by Lorena
The shop bell rang for the seventy-eighth time that day. Yes, Quatre’d been keeping track since the shop opened for business. The boy sighed quietly and stared at the distant wall and the gorgeous varieties of toys that filled the shelves to bursting.
He didn’t have a choice, really. He was lying in a decorative basket along with his fellow glass ornaments, waiting for eager shoppers to browse through the marvelous figurines and, hopefully, take them home.
He’d been spending several days now watching his comrades get whisked away by customers while he remained behind—inspected constantly and yet ignored ultimately. Shoppers weren’t too keen on purchasing a mere peasant boy with which to grace their Christmas tree, after all, and Quatre knew that all too well. He also suspected that they knew the truth about him—about his origins—and therefore were completely turned off the idea of taking him home.
He therefore spent day after miserable day simply counting the minutes or creating new songs in his mind to ease the tedium of the endless waiting…
…and not to mention the constant disappointments that defined the end of each day.
He couldn’t even begin to count the number of friends who’d been taken away from his side. Heero and Sally were purchased by a doctor from Nuremberg. Relena and Treize were eagerly picked up by a young lady visiting from Switzerland. And just last week, as the shop swarmed with customers clad in thick, long coats and sporting the rosiest cheeks and broadest grins, Zechs and Dorothy were taken away by a duke from Brandenburg. It seemed as though the moment he’d awaken, he’d find himself missing two friends.
He was left to spend the time in the company of intricately designed ornaments who weren’t like him and who’d been the bane of his existence. He was, after all, unique though he’d likely argue that he was really cursed. The others were merely put together mechanically, superficially—a job that simply needed to be done in order to satisfy a demand for pretty decorations for Christmas trees.
His little circle of friends, however, sympathized with him and offered much-needed companionship. And so the times when they were taken away from him were the worst days of his short life, and he remained behind, alone and wretchedly lonely. The other glass ornaments who stayed behind with him were hopelessly caught up in themselves to care, and the nights were filled with endless chattering all around involving gossip, empty boasts, and even emptier sermons from those figurines that mimicked saints and other holy entities. Quatre was forced to fall silent and find comfort in his songs as he hummed to himself while waiting for the time to pass. They never understood, after all, and often dismissed him as a morose boy.
Quatre believed it. And he often wept when no one was looking, wondering why he’d been given the lousy fortune of being created in grief. He knew that he was the only one to be born that way, and he told himself that it probably showed, hence his unpopularity. His friends used to comfort him, but they were gone now, and he was definitely alone.
He was busy staring at the toys on the shelves across the room when the shop’s bell rang for the seventy-eighth time. He didn’t even notice being picked up and gingerly inspected by yet another customer. At this point, he simply didn’t care.
The Schbeiker family had outdone themselves this year. The Christmas tree they brought into their parlor was the largest they’d ever had, and it took half a dozen able-bodied men to move the monstrous thing through the hallways, gingerly negotiating their way around antique pieces that littered the house and more than once sending their employer’s heart into fits of arrhythmia when a couple of porcelain vases were knocked off their perches and almost came to an ignoble end on the polished floor.
The children were delighted as always, hovering around the perimeter of the room as they gaped at the magnificent tree. Eager whispers filled the air as they exchanged notes on how to decorate it this year.
“It’ll be all bows and lace,” little Rosamund chirped, tugging at her older sister’s hand. “Mama can get those at the market, and we can help her choose.”
Hilde smiled, her eyes glued to the sight of workmen grunting and cursing under their breath as they struggled to secure the tree in its upright position. “Glass ornaments are always pretty,” she replied, her smile taking on a more wistful turn. “I’ve always loved our glass ornaments.” Then, hearing her sister sigh, she turned and gave her a playful little nudge. “We’ll mix them together with the bows and lace, how’s that?”
“As long as we have bows…”
“I’m sure mama won’t argue against you, dear.”
The two fell silent as they continued to watch, their minds occupied with thoughts of where to place specific ornaments when the time came for them to decorate the tree.
When the time did come, the girls were treated to the sight of their uncle brandishing several brilliantly-wrapped packages when he appeared for a surprise visit.
