the inky empyrean. And there upon the hill, beneath this refulgent glory, stood a massive Spruce Tree – tall and unbroken!

While this in itself should have been sensational enough (that a lone tree could conceivably remain standing in a region where bombed out craters and smoldering black earth were both widespread and ubiquitous), the fact that this one standing Spruce was not only untouched and untarnished, but that it had maintained a lustrous green sheen upon its verdant abundance of needles was tantamount to a miracle! And to the eyes of all who beheld it, this tree was indeed a miracle!

The singing of the Boars had quickly faded away. It seemed that for just a brief moment, the hearts and minds of all those who beheld this most wondrous of sights were touched by something greater than themselves. And then, as if having woken from a dream, a loud chorus began to sing out from all directions. The song was as divergent as it was widespread, carried as it was upon the tongues of thousands of voices and in a half-dozen discernible languages!

From somewhere to the east, Spitzer could discern the mellifluous echo of an old Sangrocósian carol that seemed to dance upon the wind itself. He was soon startled by the voices of those Horned Toads who took up watch around the fire pit (foremost among them being Ezekiel Gjunt, whose spine-tingling soprano seemed to pierce the Destrier Pony’s heart) as they began to sing in an eerie synchronicity.

Riu, riu, chiu
la guarda ribera!
Dios guardó el lobo
de nuestra cordera!
Dios guardó el lobo
de nuestra cordera!

El lobo rabioso
la quiso morder!
Mas Dios Poderoso
la supo defender!
Quizo la hacer que
no pudiese pecar!
Ni aun original
esta virgen no tuviera!

Riu, riu, chiu
la guarda ribera!
Dios guardó el lobo
de nuestra cordera!
Dios guardó el lobo
de nuestra cordera!

From further west there was likewise a choral strain that weaved and danced across the cold starry skies – the sweet vibrato of the Melesian dialect carried upon it the resonant tincture of joy and celebration that so characterized the season!

Gaudete, gaudete! Christus est natus
Ex Maria virgine, gaudete!

Tempus adest gratiæ
Hoc quod optabamus,
Carmina lætitiæ
Devote reddamus.

Gaudete, gaudete! Christus est natus
Ex Maria virgine, gaudete!

Deus homo factus est
Natura mirante,
Mundus renovatus est
A Christo regnante.

Gaudete, gaudete! Christus est natus
Ex Maria virgine, gaudete!

From the south there arose once more the boisterous harmonization of the Boars as they too decided to partake in the celebratory medley that had so incongruously arisen. The sharpness of their tongue and the gleefulness of their voices so savagely punctured the night air that it sounded almost as if they were only a handful of meters away!

Aisim, bernai kalėdaut, kalėda.
Želk želmuo po žirgeliu, kalėda.
Katrie greiti šunų vaikyt, kalėda.
Katrie stiprūs terbų nešiot, kalėda.
Katrie drąsūs duonos prašyt, kalėda.

Spitzer nearly jumped out of his skin when one of the Ferrets sitting a mere meter to his left (Gefreiter Mathias Holker, if he remembered correctly) suddenly burst out into a song of his own! It didn’t take long for several others to join along, and with his acute hearing, the startled pony could even hear the voices of other squads from up and down the front lines as they too took up the call. While the words were familiar to him, he himself refrained from joining in, of only due to his bemusement;

Es ist ein Ros entsprungen,
aus einer Wurzel zart,
wie uns die Alten sungen,
von Jesse war die Art
Und hat ein Blümlein bracht
mitten im kalten Winter,
wohl zu der halben Nacht.

Yet even as so many of his fellow soldiers began to sing, he could still hear many others who sang their own songs. In fact, as it were, Ernst Blauage – an avowed atheist – surprised many when he too burst into song! As with before, several of the others (and indeed an untold score from all around them) picked up on it as they joined in the carol;

Still, still, still,
weil's Kindlein schlafen will!
Die Engel tun schön jubilieren,
Bei dem Kripplein musizieren.
Stille, stille, stille,
Weil's Kindlein schlafen will.

Further afield, a different tune was carried over the broken fields as a multitude of voices sang out;

Süßer die Glocken nie klingen
Als zu der Weihnachtszeit.
S’ist als ob Engelein singen
Wieder von Frieden und Freud’,
Wie sie gesungen in seliger Nacht,
Wie sie gesungen in seliger Nacht,
Glocken mit heiligem Klang,
Klinget die Erde entlang!

