One winter, the priests of Wessario and the people all joined together in supplication, chanting, "Great Farden, the sun in the day and the sun in the night, the bridge across every chasm, the inventor of what is good and imprisoner of what is improper, answer our prayer and our question."
Farden stepped among them, glittering, and said, "What is your question, mortals?"
Everyone knelt except those who fell prostrate. "Great Farden, this wonderful celebration, this Christmas, what is it? Why do we celebrate it?"
Farden smiled at their simplicity. "Christmas is simply the day we choose to commemorate the birth of the Savior, the Son of God."
"You have a son, O Farden?"
"Uh . . ."
"Where is he? What is his name? What are his powers?"
Farden looked upon the radiant faces of the mortals as they pressed closer and closer. He gulped. "Uh, well, you see . . . Here, drink from this flask. Be merry and whatnot."
As the people passed around the miraculous flask Farden gave them, they forgot all about that stuff he really, really shouldn't have said. He listened to a bunch of carols later and hoped Santa wouldn't mind a little memory-erasing, though the bigger problem was probably reaching other worlds like his in the first place.
Merry Christmas!
Finis
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