A/N: Well I dorked up the title sequence here pretty good. Oh well. And I kind of dropped the ball on getting these out before Christmas. Oops. Blame my refusal to learn from the past and insistence on taking on way too many craft projects on the holidays.
Just FYI we're getting into an area where I start referencing things from past chapters. In the very least, I'd recommend rereading the Prologue and Chapter 1 before this one if it's been a while.
Chapter 8: The Meek and the Bold
"What now?" groaned Santa Claus. He and Bernard had reached the door to his office wherein waited a cluster of wood elves impatient for some answers, and once again the Head Elf hesitated. Bernard stood six feet away from the office and stared at it as though afraid it would eat him.
"I don't like the way they look at me," he said. "They stare. They all stare. And I can't figure out why. Did they tell you?"
"No. Maybe it's your hair," offered Scott. Bernard glared at him. "Well, have you see any curly haired wood elves here?"
Bernard crossed his arms. "Sir."
"Get in there and ask them yourself," said Santa as he attempted to waft the elf toward the door with his arms.
"Have they told you anything?"
"No," he admitted, ceasing his gesticulations. "But I don't think the leader trusts me. I don't think any of them do. But you, maybe they'll talk to you. If you'll actually show up once in a while."
Bernard paced back and forth a few seconds. He groaned.
"Fine. Okay, I'll do it. Let's go."
The other occupants of the room had all fallen into chatter amongst themselves. Lydia had a relaxed smile on her face and almost, very nearly, might have laughed at something Orëna had said. As they entered the room, Elrodan and Orëna got to their feet. Scott ushered Bernard into the room with an arm around the recalcitrant elf's shoulders and, ignoring his dark-eyed scowl, deliberately positioned him next to Lydia. Her gentle smile did not fade. Bernard did not smile back, but he didn't glower at her either, and Scott considered that progress. As soon as he returned to his own chair behind the desk, Orëna and Elrodan sat back down.
"Are you two gonna do that every time I walk into a room? 'Cause I might have some fun with that."
"Let it never be said that the wood elves are devoid of their manners. Certain behaviors notwithstanding," said Gilrohir haughtily. He sent a glare toward Orëna that clearly said she risked losing her feet entirely if she tried putting them on the desk again.
"In some places it's considered polite to put your feet on the table," muttered Orëna.
"Do dwarves do that?" asked Carol quizzically.
"Yes. It's to show your host that they've made you comfortable enough to feel like you're at home."
"Huh," said Scott, "Interesting. Now where were we?"
"They had some questions about the Clause and how it relates to what we do here," said Curtis. "I offered to go over it myself, but - "
"But that's not your job, is it?" finished Quinton.
"Perhaps it should be, if he who is responsible cannot be bothered to be at his assigned post on time."
Bernard turned and found the icy eyes of Gilrohir staring him down with all the stern disapproval of a commanding officer whose newest recruit has given away the entire company's position with a very loud and ill-timed sneeze. He nearly wilted until a voice in his head, the same one that very badly wanted to tell Curtis to shut up a second ago, reminded him that Gilrohir might be allowed to boss Lydia around, but the Pole was still his turf, not the wood elves'.
"I'm sorry," he said disdainfully, suddenly not sorry at all, "I had some things to attend to that kept me. We are very busy up here, you understand."
Elrodan and Orëna both looked at him now with amazement. Orëna bore an expression that clearly spoke of her desire to smile at his candor toward her humorless captain, but some conflicting emotion restrained her from showing such positive emotion toward him.
"What do you want to know?" asked Bernard.
It seemed the wood elves asked dozens of questions. As he told them about their traditions and way of life, he was curious to find how much they knew already. The other elves had not been idle in making friends with the newcomers, and it showed. Still there were intricacies only he could properly tell, and as he spoke, they listened carefully to all he had to say. As he reached the discussion of the magic laid upon Santa's coat, Orëna gasped softly.
"May I see it?"
"Don't put it on," said Scott as he passed it to her.
"Of course."
She held the coat in her hands as tenderly as if it were made of silk and ran her fingers delicately over the embroidery.
"This isn't elf magic," she said awestruck. "There is, a bit of it. A sort of transfer, like they've copied the original spells and pasted them onto it."
"Our seamstresses will have done that," explained Bernard. "We've gone through a couple of them."