All around him, Spitzer could hear the sweet refrains of nigh on dozens of venerated hymns and choruses – the spirit of Christmas made manifest!

Este que es nascido
es El Gran Monarca!
Cristo Patriarca
de carne vestido!
Ha nos redimido
con se hacer chiquito!
Aunque era infinito
finito se hiciera!

Riu, riu, chiu
la guarda ribera!
Dios guardó el lobo
de nuestra cordera!
Dios guardó el lobo
de nuestra cordera!

Geria mergos saldų midų, kalėda
Moterukės alų geria, kalėda
O vyreliai arielkėlę, kalėda
O berneliai smalą geria, kalėda

Schlaf, schlaf, schlaf,
Mein liebes Kindlein, schlaf!
Maria tut dich niedersingen
Und ihr treues Herz darbringen.
Schlaf, schlaf, schlaf,
Mein liebes Kindlein, schlaf!

Gaudete, gaudete! Christus est natus
Ex Maria virgine, gaudete!

Ezechielis porta
Clausa pertransitur,
Unde lux est orta
Salus invenitur.

Gaudete, gaudete! Christus est natus
Ex Maria virgine, gaudete!

Oh, wenn die Glocken erklingen,
Schnell sie das Christkindlein hört.
Tut sich vom Himmel dann schwingen,
Eilet hernieder zur Erd’.
Segnet den Vater, die Mutter, das Kind.
Segnet den Vater, die Mutter, das Kind.
Glocken mit heiligem Klang,
Klinget die Erde entlang!

Veni, veni, Adonai,
qui populo in Sinai
legem dedisti vertice
in maiestate gloriae.
Gaude! Gaude! Emmanuel,
nascetur pro te Israel!

Das Blümelein, so kleine,
das duftet uns so süß,
mit seinem hellen Scheine
vertreibt's die Finsternis.
Wahr Mensch und wahrer Gott,
hilft uns aus allem Leide,
rettet von Sünd und Tod.

Overhead, the wisping trail of refulgent light given off by the flare began to wane. The wind began to slowly pick back up, and with it came the biting chill of the merciless winter cold. But even as last of the flare’s light faded into nothingness, the moon continued to poor out its radiant soul upon that silent hill where stood the lone tree. The heavens were now out in full force, and the stars of the whole of the night sky cast a midnight blue blanket of awe inspiring beauty that brought the voices to a slow and reverent pause.

Even as the wind picked up, the overarching silence was something to wonder at. The still of the moonlit sky and the twinkling of the distant stars seemed to watch on in silent reverie. All eyes were focused upon the splendid Spruce; its ice-laden branches glistening and sparkling as they caught the ghostly reflection of a billion distant suns. The shadow of its boughs seemed to cut forth from the lunar light that cast its beauteous rays across its greenery; the flicker of snow as it passed through the light bleeding into a glittering aura that made the great tree seem almost otherworldly.

None dared to move; not one man could move – so transfixing was the spell of this tree. The gentle howl of the wind even seemed to humble itself. The sudden crunch of snow beneath treaded boots startled Sptizer (and indeed everyone who sat around the fire pit) to jump as if he’d been burnt. All eyes of the group turned collectively to stare at the towering, bandaged figure of Hermann Kuhn as he slowly rose to full height.

Grabbing hold of a makeshift crutch, the Maine Coon slowly hobbled towards the squad’s supply bag. When he reached the great canvas container, he silently began to rummage through its contents.

Looks of confusion were traded both left and right before one of the men (the Lynx from before) softly whispered, “Herr Kuhn, what are you doing?”

Hermann, for his own part, remained quiet as he continued to look for something.

Quickly growing worried for his new friend, Spitzer rose from his haunches and was prepared to walk over and attempt to console the large Cat. However, he never got the chance; with a relived chuff, Hermann finally produced from the bag what he’d been searching for: a carton of utility candles and a box of long-stemmed storm matches[8]. Then, without any prompting, rhyme, or reason, the massive feline turned aside and slowly climbed out of the trench pit, stopping any and all of the frantic attempts by his comrades to make him stay put.

With an incredulous look, one Ernst Blauauge sharply whispered, “That crazy bastard is going to get himself killed!”