“I’ve come to see how my favorite girls are doing,” he declared as the two sisters laughed and squealed, launching themselves at him and clinging to each of his arms in ecstatic greeting, their small voices vying to be heard. “I’ve got new ornaments for you to put on your tree.” He paused and glanced up, taking in the sight of the huge tree that proudly stood at one end of the parlor. “And I must say that I’m just in time. You definitely need all the extra ornaments that you can get.”
Mrs. Schbeiker served him tea and treats, engrossing him in a lively conversation along with her husband while Hilde and Rosamund tore the packages open, occasionally punctuating the air with cries of delight as they pulled out one exquisite ornament after another.
“Wonderful!” they applauded. “How pretty, uncle!”
The adults simply watched them every once in a while, smiling broadly and yet wistfully, memories of their own childhood pervading their minds.
The girls’ uncle was quite consistent in bringing the yearly Christmas offerings to the small family. He was a great traveler, and he delighted in getting his hands on everything that arrested his attention during his journeys. And he delighted even more in handing these over to his young nieces, finding infinite contentment at the sight of the two girls going wild over their presents.
The ornaments he brought with him this year were glass ornaments from Bavaria, and everyone were in complete awe at the exquisite craftsmanship that went into every single piece. Adults marveled at the details that were painstakingly used on each delicate little masterpiece, their eyes boggling at the sight of gold buttons on hussars’ uniforms, blushing cheeks on milkmaids, and brilliant plumes on birds, among others. Never before had they laid eyes on such skilled craftsmanship, and they praised the creators to the high heavens.
Hilde and Rosamund’s attention was fixed on the variety of figurines that they pulled out of the packages, laughing at some and arguing over those they wanted to claim for themselves. Hilde had a particular fondness for soldiers and birds, while Rosamund adored princesses.
“Can we decorate the tree now, mama?” they chorused.
“After dinner!” their mother laughed, shaking her head. “Don’t be too hasty. Clean up the floor and wash up before you go to the dining room.”
“It’s Hilde’s turn to clean up,” Rosamund declared, leaping to her feet and dashing off to the door. “I did it last year.”
Hilde made a face but went about the cleaning up business, humming to herself. She placed all the ornaments on the floor just off to the side for safekeeping, pulling out the tissue from the boxes for disposal. And as she dug her hand inside the last box, her fingers felt an oddly shaped object, and she froze.
“Oh!” she said. “There’s one more piece we didn’t take out!”
Gingerly wrapping her fingers around the ornament, she carefully pulled it out and stared at it in some surprise.
It was an intricately carved figure of a boy, his thin figure bundled up in colorful rags, a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. He was cradling a fiddle against his chest as he stared almost self-consciously at Hilde, a small, awkward smile gracing his face.
The girl blinked.
The craftsmanship was just as brilliant as ever, with details lovingly scattered all over the piece. The boy’s hair was a wispy mop of gold, his complexion pale against a hint of a blush that powdered his cheeks, his lips a deeper pink hue. There was a bit of sadness in the boy’s eyes, however, that made the girl pause.
“How odd,” she murmured, carefully turning the figure over as she inspected it closely.
“Is everything all right, darling?”
Hilde turned and looked at her uncle, raising her hand to show him the little glass figure.
“What’s this, uncle?” she asked. “It doesn’t belong with any of the other ornaments you gave us.”
“Oh, that. It’s something that I found in one of the shops, Hilde. Herr Messerschmidt’s collection’s one of the best, and I spent a good two hours just browsing for the right ornaments to bring home. It was mixed in with the usual soldiers and princesses and birds, and it looked so odd and out of place that I thought I’d better buy it.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Mr. Schbeiker piped up. “Wasn’t he the one whose son died in that fire in Nuremburg?”
“Yes, he was. A sad man, but brilliant.”
Hilde blinked, not really understanding what was being spoken. “Was it the only one of its kind left?” she cut in.
“I believe so.”
“Oh—like an orphan then,” Hilde sighed sadly, her eyes dropping to the boy in her hand.
“I suppose you can say that, yes,” her uncle chuckled, winking at her parents as he leaned back into his armchair to smoke his pipe. “But I’m sure you and Rosamund will be giving him a good home.”
“We’ll try,” the little girl replied almost absently. “But I think he might feel out of place with the rest of the ornaments.”
“Then find a good place for him where he wouldn’t feel so different from everyone else.”
“All right.”
After staring at the figurine for another second or two, Hilde carefully set it aside, along with the rest of the new treasure they’d just amassed. Then she continued to clean up.
