Weir clenches his fists, tightening them around his hammer and shield. The outcome of this fight did not bode well for him, but he still held a small shred of hope. Believe, believe, believe. He chanted to himself, as if willing the words to become material, wincing at the weight on his injured leg.
An impossibly loud voice cracks through the air and a stillness ensues over everything. Several demons trip in their advance, the elves fall into one another, hurrying their hands to catch the next. Weir’s head cranes to the sky, looking for the source of the sound, turning his head every which way. The next thing he hears is a tinkling, a sound of wonder, and even the elves excite at this. Bells. Sleigh bells. That notorious sound of reindeer pulling a great sleigh, and then like a veil has been lifted, he sees them.
All of them. Dasher and Dancer. Prancer and Vixen. He counts them in whispers. One two three, four five six, seven and eight. They pull a great, wooden, sleigh- polished and gleaming. The intricacy of the patterns are the likes of which Weir has never seen, filigree rolling in and out of each other with no end or beginning. The most pronounced thing about the sleigh, is the jolly man who proudly holds the reigns. Santa Claus. His cheeks are red and rosy, his eyes are twinkling yet somehow, they are hard and angry. The Grinch appears, standing on the roof in his attempts to champion Old St. Nick, yelling from the shingles.
That slippery Grinch smiles with his snaggly, dirty teeth, and Santa says to him “Come and get me you Grinchy Grinch!”. Well, more or less that is what he says. Weir is too awe struck to focus on the details of that conversation, it’s not every day you see Santa mind you.
With an end to their verbal spat, the Grinch descends from the roof, intent on collecting his demons and reindeer. Santa peers over the polished edge of his sleigh, his voice ringing and jolly as he instructs Weir and the elves on what they must do. They’ll have to come to the North Pole to help him, to finish saving Christmas but his magic has grown weak. To the elves he gives what magic he can spare, and bids them luck and thanks. With a snap of his reins and a the familiar call, he disappears with his sleigh heading due north.
The elves clamber about, grabbing at Weir and tugging. So hard and so fast, that he’s pulled away from his companions, spinning and spinning into what he doesn’t know.
His eyes, blink open with blear. Looking and looking to see where is here? With a groan and a grunt, he lifts from the ground. Nothing is familiar, not a single thing around.
He looks in his sack, the first thing he must check. Up peeks Darwin who says, “Weir, what the heck?” From his canvas burrow, it becomes quite clear. That wherever they are, the North Pole is not near.
Weir thinks with a thought, with a hum and a guess. “Wherever we are, it’s way too far west.” A sign looms before them, with letters bold and dark. On their way to the Pole, they’ve thoroughly missed their mark. “Universal Studios,” Weir announces, with a laugh and a grin. It’s a place people film movies, now and again.
“Is this some sort of joke?” Darwin asks, sounding quite glum. Weir shrugs in response, he’s not sure why they’ve come. “Not the slightest idea, my good green fellow. Though we should make the best of it, might as well have a look around- say hello.”
Darwin grumbles at this, and he grumps like a grouch. Weir hums a joyful tune, patting his pouch. The elves mill about, pointing left, pointing right. They’re pleased with themselves and they giggle with delight.
For the place that they are, is a place you might know, but everything is artificial- even the snow. A movie set, with a sign at the front, “Welcome to Who-ville” Darwin reads, with a grunt.
“Now don’t be so sour,” Weir chides the turtle-soul, with a glower. “We’ll be off soon enough, let the elves rest their power.
“What, what. What was that? Weir have you noticed this whole time? That everything that’s said, well, it all seems to rhyme!” With that he presses his turtle hands to his face, surely astonished, it’s all so hard to embrace. Weir looks puzzled but he fully agrees, why, he’s just now noticed that too. Geez.
They elves nod their heads, hats sounding with bells. Like they knew this would happen, like a prank to their spell. Weir sighs feeling stressed and unsure, and his leg really hurt- he could sure use a cure. Taking the cue, from him rubbing his leg, the elves step up to help Weir. A useful bit of magic instead.
With a pop and a crackle, a snap and a whop. Weir’s leg is as good as new, “Hey, thanks you lot.”
So their troupe hurries on, deep within the movie set, but they havn’t seen a single actor- not a single one yet. That is, not until they hear a young girl cry and fret.
She cries with sob, with a wail most sad indeed. Weir can’t help but want to help her, she must be in need. So he walks on over, our red headed friend, and he offers her help- no need to pretend. “Hallo there young lady, my name is Weir. Is something the matter? Can we help my dear?”
That little tot, she blinks up at the group, looking at Weir and his elven troupe. “I’m sorry Sir, I don’t mean to cry, everyone want’s to leave- they don’t want to try.”
