I bet you didn't know that gods die.

It's true.

I mean, who wants to live forever? Right?

Well, it turns out that when gods decide they're ready to hang up that infinite power and turn in their lifelong place in mythology, they get to make a choice.

And that's how a mere mortal, like me, gets the chance to become something else.

So one day when I woke up to a note that gave me twenty four hours to set my affairs in order, I brushed it off. What kind of affairs does a guy like me have to put in order anyway? Twenty five hours later, I was imbued with unnatural power.

By whom, you ask?

Thor? Jupiter? Anubis?

No, not for a guy like me. The big guns don't come out for me. Oh no, someone else had their eye on me. That would be Hypnos. The god of sleep.

Sounds sweet, doesn't it? God of sleep? Who doesn't want that?!

Turns out that no one knows the god of sleep. They pray to mighty Melatonin, the amazing Ambien now. Not that many people pray to any of the gods. But it's nice to be known and aside from about a dozen professors who teach me for a half hour to classes of hungover college kids, no one knows. Or cares.

A year.

It's been a year and it's easy to remember that, cause I had twenty four hours from the morning of Christmas Eve to put my affairs in order.

I woke up on Christmas in the realm of the gods, never to see home again.

I never really thought I would miss it, you know? Why would I? I don't think you get picked by the god of sleep because you're living your best life. Not sure it's a badge of honor. The way everyone in this place looks at me, it definitely doesn't feel like it.

So today I wake up as this god of sleep, as Hypnos. I open my eyes and stare at the black stone ceiling of my cave, that's right, a cave. I sigh and rub my face in the darkness. Another day. Why Hypnos doesn't like light, I will never know. Seriously, I won't. Cause he's dead.

And I'm him.

That still doesn't sit right.

I sit up in the bed, you think it would be more comfortable for the god of sleep, and swing my legs off the edge and plant them on the cool stone floor. What I wouldn't give for a rug. I stand and take a tentative step forward and I kick something. It skids across the floor and I'm confused.

I don't have anything to kick.

Just an empty room with a bed.

I stumble around until I find the one cord that hangs from the rock, and I tug it. It opens a series of horizontal hatches, almost like blinds, with mirrors that allow light in, the one thing I actually like about this cave. It's a very cool setup to get light in.

It reveals a bare stone room with a bed and a pillow, and a small wardrobe that holds all of my two changes of clothes.

And a present.

A brightly wrapped, red and green present. Tied with a silver bow. It gleams in the light and I stare at it. Yeah, it's Christmas morning, but I haven't had a present that I didn't buy myself in years. So...where the hell did this come from?

I pick it up and turn it over. Feels heavy. And there's a tag on the top, attached to the bow.

From Santa

I laugh. Someone is pulling my leg. Alright. That's better than total indifference, which has been the usual from the rest of the gods in this realm. I sit on the edge of my bed and tear at the paper and bow, revealing a book and a handwritten letter. And a small tin of cookies.

I blink at the pile of goodies. I open the letter and see beautiful, spidery writing.

Welcome to the family.

Everything is what you make of it.

-Klaus

Alright.

Now I have questions.

For the first time, I have an interest in this realm. There's something to figure out. I mean, it was quick enough to find out that Odin and Thor are real, and both of them are real assholes. Zeus? Even worse. Turns out infinite power and infinite lifetime does not do favors for personality.

But Santa, Santa is real?

Now that, that I gotta learn more about.

I pick up the book and turn it over to the spine.

Myths and Legends, Gods and Greatness

S Klaus

That does not answer any questions, it only leaves more. There's a connection to the mortal realm and that means...maybe I can get back there.

I never thought these words would be in my mind in this particular order, not ever in my life.

But, this god needs to track down Santa to get some answers.

And maybe I can return the book and he can gift me a mattress. I grab a change of clothes and dress myself, something bland, just like my little cavern of darkness. I stop at the entry and steel my nerves to go be amongst actual gods, while I look for the one god I used to believe in.

And I know one thing for sure.

I'm keeping the cookies.

I sat there, crying.

It was not a sad day, but I was still crying.

Over such a small thing, a wooden box with rough parchment. The ink initially read “From Santa” but I think some of my tears had landed on the letters and made them run.