Likewise, Spitzer whispered, “Hermann – Hermann, come back – it’s not safe out in the open!”

Ignoring the calls and warnings of his comrades, Hermann Kuhn walked boldly (if somewhat shakily upon his crutch) into the open expanse that was no-man’s-land. With every step he took, he silently trusted his safety into the hands of the God who he believed watched over him even now. The drumroll of crunching snow that he made as he walked seemed to echo across the empty expanse. As his ears twisted to and fro, he could discern the whispering of voices as his actions drew more and more attention to himself.

Taking a moment to catch his balance, it took monumental effort for him to swallow the lump that had suddenly become lodged within his throat. He could hear them – the Boars. They were speaking in hushed tones to one another; he couldn’t understand their language, but he had the horrifying notion that they might be trying to decide who would shoot at him first with one of their horrible bolt-casters[9]. He had to suppress a shiver of terror at that notion.

But strangely enough, as the minutes passed, as the unbowed tree grew closer and closer with every step he took – nothing happened. There were no shots fired, no mortars brought to bear – there was only the whispering of many voices and the beating rhythm of his heart. And so it was that he was now only a handful of meters away from his destination, ascending this unspoiled hillside that the moon still cast in its gaze.

With a final prayer to the Lord, Hermann took hold of the matchbox he’d procured before withdrawing a single stave from its hold. His heartrate skyrocketed as a number of surprised shouts and indiscernible words filled the air. No doubt they thought he was holding some sort of explosive. Coming to within a few steps of the verdant Spruce tree, he gave a final shuddering breath before closing his eyes and striking the storm match against the box.

The snapping hiss of heated air; the acrid tang of Sulphur and Lead – the match exploded into a bloom of hot white flame. Winnowing tendrils of smoke and Nitre weaved and webbed upwards as the moonlight wrapped them into its embrace. With his eyes still closed, Hermann slowly produced a single candle from its carton. With a deep breath of courage, he quickly brought the match towards the wick. Then, to the surprise of most everyone watching, he began to sing.

Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht,
Alles schläft; einsam wacht
Nur das traute hochheilige Paar.
Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh.
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh.

Though his baritone voice was more than a little shaky, the words carried themselves like a thunderclap. On both sides there arose a sensation not unlike a waking dream. As one they all watched as this seemingly insane Feline began to hold the lit candle aloft before applying the match towards its end. When the wax began to melt into steaming rivulets of opalescent liquid, the Cat removed the match before adhering the candle to a low hanging branch. Still, the Maine Coon sang on.

Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht,
Gottes Sohn, o wie lacht
Lieb' aus deinem göttlichen Mund,
Da uns schlägt die rettende Stund'.
Jesus in deiner Geburt!
Jesus in deiner Geburt!

This time there was no hesitation, no hitching of breath or trembling lips. No – this time the voice rang loud and true. Another candle was lit. Another candle was affixed to a branch. Then another was lit and placed, followed yet by more and more. All around them the wind began to still, as if it too had stopped to listen. All watched as the last stick of wax was lit and placed by this strange soldier who wandered across an open killing field with no more than a match and a song.

Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Die der Welt Heil gebracht,
Aus des Himmels goldenen Höhn,
Uns der Gnaden Fülle läßt sehn,
Jesum in Menschengestalt!
Jesum in Menschengestalt!

There was a very marked brightness to the man’s singing; a sense of joy that was tangible. And it was a joy that seemed to pierce the hearts of many men as here and there, along the trenches of both sides, soldiers from many nations and races began to leave their foxholes and dugouts. Armed with nothing but candles and matches of their own, these few men slowly made their way towards the tree, just as Hermann had done. But what truly struck many on both sides was that this song was familiar to them, and that they could sing it in their own tongues! So it was that the solo became a choir as their voices sang out!

Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Wo sich heut alle Macht
Väterlicher Liebe ergoß,
Und als Bruder huldvoll umschloß
Jesus die Völker der Welt!
Jesus die Völker der Welt!

Slowly but surely, the trickle of approaching soldiers went from handfuls of men, growing into whole groups as they began to add their own voices into the overarching song. Men from Meles sang in their own language alongside soldiers from Kröteland[10], who in turn harmonized with men from Firbenjord[11], Frettchenstaat[12] and Sangrocós[13]. Cats from Voroshland[14] sang side by side with the warriors of Kalnasšalis and mercenaries from Kípon'gi[15]. Even Spitzer found himself singing in his native Equestrian language as he finally made his own way towards the growing mass of celebration.

Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Lange schon uns bedacht,
Als der Herr vom Grimme befreit
In der Väter urgrauer Zeit
Aller Welt Schonung verhieß!
Aller Welt Schonung verhieß!

Men began helping one another to ascend ever higher into branches of the tree, so that they too might add their own light to this grand vision! And when there were no more branches on which to lay a candle, many men simply held their light closely unto their bosom. Would that one could see it from above, they would have beheld a great wheel of flickering lights that swayed in joyous rapture around a mighty Tannenbaum arrayed in gold and pearlescent radiance!

Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Hirten erst kundgemacht
Durch der Engel Alleluja,
Tönt es laut bei Ferne und Nah:
"Christ der Retter ist da!"
"Christ der Retter ist da!"

The song had ended, but the rapture of the moment had not. For indeed, many men from both sides had come to see their foes in a different light. For some, where once there had been the faceless enemy that they’d been taught to hate and fear, there was now the realization of a fellow believer. For others, the love of the season was common ground on which to stand. Still, many others had simply grown weary of fighting for reasons they could no longer remember nor justify.

Such was the case that had befallen Hermann Kuhn. Leaning upon his crutch, he had taken to watching the tide of celebrating men with a sense of forlorn hope. In his heart he wished for the war to end now on such a high note of common brotherhood. But in his mind he knew that what was happening here could only ever be temporary – fleeting even. He understood the realities of what the next day would bring.

He was startled from his morose thoughts by a deep and graveling voice, tinged by an accent he’d come to recognize as Kalbasi[16], which spoke, saying, “What injustice this is, that we cannot end the fighting here and now.”

The Katzsprache[17] was near flawless; Hermann was tempted to even believe that it had been spoken by a fellow Feline. But he knew better - even before he turned to lay his eyes upon a monster of a Boar covered in iron plates[18] and bright red face paint[19].

Like him, the Boar was wrapped in gauze bandages. Like him, the Boar was leaning heavily upon an improvised crutch. And like him, this Boar shared the same sentiment as he.

With a sigh, Hermann finally responded, saying, “Yes, it is; this war has made me weary.”

With a somber chuckle, the Porcine soldier concurred, “We are ordered to fight for a cause that is not our own, and told that we must do it for the sake of our families… yet I have lost two sons in this war, and a third one lingers upon death’s door even as I speak.”

Closing his eyes in a manner which Hermann had himself come to associate with the pain of loss, the hulking Boar shook his head before saying, “I do not know about you, Cat, but I think that, come tomorrow, I will be leaving this place and never coming back – no matter the consequences.”

Hermann didn’t know why he did it, but before the other man could turn away to leave, he reached out and laid a paw upon the Boar’s arm. With an expectant look, the imposing warrior did indeed stop his movement, willing to hear the Cat out.

Swallowing the emotions back down his throat, Hermann finally managed to speak, saying, “I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, nor can I make claims that things will turn out different, but…”

For a brief moment, Hermann turned to look at the glimmering Christmas tree; the faces of the men who laughed and talked and cried with one another.

He saw it all and it filled him with hope as he turned back and went on saying, “But I know for a fact that what is happening here and now is proof of what can be; I don’t know if that means anything to you, but come this time tomorrow, I will continue to hope and pray to God above that there be more of this.”

For a time the Boar simply looked Hermann in the eye. Then he turned to see what the Cat had seen. And whether it were real or a trick of the candlelight, Hermann swore that the hardness of the man’s face seemed to melt away before a hopeful smile overtook his face. Turning back to the Feline, the lumbering Boar nodded his head in silent agreement before finally turning away to withdraw into the night.

It wasn’t until the man was well out of earshot that Hermann finally recognized something. With a jolt, he came to the conclusion that he had been speaking with none other than Ąžuolas Tilvikas, the Warlord of the Broken Stone[20]; a national hero of Kalnasšalis, and the man who was doubtlessly in command of every boar within two kilometers! To know that such a man held hopes of ending the war did wonders to Hermann’s outlook – he could not help but smile.

