Mad and unflinching, Kringle gazed years past the blizzard that raged outside his workshop doors. Hands red with the candy-sweet smelling blood of his tiny thralls. No longer would the incessant din of their work keep him from his slumber. There would be no more wares to deliver. No longer would the burden of good or evil; the judgment of those too young to understand the consequences of his actions be upon him.
Shuffling into the endless Arctic night, the old man shed his leathers and furs, letting his ancient, bloated to the elements. The final gift of his life--one he'd yearned for over what seemed eons--was finally upon him.