He stares at that workshop long and hard, the old world charm to the outside of the building is what he’s always pictured-as he’s always seen it pictured. Though a battle rages about him, he feels like he is not really there. He isn’t though is he now? Not in his mind, because to him this is a dream.
Everything has gone numb, an empty feeling as sound and sight escapes him. He’s zoned out you might say, staring into the aged wood, not really seeing, not really hearing anything. It lasts for what seems like an eternity to Darwin, screaming from the canvas bag, yelling for his life.
“weir! weir, weir, WEIRRRR!” Darwin shrieks, desperately trying to pull his host from whatever reverie he was in. The mayhem has elves and demons alike jostling him about, slamming into Weir and the man gives no reaction.
Weir slowly regains his hearing, his feeling and sight. Returning from whatever dark reaches of his mind that he’s sought refuge in. He feels, a warm hand clinging to his coat, the gloved fingers clasped tightly and he’s jerked forward. “Weir, Weir!” The jolly face and rosy cheeks sharpen, losing the haze that blots out the world- he can see him, that Santa Claus, he can. He can feel him, those heavy hands pushing at his chest now, pressing into his skin with a force of urgency. He feels.
It creeps through him like a trickle at first, fighting the lost sense of being that had threatened to extinguish him, to suffocate him like the flame of a candle. It creeps, then it bursts forth like a wave, setting him on fire and burning his insides. His amber eyes widen, grabbing at Santa’s wrists, because the light bulb has been lit once more. “Santa?” Weir whispers, remembering where they are, how they had gotten there.
“Weir,” Santa begins but he is jostled and tugged himself, and only now does Weir see how hard he tries to keep hold of him. The demons pull him, the Grinch too sends tendrils of dark lights to wrap around the rotund Saint’s belly. “Santa? What’s happening, this is all wrong. This is madness, is it my madness? This is my dream isn’t it? Have I done this to you?” Weir trembles as he speaks, boiling inside with magic once more, and his body craves it- revels in it greedily. That greed that he has so painstakingly quelled into a tight ball, plucking at it like harp strings only when it’s needed. It’s angry, he’s angry too and he’s scared at the way it fights him to burst forth.
“WEIR! Santa shouts again his voice ominous this time. “Take it Weir. Help me, you must!” He grunts, fighting the crushing force that grips him, an angelic light surrounding him. He takes his lips, pressing them to Weir’s forehead, the bleached whiskers prickling his skin as they pass it.
“Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away..”
The Grinch rips Santa from him, the jolly man turning with a fierceness to resume the battle of light and dark. Weir yells against the deafening sounds to Santa, a steel look to his bright eyes as the Father of Christmas is pulled from him into the workshop.
”In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?”
He grins, his smile gleaming as he snatches Darwin from his bag with a joyful chorus of laughter.
“Weir, weir have you gone mad? What are you doing?” Darwin cries.
“Ho ho, mad? Never!” He shouts, thrusting a palm towards a group of approaching demons, blasting them with a force field that sends them tumbling away.
Darwin’s beady eyes blink repeatedly, trying to register what he has just seen.
“A war is coming Darwin, a War is here in my dream, and I should fight it don’t you think? I should not fight myself anymore.” The lines of his face have taken on a very serious look, one of self forgiveness and acceptance.
“Prepare for glory my friend,” He smiles, setting the small turtle on the ground, and he himself rises. His amber eyes are backlit, illuminated with light that seems to burn through them. He holds both hands forward, his palms gleaming with a golden radiance, and Darwin changes, he restores.
No more does Weir’s soul find itself trapped in a body that is not it’s own. That small turtle shimmers, wavers like heat against a black asphalt road, and he is a turtle no more. He is what he always has been, a magnificent tortoise, with a great shell and a long neck. He is a creature not limited to the binds of appearance or creation, he is not hindered with a slow crawl. He is much more than he appears, just like the red-headed man, who has always been more than just his cover.
“How do you feel friend?” Weir asks, dropping his hands to his sides.
“Amazing! Better than ever!” Darwin shouts, no longer squeaking with a tiny voice.
”I think the hands are useful,” The man comments, deciding to remain human, before a roar of destruction sounds.
Weir brings his arm up, shielding himself from the rain of rubble as the side of the workshop explodes, lowering into a crouch next to Darwin. The great tortoise-soul has receded into the safety of his shell, dodging the particles of splintered wood and sheetrock.
“We better get in there.” Weir calls into the shell, there was no time to waste and they still had to get inside.
There’s no hope at entering through the front doors as others crowd the entrance, pushing and shoving to get through the opening. “Around to the side then Weir?” Darwin suggests, gesturing with his head to the demolished eastern side of the building.
“Looks like we don’t have a lot of choices,” Weir nods and blocks a ball of green light, raising his arm up and across his chest as a shield materializes. The burst of dark energy ricochets off the surface, it’s commander growling and snarling with animosity. Darwin pops his head out shouting, “How dare you, you ugly scoundrel!” Biting at the bit to stomp or crush the little devil.