From beside him came the voice of his recently made friend, Spitzer. For a while they said nothing, simply stared off into the dark night around them. But eventually they turned their eyes upon the wondrous tree and towards the men around it who celebrated this most joyous of holidays.

With a small smile, Spitzer turned to his friend and exclaimed, “Merry Christmas, Hermann.”

With a smile of his own, Hermann in turn replied, “Merry Christmas, Spitzer.”

In the end, the next day did come. But against all odds, neither side seemed willing to break the tenuous peace that had occurred so suddenly. Things would remain this way for three more days before news of the surrender of the Boars came. The war finally came to a close. But for those who had born witness to that most fantastic of nights, the war had truly ended on Christmas Eve.

[1] Located in the South Western portion of the Continent, Kalnasšalis is an ancient land and home to the Boars. At one time a collection of confederated states, the modern kingdom of Kalnasšalis came into being at roughly the same time that the Vorosh Valley duchy consolidated into the Katzereich. Characterized by rugged mountains, hilly terrain, ancient old growth forests, and massive inland freshwater fjords, Kalnasšalis has always been a place of hardship. Due to its terrain, Kalnasšalis has had the luxury of remaining independent of outside foreign influence for most of its history; it was one of the few lands which actually managed to repel the great Diamond Dog incursion nearly fifty years ago. While rich in resources and protected on all sides by some of the harshest mountain ranges in the world, Kalnasšalis’ greatest resource is undoubtedly the Boars that call it home.

[2] Located in the heart of the western part of the continent, the Kingdom of Meles has long been a center of wealth and prosperity. Home to the Badgers, Meles is an ancient land; the capital city of Magna Solium contains archaeological evidence of continuous inhabitation going back to even before the rise of Equestria. Throughout its history, Meles has risen and fallen in power – it at one point controlled most of the western portion of the continent. Currently, Meles is a constitutional monarchy; its main strength lies in its economically powerful position. Due to fact that its interior mountains are the source of the Ferrous River (one of the two rivers that converge to form the Manx River further north), Meles has always had close ties to the Cats of Vorosh.

[3] Tasked with maintaining the nation and looking after the wellbeing of his subjects, the King of Kalnasšalis is a unique position. While he can declare wars, he has no real authority over any military forces. The title of King in Boar society is also not hereditary; the king is elected by a council of electors comprised of various princes and elders. The position is held for the remainder of the king’s life. Upon his death, the title of King is once again decided by the electors. The King of Kalnasšalis during the war was Gurg Alikšandros the Wartless.

[4] Kiauliniaikrūva is the capital city of Kalnasšalis. An old city, it is surrounded by vast kilometers of stone and earthen defense work and home to the single largest Boar population in the entire nation. Strangely enough, it is not the seat of the government as many have assumed; the nature of Boar politics means that the true power of the kingdom is spread throughout the major cities of Kalnasšalis that hold the seats of the various electors.

[5] A common sight in the Hügelland campaign – the Boars used the deadly substance White Phosphorus for a majority of their flares. Though poisonous through prolonged exposure, the White Phosphorus gives off prodigious amounts of light for an extended period of up to five minutes in good conditions. Unfortunately, the Boars used designated Flare teams, and many of these men would go on to suffer debilitating illnesses such as Phossyjaw and Bone Rot wherein their bones would begin to disintegrate.

[6] The language of the Badgers of Meles; Melesco is roughly equivalent to Latin.

[7] One of the most fearsome of Boar weaponry, a Ribault is a crude artillery piece designed to fire whole salvoes of shot in quick succession. It does this by configuring a set of bronze tubes in an arrangement reminiscent of a pipe organ, with each five kilogram ball of lead loaded via a set of screw breaches. A quick burning matchwick is then arranged to ignite the pan charges of gunpowder in quick succession. The Ribault is devastatingly effective against infantry in the open, and because it is often built upon a specialized wagon, it is also highly mobile. The only downside of the devise is that it generally inaccurate against widely spaced targets, and the open flash pan configuration means that it is all but useless in the rain.

[8] Storm matches, also known as lifeboat matches or flare matches, are often included in survival kits. They have a strikeable tip similar to a normal match, but the combustible compound continues down the length of the stick, coating half or more of the entire matchstick. The match also has a waterproof coating, and often storm matches are longer than standard matches. As a result of the combustible coating, storm matches burn strongly even in high winds, and can even spontaneously reignite after being briefly immersed under water.

