And inside you're burning
with some secret yearning
Wide silvery eyes snap open to find bright shafts of moonlight streaming through the clear panes of glass separating the warm bedroom from the cold, wintry night outside. Those silver eyes blink in mild surprise and sleepiness. It is nighttime, so why is she sleeping?
She loves the night more than she loves any other time, when the moon is high and the stars twinkle brightly in the velvety black sky. Normally, she would be awake, would be basking in the glow of the stars as they filled her with quiet reassurance. But then memories tumble through her mind, a jumble of conflicting histories and knowledge.
She is a horse, red and teal, with starlight in her soul and a loving, doting sister. She is a woman with a busy, sharp-minded husband and two young children. She is a carefree and blissful filly with joy in her heart. She is a middle-aged woman with a life full of responsibility and burdens weighing her down.
For a moment, she doesn’t know who she is.
She sits up suddenly, blankets falling to her waist as she rises into abrupt wakefulness. She turns her head slightly, gaze falling upon the man in the bed beside her. Her husband, she knows. Married now for nine years. Nine long years. He had married her because she is beautiful. She had married him because he is wealthy. Isn’t that how the story always goes?
And suddenly, she remembers it is Christmas.
Oh, but she loves Christmas! The parties and the presents. The food and the wine. The merry cheer. The thrill of Christmas morning, when her children open presents with wonder and joy upon their faces. There had never been Christmas before, not in the Dale with her sister. Only snow and cold.
A sound outside startles her from her reverie, drawing her attention to the large window overlooking the back yard. Flipping the covers from her pajama clad legs, she slips from the bed and approaches the window. Below her is a wide, smooth expanse covered in icy white snow, untouched by tracks. Her eyes are immediately drawn to the only movement across the moonlit lawn.
Her first reaction is incredulity. Santa is not real, is he? But then she sees what it is more clearly and confusion is replaced by horror. It is not a jolly old elf that she sees, but a terrible furred monster with glowing green eyes and cackling horde of antlered demons. They disappear quickly from sight, but all too soon she hears a great ruckus coming from the roof.
”No…” she breathes in disbelief and dread. She must be dreaming. That is the only explanation. They cannot be real. Santa is not real and neither are they. But then the scrabble of feet and cold, callous laughter echoes up the hallway through her partially open door, and she knows they are.
She briefly considers simply going back to bed, pretending this is not real. Pretending that she is still a lighthearted young mare and that these dual memories do not tug at her consciousness. Pretending that she won’t wake up to Christmas destroyed.
Christmas… destroyed.
The thought spurs her into action. It is the one time of year she can be free and merry, the one time of year she doesn’t have too many bills and a cold marriage as her only solace. She bolts for the door, stocking clad feet slipping as they leave the rug and hit cold hardwood. But she manages to keep her balance and slips quietly through the door into the dark hallway.
She is too late. They are already on the stairs. She can hear the crashing and cackling from below, the thump of little feet on the steps. The rending and clacking of the lighted garland being ripped from the banister.
Suddenly she is furious. She wishes she were still that horse, child of the stars and keeper of their light. She would use that beautiful power, teach them a thing or two about enraging a daughter of the night.
But alas she is only human.
The heavy footfalls of the Grinch are echoing on the roof now, a steady toll spelling doom upon Christmas. With a shriek of combined fury and terror, she charges down the hall, barreling straight for the handful of ugly devils littering the stairs. She nearly slips down the steps, forgetting for a moment that she is wearing socks and that wood floors are slippery. But she catches herself, grabbing at one of the demons for support. Realizing what she has done, she lets out a small scream and flings the beast over the railing. But before she can get her bearings, before she can recall exactly what it is she thought she might do against these creatures, they are upon her, snickering gleefully as they pin her arms to her sides.
She is a small and slender woman, one who has had little need to strengthen herself, and they have no trouble subduing her. She snaps her mouth shut, determination replacing horror as she represses a scream. She prays that her children have not woken, that they remain in their bed and, hopefully, out of harm’s way. She would find a way out of this, if not through strength, then through trickery.
They carry her through her once lovely house, now littered with tinsel and paper. Ornaments are scattered about the floor, freed from a tree that now lay on its side. She mourns the loss of that perfectly decorated tree, of the beauty Christmas brings to her home.
And then he is before her, a wide grin upon his hideous green features. She is dumped unceremoniously at his feet, the gleeful laughter of the antlered demons telling her that they are not done with her. She glances around wildly, hoping to find something with which to defend herself. Hoping beyond hope that she might yet be able to save Christmas.
Lirren
starlit daughter of joythief and carnage