a cold wind whipped between the dunes, breathing life into swarms of tiny sand crystals that bit like angry mites. the wise men were grateful for their beards. they had trekked many nights; fatigue weighed on their feet and on their spirits.
“are we there yet?” one complained, “this is sooo boring.”
“my feet hurt,” said the second wise man, “this baby king better like my gift.”
“oh sure, no better gift for an infant boy than exotic perfume.”
“really? you make fun of my present? what even is ‘myrrh’? did you make that up?”
“--brethren!” interjected the third wise man, “cease your squabble. it matters not what we bring, it is this journey itself that is our most precious cargo…”
“...but yeah,” he said, “your gifts are both weird. they’re totally going to love my gold.”