[9] A unique (and many would say signature) weapon of the Boars, a bolt caster is for all intents and purposes a high velocity crossbow. Unlike a standard crossbow, however, the bolt caster uses a kinetic action to automatically reload itself. Likewise, the bolt caster works through torsion rather than through draw energy. Finally, the bolt caster does not shoot arrows, but rather a composite nickle-copper ‘bolt’, roughly two centimeters in diameter. This all allows the bolt caster to fire at roughly 70 rounds a minute, with the ability to reach ranges as far as five hundred meters. It has developed a bloody reputation, and many Katzereich soldiers have begun wearing various types of armor to counteract its effects – though results have been mixed.

[10] Located just north of the Vorosh Valley, Kröteland is the ancestral homeland of the Toads. It was incorporated into the Katzereich upon the passing of the ‘Edict of Hegemony’.

[11] Located east of the Vorosh Valley, Firbenjord is the traditional land of the Gila Monsters. It is a dry land, with open plains to the west and an imposing mountain range to the east of it. Further east of it lies the vast interior desert of the continent. It was incorporated into the Katzereich nearly a decade after the official formation of the Katzereich.

[12] Located just northeast of the Vorosh Valley, Frettchenstaat is home to the Ferrets. It was incorporated into the Katzereich upon the passing of the ‘Edict of Hegemony’.

[13] Located far to the southwest of the Vorosh Valley and situated near the northern borders of Meles, Sangrocós has long been considered the birthplace of the Horned Toads. The region is most characterized by the abundance of stone, particularly the aptly named ‘Sanguineous Stone’ – a highly prized form of stone the color of blood.

[14] A rather archaic term, Voroshland is another name for the traditional homeland of the Cats found in the heart of the Vorosh Valley.

[15] The homeland of the Griffons and their confederacy, Kípon'gi is situated on a massive peninsula far to the east of the Vorosh Valley, across the great interior desert and far south of the Equestrian Commonwealth. Famed for its mercenaries, Kípon'gi has long played an integral part in the conflicts of its neighbors – providing hired soldiers for those willing to pay for them. During the Hugelland Campaign, they were solicited by both the Katzereich and Kalnasšalis. Nearly six thousand Griffons took part in the conflict.

[16] The language of the Boars, Kalbasi is roughly analogous to Lithuanian.

[17] The Language of the Cats, and one of the official languages of the Katzereich, Katzsprache is roughly analogous to High German circa 1870.

[18] For the longest time, the Boars of Kalnasšalis have utilized iron plating as armor for their warriors. The plates are often a centimeter thick and cover an area of roughly fifteen square centimeters per plate. All warriors are given a single plate to cover their chest – however, depending upon a Boars wealth or standing, they may acquire more should the feel the need for it. In some cases, entire suits of cataphractine armor plates are made by weaving the individual plates together like a tarp or cloak.

[19] For all of their history, the Boars have gone to war in panoply of various shades and colors via a broad spectrum of face paints. Different colors are used to display anything from rank, social status, region, heraldry, and most commonly as a mark of their deeds in battle.

[20] Hailing from a prominent tribe from the northern forests of Kalnasšalis, Ąžuolas Tilvikas is considered by many to be a living legend. To the Katzereich he is feared and respected for being a tactical juggernaut; it was Tilvikas who broke the siege of Purvo, and it was also Tilvikas who headed the highly successful battle of the Taškas Forest. Most importantly for the Reich though, is that he is held responsible for some of the most appalling losses in Imperial history. However, for all of his ability, it was also Ąžuolas Tilvikas who lost at the famous battle of the Kaproß Run, which turned the tide of the war in the Reich’s favor. The moniker ‘Warlord of the Broken Stone’ is in reference to the fact that he successfully held off a seventeen day siege at the ancient fort known as the Broken Stone; his first major victory. After the war and King Gurk’s abdication, he would be nearly unanimously elected as the next King of Kalnasšalis; though his reign wound up being short. He would only rule for five years before succumbing to an old war wound that never truly healed.

