The warmth of the fire had settled into every corner of the common hall, making it nearly impossible to tell where the glow of the flames ended and where the glow of the elves' laughter began. It was the kind of night Lucien never thought he would see—not in a hospital bed, not in the world he had left behind. Now, here in this great cottage with its beams twined in holly and pine, with stockings pinned crookedly above the mantelpiece, and with a Christmas tree so tall it seemed to scrape the ceiling rafters, he felt a small miracle resting in his chest.
They had been gathered since supper, each of the young elves crowded around the fire with mugs of steaming cider and plates of half-eaten cookies. The tree lights sparkled faintly, reflections of enchanted candles that never melted, and a thin ribbon of pine scent hung in the air. Lucien sat cross-legged on the rug, knees drawn to his chest, listening as stories passed from one to another like little gifts wrapped in words.
"I once saw a reindeer sneeze so hard," Christopher declared, puffing out his chest, "it knocked Finn right into a snowdrift!"
Finn flushed instantly, his ears pinking up beneath his messy blond hair. "That was not me!"
"Yes, it was," Holly said with a sly grin. "I remember because you left your scarf behind, and Noelle had to fetch it for you."
The whole group giggled. Noelle, polishing off the last crumbs of her cookie, blinked innocently. "Oh, right. I thought that sneeze nearly counted as a blizzard."
Finn groaned, hiding his face. "You're all cruel."
"Cruel?" Christopher nudged him with a smirk. "You'll thank us for preserving your legacy."
Lucien chuckled softly, though he tried not to make it too obvious. He admired the way these elves teased and bickered, so different from the quiet. Every jab and every giggle was alive, a warmth he hadn't realized he'd missed so much.
Aurora, who rarely spoke, lifted her gaze from the embroidery she carried everywhere. "At least it wasn't you who sneezed so hard you knocked over a lantern."
"Wait," Bell piped up, eyes widening, "that happened?!"
Aurora's small smile confirmed it.
The hall erupted again with laughter, the kind that filled the beams and made the fire snap brighter. Lucien leaned against the leg of the armchair nearest the hearth, letting the warmth seep into his bones. He was tired, yet not in the way that meant sickness—just the sweet weariness that came with belonging.
Time stretched gently, as though the night itself were reluctant to pass.
---
By the time the hour grew late, the laughter had softened into the slow hum of sleepy voices. Eve, ever reserved, had curled herself up in the corner chair, arms tucked beneath her chin, pretending not to doze. Holly braided strands of her own hair absentmindedly, while Bell and Finn argued half-heartedly about which cookies tasted better: sugar-frosted or ginger-spiced.
Lucien blinked heavily, eyes fighting the pull of sleep. The fire licked low, only embers glowing now, and shadows stretched long and thin.
Then—
A faint sound.
He straightened slightly, wondering if it had been only the creak of the rafters or the sigh of winter wind against the shutters. But no—the sound shimmered again, delicate and distant, like silver dripping onto crystal.
Bells.
Lucien's breath caught. He turned his head toward the frosted windows. His heart beat fast. "Do you hear that?" he whispered.
No one moved at first.
Christopher yawned loudly. "Hear what?"
"The… the bells," Lucien murmured.
Finn tilted his head, skeptical. "You're dreaming."
But then—again, clearer now—the sound rang: the unmistakable jingle of bells, faint but steady, cutting through the hush of the night.
Bell (the elf, not the chime) gasped and jumped to her feet. "That's it! That's it!"
Holly's braids slipped from her fingers. Her eyes widened, sparkling with excitement. "It's him."
The room burst into energy. Chairs scraped. Voices overlapped. "Quick—outside! Outside!"
Lucien scrambled up as the others tumbled toward the door in a storm of slippers and laughter. His heart raced, both from anticipation and the rush of keeping up with their energy. They threw the door wide open, and the night answered with a blast of cold.
Snow whirled down from the sky, thick flakes catching in their hair and on their lashes. The air smelled sharp, alive with frost and pine. The entire village lay hushed under its blanket of white—until the bells rang again, louder now, echoing above the rooftops.
And then Lucien saw it.
High above, cutting through the deep purple sky of the eternal twilight, pranced a line of reindeer. Their hooves struck the air itself like solid ground, each step bursting in faint sparks of light. The sleigh behind them swayed gracefully, heavy with a sack so vast it bulged like a mountain of gifts.
The figure holding the reins was only a silhouette, shrouded in the glowing dark. Santa himself—yet hidden, veiled by mystery, his form blurred by distance and the shimmering fabric of the sky.
Lucien's breath fogged in front of him. His chest tightened with awe. It's real. It's all real.
Noelle clasped her hands together, eyes shining. "Every year, and still…" She trailed off, her smile trembling.
Finn leaned forward, whispering as though afraid to break the spell. "He's bigger than I imagined."
"Bigger?" Christopher barked a laugh, though it was softer than usual. "He's enormous. That sack alone could swallow this whole cottage."
Aurora, usually so quiet, pressed her palms together reverently. "Look at the reindeer. Look at their wings—"
And indeed, faint lines of light shimmered along the reindeer's flanks, wings of radiant magic barely visible, a reminder of the fairy fragments Lucien had seen before. Their breaths steamed out in glowing clouds as they thundered across the firmament.
From every home in the village, lights burst alive. Candles flickered into being. Windows flared golden. Doors opened as elves poured out, gasping, cheering, some crying as though seeing him for the first time. The whole town came awake like a heart restarting, every beat in sync with the sleigh bells above.
The young elves crowded closer together, their bare hands brushing in the cold. One by one, as if on instinct, they clasped palms. Holly squeezed Lucien's hand tightly on one side, Bell on the other.
"Together," Holly whispered.
Lucien swallowed, throat tight. The snow swirled, catching the glow of the sleigh until it seemed as though stars themselves were falling around them. His body trembled—not from the cold, but from something warmer, fiercer, rising inside.
And then he looked around—the sleigh above, the friends beside him, the breathless joy that lit every elf's face—and knew he was not alone.
He belonged here.
The bells rang once more, their peal strong enough to rattle the rooftops, and the reindeer surged forward, disappearing deeper into the horizon.
The village erupted in cheers. Laughter spilled like music, echoing off the snow-covered eaves. Elves hugged, sang, danced even in the icy streets.
But Lucien stood still, his hands still linked with Holly and Bell, his gaze fixed upward where the sleigh had vanished into the eternal twilight. He felt a tear slip warm down his cheek, though he wasn't sad. He was full—overflowing, like the sack that sleigh carried.
Noelle's voice broke through softly. "Happy Christmas Eve."
"Happy Christmas," the others echoed.
Lucien's lips curved into a shaky smile. "Happy Christmas," he whispered back, letting the words sink deep into him, as if they could stitch the hole where his old memories had begun to fade.
The bells were gone now, the sky returning to its quiet shimmer, but the magic hung thick in the air. Around him, the young elves still clutched hands, unwilling to let go, as though the warmth they shared could last forever.
And in that moment—frost swirling, firelight spilling from every home, hearts thrumming with the miracle they'd witnessed—Lucien believed it might.