Winning entry for the Christmas Curse contest, written by JonOwojoriFernandez

The Prompt: It's the week of Christmas, and you were cursed to lose your billionaire status by a witch, disguised as a poor old woman after refusing to offer her some money to buy something warm for the cold weather. You have until Christmas morning to break the curse. Will you be able to make it in time before it's too late?

Ar Baranul hadn't imagined spending the feast of Bekshoz ladling out turnip soup at the Temple. Yet here he was. His resentment of the mage grew with each grasping hand, each curt 'thank you', and even with each warm holiday greeting said with so much joy. He was sick of it all.

--

"Name?" the exhausted priest asked as Ar stood in line in front of the Temple. The dwarf woman at his side leaned forwards and casually flicked the cowl from her grey, thinning hair, smiling broadly. Immediately, the priest's face broke out into a smile of recognition, and soon he and the khandrel were chatting animatedly. Ar was not in a holiday mood. The conversation eventually got around to the upcoming festivities, and his companion's eyes, sparkling with a vindictiveness that the priest couldn't see, turned on him.

"You hear that! Five thousand meals. The Temple must have quite a factory going on in there." The dwarf witch nodded towards the wide stairs sloping upwards to the Temple gates, flanked by great burning braziers.

"Indeed," the priest sighed, "Bekshoz is a busy time of year. We need to remember those dwarves not as fortunate as ourselves as we kindle the Temple lights. A darkness still infests our mountain realms: that of hunger and poverty, which still so many of our kinfolk battle."

"Yes, of course," Ar said distractedly.

"Your name?"

"Ar Baranul," he said without thinking, forgetting the curse for a moment.

The priest stared at Ar incredulously for a second, looking between him and the mage. After a moment of stunned silence, he burst into laughter.

"Of course you are!" he said, wiping a hand across his sweaty, plump face, "let me tell you — if there was a dwarf in these isles who you wouldn't see at our Temple handing out food..." He lapsed into titters and made a few more notes on the parchment in front of him. Ar could almost feel the mage radiating smugness, and he ground his teeth audibly.

"I don't doubt that he would now be relaxing in the richest apartments of the Academy, or dining finely with the High Representatives. That, or he might still be in Kesmor with his political friends. It's nice on the coast this time of year. I hear he's been very generous to some causes, at least," said the dwarf woman.

Very funny, thought Ar.

"Gilvi... Gilvi Ninetoes," he said waspishly, humouring the ridiculous situation. "Funnily enough, I came over from Kesmor to visit family. Ar Baranul's a thoughtful—"

The mage's eyes widened.

"— Generous—"

And widened further.

"—Likeable dwarf."

She pursed her lips and blinked hard. The priest met her gaze, and then looked primly down at the table. From somewhere deep in the Temple complex, Ar heard the familiar rhythmic drumming which accompanied the special masked dances that happened at this time of year— the warriors in ceremonial battle outfits enacting a ritual of dispelling evil forces from the mountain. Ar wished they'd dispel one evil force in particular.

"I cannot comment," the priest replied delicately, before handing Gilvi Ninetoes a slip of paper.

"You'll be peeling, then chopping, then ladling. I trust that's fine with you?"

Ar looked grimly down at the paper, which gave the date and time of his tasks. If he told the truth, he hadn't cooked for more than half of his life. He could barely boil an egg.

--

"When are you going to lift this?" Ar hissed at the khandrel's back, following in her wide footsteps as she strode from the port to where the wagons waited to carry them up to the mountain's vast front gate.

"After the holidays," she intoned. Ar's hand twitched towards his axe—

"I wouldn't do that," said Yovi Ulvetal icily. Had it been a novice khandrel, green from the Academy, he would have had more confidence in his abilities for intimidation. But Yovi was a different case. She had the same hard blue eyes as her ex-husband, and was doubly as formidable. Ar's shoulders slumped as he sat back in the wagon and banged the door shut.

"I didn't know you were you!"

"That's the point," she said indifferently. She glared at him from where they sat, their breaths misting in the biting air. The wagondwarf cracked the reigns and they jolted forwards, beginning their slow ascent.

"You know, Ar, I don't pretend I'm not well off— but you're on a different level. You just don't see it."

Ar growled and turned on her. "You know my upbringing—"

"I didn't say anything about your upbringing," Yovi snapped. "I'm saying this about you. Today. How many houses do you have now— in these mountains, on the coast, in Olou-knows where else? How much coin do you toss around? And why could you not spare an old dwarf a coin for the wagon a few minutes ago?"