Author's Note

Merry Christmas!
I will not lie; this chapter was actually supposed to be a separate story entitled "Born of Rage: Silent Night". However, due to the amount of original content in it, it could never pass moderation. However, it suddenly came to me last night that I was already in the middle of a story covering events in the life of one of these characters. As such, I figured what the hell and snuck it in here instead. I hope it's not too big an issue.
Originally, this particular story was not planned out. Instead this was more of a spur of the moment story, written for the holidays and with the intention of showcasing some of the best Christmas Carols and Cantatas around.
This story is heavily inspired by the so called 'Christmas in the Trenches' of 1914. It is also an experimental piece for me, as I incorporated color to the various songs as a means to make them stand out. As for the songs themselves, I've decided to give you a link to each carol found in this story by order of appearance. They are as follows:

Veni Veni Emanuel (Oh Come Oh Come Emanuel), the famous Ecclesiastical Latin carol. The version I have always loved best is performed by 'The King's Singers'.

Atvažiuoj kalėdos (Christmas is Coming), a beautiful Lithuanian carol. Unfortunately, it is very seldom to see it performed by men, though I have been blessed to see such a thing. As such, the only version I could come across is sung by women (who are the traditional song keepers in Lithuanian society).

Riu Riu Chiu, the 15th century Spanish carol. A lively and vivacious song, it is meant to convey the joy of Christ's coming into the world. The lyrics are very symbolic, and were traditionally sung by the illiterate peasantry during the season. This version is my particular favorite, sung by Chanticleer.

Gaudete (Rejoice!), a venerated Latin cantata. It was originally developed as a chant, but as the centuries passed, it soon became much livelier. Like Riu Riu Chiu, Gaudete is a lively and heartfelt piece meant to convey the Joy of Christ's birth. The particular version is my favorite only because it is sung in the Venetian accent that my wife posses. It is sung by the choir of the Corocastel church in Venice.

Želk želmuo po žirgeliu (In the wake of Zelko Zalma's Horse). This is an ancient Lithuanian men's carol, from the days of old Pagan Lithuania, before the Teutonic Order of Knights converted them around 1100 AD. It is a song of Zelko Zalma, the ancient God of the hearth, who's horse he rode in the wake of the coming winter storms. It is a robust and manly song, and the beat of it takes one back to those ancient days. The best version is by far that performed by UGNIAVIJAS.

Es ist ein Ros entsprungen (A rose has sprung up) is a traditional Deutsches Weihnachtslied (German Christmas Carol) that speaks of the prophesy of Isaiah when he spoke of a branch springing up from the stump of Jesse - a metaphor of Christ's establishment of God's promise to David of a never ending Kingdom. It is both beautiful and morose in that not only does it speak of Jesus' birth, but his eventual death as well. This beautiful version is sung by the Amarcord Ensemble.

Still, Still, Still Weils Kindlein Schlafen Will (Still, Still, Still, for this Child wants to Sleep). This is a wonderful Österreichisch Weihnachtslied (Austrian Christmas Carol) written around the start of the 19th century. It is the quintessential 'Manger Hymn' as well as a wonderful lullaby with enough ambiguity to allow for the child who sleeps to be any child. This version is sung by Bren Terfel.

Süßer die Glocken nie klingen (Sweeter the Bells have never sounded /than at Chirstmas Time/) is another great Deutsches Weinachtslied (German Christmas Carol) written during the 19th century. It invokes the image of ringing church bells announcing to the world that the Christ Child was born and that all the world is saved. The near whimsical tune has become a favorite across much of Europe, and it is even finding favor overseas as of recent times. The version closest to my heart has always been that of Freddy Quin and his all men's choir.

Stille Nacht (Silent Night) is without doubt the single most popular, widespread, and beloved Christmas Hymn of all time. This spine tingling song has been translated into over a hundred languages, and is sung the world over every Christmas since it was first performed on Christmas Eve, 1818. It is a musical iteration of the nativity story found in Matthew chapter 2. While the lyrics were originally written by an Austrian school teacher named Franz Xaver Gruber, this song set the German nations on fire almost overnight! The current iteration, finalized in 1829, is thoroughly German in character, and due to its insane popularity it is a recognized cultural heritage piece - the first hymn to ever be so! This has always been my favorite Weinachtslied and will doubtlessly remain so for the rest of my earthly days. This particular version is performed by The King's Singers.

Though if you're anything like me, you'd prefer the version made by Manowar.

I had fun writing this piece, and I hope that you enjoy reading it. Once again, I wish you a Merry Christmas!