"Coats, not seamstresses," said Scott.
"But the original magic, it's like it's got Elven influence, but it's not purely Elven," said Orëna. She ran the fabric through her hands in fascination.
"You recognize it?" asked Elrodan.
"A little. I don't know it."
"What does that mean?" asked Scott.
Quinton looked over Orëna's shoulder. "Like the architecture?"
"Architecture?" said Carol as she watched them.
Scott rubbed his temples a moment. "I'm gonna need you the brainiacs to talk in a language we all can understand."
"Yes, sorry," said Orëna. "I was telling Quinton the other day, the architecture here is intriguing."
"I noticed that too. The oldest parts have distinctly Hollin motifs," said Elrodan.
"Like what?"
Quinton looked up as he heard Bernard's voice and found his friend had stepped forward next to him.
"The way the wood is carved is a dead giveaway," said Orëna. "It's inspired by the trees that grew there, until they burned, of course."
"The color schemes, as well," added Elrodan. "The greens and burgundy and gold is very Hollin. There are clearly outside influences in the newer sections. And obviously borrowed from human designs."
"Yes," agreed Orëna. "But the sort of, middle-aged sections and bits of the older ones are different. And like the magic on this cloak, the foundation is clearly dwarvish in design."
Gilrohir suddenly looked at Orëna like this information was entirely new to him.
"Are you sure?"
"Without a doubt."
"But why would the designs be dwarven, if they're elves?" asked Carol.
The entire trio were silent for a moment. Their silence did not have the hushed tension of a party reluctant to answer this time. To Carol, they had the unique look of students who had come into class, unaware that there would be a quiz that day. None of them answered. Then Elrodan spoke up in his quiet, level voice.
"They never did find the advisor. The histories say he was not found amongst the dead. He may have escaped too."
"No dwarf would have fled that conflict. Especially not one loyal to King Bayard," growled Orëna.
"Not unless he was sent away," persisted Elrodan. "If Bayard ordered him to escort the children into exile, it would explain how they managed the journey."
"Talk. To. Us," said Scott, annoyed.
"Bayard, the King of Hollin, had an advisor, a dwarf, from the nearby dwarven kingdom that was also destroyed during the war. I can never remember his name. Naugrim, Nifil…."
"Nifur."
To the astonishment of everyone in the room, including himself, the name had come out of Bernard's mouth.
"That's right," breathed Elrodan.
"How did you know that?" asked Quinton, staring at his friend in utter shock.
"I-I don't know," said Bernard, shaking his head. Images flashed through his mind in a rapid sequence, a dark-haired man, a sparkling lake with a bed covered in clear stone, a woman with violet eyes, a bearded figure carrying an axe, stone fixtures on fire, storms and trees and thunderous hoofbeats. The images conveyed nothing to him, yet so deeply had he fallen into them that he could not feel the stares on him.
"Okay, that's good to know, but what does the coat have to do with anything? Are you telling me this guy enchanted his own coat to make anyone who wore it look like him?" said Scott, his voice soaked in incredulity. "Why would he do that?"
The sound of his voice began to pull Bernard slowly out of the tumultuous sea of his mind like a lifesaver. He felt the weight of many eyes lift off him as his boss spoke. He looked up and found the only one still looking at him was Lydia. Her expression was somewhere between confusion and pity, as though she thought to reach out to him with her eyes. His head throbbed, but he did not look away from her.
"Haven't the foggiest," said Orëna.
"I don't suppose you remember anything?" asked Elrodan. "Bernard?"
Bernard resurfaced from the dark vacuum of memory and shook his head.
"It was a long time ago," conceded Carol.
"How inconvenient," said Gilrohir. His derision earned him an inflamed scowl from the Head Elf.
"You think I'm faking?" said Bernard defensively. "It was ages ago. I can't remember, okay?"
The two elves glared at each other a moment. Scott looked back and forth to each of them, worried he might have to put himself between them. That is until he looked at his wife, and seeing her cold gaze, remembered she had spent many years as a high school principal and vowed to leave that sort of thing to her. The point became moot in any case when the door burst open.
"There's been another one!"
Audrey, the little elf-maid from the List Department, had rushed into the room without bothering to knock. Her face was flushed with excitement, and she pushed her glasses back up her nose. She rounded on Curtis. "I told you I wasn't crazy."
