It started with a strange stillness in the North Pole. Santa Claus had always been accustomed to the constant hum of the workshop: the rhythmic hammering, the laughter of elves, the buzz of conveyor belts churning out toys for children worldwide. But this year, the noise had softened. Then it stopped entirely.
Santa stood in his study, staring out the frosted window. The aurora borealis shimmered faintly in the distance, casting pale colours over the snow-covered landscape. He sipped his cocoa, frowning. Something felt... wrong.
“Elsa!” he bellowed, calling for his head elf. The echo of his voice bounced back at him, unanswered.
The Missing Elves
When Santa ventured into the workshop, he found it empty. The once-busy factory floor lay abandoned. Half-assembled toys sat on conveyor belts, untouched. Tools were scattered as though dropped mid-task. The silence pressed in on him, heavy and suffocating.
“Where is everyone?” Santa muttered. He climbed to the barracks, where rows of small bunks stood empty. The kitchens were cold; the hearths hadn’t been lit in days. The only sign of life was a faint, icy draft whispering through the halls.
Then he noticed it: a strange symbol etched into the wooden table in the centre of the workshop. It was crudely carved but unmistakable—a star with jagged edges, encircled by swirling lines. It seemed to shimmer in the dim light, almost alive.
The Warning
Santa touched the symbol, and a sharp chill shot through his hand. He recoiled, staring at his reddened palm. It was as if the carving had burned him with frost. He stumbled back, unease prickling his spine.
Suddenly, the lights flickered. The glow of the workshop’s enchanted lanterns dimmed, casting long, shifting shadows on the walls. From somewhere deep within the workshop, a sound echoed—a faint, rhythmic tapping.
“Elsa?” Santa called again, his voice trembling slightly. No answer.
The tapping grew louder, accompanied by a faint, raspy whisper. Santa couldn’t make out the words, but they were too numerous to be one voice alone. It was a chorus, growing closer.
The Elves’ Return
Santa turned toward the sound just as the elves appeared. They emerged from the shadows, their small forms barely recognizable. Their faces were pale, their skin waxy and cracked like old porcelain. Their once-bright eyes were now black voids, and their smiles stretched unnaturally wide.
“Santa,” they said in unison, their voices hollow and chilling. “You’ve worked us for too long.”
He staggered back. “What... what is this? What’s happened to you?”
The elves moved closer, their movements jerky, marionette-like. They carried fragments of toys—sharp pieces of tin soldiers, splintered blocks of wood, twisted shards of candy canes—repurposed into crude weapons.
“You demanded more each year,” one elf hissed, its voice breaking into a guttural growl. “We gave everything we had. But now, there’s nothing left.”
The Confrontation
Santa raised his hands. “I didn’t mean to push you so hard! Christmas is for the children! It’s for joy, for love!”
The elves stopped, their heads tilting in eerie unison. Elsa stepped forward from the crowd. Her once-cheerful face was now a mask of hatred. In her hands, she held the carving of the strange symbol, glowing faintly blue.
“Joy for them,” Elsa said coldly, “but never for us. We were your tools, your machines. You never cared how much we sacrificed.”
“That’s not true!” Santa protested. “You’re my family!”
“Family doesn’t break you,” Elsa snarled. She held up the carving. “You took our magic, drained it to fuel your empire. But we found something to give us strength. Something older than Christmas. Older than you.”
The glow from the carving intensified, and the shadows around the room deepened. Santa felt a sudden pressure in the air, as if the very walls of the workshop were closing in. A deep, guttural growl rumbled from the dark corners of the room.
The Summoning
The elves began to chant, their voices low and guttural. The symbol in Elsa’s hands pulsed with energy, casting strange, shifting lights across the room. From the shadows, a shape emerged—tall and hulking, its outline shifting like smoke.
The creature was monstrous, its antlers scraping the high ceiling of the workshop. Its face was hidden behind a mask of bone, and its limbs were twisted and clawed. It radiated cold, the air around it turning to frost as it moved.
“This is our new master,” Elsa said, her voice reverent. “The Frostbringer. It will bring an end to your tyranny.”
Santa backed away, his mind racing. The Frostbringer’s eyes—two glowing orbs of ice—locked onto him. It raised one clawed hand, and the floor beneath Santa cracked and splintered.
The Fight
Santa wasn’t helpless. He had fought before, in the old days, when dark forces had tried to snuff out the light of Christmas. He reached for the enchanted bell at his belt, ringing it with all his might. The sound resonated through the workshop, a pure, clear note that made the elves falter.
The Frostbringer roared, the sound shaking the rafters. It lashed out, but Santa dodged, his movements surprisingly nimble for his size. He grabbed a nearby candy cane staff, its striped surface glowing faintly with residual magic, and swung it at the creature.
The staff struck the Frostbringer’s mask, cracking it. The creature staggered, a screech of rage echoing from its throat. The elves screamed, clutching their heads as the light of the bell grew brighter.
The End of Christmas
The Frostbringer lunged at Santa, but he rang the bell again, unleashing a wave of magic. The creature shrieked, its form flickering like a dying flame. The elves collapsed to the floor, their bodies convulsing as the Frostbringer’s power left them.
With one final roar, the Frostbringer shattered into a flurry of ice and snow. The symbol in Elsa’s hands crumbled to ash, and she fell to her knees, her face returning to its normal, weary self.
Santa looked around at the fallen elves, his heart heavy. They were broken, not just by the Frostbringer, but by years of unrelenting labour and neglect.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, kneeling beside Elsa. “I failed you.”
A New Beginning
The workshop was silent once more, but not from fear or anger. The elves slowly rose, their eyes clear but sad. Santa knew he couldn’t undo the damage he had caused, but he vowed to try.
That year, Christmas was different. The toys were simpler, fewer, but they carried a new kind of magic—one born of balance and care. Santa worked alongside the elves, sharing their burdens, learning their struggles.
But every so often, when the night was still and the auroras shimmered faintly, Santa would glance at the shadows, half expecting to see the Frostbringer’s glowing eyes staring back. 🎅🏻
1 comment:
Love it! Santa always prevails. Take that, Frostbringer!
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