And one by one, we threw all of our self-hatred and our compassion for the misfortune of others into the fire, to be lost into the night, and never to return.

The yule-log was a success. Lost somewhere in the depths of several dozen squares of northern currency, it burned merrily, and I sacrificed some mulled wine to the fire. If there are gods, they are surely pleased with our worship.

We laughed. We hugged. We drank, and we listened. We played, and we feasted. Some folk spun fire poi, and danced with fire fans, and twirled their fire staffs. We ebbed and flowed, closer to the fire as the embers wore down, and (much) further away as pallet after pallet was added to the fire. Feed the fire, feed our hearts.

We left full of heart, full of mind, and full of campfire smoke. The Love flows. The North continues on.