Weir places a hand on Darwin’s back, infusing him with life and force armor that scrawls itself over Darwin’s shell in glowing angelic runes. He thrusts his left arm forward, the palm looking like nothing more than a solid ball of energy it glows so bright and pure. His right arm he pulls back, bending at the elbow as he thrusts his body forward to his extended arm. Darwin rushes the creature, tucking into his shell and whirling, responding without a hitch to Weir’s intention- so imbued with life he was. As the giant tortoise rolls towards the demon like a freight train, the creatures eyes bulge, and he turns to scramble away much too late. He’s knocked to the ground, losing consciousness from the strike, and Weir rubs his hands together. That familiar dusting off action that he’s seen in a movie once or twice, or has he?
Together they make a path, dodging green beams of evil, sparing with demons when they can’t.
When they reach the workshop’s eastern side, they are met with a most unexpected sight. It’s filled with all manner of sleek modern surfaces, of automated assembly lines and robotics. The machines litter the gleaming white floors with toys. Heaps of the latest electronics and fashions build, not an elf to be spared from battle. Weir simply can not believe his eyes, this is nothing like what he thought it would be, and he doesn’t know why that is, come to think of it. Why wouldn’t it be? Everything else had become more efficient in the world, had pressed forward with the advancement of technology, why would Santa’s workshop not do the same?
It’s not a question he as time to think out, to conclude a valid reasoning for or against the matter because overhead a great war wages.
It always comes down to this doesn’t it, Good vs Evil? The Dark and the Light, never satisfied with coexistence. Hell doesn’t have to pull people down to its level, it all happens naturally. Lost souls descend, similar to the laws of gravity which cause us to fall to earth. Hence, those who have been evil now reside in Hell, left to reap what they have sown.
The collision of magic is blinding, several times Weir must shield his eyes or look away. On one such instance that he must do so, he is shoved aside by a woman, trying to make her own way to where the two forces fight. He’s so taken back by her presence that he doesn’t have time to call out, to tell her to wait or come back. He’s left standing there, mouth hanging open with surprise, looking like an idiot.
Several small hands are finding him now, yanking on his coat, tugging for him to look down. It’s the elves, that group of five that have been his aid through the whole ordeal. They point excitedly at Darwin, one is so bold to climb up on his shell, chittering with words they both do not understand. “I do say, I am not a horse, if you don’t mind.” Darwin's tone does not reflect his displeasure, and the tortoise looks rather sheepish from the attention.
But there’s no time to play, around them the fight rages on, both elf and demon exchanging the force of their respective magic. Weir aims for a staircase, one that has not yet been broken or smashed from the duel, though how he does not know. It’s the only way left up, the only passage to reach both Santa and the Grinch.
It’s not a straight shot, there are piles of toys to sort past, heavy pieces of technology that create barriers between them and their destination. “Stairs?” Darwin asks, though he already knows. That’s what’s nice about being someone’s soul, your indefinitely connected to their very existence- let alone the routine pattern of their thoughts. Weir nods, the elves nod too, though they speak no English they understand the language quite well.
The building shakes, quakes from a rumbling in the very earth and Weir steadies himself against Darwin, intent not to fall. The elves topple like a set of dominoes, much too small to provide each other support against the movement.
Demons crawl from a crevice in the floor, one that appears to have opened up straight to Hell itself. Weir looks on, lifting one elf to its feet and dodging left to avoid a blast of magic. The man scowls, throwing a burst of gold energy at the attacker who hits the wall and crumples groaning.
“Serves you right!” He calls, nodding to Darwin who returns the gesture. Together they maneuver around piles, blasting at demons who return their own magic full force, much more intent on harm than those that serve Santa. Another crash erupts from the ceiling, the fight between Santa and the Grinch intensifying, sending Weir and his helpers tumbling over a pile of flat screen tv’s. Darwin tucks and rolls, avoiding injury with his thick shell. Weir falls backwards, landing with a crash and hitting the back of his head on the corner of a set.
Dizzy. That’ how he feels, rubbing his throbbing skull as he sits up, his hand covered in red. My, my that was quite the fumble.
Before he can heal himself with the light magic that courses through his body, a nearby demon takes advantage of their misfortune, sending a lightning bolt of dark at Weir. The elves turn to help him, shoving the creature away with a forcefield of combined magic that crackles with silver brilliance. The once horse, now man, clutches his arm- too late to fully block the attack. He’d only been able to set it off course, the rod carving a deep wound into his hanging appendage. The only reason he makes any attempt to rectify the damage is because Darwin responds with an outpouring of curses.
The wound he seals, mends the sinews of muscle, the tendons until his arm is whole- for the most part. The curse leaves an ugly mark behind that bruises and purples at being forced away. The pain is gone at least, causing a great sigh to erupt from the redheads mouth, now realising how painful that had really been. He heals his head as well, taking energy from their surroundings and the displays of magic. He blinks his eyes slowly, then stands, the elves crowding him with worry.