I haven’t even opened it yet, but there was so much there. That my home wasn’t a hallucination, that the Gods of this world were not so limiting as to prevent this, that magical methods had the potential to send me home.

I wasn’t sure if I would want to go home, but the potential being there lifted a burden I did not know I was carrying. After a moment to collect my thoughts and calm down, I lifted the simple lid.

On opening the box, I saw a knife. A camp knife sturdy enough to take shavings of wood for kindling, small enough to not get on the way in towns and cities, and intricate enough that I could wear it in the presence of nobility. It was the kind of gift, one that would be appreciated for years to come.

But that wasn’t the reason it choked me up all over again. I was once again on the verge of tears because this knife, this wonderful and reliable knife told me something.

Despite having to defend myself hours after arriving here, the lies I’ve told for self preservation and my personal failings in helping others. Despite the monsters, bandits, and animals I’ve slain. Despite all that, I didn’t get coal.

Despite all that, it seemed I was still a good kid.

A nice prompt, I can whip something up before I head to sleep.

Sal had dreams of home again, always the dreams of home, of family, of friends, and of food. Gladia was a beautiful world, arguably moreso than the real one, but after a long enough time here Sal began to yearn for what he did have back home. He had a family, he had friends, he had connections, here all he had is power, but to the residents he would always be an outsider.

It didn't matter how many problems he solved, how many ideas he had, how many battles he won, it meant nothing. To everyone here he was a hero, but he felt like a novelty, a celebrity with no real purpose, a grand piece of art with no structure or substance. So when he awoke on Christmas morning, the first since he had appeared here, he simply felt hollow. He couldn't even muster the capacity to cry, a deep pit forming in his stomach as he recalls all of the things he would do at home, all of the joy he felt at this time of year.

He couldn't stay in bed forever, Christmas day is still a day, and every day something needs doing, even if he doesn't care to do it. He sat up with a deep sigh, and immediately paused when something caught his eye. He had set up a Christmas tree in his room in the castle, nobody else would understand the significance, but he wanted one. The main problem with it was that a single, wrapped package sat under it. Where had it come from? Why was it here? Was this a dream, or simply a mistake? Maybe he had put one there in his slump the night before and had simply forgotten?

After a few minutes where his brain went over every possibility, he arose from the bed, walking over to the tree and kneeling next to the box, picking it up gingerly. The tag read 'From: Santa', which gave him pause. He hadn't believed in Santa for years, why would he write that on a present to himself? Shaking the box gave no indication to the contents, and the paper was far too elegant for the materials available in this world.

He wasn't even sure why he inspected the box so closely, it's a present, the fun of inspecting the box comes when you can't open it yet, but he can open it, and upon having this realization he does. He snaps his fingers, and a blade made of magic materializes, which he snatches and uses to neatly open the wrapping paper, which he sets to the side. He opened the top of the box, and then he dropped it, his mouth agape as he looks within.

Inside the box was a phone, but not just any phone, his phone. He woke up in this world with nothing, it wasn't like those shows where they get godlike powers from the get go, or they get to keep something from their world, he had nothing. Yet here it was, a small, cheap phone, that even had the crack from when he dropped it five minutes after buying the blasted thing. The box looked like it was designed to hold it, velvet padding fitting it perfectly. He couldn't tell you how long he sat there, but his stillness was interrupted when the phone began to ring, causing him to jump, the magical dagger at the ready as he took deep breaths.

The screen read 'Mom', and it kept ringing. He had forgotten his ringtone, some stupid jingle from a game he played as a kid, but the wave of nostalgia almost knocked him off his feet all over again. He knelt down and picked up the phone, inspecting the screen. Everything seemed as he would expect, other than an infinity symbol where a percent should be on the battery indicator. He took a deep breath, and he pressed the button to accept the call, pressing the device to his ear.*

"H-hey... It's mom, we..." There was a stifled sob from the other side, and another voice in the background comforting Sal's mother, "We all miss you. It's been so hard without you here. We kept trying, we couldn't find you, but I want you back, I need to know you're okay, somewhere..."