To this, Ar conceded that he didn't have a good answer. He muttered something vaguely about wanting to get on his way, and Yovi laughed nastily.

"I think," she said slowly, "it would be better for you to not be Ar Baranul for a while. Lose some of that status you clutch onto." She eyed Ar slyly, who was just processing what this would mean for his holiday season. "No entry into the High Representative's parties. Barred from the Great Court. No nothing. For the whole of Bekshoz."

"But... but my daughter. I need to go to Nazbukhrin to visit her and— well, she's married to the High Representative and if everyone thinks I'm some nobody, or whoever you've turned me into, I won't... a new grand-daughter, I have a new grand-daughter." His voice trembled and he bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from displaying too much panic. It wasn't like him.

Yovi seemed to consider this.

"Very well," she said finally, turning to Ar with something like triumph in her eyes, "I know how you can repay your debt to me." She thumped on the roof of the cart with the silver end of her walking stick.

"Take us to the Temple!"

--

By the end of the first shift out of his four-day nightmare, Ar vowed he would never eat a turnip again. By the second day, he thought that if the other volunteer brought another sack of potatoes to his workstation, he would shove the peelings where he would still be digging them out a month later.

The closer the dwarven nation came to Bekshoz, the more the mood lightened. Thousands of dwarves came to the Temple during the Six Watches, morning, noon, and night, to light candles, to pray their devotions and to watch the whirling dances and drummers. Ar would have done this— perhaps once— during the week leading up to Bekshoz. On the last day, he would watch the great candelabra being lit by the High Priest, and usually he could get a seat at the front next to some official, but he'd done it so often that he couldn't be bothered anymore.

He was curious as to why he saw some dwarves come each day, again and again. Some he could tell were deeply religious, and others just looked like they were desperately hoping for a better year ahead. He saw memorial beads hung over incense burners and dwarves with tears running down into their beards. Maybe wishing that there was someone there with them. Sometimes, a parent with a new baby came to receive a special blessing and stand nearby when the great incense was kindled every morning, their face shining with the awe of that moment. Seeing that made him think of his daughter, Zeria, and that in turn made him think of the witch.

By the fourth day, panic now overtook him. He hadn't seen the mage, and his boat across the great mountain lake to Nazbukhrin would leave tomorrow morning. She had only said that she would 'know' when to lift the curse. But when?

Thankfully, today they had changed the vegetable. Carrot. It was a shame that Ar liked carrots, because he knew this would be going the way of the turnip soup. Already the sight of the orange slush made him nauseous. A thin dwarf with a patchy beard hobbled to the serving table. His clothes were falling off him, and as Ar looked down, he saw his feet were only roughly bandaged, bony toes poking from the ends. Ar returned the holiday greeting, looking at the heavily lined face in front of him in concern.

The dwarf's hands shook with some ailment, and Ar gently held them still as he poured the soup into the dish. A little slower. A little more careful. Putting a little more bread on the side of his plate.

"Thank you, bless you," the dwarf wheezed. He turned to go, but Ar ducked out from behind the table. He could see where the dwarf was heading, and he didn't like the look of the uneven flagstone floor.

"Here," he said, taking the dwarf by the shoulders and guiding him through the crowd to a clear bench, where he sat the dwarf down with as much care as his battle-hardened hands could muster. He looked at the dwarf's feet again. Calloused, rough, bare. It was so cold in the mountain, even with great fires lit on every street corner. The old man's hands shook as he raised a sopping piece of bread to his lips.

"Have as... have as much as you want. As much soup and bread. Here... take— here—"

Ar's throat tightened. He didn't think as he leaned against the table to remove his own sturdy boots, placing them at the dwarf's feet. Grimacing at the cold, he wondered how long this dwarf had been walking around with nothing to protect him. Tears were already pricking at his eyes, and he didn't think he could bear being at the table a moment longer. He turned to leave—

"Ar Baranul!"

Ar glanced up at the table of Temple volunteers, who were looking at him as though he had just grown another head. It took him a second to realise what must have happened. He looked down at his feet, and then over at the ancient beggar, although there was now no ancient beggar.

Yovi Ulvetal, her legs crossed and her hands clasped together, wore a satisfied smile.

"Tell Zeria I said hello," she said.