Chapter 6
Jakfros
Iwatch her thoughtfully throughout the day.
Normally I would be gloating with excitement for my own impending feast while drifting on a cloud of holiday spirit, but my mood is quieter than normal.
It is as if there is an uncomfortable weight in my chest that makes me anxious rather than attending to matters with my usual cheer.
My nose wrinkles slightly as I observe her abusing my chair, one leg thrown over the arm as she reads the novel in her hands.
I do not recognize it but I have collected so many seasonal things from a multitude of human traditions that it is quite possible that it snuck into my collection.
Obviously, a book was the wrong choice. Though she sips on her hot cocoa, her mood is quiet as she reads. .. somber even.
This... this is not right.
I squint at the book when her lower lip trembles slightly and read the title.
A Christmas Carol. The name of the book sounds cheerful enough.
Carols rouse the festive spirit as well as anything, and the subject matter seems to be failing abysmally.
Who is this Dickens fellow that he is incapable of getting a simple theme right?
Arms folded over my chest, I drum the claws of my right hand on my bicep with annoyance only for them to flatten angrily when Shawna makes a small, sad sound.
This is the exact opposite of holiday cheer.
My tail flicks and my wings twitch restlessly as I move to the side of the chair so that I can peer over her shoulder. squint at the scene printed on the page before me. My frustration quickly shifts to horror. A scene of such sorrow... and death!
“What is this?!” I demand, briefly unaware that I’ve spoken my indignation aloud.
Her eyes, their color a brilliant, pale blue of winter skies, lift from the page, and she looks in my direction. For a moment I swear that she can see me, but her gaze shifts away absently and I am both relieved and disappointed by the truth.
She half-closes the book and gestures to the cover. “The Christmas Carol. Of all books, I would have imagined that a holiday spirit would recognize a classic piece of literature that so clearly demonstrates the spirit of the season.”
“Spirit of the season?” I echo. “That dismal tale? Where is the joy and merriment in such grim literature?”
A faint smile brushes her lips as she runs a finger over the gold-stamped lettering on the cover.
Despite the fact that her spirits are not raised with merriment and she is not flushed with the pleasures of the season’s joy, there is something quite charming about her in this moment which captivates me.
“I suppose it is a tad grim,” she agrees. “But if you object to it so much, why do you have it here among your festive belongings?”
I grimace, no longer quite as charmed. She is too shrewd by far.
I had been excited about the prospect of enjoying this feast, but now I am rather wishing that she was a big, brawny, idiotic male.
I cannot think of a single guest who has ever even done more than idly pick up the book and flip through it in the most casual sense before setting it aside again.
But now I can feel the sweat gathering at the base of my horns.
“It is not precisely that I object,” I refute somewhat lamely. “The book was a gift. I had not yet had the opportunity to read it. I certainly would have not kept it, however, if I had known that it contained such a lack of real holiday spirit.”
Her brows draw together and I have the feeling that I have somehow doomed myself.
How often had Mother said to keep the trap simple.
She had scolded me more than once for being a packrat of odd bits of human holiday traditions.
She always claimed that it was unnecessary, but I thought it added a touch of something more.
Now I am getting a taste of the other side of the situation.
A random item is making her think far too much instead of embracing the magic.
I am prepared for her to call me out on my deception. My muscles tense, and my tongue draws back and presses against the roof of my mouth as I grit my teeth defensively. She shakes her head... and laughs.
“It is only the greatest book demonstrating the warmth of caring and concern for others during the holiday season beyond all the frivolity,” she says, gesturing to the décor.
“All of this is quite lovely, don’t get me wrong, but even the greatest of feasts, plentiful drinks, and most beautiful of surroundings is all just..
. the dressing on a greater message that spans across many traditions throughout history.
Of common goodwill towards others and the bonds that keep those who are dearest to us closest to our hearts. ”
My brow furrows as I frown at the book. “You infer that from that grim passage?”
She laughs again, and the sound sparks something within my chest, adding to the weight. It is not unpleasant, but the sensation is a new one, and it has dulled my own hunger with its distraction.
“Sure. One could say that mortality and the specter of death looming near is a whetstone upon which we sharpen our blades. That is to say, that all this merriment and celebration, which the miser Scrooge rejects as wastefulness in equal portion to his unfeelingness towards the needs of others, exists because of that.”
A thoughtful look crosses her face as she taps a finger on the book.
“It brings to mind Saturnalia. Sure, it gets a bad rap for the all the drinking and feasting, which is also part of traditional Christmas celebrations until more recent history, but also for an equalization between the poor and the wealthy because the ancient Romans believed that there was once a Golden Age, ruled over by Saturn, in which all people enjoyed plentitude with hunger or death, or concepts of rich and poor. To celebrate this is to celebrate in the face of all the misery of human existence while celebrating all the joys. And that is a common theme to be found across most winter celebrations, I believe. This book just reminds us how precious these things are and how they are not to be forgotten in idle hunger and ignorant frivolity. These are things that Charles Dickens depicts as a pair of children: the girl Want and the boy Ignorance.”
“I see,” I murmur, admittedly a little unsettled but also with a new hunger of my own.
Frost demons, by nature, feed recklessly without consideration.
I am certain that it is why Mother scoffed at any talk of love and romance.
All of this is just the bait to lure in the one who would provide our feast. But all of this atmosphere of merriment conjured by my magic suddenly feels very empty.
What exactly am I celebrating? Demons can die, though it is very rare and death is a fluid thing for our kind.
We can know hunger and sorrow. Many demons also know the close connections of family and loved ones.
.. if they belong to practically any species other than a frost demon.
I have nothing to celebrate, no joys of my own.
I steal the joys of others and their mortal warmth.
And I intend on doing exactly that to Shawna.
It is practically a necessity for my own survival rather than face merely existing in a state of pain and endless hunger after the long winter drains all of my strength to paint my magic everywhere that frost exists.
I will need her joy because I have none of my own.
“Would... would you like me to read it to you?” she asks hesitantly, and my heart thumps with an enthusiastic leap of pleasure.
I am perfectly capable of reading every word of it myself, but I am not ashamed to jump at the chance to enjoy a moment of closeness with her and the soft cadence of her words. Just the thought of it fills me with undeniable pleasure.
“Would you?” I breathe.
A delicate pink hue climbs to her cheeks, and she nods as she flips the pages back to the beginning. I move quietly so that she does not notice and take a seat on the giant fleece rug beneath her feet. She clears her throat endearingly before she finally begins.
“Marley was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed—”
I listen to her sweet voice as I very lightly rest my head on her leg.
I am certain she notices because she pauses for a moment as if surprised before dismissing the sensation and continuing with the tale as if nothing is amiss.
But for me, this is the sweetest of moments, and I enjoy the way the firelight reflects off her coppery hair and the way it bathes her skin and makes her appear luminous.
If anyone deserves to be a holiday spirit, it is Shawna.
Not only is she clever and kind, but she smells delicious, better than any sweet that I have conjured.
I am feeling positively drowsy as I listen to her read, and yet I do not sleep.
The world ensnares me, drawing me into its sad but lively world.
I am a spectator of this world playing out within my imagination until the last syllable of the final word falls from her lips, and even so, I do not want to move.
But I do. I rise and busy myself with another feast. However, this feast is different from the others.
This time I am inspired, and I can feel my magic enriched with something a bit more as I set to work.
For the first time, I find myself hungering not for a feast, but to share such a simple connection with another that is worth celebrating. And I want that with her.
Dark lords and ladies, help me.