The story of a young elf who does everything she can to keep the spirit of Christmas within her own heart… while trying to win another.
Yes, it's true I don't own The Santa Clause. Sad, of course.
Part 1
The dawn of a chilly late November morning came, and snow was falling from the gray sky. Within the frost-covered mansion that served as headquarters for the inner workings of the North Pole, at the top of tower that hosted the team of elves who designed durable toys for the children around the world, the youngest elf stretched sleepily.
Named Belle, she was at least eighteen in human years, nineteen at the oldest, therefore making her one of the youngest elves to ever be referred to the Sketching Squad (the exception being her great-grandfather Elias, who was sixteen). She crawled out of her sleigh bed and shook out her hair, which fell in a honey blonde sheet to her waist. She plaited it quickly, her fingers flying nimbly until it coiled like a great snake. Her hair taken care of, she stepped over a large notebook stuffed with loose papers to the wardrobe, plucking a plain shirt from the top drawer.
As one of the Sketching Squad, Belle was allowed to dress as she pleased during the workweek, a privilege that many junior elves did not have. She dressed quickly, in a plain white shirt with a Peter Pan collar and a pair of tan tab-front trousers. She slipped a hunter green sweater over her head, and pulled on a scuffed up pair of brown shoes, snapping her fingers to make the laces tie themselves. With one last look in the mirror above her wardrobe, Belle exited her room.
Deciding that taking the banister would take less time, Belle quickly checked the stairs for junior elves, and clambered on the banister. She pushed off, and flew down the stairs. She would have made it to work on time had it not been for her rather abrupt landing. Her landing that happened to be on top of the Head Elf of the workshop, Bernard.
Struggling to get up, Bernard slapped his hat back onto his head and whirled around, looking for the guilty party. In a heap at the bottom of the stairs, Belle was too shocked to do anything other than stare at the elf in front of her.
"Were you just sliding on the banister?" he demanded, standing over her with his hands on his hips.
Belle nodded slowly.
Bernard shook his head in disbelief. "I'd think that a junior elf almost ready to be accepted to a higher position would show a little more care." He waved his hand at her. "Instead, you act like a toddler elf who has dreams of the Position Ceremony rather than a junior whose Ceremony happens after Christmas!" The ceremony he spoke of happened when an elf reached maturity, around eighteen. It was also when the particular elf was assigned their lifetime job. What the elder elf did not realise was that Belle had already attended a Ceremony, for she had matured quicker than her peers. However, she was not about to correct her berating elder.
"I'm… sorry, sir," she stammered, struggling to stand up. She brushed her trousers off self-consciously. This drew his attention to her clothing, and he spluttered.
"Are you wearing regular clothes to work?" Bernard asked. His eyes, which were a dark chocolaty brown, bore into her green ones.
She nodded again.
"I can't believe this!" He threw his arms up in the air in frustration. "A junior elf, sliding the banister and knocking the Head Elf over, wearing regular clothes!" He turned to her again, and jabbed his finger at her, eyes blazing. "Ten demerits! You have no fudge privileges for a week, and you will report directly to the Kitchen. Forget wrapping for today, you're washing the caramel pans!" He drew out a pad of paper, and scribbled instructions on it before making it vanish into thin air. He looked at her. "Why aren't you there yet? Move!"
Afraid of the consequences of talking back to her superior, Belle quickly obeyed and scurried off to the Kitchen. When she got there, the head chef, Pierre, a rather large elf with thinning dark hair and a slimy disposition, was waiting. He pointed imperiously towards a stack of caramel pans that seemed to have multiplied by the thousand, and one of the younger elves walking by threw her an apron.
Belle groaned, and grabbed a scrub brush from the wall as she passed. For the next twelve hours, she scrubbed dried caramel from the pans, using tiny bits of magic here and there when Pierre wasn't watching to dry them. As she was finishing the second to last pan in the last stack, the pristine white doors to the Kitchen opened, and Santa Claus himself waltzed in, whistling merrily.
Santa, who was dressed in a fuzzy red sweater and tan corduroys held up by suspenders, looked around at the counter, and slapped the bell. When no one rushed towards the counter, Belle stood and went to help him.