The little family had their dinner, and the parlor was once again abuzz with a great deal of activity. The girls scurried around, laughing and letting out whoops of joy as they hung their ornaments on the tree, allowing their parents to take care of the upper portions that the two diminutive figures couldn’t reach. There were a few bows from the previous year, much to Rosamund’s disappointment, but the new figurines managed to squelch it quickly enough. The girl had fallen in love with several of the pretty little pieces and adamantly demanded that she be allowed to place them as she saw fit. Her family could only acquiesce.
The ornaments were all up save for the little peasant.
“We don’t have room for him,” Mrs. Schbeiker noted as she stepped back to survey the tree, her eyes roaming up and down its lush branches. Every single one, it seemed, groaned under the weight of a festive piece, and there really wasn’t a spot left. Even the rear part of the tree was heavily decorated, and the family still needed to put the candles on.
Hilde stared at the tree, aghast. She held the ornament protectively against her chest as she said, “Oh, but we can’t leave him out! It’s not fair! He belongs up there with the rest of the pretty ones just the same!”
“But he’s not pretty,” her sister cut in, scowling at the figurine. “He’s not dressed like a soldier or a prince. His clothes are poor and patched up. Look—he even has heavy boots on—not those nice buckled ones that all the other princes are wearing.”
“His clothes may not be pretty, but I think he is,” Hilde sniffed, turning up her nose. “Don’t talk that way about my little fiddler.”
“What is he then?” the other girl demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“See? He’s nobody.”
“I don’t care. He still should be on the tree.”
“Well, don’t put him near my princesses or my doves. Peasants don’t belong with rich people.”
“Rosamund Schbeiker!” their father exclaimed. “That’s very uncharitable of you!”
The little girl merely pouted as she fell silent, carefully watching her sister as Hilde searched for a proper place on which to hang her fiddler. She sighed her disappointment several minutes later as she sank to her knees.
“Well, Mr. Fiddler,” she began. “I’m afraid that I’ll have to hang you down here—at the bottom branch of the tree. I hope you don’t mind.”
The figurine didn’t seem to mind at all, and the melancholy boy looked almost apologetic—as though regretting the inconvenience into which he’d just placed the little girl. The smile he offered looked sheepish and bashful, and Hilde shook her head.
“You’re not a problem at all,” she whispered pointedly as she hung the ornament on one of the lowest branches of the tree, watching it swing idly in the air before standing up and taking her candle from her mother.
The family clustered around the tree and lit the candles, and soon the parlor was filled with the rich, golden lights of softly glowing tapers and shiny, colorful ornaments. It would be another moment for the family to admire the tree and another moment for them to entertain their guest with post-dinner treats before everyone would finally retire for the night.
“Good night, your highnesses,” Rosamund declared as she watched her father and uncle blow out the candles.
“Good night,” Hilde piped up as the parlor slowly fell into darkness. The moon shone outside the window, its cold, silvery light falling on the tree and reflecting off the intricate decorations. The entire thing seemed to glow now—an unearthly shimmer that spoke of fairies and elves and a host of other supernatural beings. And as Hilde stared, she even thought she caught sight of an ornament or two shiver from where they hung.
But she was a sensible girl, and she easily shrugged it off as a trick of the light, and she was ushered out of the parlor with her sister.
The clock struck, its rhythmic clicking filling the lonely air with some sound of life. The moon had shifted its position in the sky, its beams now filtering through the windows and striking the Christmas tree at an angle that allowed the ornaments to capture the brilliant light in a way that made them sparkle wonderfully.
“Is it snowing yet?” a voice piped up from the thick forest of needles.
“I can’t tell. I’m not facing the window this time,” another replied with a hint of irritation.
“Can someone check?” a faint voice from yet another part of the tree pled.
There was a faint rustling of boughs from several different points, followed by little grunts and huffing and puffing. An intricately decorated glass ball fell off its branch and landed on the decorative rug beneath the tree, rolling off and coming to a standstill on the cold, wood floor a foot or two away.
“Oh! Now you’ve done it!”
“I wasn’t even near that thing! I didn’t make it fall!”
“Nonsense! I saw your feet swinging—you must’ve knocked it off the tree.”
“I told you, I didn’t!”
“Wait! Ssshh! Quiet!”