"And I told you not to worry about it," said Curtis huffily.
"But there's been another one!"
"Girl, do you often interrupt important meetings between your elders?" said Gilrohir.
"Hey!" said Santa. "You can shout and growl at your elves all you want, but don't talk to mine like that. Another what, Audrey?"
"Audrey thinks she's found a serial killer," said Curtis disdainfully.
Scott silenced him with a glare. "Audrey. What is he talking about?"
"I found something. It's the List. It'll take a while to explain."
"Start from the beginning."
"A few years ago, I started charting the List itself. I was interested in monitoring growth and reduction on a yearly basis. After while, I started charting it monthly, taking note of additions to the list," Audrey paused, as though the word in her mind was one she was reluctant to say out loud. "And losses."
"Losses are normal, Audrey," said Bernard patiently. "Kids grow up, and they stop believing. It's natural."
"Not these losses. Young children, toddlers, some were even babies."
Bernard let out a heavy sigh. He recalled now that Audrey had wanted to show him something weeks prior, before Lydia resurfaced and the wood elves arrived and the Pole plunged into chaos. He regretted brushing her off then, but it couldn't be helped now. He spoke to her gently.
"That's normal too. It's unfortunate, but it happens."
"Not like this!"
"I don't understand," interrupted Lydia. "What would cause a child to fall off the list that young, unless…."
She trailed off, unwilling to speak her own thought. For the first time in weeks, Bernard met her eyes and nodded, confirming the revelation.
"It's started happening in clusters now. There's no explanation."
"You know the explanation, Audrey," said Bernard.
"These aren't illnesses. Or accidents. I'm not the only one who noticed something odd."
Audrey pulled out a file folder that was several inches thick. She produced a sheet of paper and laid it on the desk.
"These are the names of all the children in the Northern Hemisphere who have been removed from the list in the past year." She pulled out another sheet and laid it on top of the first. "These are the ones who have died from illnesses, accidents, or recognized foul play." Another sheet joined the first and second. "These have no explanation whatsoever."
Elrodan picked the copies of the lists Audrey had made off the desk. He scanned each one, reading every single name. As his eyes travelled down each sheet of paper, his normally placid brow furrowed into an expression of consternation that soon turned to outrage.
"Children fall off the list all the time. That doesn't mean there's a serial killer," said Curtis dismissively.
"You mean children are dying. You see it. You know it happens and where. Do you not care?" said Elrodan.
"Mortals are fragile," said Orëna with the gravity of someone who did not learn that by reading. She put a pacifying hand on Elrodan's arm. "Children especially so."
"Of course we care," said Scott, shooting daggers out his eyes in Curtis's direction.
"Then why don't you do something about it?" demanded Elrodan.
"We cannot interfere," said Quinton ruefully.
"Why not? I've read in your books. Such terrible things. Monstrous things we could never have dreamed of, not in a million centuries. Why do you not do something?" persisted Elrodan, his green eyes like glass shards in his indignant face.
"They are toymakers, Elrodan," said Lydia. "Not soldiers."
"More to the point," said Orëna reasonably. "They are children."
She turned to Elrodan and addressed him directly in their own language. "Children in exile. Hiding from a monster far worse than whatever is causing that."
She pointed a thick finger toward the papers in Audrey's hands, unaware of how wrong that statement truly was. Elrodan looked into her coppery eyes and laid the papers back on the desk.
"I'm not being melodramatic," said Audrey quietly. "People Down Below are beginning to notice too. In one village in the Highlands of Scotland, four children perished in a single month. None of them had a mark on them. It's happening all over the place in the northern parts of Europe."
"And you suspect foul play?" asked Santa skeptically.
"Not just me. The police too."
She dropped a stack of newspapers defiantly onto the desk. The top issue bore a headline that might have been more remarkable had the inhabitants of the room been able to recognize all the letters used.
"Is this Swedish?"
Quinton picked up the newspaper. "Norwegian, Sir."
"Here's another one in Irish, Sir," said Audrey. "They all say pretty much the same thing. Children, usually small ones, babies and toddlers, get put to bed at night, and in the morning, the parents go in to check on them, and they've died in the night. Not peacefully either. The older ones especially look like they died in absolute terror. It's mostly in small towns. Large cities haven't reported anything. Though whether that's because it's not happening there, or because the large population numbers are disguising the trend, I can't say."
