Chapter Text
The Last Gift
By the time Santa arrived, it was already too late.
The square had been cleared hours ago, stripped of all warmth and ceremony until only stone remained. The winter wind carried the metallic scent of blood through the palace courtyard, sharp enough to sting the lungs.
Rows of kneeling figures dressed in white waited in silence.
His family.
Santa stumbled forward so violently that one of the guards nearly lost hold of him.
“No—”
The word tore itself from his throat, ragged and disbelieving.
At the center of the square, seated high above the execution grounds beneath the imperial canopy, Perth did not move.
The Emperor wore black.
Not ceremonial black, embroidered with gold and dragons and the illusion of immortality. This was mourning black—plain, severe, stripped of all softness.
Santa hated it immediately.
It made him look less like the man who once laughed beneath silk curtains and more like what the court had always wanted him to be.
A ruler.
Cold. Untouchable. Cruel.
“Your Majesty!” Santa screamed.
The title felt foreign in his mouth.
Several ministers shifted uncomfortably. None dared speak.
Below the platform, the executioners stood waiting beside their blades.
Santa fell to his knees so hard pain shot up his legs.
“Please,” he choked out, palms pressed against the freezing stone. “Please, not them.”
Still, Perth did not answer.
But Santa knew him too well.
Even from this distance, he saw it—the tension in Perth’s jaw, the slight tremor in fingers curled too tightly around the armrest.
He was listening.
Good.
Then Santa still had a chance.
He dragged himself forward another step before soldiers caught him by the arms.
“Let me go!” he cried, twisting violently. “Perth!”
A collective inhale swept through the courtyard.
Using the emperor’s name in public.
Santa no longer cared.
“Please,” he said again, voice breaking entirely now. Tears blurred the world into streaks of black and white. “Punish me. Strip my titles. Exile me. Kill me if you must, but spare them.”
At last, Perth looked at him.
It was the first mistake.
For one catastrophic second, the emperor’s face cracked.
Not enough for the ministers.
Not enough for the soldiers.
But enough for Santa.
Enough to know Perth was still in there somewhere, buried beneath duty and grief and the unbearable weight of a crown.
“Perth,” Santa whispered, softer now, desperate. “Don’t do this.”
Silence.
Then Perth stood.
Every spine in the courtyard straightened.
When he spoke, his voice was calm enough to be mistaken for indifference.
“The crimes of House Pongsapak have been investigated thoroughly.”
Santa stopped breathing.
“Abuse of imperial favor. Financial corruption. Treason through manipulation of the throne.”
Each accusation landed like another blade.
“This sentence,” Perth continued, “is necessary for the preservation of the empire.”
No.
No, no, no.
Santa shook his head so violently it hurt.
“This isn’t you,” he said.
Perth did not react.
“Proceed.”
The order echoed through the square like a death bell.
Santa screamed.
Not elegantly. Not beautifully.
A raw, animal sound ripped itself from his chest as the first blade fell.
Then another.
And another.
White robes collapsed one after another into crimson.
His mother.
His uncle.
Cousins.
Servants who had raised him.
The little brother who used to braid flowers into his hair.
Miang.
No—
Santa lunged forward with enough force to nearly drag the soldiers down with him.
“MIANG!”
The boy turned just once.
Terrified. Tear-streaked. Barely old enough to understand death, let alone meet it.
Their eyes met.
The blade came down.
Something inside Santa shattered so completely he felt it happen.
Not metaphorically.
Physically.
Like his ribs had splintered inward and pierced something vital.
His body went limp in the soldiers’ grasp.
Around him, the executions continued until the stone below was no longer visible beneath the blood.
When it was over, the courtyard was deathly quiet.
Even the wind had stilled.
Santa stared blankly at the bodies.
His family no longer looked human.
Just silk and red.
Somewhere above, footsteps descended the imperial platform.
Perth.
At last.
Santa laughed once.
A horrible sound.
“You did it,” he whispered.
Perth was pale enough to resemble the dead himself.
For one moment, Santa thought—absurdly—that he might apologize.
That he might kneel.
That he might say he was sorry.
Instead, Perth reached for him.
“Take him back to his chambers.”
Santa blinked.
“What?”
His voice was hoarse from screaming.
Perth swallowed hard.
“Take him away.”
Relief crashed through Santa so violently his knees nearly gave out.
Alive.
He was alive.
Of course.
Of course Perth couldn’t—
Then movement stirred behind him.
A subtle signal.
Given not by Perth, but by one of the ministers standing at his side.
Ohm.
Santa frowned.
He did not understand.
Not until the soldiers restraining him suddenly released one arm only to seize both wrists behind his back instead.
Harder.
Tighter.
Wrong.
Santa’s heartbeat spiked.
“Wait.”
Another figure stepped forward.
Miang’s blood had dried on the stone behind him.
In the minister’s hands was a length of white silk.
Familiar white silk.
No.
No.
Santa stared at it in mute horror.
He knew that scarf.
Perth had gifted it to him the winter of their second year together, laughing as he wrapped it clumsily around Santa’s throat himself because Santa kept complaining about the cold.
“You said white suits you best,” Santa had teased.
Perth had kissed him instead of answering.
Now that same silk was looped around Santa’s neck.
Perth froze.
For the first time all evening, true panic crossed his face.
“No.”
The word came out sharp enough to cut.
“Stop.”
But hands seized Perth from behind.
His own guards.
His own soldiers.
Holding their emperor in place.
“For the stability of the throne,” Gemini said.
Santa looked at Perth.
Really looked at him.
At the horror.
At the betrayal.
At the sudden understanding that he had sacrificed everything and still lost.
How cruel.
How fitting.
Santa stopped struggling.
The courtyard blurred.
Not from tears this time.
From exhaustion.
From grief so large it had hollowed him out entirely.
He offered Perth one final, broken smile.
“You wanted to be a good emperor,” Santa whispered.
The silk tightened.
“Now you belong to them.”
Perth screamed his name.
Too late.
Much too late.
Santa’s hands clawed weakly once at the scarf, then fell still.
His body went slack.
The white silk turned red where it bit into skin.
Silence swallowed the courtyard whole.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Perth dropped to his knees only after it was over.