A tense silence fell on the room, which was quickly overridden by the sound of soft padding on the floor. The parlor door had been left partially opened, it seemed, and the family kitten had just found its way inside.
“Oh, damn!” a voice hissed.
“Ssshh!”
More silence fell, and the kitten made its way to the tree, staring up at it with large, bright green eyes, its tail standing stiffly up and curving at the end in a furry hook.
“Mreow?” it mewed, blinking, cocking its head to the side. Somewhere in the tree, a tiny sneeze was heard. The kitten darted in its direction, letting out playful little chirping sounds and brushing against ornaments that dangled from the lower branches of the tree. They swung violently, many of them holding their breath and well nigh turning blue from the tension.
The kitten saw nothing of interest, but it sat before the tree for some time, resolutely staring at the branches with eyes that seemed to slice through the darkness. Its ears twitched at the sounds of frantic whispering from yet another part of the tree, and it was away in a flash and a spirited “Yowr!”
“Oh, God, I’m falling!”
“Grab on to a branch, quick!”
“I can’t!”
A cry followed that, along with it the sound of tearing fabric and a slew of curses uttered in German. One of the nether branches of the tree shuddered as one of the ornaments, a prince clad in rich velvet of blue and gold, dangled precariously from the edge of his cape as it got caught on a piece of sharp wood jutting out. He squirmed mightily, desperately clawing the air for a nearby branch on which to hold, but his position was quite awkward, hanging in space in between the festively decorated limbs. His crown was now tipped at a rather unflattering angle as he struggled, sweating as he caught sight of the kitten sitting directly below him, eyeing him as only a young predator would.
The prince heard his cape tear yet again, and he felt himself drop some more, and he knew that it wouldn’t be long before he’d be falling off the branch into certain destruction. The Schbeiker cats were notorious for dislodging Christmas tree ornaments and using them for playthings. The family would awaken the following day to find a delicate figurine broken on the floor, and the ornaments would mourn the passing of another fallen comrade. It was a yearly curse, then, for them to be exposed to the possibility of being hung on the lower branches of the tree. But they’d long realized that as long as they didn’t move while any of the animals were around, they were safe. The cats tended to go for those imprudent enough to catch their attention with either movement or sound.
“Damn it,” the prince hissed, throwing all caution to the wind now. He flailed wildly, the thought of being caught in between the claws of a hyperactive kitten overriding prudence. And the more he struggled, the more his cape tore.
And it finally gave after another second, and the prince fell with a cry, hurtling toward the waiting kitten as it suddenly stood up on its hind legs, eyes wide and fully dilated, its tiny body quivering in anticipation. The doomed ornament brushed against a smaller branch that was just out of his way, and his arms shot out, his fingers barely grabbing onto the rough wood. He pinched his eyes shut as he listened to his crown land on the rug below him with a muffled clatter.
“Trowa!” another voice cried from way above him. A Chinese emperor, clinging to one of the upper branches, gazed, wide-eyed, down at the prince. “Hold on! I’m coming!”
“I can’t,” the prince panted. He could feel the kitten’s paw brush against his feet as it tried to reach him. “I can’t! Oh, God, Wufei!”
The sound of frantic calls were suddenly hushed when a voice, quiet and melancholy, filtered through the din. All the ornaments—whether safely dangling from their golden hooks or dislodged and holding on to their branches for dear life—fell silent as they all listened in some wonder at the gentle strains that were now filling the air.
The prince named Trowa paused, his breathing heavy and ragged as he, too, listened in amazement. Below him the kitten stopped its play and sat back down, its ears twitching.
“In dulci jubilo,
Nun singet und seid froh!
Unsers Herzens Wonne
Leit in praesepio,
Und leuchtet als die Sonne
Matris in gremio,
Alpha es et O, Alpha es et O!”
It was a young voice—sweet and sad, hopeful and yet burdened—that was now enveloping everyone in its quiet melody. Trowa glanced down and watched the kitten move off cautiously, its eyes scanning the tree for the source of the gracefully languid music.
“O Jesu parvule
Nach dir ist mir so weh!
Tröst mir mein Gemüte
O puer optime
Durch alle deine Güte
O princeps gloriae.
Trahe me post te, Trahe me post te!”