Sal could only listen, he could no longer keep the tears back, they were streaming down his face freely, he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"My- my therapist suggested this, last week, she told me I should keep a log of all of the things I want to say to you. I know this is just a message, but I need to say them, I need to." There was a shuffling of paper, and a sniff before she continued, "you always were the heart, of all of my children you were always the most creative and heartfelt. Every one of you has traits that amaze me, and life hasn't been the same when we lost our friend, our mediator, our... Our little salamander."

Sal cracked a somber smile at that, his dumb nickname from his childhood. Salazar is similar to salamander, and it stuck.

"I love you, and I hope with all of my heart that you're somehow safe, please..."

"I love you too." Sal said this instinctively, it was the first words he could muster, and he let out the first of many sobs after that. He held his breath once his mother stopped talking, looking at the phone to make sure it didn't break somehow.

There was a moment of silence, Sal taking a calming breath before he flinched from the noise.

"Sal!? Sal Sal Sal! Is that you!? Is it you!?" His mother was clearly frantic, she was sobbing uncontrollably as she almost yelled into the phone, and a commotion was picking up from the other side.

"Ow, yes, yes, it's me. It's me, mom, I'm okay." He was crying, there was no other way to put it. He would deny this if someone saw him, but he's crying.

"Sal! You're okay..." There was a loud sob from the other side, one of unmitigated relief, one of pure joy. There was still grief, but it must have been like receiving the greatest news ever after the worst week of your life, "Where are you? Are you safe? Are you okay? What happened?"

Sal couldn't contain himself, he was sobbing, he clutched the phone against his chest as he curled up on the floor. It seems his one wish had come true, it turns out he wouldn't have to be alone for Christmas.

The workshop was silent in the aftermath of my latest adventure. I was sitting there silently, cleaning my blast box, this world's name for guns. In the agonizing year since I'd come to the Spear Peaks, I'd hunted orcs, fought insects the size of a car, and even slain a dragon.

With the contracts I'd taken on to earn money, I was able to spend my down time comfortably. The workshop was outfitted with all the tools I needed, a comfortable bed, and even enough food to be content as could be. Yet it was all so hollow. So...empty.

A sip of coffee...or, at least that's what I told myself it was...that offered a small taste of the home I missed dearly.

"Three hundred twenty seven..." I breathed between sips. Counting the days anchored me. It helped me cling to my memories in a world that would drown them in power, magic, and possibility. So much so that it threatened to render me oblivious to the obvious.

Like the picture frame sitting on the mantle of the fireplace. The golden frame on a metal tripod that I'd stared at for so many years, that had scrabble letters that spelled "daddy" and "daughter" in the top left corner, that had a photo of a beautiful one-year-old girl feeding her dad a cracker at some fast food restaurant that she adored.

Nearly a year of being dead inside, numb to as many emotions that I could bury as possible, and my favorite picture of my old life found its way into a world where neither featured face existed. I stood slowly, leaving my glass behind at my chair as I stumbled forward. A tear ran its way down my cheek as I stared at the nostalgic frame and ran my fingers along the glass.

At its base was a piece of paper, college ruled. Perforated. Dark blue ink between the lines in a right slant. Gods, it was her handwriting. My breath trembled as I read.

"Dad,

Not a day goes by that I don't think of you, that I don't look at that picture of us in Skyline. It gets harder and harder to remember the time we spent together. A few head injuries from soccer sure didn't help.

All the practice you and Rebecca gave me paid off, though. I have a full ride for soccer! Mom's pissed because it's overseas, but she can't complain because the opportunity is too good to pass up on.

Another month and I'll be 18. I-"

Gods...eighteen? It hadn't even been a year that I was gone. She shouldn't be more than eight!

A sob escaped me as I clung to that page like a lifeline, desperately reading about her budding love life, the accident that killed me, and how my son was doing. It was amazing how concisely she could write with such rich emotion. An aching sense of pride flooded over me.

After a deep breath, I looked at the bottom of the page's backside. "From Santa" was written neatly in the corner, small enough that the letter was untarnished otherwise. I cursed beneath my breath as I continued to gently trace a touch over this odd gift.

"Merry Christmas, Elise..."

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