The Red King's Wrath

The fire crackled gently in the rough stone hearth, its warmth fighting a waning battle against the icy wind that howled through the ancient halls of the elven enclave. Snow battered the thick wooden shutters and thick tendrils of frost crept along the edges of the windows. 

Noel sat in an old rocking chair close to the fire, a thin blanket pulled in close to himself. Around him sat his twelve children, their young faces pale and drawn in the flickering light as they huddled together. The old elf’s silver hair caught the faint glow of the flames as he stared into them. It took a few gentle calls from Clove, his wife, to pull him from his daze. 

“Noel, dear, why don’t you tell the children a story?” she said as she placed a small plate down in front of them on the hearth. The plate held a single mince pie that had been painstakingly cut into twelve equal morsels. Noel looked down across the shivering children as he thought for a moment. 

One of the older boys looked up at him, a small hint of curiosity in his eyes as he reached for one of the morsels. “Yes please, father. Tell us the story of the great red one.”

Noel shot the boy a look. “That is not a story that should be repeated. Especially not on this night of all nights.”

His wife put her hand gently on his shoulder and handed him a warm glass of milk. “The children deserve to know. As all elfkind do. Lest it be forgotten.” 

Noel sighed. “You’re right,” he murmured, though doubt lingered in his tone. “But will they truly understand?” He lingered a moment, his eyes drifting to the wide-eyed faces of his children. Their innocence was a fragile thing, and he feared to break it. Yet, some truths could not remain buried forever. 

Breaking the silence, he leaned forward. “Tonight, children, is Yuletide,” he began. “The longest night of the year in our lands, when the veil between realms is thinnest, and the old ones are strongest. It is a night for caution, for even now, deep in the mortal lands, they whisper his name - Santa Claus.”

The children exchanged uneasy glances, and the youngest, a girl with wide green eyes, clutched a woollen blanket tighter around her shoulders. “The mortals say the red one is a saint,” she said hesitantly, her voice trembling with the cold. “They say he brings joy to children. Gifts, too.”

Noel’s gaze sharpened. He leaned even further forward, his shadow stretching long and dark behind him. “That is what ‘he’ wants you to believe,” he said bitterly. “The mortals have forgotten the truth, but we elves? It is our curse to remember.”

He gestured to the frost-rimed window, his long, slender fingers trembling as though the memory itself had turned his blood cold. “Long ago, before the world was cloaked in lies, he was not Santa Claus. He had many names. Father Frost, the Red King Niklas, an elder god who devoured the joy of mortals to strengthen his eternal winter.”

The children shuffled closer, their wide eyes fixed on their father, equal parts fear and fascination lighting their faces. Clove knelt beside Noel, her fingers entwining with his, offering silent comfort as the weight of the memories that burdened him. 

“Our people encountered him by chance,” Noel continued. “We were starving, driven from our home by the troll hordes of the southern hills. Wandering into the frozen lands to the North, we sought refuge. I remember it all, because I was there.”

He paused, his eyes scanning the faces of his children, ensuring they felt the gravity of his words. The fire snapped, filling the silence before he continued. “An unnatural blizzard struck us. It seemed to appear from nowhere. It howled for weeks, but we trudged through it, weak and starving. One by one, we lost our kin to the storm, until hope was but a fading ember.”

He stopped, his voice catching, the memory cutting deeper than he expected. Clove squeezed his hand gently and helped him raise the milk to his lips. “But just as we were about to succumb,” he continued. “We heard them.”

One of the children, unable to restrain their curiosity, asked, “What did you hear, father?”

“Sleigh bells,” Noel said. “Clear and bright, ringing through the storm like magic. A beacon of hope. And so, we followed them.”

“We stumbled forward, drawn to the sound. They cut through the storm, pulling us along, promising salvation. As the last of us - the desperate, the frostbitten - pressed on, the snow thinned and finally, we saw it.”

Noel’s silver eyes darkened, and he hesitated before continuing. “A sleigh. Vast and blood red. Elegant, decorated with an amount of gold that no elf had ever laid eyes on before. At its helm, eight creatures foreign to this land, snorted and stomped, crowns of ice jutting from their skulls like horns. Their eyes were like pits of cold fire. On the sleigh itself, sat a large figure cloaked in crimson, his face obscured by shadow, save for the long grey tendrils of hair that flowed from beneath.”

The youngest gasped, her small hands clutching the edges of her blanket. “Santa Claus?”

“Father Frost,” Noel nodded. “The Red King Niklas, the elder god of eternal winter.” He leaned back, his eyes distant as the memory consumed him. “He spoke no words at first, but we knew his presence -  a cold that froze our souls. And then he laughed.”

“Laughed?” one of the children echoed, their voice barely above a whisper. 

“A sound that threatened to bring down snow from even the most distant mountain tops. Between his laughs, he offered us sanctuary, said he could provide a home for us, if only we could provide labour in return. It was not until much later we would learn the truth. It was the Red King himself that sent the trolls to our home. It was Father Frost that conjured the very blizzard he claimed to save us from.”

“For a time though, things were good. He taught us ancient crafts, to make from wood and metal and cloth, to chisel, sew, carve and hammer. To create things with craftsmanship and quality that had not been known since the time of the great dwarven houses. Before they sadly perished deep in the halls of the mountain king.” 

Noel’s voice grew quieter, as if speaking too loudly might summon the very being he spoke of. The children listened, their wide eyes fixed on their father.

