Magic hung thickly in the frigid air around Market Square. Thicker even than the wreaths, garlands and baubles draped ostentatiously from every ancient balustrade, around every crooked doorway and within each frost-rimed window. String after string of glittering golden lights steamed ever so slightly as snowflakes landed upon the iridescent glass, stuck, and then evaporated with the tiny incandescence which bathed the ancient square in a glow, which as if to spite the commercialism of the holiday, carried a hush. A holiness.

In near total silence, a raven perched near the top of the enormous Christmas tree erected in the very centre of the square, its wingbeats dislodging a flurry of powder from the living, glowing branches of the conifer. Even the tree itself was significant; it was a living tree, well over a hundred years old, but stunted from its years of confinement within the enormous wooden barrel surrounding its roots. Each Christmas, the town brought the tree into Market Square from its usual home behind the church at the northern end of the plaza.

Quiet, familiar melodies filtered out of that building; many of Stillwater Cove's residents were within the thick stone walls of the Baroque-era church, as a traditional Christmas Eve service was underway.

Many residents – but not all.

Bundled thickly in coats and scarves and hats and gloves, their breath steaming thickly in the air which fairly prickled with an electricity; excitement and anticipation, three antlered figures stood at the base of the giant conifer.

Bruno Hirschkoff placed a gigantic hand on each of his twin sons' shoulders, hugging the twelve-year-old boys to his sides, his heart swollen with joy and peace.

Dieter and Kristian's eyes glittered with the reflections of a thousand tiny lights, and snowflakes peppered their shoulders and heads as they looked around in wonderment. There was something different about tonight. Sure, it was Christmas Eve. But they were twelve, they weren't supposed to get so excited about Christmas any more, were they? After all, surely the fat man in a red suit was a myth? He rode a sleigh pulled by reindeer, for crying out loud, and what were the Hirschkoff family if not…just that? Or close to it, at least.

Bruno, for his part, observed and absorbed his sons' excitement joyfully. Having them around had rekindled his own love of the festive season; when he was in his twenties, Bruno had been deeply cynical of the commercialism and conspicuous consumption the modern iteration of Christmas extolled. But then, when Dieter and Kristian came bursting into his life in an eruption of fur and love and joy, that all changed.

Christmas was about them now. It was about bringing a little magic into the lives of the children. Sure, they would probably go through the same cynicism as their father had, at some stage; and Bruno grudgingly admitted that a fair proportion of the perpetuation of Christmas was for his benefit.

Whatever the reasons, the magic was undeniably real. And as Bruno stood there at the base of a century old, living Christmas tree, dripping with golden decorations and twinkling lights, in the softly drifting snow, listening to the muted, familiar harmonies of traditional Christmas carols coming from the church, it was real. All of it.

Because what is tradition really about? Is it always necessarily about truth, absolute truth? Or is it about people, culture, and happiness, whatever form that might take?

Bruno was suddenly snapped out of his thoughts as Dieter pulled away from his left side, the young stag skittering away over the frozen cobbles to where snow was drifting near the edges of Market Square. With a facetious grin on his muzzle, he scooped up a handful of snow and hurled it squarely at his twin brother, who deftly dodged behind the immovable wall that was their father.

“Hey hey! What am I, target practice?" Bruno laughed, skipping aside as a second snowball came flying.

Kristian squealed and ran, dodging side to side, skidding on the ice and eventually gaining a snowdrift of his own. For each snowball Dieter threw, Kristian threw one back, and both boys were soon caked in powder.

Bruno watched from the sidelines, until suddenly, both twins turned on him, launching a co-ordinated barrage of icy missiles. Bruno dodged and held up his arms to defend himself, laughing raucously and running forward, scooping up one son and then the other, ploughing all three of them into the largest and deepest snowdrift he could see, with an explosion of icy flakes and steaming laughter. The twins pummeled their father with snowballs and playful fists, and Bruno retaliated with prods and tickles, until all three of them lay spent in the snow, and Bruno's arms slid around his sons' bodies once again, the three of them gazing up at the intricate web of lights and baubles over their heads.

“Hey Dad?" Kristian propped himself up, snow cascading from his head.

“Mm?"

“Is…is Father Christmas real?"

The sheer innocence of the question caught Bruno off guard. He had always been assuming that around this age, the twins would stop believing of their own accord – put the pieces together, as it were. But something about that childish tone plucked a string deep in Bruno's heart, and he sat up, glancing back and forth between Dieter and Kristian, who gazed up at him with ears perked.

“Lads… Christmas is a time of belief. It's a magical season – just look around you. Can't you feel it? We've had a dozen still, snowy evenings before now, and this…this feels different, doesn't it? There's something in the air. Something no one can really explain, no matter how hard they try. There's a little bit of mystery, a little bit of magic, and a whole lot of belief.

“Christmas is far older than Father Christmas. Far older than the story about Jesus and the Nativity, older even than the Pagan festival of the Winter Solstice. It's been a time of magic for almost as long as history has been written."

Two little faces silently absorbed the stag's every word, and he took a deep breath, slowly exhaling a thick mist of steam in the cold air.

“So… I suppose… it's not about whether or not Father Christmas is real. It's about the magic and the spirit of the season. Far greater energies are at play tonight than we can comprehend or hope to understand. We just…feel them, a little. That tiny prickle that runs along your arms and down the back of your neck, and it isn't the cold."

Dieter nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

Kristian quirked an eyebrow. “…Soooooo….?"

Bruno nudged Kristian in the chest, and stood up, holding his gloved hands down to haul his boys upright.

“C'mon, we should get home, before we all catch cold."

Three stags walked slowly through Market Square, past the frost-edged church.

Within, the final, strained chords of the final carol cut to an abrupt silence, and then uproarious applause, gradually fading to the still, magical silence that was a white Christmas Eve in Stillwater Cove.

Dieter's ears swiveled, and suddenly, the young stag turned his head, gazing back into the magical grotto that was Market Square.

Through the silence, the muffling blanket of snow, and through the lingering resonance of the carolers, Dieter could swear he heard, just for a moment, the rhythmic jingle of little bells, somewhere overhead.

“Father Christmas is real, boys. If you choose to believe."

*****