“All better, yes thank you, out of the way.” He motions stretching his arm, flexing his hands. “Yes, just a little souvenier. That’s fine.” He pats the puckered skin, and the elves withdraw with sour faces. Gross.
Weir is more set on reaching that flight of steps than ever, steering their group around the collapsing building, shoving pulses of amber light at stacks of toys- forcing a breach in the wreckage. Darwin heads the group, spells bouncing off his shell from his force armor. Weir is contained in the middle, protected, the elves form a crescent behind him. Flanking his sides, spinning bouts of magic with deft and practiced hands. They turn looms of silver, wisps of crackling light against the hellish magic of the demons. A woman even tries to rush the group, a great whip of silver formed by the tallest of the elves, sends her whirling horizontally away. He smiles, knowing he has impressed, it seems the closer they get to Santa, the stronger their magic becomes.
The staircase looms before them, climbing to a great height amongst a shattered mess of a building. Overhead, Santa and the Grinch fight on, each one harboring half of what was and should be, one single object.
“Surrender fat man! I can tell you tire, you’re a fool for sharing your magic with that sorry excuse for a man!” The Grinch taunts Santa Claus, jabbing at him with words where his magic will not reach.
“You’re wrong!” Santa returns, blocking a sword of black magic with a blazing shield of white fire. “You’re consumed with greed, you have nothing but hate. Your eyes refuse to see because you fail to comprehend, he is more than a man. He is a creature of the light, with a strong soul and a strong heart!” Santa grunts, his words emanating from a clenched jaw. They push at each other with their halves, the black magic meeting the white magic in an electrified arch.
“ You are a blithering old fool!” Says the Grinch, his tone seeping with malice, trying to tilt the pressure of magic to his side, to overcome the light with the dark. “You think you’re better, that you’re always right. You’re not perfect Nicholas, you never were!” The darkness smokes around him, coiling outward and trying to wrap around the connected bolts of magic.
Santa sees Weir, his eyes going wide but they are no less pleased in their surprise. Filled with hope, Saint Nicholas wills himself to steady, to press forward with his magic of white angelic fire. It’s too much though, that war of halves. The ground trembles, slowly at first, building in intensity and pressure, the waring magic growing ever brighter, hotter. Weir makes to rush forward, crying out for them to stop, falling to his knees as a spear of black magic flies from the Grinch’s woolly hand. “Stay out of this mortal!” He brushes the man off, returning his focus to Santa and that other half of the yin yang, but he is yanked again as he turns. The thread of dark presses into Weir, it will not release, it is trapped and Weir struggles to free himself from it.
“Release me!” Weir shouts, writhing, grabbing with his mortal hands at the solid-feeling tether. The Grinch tries to let go, failing with each attempt, his eyes widen realizing that he can’t, he can’t release him. “Weir, hang on!” Santa turns, sending his own white light to help his champion, afraid of what will happen if the man managed to force the darkness away himself.
That gossamer strand of white light finds Weir too, striking him through his chest and spreading over him in tendrils that resemble the dendrites of a neuron. Weir screams, agonizing as both light and dark war within him, refusing to release their hold. Santa is cemented as well, closing the circuit and connecting them all in the current of magic.
They’re stranded, unable to move, unable to fight or flee. Even Darwin stands immobile, his own cries rising, victim to his host’s afflictions. The elves and the demons run wildly, each trying to reach their respective leader, to pull them loose from this sorcery. All are thrown back the very moment their hands find their commander. Blasted away, like a shock from a high-voltage electric fence.
Features of Weir’s face twist, contorting his appearance in unimaginable ways. The two sides waver, threads humming as they thrust themselves into the man, but in him- there is more of one than the other. Weir had sided with Santa after all. Weir had chosen the light.
When he thinks that he can take no more, something tips. Only just and that’s all the momentum it needs to start. The tiny threads of magic spread over Weir entirely, seeking him out in whole, snaking into his ears, up his nostrils, past his lips. The light appears to consume him, taking over his body in a pattern of woven white fingers, the connection of dark flickers.
It begins to sputter, a dying flame. Clinging, trying to find oxygen to consume and restore itself with. The Grinch looks worried now, his grimace turning to a look of woe as the magic begins to drain from him back into its vessel- shoved away by the overpowering light. He doesn’t know, nor does he understand what is happening, how it is happening.
As good drives evil from the Grinch, it captures him as well, crawling up his arms- winding up shafts of moss colored hair. His eyes, once burning with Hell fire, burnish with the light of a thousand crackling hearths. Laughter fills the air, unbidden by the bounds of space and time, a chorus of merry children. Song, it starts out low, growing until the clear chorus of divine carols fill their ears. Weir is heaving, he is of solid light now, unable to distinguish one thread of light magic from another. There is no end to it, to him, there is no beginning either. He is pure. Consisting of wonder, of hope, family and friendship. He is selfless, the embodiment of the Christmas Spirit.
And he is good. Weir has always, been good.
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
WEIR