The kitten was now out of sight, and Trowa took advantage of this opportunity to heave mightily and swing his body till he’d given himself sufficient purchase with which to scramble back up on the branch to safety.
“Are you all right?” came the anxious voice above him.
The prince nodded, closing his eyes and wiping the sweat from his forehead with a sleeve. “I am, thank you.”
“O Patris caritas!
O Nati lenitas!
Wir wären all verloren
Per nostra crimina
So hat er uns erworben
Coelorum gaudia
Eia, wären wir da, Eia, wären wir da!”
Trowa’s eyes flew open, and he quickly scanned the nearby branches to find the source of that song, but all to no avail. All he found were terrified and awed ornaments, holding their breaths in various expressions of amazement and anxiety. The prince felt himself soothed greatly by the voice, his body slumping almost bonelessly against the tree trunk behind him as he waited.
“Ubi sunt gaudia
Nirgend mehr denn da!
Da die Engel singen
Nova cantica,
Und die Schellen klingen
In Regis curia.
Eia, wären wir da, Eia, wären wir da!” [1]
A second of silence followed that. Then they all heard the same voice speak in quiet accents in a gentle reproof. Nobody could make out the words, but everyone was quite sure that the source of the music was also that same one that was now scolding the kitten.
“Mreow,” came the plaintive—almost apologetic—wail.
It was followed by a few more quietly spoken words, and soon the kitten was padding out of the room, its attention now fixed on something else entirely.
All the ornaments waited for a few more seconds, their eyes fixed on the door, before anyone deigned to move a limb. Trowa immediately swung himself down, leaping nimbly on several branches on his way down and landing quietly on the floor. The tree began to shiver here and there as the other ornaments began to clamber down as well, their voices raised in wonder.
The prince walked around the tree, his eyes eagerly scanning the lower branches. Amid the shaking boughs and the occasional figure that leapt out with a jubilant whoop, he finally spotted whom he believed to be the source of the music.
It was a boy about his age, clad in rags and holding a fiddle. He’d extricated himself from his gold hook and had seated himself on the lush branch where he used to hang, watching the activity around him wistfully.
“Hello,” Trowa said, stepping forward.
The boy gave a start, and he gazed at the prince standing just below him. There was a moment’s hesitation before he stammered, “Hello.”
“You’re one of the new ones, aren’t you?”
The boy nodded, drawing his fiddle against his chest tightly as he eyed the young nobleman almost warily. “I was bought today,” he replied.
Trowa cleared his throat after an awkward pause. “I was the one you saved.”
“I know.”
“Thank you.”
“It was nothing.”
Another moment of hesitation between the two followed, with both boys alternately staring at each other and at a distant point somewhere in the room.
“Well—I’m Trowa.” The prince held up his hand, stretching his arm a little and raising himself up on tiptoes to reach the peasant musician. “I’m the prince of Saxony.”
The other boy tentatively took his hand and shook it lightly. “I’m Quatre. I don’t really know what I am.”
The prince cocked an eyebrow. “Really. Why’s that? All of us have a title. Even the shepherds have theirs.”
Quatre shrugged, his eyes dropping to his instrument. He started to toy absently with it. “I don’t have one,” he simply said, his voice falling a little. “I was made by a man who mourned the loss of his son. And I think I have all that in me.”
“All what?”
“His hope. His joy.” Quatre looked up, his eyes meeting Trowa’s. “And his grief.” In the gloom, they sparkled softly, and Trowa was amazed at how their color could still make themselves known even in the absence of much light. “I have his son’s love for music and his youth. I have his poverty.”
Trowa remained silent as he listened.
“Herr Messerschmidt created me to assuage his grief. I suppose—I suppose when he’d done, he probably felt that he was ready to move on with his life, and I was left with the rest of the other ornaments to be purchased. I thought that he’d be keeping me, but I was wrong.” Quatre swallowed and braved an awkward smile. “He’s moved on, but I carry the burden of his loss with me.”
Quatre paused and regarded him steadily. “What about you?”
Nearby the sounds of merrymaking continued as the rest of the ornaments mingled happily, celebrating their annual reunion. Several had wanted to see the snow, and they were finding ways on how to climb up to the window sill. The incident with the Schbeiker kitten had been forgotten.
“What about me?”
“How were you made?”