Audrey paused and shifted guiltily on the spot.
"I also found these," she said, holding up a shorter stack on file folders. Mrs. Claus took one, and Orëna took the other.
"What am I looking at?" asked Orëna.
Audrey muttered something unintelligible under her breath.
"Beg pardon?"
"Police reports. Forensic files. Stuff like that," said Audrey, trying to sound casual.
A brief overview of post-mortem forensics to the wood elves later, Orëna was thumbing through investigation reports, with Quinton over her shoulder providing translations of jargon as necessary.
"Audrey," said Scott, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How did you get these?"
Audrey fiddled with a loose thread on her sleeve.
"I know somebody. Somebody who knows a thing or two about hacking into law enforcement databases. We didn't actually touch anything. We just made some copies."
Santa shook his head. "Naughty, Audrey. Very naughty."
"Highly unethical would be the words I would use," said Carol.
"So it is perfectly all right to spy on children when they are alive, but to infringe upon their privacy after they are dead is crossing a line?" scoffed Gilrohir.
Elrodan cocked his head to one side. "That does seem a little, what word am I looking for?"
"Arbitrary," said Quinton without looking up from the paper in Orëna's hands.
Scott glared at Gilrohir and slowly shook his head. He decided the rebuttal wasn't worth it, and leveled a finger at Audrey.
"Your source?"
"No comment."
"I'll find out. Do you have any idea who I am?" Santa's voice was stern, but his eyes were twinkling. Audrey fought a smile.
"I do. I'm still not giving up my source."
"Audrey," said Carol. "Look at me."
"Sorry, Mrs. Claus. Your icy principal's stare will have no effect on me. I'll never talk."
"I see," said Carol. She whispered in her husband's ear. "It's somebody we know."
"I had a good reason. I wasn't just curious," Audrey insisted. Santa shook his head.
"Audrey. We need to get you a hobby."
"I would respectfully disagree, Sir."
Orëna's voice was nearly inaudible, but the intensity with which she spoke arrested the attention of the entire room. She was staring intently at the report she held in her hands, and a tremor went through her fingers. She was as close to rattled as anyone in the room had ever seen her.
"Elrodan," she said softly.
She slowly passed the report over to him. Elrodan's delicate fingers held the paper as though it had a curse laid on it. His eyes pored over it as the others watched him in silence. As he reached the bottom of the page, his fair face turned a shade paler. Gilrohir put a hand on his shoulder.
"What is it, my love?"
Without a word, Elrodan passed the report over to him. Gilrohir read through it as well, and his brow darkened.
"Please," said Orëna, her voice quavering. "One of you tell me I'm wrong."
Gilrohir closed his eyes for a moment in painful resignation.
"You said so yourself that he may still be out there," said Orëna.
"Who?" asked Santa. "Who might be out there?"
Orëna and Elrodan both looked nervously to their commander. Gilrohir said nothing for a moment, then he shook his head.
"No," he said. "I fear you are not wrong, Orëna."
Elrodan let out a shuddering breath and hung his head. Orëna buried her face in her hands. Bernard and Quinton watched them, then looked at Lydia. She did not raise her eyes, which were fixed on the three wood elves. Her expression was unreadable.
"What is it?" asked Scott. "One of you say something."
Gilrohir met his gaze. For once his face was entire free of haughty disdain or sternness. He betrayed no fear, but his deep blue eyes were troubled.
"If it is as we fear, these deaths are no mystery. They are no accident, nor any plague with which you are familiar. If we are correct in our conclusions, these deaths were the work of our greatest enemy, the destroyer of Hollin, the bane of King Bayard and Queen Miriel, and the fiend from which you all are hiding."
His jaw worked back and forth, as though the word would not form itself on his tongue. Orëna and Elrodan looked at their leader as though they both dreaded the sound and desperately wanted the moment over with. The rest of them looked at him as one looks into a shadowy basement or a darkened hallway, uncertain of what one might find, and the imagination running amok with possibility.
"These deaths are the work of the Erlking."
A/N: Here, I got you guys a small cliffhanger for Christmas. Love you. 3
I hope to have two more chapters out by the end of the year. I meant to have four out this month, but you know how it goes. Merry Christmas!
-Chapter Title from "Carol of the Bells"