“For a time, we flourished under his tutelage,” Noel continued. “But Father Frost does not give gifts freely. He takes without asking. And what he took from us, we did not realize until it was too late.”

“What did he take?” the eldest asked, his voice steady but laced with dread. 

“Our essence, our freedom… our mortality,” Noel said bitterly. “The work was endless. Day after day, night after night, we toiled under the watchful eyes of his enforcers - great wooden automatons. He called them his Nut Crackers. They patrolled the workshops, ensuring none of us strayed or faltered, those that did were fed to those great, horrible beasts that pulled his sleigh.”

He paused, noticing that his hand was trembling, even as his wife held it. “The first to try and escape was a young elf named Fig. My sister. She was barely older than you,” he said, looking at his eldest. “She slipped out one night, hoping to find her way through the endless snows. But the beasts, his Deer of Reigns had found her before dawn. We watched, as the Red King made an example of her. Turned her to ice, her screams echoing through the workshops until she was nothing but a frozen statue. He placed her at the entrance to the workshop, a warning to us all.”

The youngest child whimpered, and Noel’s expression softened for a moment. “I tell you this child, not to frighten you, but so you might understand. The Red King’s gifts are a curse in disguise. What he gives, he takes tenfold.”

“Then how did you escape?” the eldest pressed.

Noel's voice dropped to a whisper. “The key was our only hope,” he said, staring into the flickering fire. “It took us centuries to forge, hidden in plain sight. Each of us contributed - helping to smelt the cold iron, others etching the runes into its surface, and more to weave the spells of concealment. Every piece of work we presented to him had to be flawless, lest he suspect us. We buried the key within a chest of other trinkets, hoping the magic that shielded it would hold.”

His hand trembled as he lifted his milk, taking a long sip before continuing.

“When the time came, we acted on Yuletide itself. Father Frost was distracted, preparing his sleigh for its unholy journey across the moral lands. It was the only time he left the sanctum unguarded, save for his Nut Crackers and the storm that raged eternally around his throne.”

“What was the plan?” one of the children asked, taut with anticipation.

Noel’s gaze hardened. “We split into two groups. One was tasked with creating a diversion - smashing tools, setting fire to the workshops, anything to draw attention away from the throne room. We never saw them again. The rest of us made our way to the sanctum, the key hidden among us. The storm was worse than anything we had ever faced - razor-sharp winds, snow so thick it blinded us, and shadows moving within the gale. I don’t know how but the Red King knew what we had planned. I was sure of it.”

The children gasped, and Noel nodded grimly.

“We pressed on. We had no choice. The door to his sanctum was a massive construction, carved from solid ice that pulsed with a faint eerie light. It radiated his power, and the closer we got, the heavier the air became, as if his presence were crushing us. By the time we reached the door, half of our number had fallen to the storm, or worse. Still, we continued.”

His wife tightened her grip on his hand, her knuckles white. 

“The key worked,” he said, his voice a mix of wonder and sorrow. “It fit perfectly, the runes glowing as it turned. The door opened, revealing his Throne of Laps, an unholy creation of twisted ice and shadow, its surface writhed as though it were alive. And there, in the centre of the room, was the heart of his power: a crystal, burning with cold fire. It was no treasure but a prison, holding the very essence of winter itself. We knew we could never kill the elder god, but destroying the crystal was sure to weaken him.”

“What happened then, Father? Did you destroy it?” one of the middle children asked. 

Noel shook his head. “We didn’t have time to think. Before we could act, the storm surged into the inner sanctum, and with it came Father Frost himself. A towering figure of ice and fury, his laughter echoing like thunder. ‘You think you can defy me?’ he roared. ‘You are mine! Your souls are bound to my winter!’”

The children huddled closer together. 

“No weapon could harm a god such as him,” Noel said. “But we didn’t need to fight him - we merely needed to damage the crystal, enough to weaken him. One of us - Old Rudolph Rednose, a smith with arms strong as oak - took a hammer we had forged and struck the crystal with all his might. The sound was deafening, a crack that split the air like lightning. The crystal cracked, and with it, his storm faltered. For the first time, the howling wind grew quiet and we fled.”

“But not before he caught Rudolph. ‘Such a nose so bright, you shall guide my sleigh this night’ he said, cursing him for his deed and turning him into one of his grotesque Deer of Reigns. They chased us into the night, but with the Red King’s power weakened, we escaped into the moral lands, battered and broken but free.”

“But he hasn’t forgotten us,” Clove said grimly. “Every Yuletide, his reach extends further. The mortals invite him into their homes with their foolish rituals - decorating their homes in red and green, leaving offerings of milk and cookies, singing songs in his name. They feed his power without even knowing it.”

“Can he find us here?” the youngest asked, her voice barely audible. 

Noel exchanged a glance with his wife. “He is always searching, He sends his Deer of Reigns out each Yuletide to scour the land for us,” he admitted. “But as long as we remember the truth and keep to the old wards, we are safe… for now.”

A sudden gust of wind howled outside, rattling the shutters and sending a chill through the room. Noel’s hand instinctively moved to the dagger at his belt, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the frost creeping along the windowpane. 

The eldest child looked toward the door, his jaw set. “What if he does come, Father? What will we do?”

Noel stood, staring out the window as a bright red glow could be seen moving in the distance through the dense trees. “Then you will flee,” he said simply, his voice quiet. “As we always have. For the Red King is all powerful. But one day, his reign will end. And that day will be the most joyous of all…”