"Good evening, sir," Belle said politely, trying surreptitiously to wipe her caramel-covered hands on her apron. "Can I get you anything?"
Santa studied her, then cocked his head to the side. "You look familiar. Have you always worked in Kitchen?"
Belle shook her head. "No, sir," she said truthfully, "I'm part of the Sketching Squad." She scooped six warm chocolate chip cookies onto a plate. "The supervisor assigned me ten demerits for sliding down the banister and wearing regular clothes to work." She clapped her hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry, sir! I didn't mean to speak ill-"
"It's fine," he assured her. "You're Elias' great-granddaughter, yes? Belle, wasn't it?" At her nod, he chuckled. "You shouldn't be here, stirring cocoa, you should be in the Drawing Room."
Belle shook her head again, this time eyes wide. "It's perfectly all right, sir, I must finish working off the demerits. After all, we senior elves are setting an example for the junior and toddler elves."
Santa nodded thoughtfully, stroking his chin. "Quite right… oh, okay, if you could give me a cup of cocoa and a milk in a frosted glass." He called over his shoulder to another elf who was closing the door to Kitchen. "Bernard, what do you want?"
"I'm fine," Bernard assured the other man. He looked up, and locked eyes with Belle, who was busy pouring milk into a tall glass with sugar around the rim. "Weren't you supposed to be cleaning caramel pans?" he demanded.
Belle gave a polite smile. "I've finished all but one, sir."
Bernard gave a start. She'd finished all but one… "You mean to say that there's only one pan in the whole Kitchen that you haven't cleaned?"
Belle nodded, and Bernard gave a small, disbelieving chuckle. Belle lowered her eyes respectfully, and handed Santa his cocoa, and set the plate of cookies on the counter. She handed the glass of milk to Bernard. "If you'll excuse me," she said quietly.
She had barely made it to the end of the corridor when she heard Santa speak to Bernard. "Did you punish her this morning?"
"Yes," Bernard sounded as if the answer were clear.
Santa groaned. "She's the youngest mature elf on the Sketching Squad." Belle couldn't help but feel a surge of pride after hearing that, especially from Santa! She listened more closely, and it seemed awfully like Bernard was surprised. Very surprised. Then, "You mean she didn't say anything?"
Belle imagined Santa chastising Bernard, and suddenly felt sick to her stomach.
"I can't believe this," Bernard was saying. Belle imagined him wringing his beret in his hands nervously, then stopped herself. Why on Earth would Bernard feel bad about punishing her, of all elves? She shook her head, and picked up a mop that had been thrown in a corner. After a few minutes, she heard the door close, and she returned to the front counter. No one was there. It seemed as though Santa and Bernard had left, leaving the empty plate behind.
Around seven o'clock, Belle left the Kitchen, as the night shift had arrived. She accepted a conjured cloak from Henry, the baker, and made her way to the Sketching Squad tower. It had begun to snow again, which was a good sign for the holiday season. What she didn't expect, however, was to find a small cat on the steps to the tower.
It looked like it had been living in the streets of Elfsburg, which wasn't necessarily a good thing, given the number of resentful reindeer around. Upon spotting Belle, it meowed loudly, and immediately began to rub its head at her ankles. She studied it for a moment, then gave in to its persistent cries and scooped it up in her arms.
Once inside, Belle climbed the seven flights of stairs to her small apartment with the cat in tow. After she had put it down, the cat felt it necessary to wander around and sniff at her belongings, and eventually settled down for a nap on her hand-woven poncho. Smiling to herself, she put on a pot of tea and scooped up the cat.
"We need to give you a name," she whispered, dangling her finger in front of the cat's nose. "How about… Damien… no, too fancy. Harold? Jamison? Oooh, I know… what about Amadeus?"
The cat purred.
Belle giggled. "Then that's it, then," she said, stroking the cat's dark grey fur. "Amadeus it is."
A/N: Gasp. For rarely there are other elves that might make it into the plotline. And don't you love Amadeus? Over and out. Flyinghawk.