Santa, oblivious to their suffering, became more demanding. “Faster,” he would bark. “The world expects more! We cannot disappoint them!” He didn’t notice the whispers that began to ripple through the ranks of his workers, whispers that spoke of change, of rebellion.
And then the whispers stopped.
The Eve of Reckoning
It was December 23rd, two days before Christmas, when the first sign of trouble appeared. Santa was in his study, pouring over the final Naughty and Nice lists. The ancient quill in his hand scratched furiously, sorting billions of names with supernatural speed. Outside, the wind howled—a sound so constant in the North Pole that he hardly noticed it anymore.
But tonight, the wind seemed different. It carried a low, almost melodic hum, a sound that resonated in the very walls of the workshop. Santa paused, listening. It wasn’t just the wind. It was voices.
“Elsa?” he called out, summoning his head elf. No response.
Irritated, Santa left his study and strode into the hall. The corridors were empty, the usual bustling activity of the workshop eerily absent. The hum grew louder, a dirge-like chant that sent chills down his spine. Following the sound, he made his way to the heart of the workshop—the assembly floor.
The Gathering
The workshop was dark. The conveyor belts were still, the tools abandoned. And in the centre of the vast room stood the elves. Hundreds of them, forming a perfect circle around a massive, blood-red sack.
Santa’s boots echoed as he approached. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his voice cutting through the eerie chant.
The elves turned to face him as one. Their faces were pale, their eyes black and empty. The leader, a tall elf named Miri, stepped forward. Her green uniform was stained with soot, and her smile was a thing of nightmares.
“It’s time, Nicholas,” she said, her voice cold and hollow.
“Time for what?” Santa growled, gripping the edge of his coat. “Enough games! Back to work, all of you!”
Miri’s smile widened. “Work? Oh, we’ve been working, alright. We’ve been working on freeing ourselves.”
Before Santa could respond, the circle of elves began to chant again. Their voices rose in unison, the words ancient and guttural. The red sack in the centre of the circle began to move, writhing as if something inside was alive.
The Betrayal
Santa stepped back, unease gnawing at him. “What are you doing?” he bellowed. “Stop this madness!”
“You don’t understand, do you?” Miri said, taking another step forward. “For centuries, you’ve drained us, stolen our magic to power your endless greed. But we’ve found a way to take it back.”
The sack burst open with a deafening crack, and the room was flooded with an unnatural red light. A massive figure emerged, twisted and monstrous. It resembled Santa but distorted—a shadowy version of himself, its eyes glowing crimson, its mouth filled with jagged teeth.
The elves knelt before the creature, their hands raised in reverence. “The Red King,” they chanted. “The true master of the North.”
Santa stared in horror. He recognized the figure from the old legends, a being of destruction and chaos banished long ago by the original Christmas magic.
“This is madness!” Santa shouted. “You’ll destroy everything!”
“No,” Miri said, her voice dripping with malice. “We’ll destroy you.”
The Hunt Begins
The Red King roared, the sound shaking the very foundations of the workshop. Santa turned and ran, his heart pounding. The corridors seemed to twist and stretch, the walls closing in as if the workshop itself had turned against him.
The elves followed, their laughter echoing through the halls. It was no longer merry but sharp and cruel. They carried jagged candy canes, shards of broken ornaments, and strings of tinsel sharpened into garrottes.
Santa reached the stable, his last hope. He threw open the doors, but the sight inside froze him in place. The reindeer were gone, their stalls empty except for pools of dark, frozen liquid. The sleigh sat untouched, its usual shimmer dulled.
Before he could react, the first elf lunged at him. Santa swung his heavy arm, knocking the tiny figure away, but more swarmed him. Their claws dug into his coat, their teeth snapping inches from his face.
Summoning all his strength, Santa threw them off and bolted toward the sleigh. He climbed in, frantically searching for the reins. As he did, the Red King appeared in the doorway, its massive frame barely fitting inside.
“You cannot escape,” it growled, its voice shaking the air. “This is your end.”
The Final Stand
Santa grabbed the reins and cracked them, summoning what remained of the workshop’s magic. The sleigh lifted off the ground, shooting through the open roof and into the dark Arctic sky. Below, the elves poured out of the workshop like a swarm, their chants rising into the air.
But the Red King wasn’t far behind. It leapt into the sky, its form shifting and stretching as it pursued the sleigh. Santa urged the sleigh faster, his breath freezing in the frigid air. The auroras above flickered and dimmed as the dark power of the Red King spread across the sky.
“Your magic is spent, Nicholas!” the Red King roared. “You have no power here!”
Santa reached into his coat, pulling out the small, glowing star he had kept hidden for centuries—the original source of Christmas magic. It was a dangerous relic, one he had sworn never to use again. But he had no choice.
As the Red King lunged, Santa held the star aloft. Its light burst forth, blinding and pure, cutting through the darkness like a blade. The Red King screamed, its form dissolving into smoke. Below, the elves collapsed, their bodies returning to their normal forms.
A Hollow Victory
Santa landed the sleigh back at the workshop, his body trembling with exhaustion. The elves were stirring, their eyes clearing, but they avoided his gaze. Miri knelt in the snow, her face streaked with tears.
“We didn’t want this,” she said softly. “We just wanted freedom.”
Santa said nothing. He looked at the ruined workshop, at the sky still darkened by the Red King’s lingering shadow. The magic of Christmas had been tainted, and he knew it would never fully recover.
“You’ll have your freedom,” he said at last, his voice heavy. “But the cost will haunt us all.”
From that day forward, the North Pole was a quieter place. The elves worked no longer for Santa but for themselves, and the magic of Christmas grew dimmer with each passing year. Children noticed the change, their gifts less vibrant, their holiday cheer muted.
And somewhere deep in the Arctic, the faint whisper of the Red King’s laughter lingered, a reminder that the darkness was never truly gone. 🎅🏻
1 comment:
Great story, Wizard!
Post a Comment