“Dont want to try?” “And what exactly is it that you mean, by-the-by?”
“This movie Sir, no one has Christmas cheer. They told the director they quit, bye, see ya next year!” She covers her face, that blonde-headed young girl, Weir pats her gently. “We can try to help, give it a whirl.” The elves nod, most excited to assist, they don’t like to see good children cry like this. So they will help, even Darwin complies. The turtle, it seems, can not stand her sad, big, blue eyes.
And so our group, does what they’ve come to do. They help that little girl, young Cindy Lou Who.
They chase down the actors, they spread Christmas cheer, they convince them to return- to stay and persevere. When the first task is done, when all is finite. The elves tap their watches, their charge is complete. So they say goodbye, to the girl and the rest. Then it’s off they go again, to continue their quest.
Weir heaves ,grabbing his stomach, doing best not to lose it’s contents. That teleportation thing would take some getting used to. Right now, he didn’t have much time for that, so instead he breathes deep. “Where are we now?” He groans, Darwin making noises much the same. It occurs to him then, that things no longer rhyme. Well, that was a relief.
The elves look at him with a twinkle in their tired eyes, pointing at the building they stand next to. “The British Museum” Weir reads, righting himself and pulling open his bag for Darwin to see. “Oh this is much better, yes, good choice.”
Well, at least he’s in a better mood.
It’s a good trip, at first, and Weir enjoys looking at the displays. The elves stay close, one even hangs onto his bag. Obviously it’s not often that they are around so many people either, but they knew Weir would like it here. They had to do something, that last little visit wasn’t a very nice trick. Even they admit that it was more than they had bargained for. It’s nice at first because they can actually relax for a while it seems, for a while that is- until they can’t.
They’ve been in looking over a Medieval England display for all of five minutes when there is a crash sounding from another exhibit. “What in the world, now who would be causing a ruckus in a museum. I mean really..” He doesn’t have to finish because his question is answered. It seems they’ve been followed,and not by little Cindy Lou Who either.
The Grinch’s demons have somehow found the little group, and they’re doing all they can to make a mess of things. Weir can’t believe they have the nerve for such a blatant act of magic in such a large crowd. They don’t seem to care about outing their kind, or the elves for that matter.
It’s not a terrible room to be caught in, so many weapons hanging on the walls. Besides, Weir can hardly keep hold of the elves now, everyone’s taken to running- and screaming. The screaming. That’s the worst bit of it all. “You’d think they’ve never seen a demon before.” Weir yells, covering his ears with his palms in an attempt to quell the volume.
“That’s because they havn’t” Darwin yells, pressing his own turtle hands against his head. “Well don’t just stand there Weir, help them.”
“Oh yes, quite right.” Weir nods, spinning on the spot, still clasping his ears. Help. Help. How can he help? The elves are busy exchanging magic for magic, one’s even trying to help the people. Weir turns around and around, finally grabbing an idea from the top of his head. “No maybe I should not, I don’t know that it’s quite right.” He says out loud, letting his inner monologue slip his lips.
“You must do something, anything!” Darwin cries, his voice vibrating from being jostled about as people try to flee. “Fine. Fine! If anyone asks though, I’ll say it was your idea.” Weir verbally jabs at Darwin, who laughs almost instantly. Weir runs to a case, one that’s made purely of glass, with the edges affixed in gold flaked metal. He pauses over the container, placing his palms against the top. “Merlin forgive me.” He prays, before taking a nearby flag from its pole. He wraps the material twice around his hand, and smashes the glass case. From its velvet lining he takes the sword, the sword. Excalibur.
The elves can’t believe it, though they suppose it couldn’t be helped. As it were they were vastly outnumbered, a bit of theft for a good cause was okay, right? Weir slashes the nearest demon in the back, and it falls with a thud from a screaming man’s leg. “Thank you, thank you so much!” He praises, grabbing at Weir clothes. “Yes, yes of course, now if you don’t mind.” He gestures to his coat, indicating the man should release him. The injured civilian nods, looking rather embarrassed.
“Atta boy Weir!” Darwin cheers, “Now the elves! We’ve got to stick together.”
Weir takes a moment to look around, spotting the small jingling bunch. They’re grappling with demons over a large Christmas tree and light display. Two of the elves fight to keep hold of presents, while the other three duck and block bursts of green light. “The presents? Isn’t that just a display?” The red headed man says out loud, questioning the significance. “Maybe they don’t know that,” Darwin guesses leaning over the zipper and the flap. Weir pushes his way past tourists, running up to strike a demon in the chest that lunges at him. “Not this time!” He yells, scrambling up the steps to the elevated presentation.
