The Tale of Holly the Christmas Elf

There is an elf named Holly. Like most elves, Holly has long pointy ears. But, unlike most elves, for much of her life, Holly had the honour of working for Santa Claus.

Yes, Holly is a Christmas elf—and, because she is a Christmas elf, she has vibrant red hair, and her face is laden with freckles. She is also kind-hearted, of generous spirit, and a very hard worker.

For many years, Holly toiled away for jolly old Saint Nicholas. Centuries, in fact. She started her position at the North Pole in year 1324, and she only just retired in 1954. Blimey! That’s six hundred and thirty years!

For the sake of her privacy and solitude, which Holly now truly enjoys, I have promised to keep the location of her retirement home secret. For the purposes of our story, all you really need to know is this: Holly moved into an old abandoned cottage in the middle of the woods, somewhere on the West Coast of Vancouver Island.

Having spent so much of her life in the North Pole’s forever Winter, she had grown tired of seeing the snow year-round. Although she didn’t want to lose Winter altogether, she was craving some change, a turning of the Wheel. And here, in her woodland cottage, Holly could witness and appreciate each of the four seasons…

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IV: Aurora and Luna | Prologue: A Near Thirteen Suns Prior

A man with hair black as ebony stood at the top of a tower… his tower. He gazed triumphantly through the tall arched windows at the Full Worm Moon—she was big and golden. The black-haired man was working right in line with the Cosmos; tomorrow was Ostara, the day of new beginnings, and, thanks to him, New-Camelot would be brought into fruition. He had done nearly everything he needed to do in order to manifest this.

All but one final task…

The man turned to a female elf who lay on the cold citrine floor. She had dark green hair and bright green eyes, colours so similar to the forests his men had been cutting down.

She gave him a look that begged for mercy, but the man paid no attention. (He was going to have to get used to ignoring such looks.)

As the man adjusted the hogtie in which she was bound, he simply let her scream—though she could not form any words, for he had her in a witch’s bridle as well. This was a nasty-looking cage for the face, often made of iron—but of course, his was made of gold—that prevented the wearer from talking. He reminded himself that he was doing all this for the benefit of the common folk. They had begged him for help, begged him to save them, begged him to protect them.

Saved them, he had, and protect them, he would; he was creating the new world they had dreamed of, a world where no folkian would ever have to live in fear of the monarchy.

This world, however, would require some level of sacrifice.

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The Golden Candle

Buttercup, a low-elf twelve Solar cycles of age, was sitting in the bay window of her family’s tree-house, reading a book of low-elven folklore, when the first snowfall of the Solar Cycle began covering the Greenlands.

She had first felt a chill—although this did not bother her, seeing as she was a low-elf. Then her long, pointy ears had noticed how peculiarly quiet it was, even with her three adoptive brothers—Alder, Pine and Chestnut—playing up in the loft of their tree-house.

Yes, Buttercup had sensed the winds changing, so she paused her reading to gaze out the large bay window and was startled to see snowflakes. They were almost like falling Stars, their whiteness contrasting with the deep blue twilight.

“Cosmos,” she breathed, not believing it. “Snow? This early?”

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