Trowa smiled a little, a light of nostalgia in his eyes. “I was made,” he began in a soft tone—barely above a whisper, “by a man who was madly in love with a girl who sold lavender at the market. Like you, I’m walking around with the burden of his passion on my shoulders.”
Quatre was amazed. There was someone else who was like him? True, Trowa wasn’t fashioned in grief, but the same principle applied. Like him, the prince was the embodiment of someone’s thoughts, feelings, and desires. His mind whirled madly, but he managed to rally himself.
“It’s love, though. You should be happy.”
“Passion, Quatre. Untempered love. It’s intense and maddening. And like you, I wish I could rid myself of it sometimes whenever I feel it bearing down too much on me.”
Quatre shook his head. “Still—I’d sooner be like you, feeling all that passion rather than grief.”
“But I’ve listened to you,” Trowa replied, stepping forward, his eyes fixed on the boy above him. “And—if grief can be that beautiful…”
“It’s never beautiful, Trowa,” his companion cut in, a pained look crossing his face. “I sing to ease my spirits.”
“But you sing beautifully.”
“Because it’s a necessity.”
Trowa reached up and laid a hand on Quatre’s leg. “Quatre, with all of that sadness in you, you’ve still managed to break out in songs about joy.” The prince shook his head slightly, smiling. “I tell stories about adventure and daring deeds to ease myself of my burden, too, you know. My friend Wufei was made by a man who loved to play practical jokes on people, and Wufei counteracts that burden by behaving so stiffly and severely toward his own lover, Duo.”
“I’m not alone then?”
“There are a few of us.”
Quatre took all of this in, frowning in the darkness. Trowa could barely stifle a small laugh as he gently squeezed the boy’s knee. “Will you help me look for my crown?”
The young musician blinked, looking momentarily disoriented, before nodding mutely. The prince reached up and, holding Quatre under his arms, eased the boy off his perch, listening to his scruffy boots hit the rug with a light, muffled thud.
They were soon scouring the area for the prince’s crown, ignoring any and all invitations to join their comrades as the rest of the ornaments continued to cavort around, laughing, singing, dancing. Ladies and princesses paraded around in their finery, showcasing the intricate dresses and pretty little slippers they wore. Soldiers bragged about their military exploits, with Waterloo being the most popular battle in which they’d all seemed to have participated. Princes proudly discussed matters of diplomacy within their kingdoms. Birds shook their feathers and stretched out their wings in colorful spans as they twittered, their light, airy chirping vying to be heard above the cheerful din. Saints engaged in pretty solemn conversations, their expressions calm and earnest.
Like most of the ornaments in Herr Messerschmidt’s shop, they were beautiful, sparkling, and purely ornamental.
The two eventually found the missing diadem, with Quatre crawling under a nearby ottoman and happily calling out to Trowa.
“I found it!”
The prince hurried over to him just as he crawled back out, grinning as he waved the crown aloft.
“It’s not cracked, is it?” the boy asked, peering curiously at the sparkling gold piece as Trowa turned it over for a minute inspection.
“No, it isn’t.”
Trowa glanced up and met his companion’s gaze. “Will you sing some more, Quatre?”
The young musician’s eyes widened a little, his face coloring ever so slightly. “You want to hear me? What should I sing?”
“Everything you know.”
The boy hesitated, still looking shocked. “I—suppose,” he replied, stammering. Then he paused, his eyes taking on a thoughtful, faraway look. “Then—will you tell me stories?”
The prince smiled. “Which ones?”
“Everything.”
Trowa’s smile broadened, and he gently placed the crown on Quatre’s head before taking his hand in his. There was a strange stirring in his gut as he mulled over the possibilities, and even now, he was already beginning to feel his spirits lift and his burden grow less and less weighty.
“It’ll take us all night,” he said as he led the peasant musician away. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“What’ll happen when I run out of stories?”
“You’ll make up new ones.”
The prince laughed quietly. “You’ll have to make up new songs for me, too.”
He felt his hand gently squeezed in reply.
“Will we still be together in the morning?” Quatre asked, a note of hope in his voice.
Trowa let a pause run its course before answering. “We will.” And even though he was looking straight ahead, he just knew that the young fiddler was finally smiling beside him.
Notes:
[1] “In Dulci Jubilo,” a German carol from the 14th century (I think) and my main inspiration for this fic. It’s a very pretty song, unique in that the words are half in Latin and half in the upper German dialect.