He comes to a skidding stop, gold words catching his eye. The podium in front of the display says that these gifts are for the museum’s ‘Annual Orphanage gift Donation’. “Why those bastards!” Weir yells, jumping over the rope barrier, sending the red velvet cord swaying haphazardly.
“You can’t have those presents, you nasty, greedy animals!” It’s the best he’s got in a pinch like this. Not to mention there are still children present, and most of them are upset enough at the sight of the green devils. Though cheesy, it’s enough to spark something in the hearts of several other adults. A few of them rally together, grabbing what they can to fight. Those that have nothing to take up as arms, simply try to save the presents, a theatrical tug of war. The demons don’t like this camaraderie one bit, so they turn to using their magic in more dubious ways.
One animates a suit of armor, sending it crashing into the gathered cavalry. Others follow suit, bringing life to the statues of metal. Weir agonizes over the lives lost, putting even more effort into cutting down the lamp eyed beats. Then he wonders, turns a play on some words, on a thought. If you can’t beat them, join them.
He grabs one of the elves, whispering feverishly into it’s ear. The little guy nods vigorously, bounding off to grab one of it’s friends. When that elf tells it’s brother, they are both nodding excitedly, tumbling like acrobats across the room. The museum floor houses a great many things, one such thing being the skeletal structure of a Triceratops. A marvelous herbivore, one that can really pack a punch with its great horned head. The elves do their thing, sending a crackle of popping, silver, magic at the skeleton. Binding the beast with bewitchment and giving it some life.
They use this ceratopsid dinosaur like a bowling ball against the gleaming, suits of medieval armor. Striking at them like pins, sending them sprawling and dismantled across the tile floor. “Out of the way, out of the way!” Weir instructs those that still remain inside, either too scared or too stupid to run away. With the help of the elves and their new prehistoric comrade, the demons start to flee, disappearing with a resounding crack.
Those that are left, heave from their strain, and others collapse. Some have lost so much, friends, family, loved one’s. How was this helping? Weir wondered, looking thoroughly crestfallen at the wreckage. At the sadness. “Weir?” Darwin peeps looking up with sad eyes, “Weir, we need to go. You did all that you could.” He tries his best to still the sadness and pain in his voice, hoping to console his host. “Did I?” Weir wonders, gasping on the words. “This. This is the best I could do?” He’s disappointed in himself, it leaks from every uttered word.
He heaves, dropping Excalibur to the floor, and retching what little he had in his belly.
With a tattered sleeve he wipes his mouth and his chin, looking at the elves who slowly approach. One solemnly holds out his watch, and the others clutch their belled-hats to their chests. Their long, pointed, ears drooping like a dogs.
“Wait, you’ve got to fix this.” He pleads, teary eyed. “We’ve got to fix this.” They nod, casting their magic throughout the museum, making everything as it once was- whole again.
“You owe me one more,” Weir reminds them, looking at the faces of those that stare back at him. Some accusing, some lost, most broken. “Them too. Put them back too, and what they’ve lost...make them not remember.” He had a point, however sad and questionable the magic might be. The elves did what they were told. These humans, they would never know this day happened, nor would they recall those they had lost. The missing pieces will be as if they never existed, you can’t miss what you don’t have- can you?
Joining hands the elves make a crescent, readying themselves for departure, and taking Weirs limp hands in their own. “It’s going to be okay Weir.” Darwin promises, but he doesn’t sound so sure himself. “It’ll get easier.” He starts to say, but his words are drowned out by the tossing and turning of the world as they transport.
They land with a thud, surrounded by snow and twinkling Christmas lights. The air is merry and cheerful, but Weir stands with a blank look on his face.
Saving Christmas hadn’t been so easy, saving Christmas had been hard, it had been sad.
There’s too many voices now, all high pitched and foreign, talking relentlessly to one another. He lets a smile bloom across his face, though he doesn’t have a clue what they’re saying. He’s not sure it matters either, because they had spent themselves fully for Santa. In more ways than he had expected, but he can’t say he’d take it back- perhaps sacrifice was a necessary evil to reach an outcome of good. Perhaps sacrifice was just necessary as a means to an end, he’d be sure to ask Santa what he had to say about that.
For now Weir looks at Santa’s Workshop with a heavy heart. Wondering what might be asked of him next, wondering what more he and Darwin would have to give.
WEIR
Is this a thing?
Places visited: Who-ville on the set of 'How the Grinch Stole Christmas" at Universal Studios in CA
The British Museum in London
Magic used: Heal Weir's leg, Animate triceratops skeleton, Fix museum wreckage, erase memories of event and deaths from bystanders.
edits: for typos that I could spot :/