#FOP Christmas Carol

[coolmika745]

A Fairly Oddparents Christmas Thoughts

There are spoilers of the movie below.

In Fairly Odd Christmas Santa gets amnesia and Timmy tried to take over and become Santa Claus, but he can't because he wason the naughty list. Crocker did an enemy mine and teamed up with Timmy, Tootie, Cosmo, Wanda, and Poof to see Elmer the Elder Elf to get Timmy's name off the naughty list. Crocker though was basically doing this to get himself off the naughty list while Jorgen stays there to watch Santa. They were accompanied by Santa's Elves, Dingle Dave and Christmas Carol.

There was a Dark Mist that makes everyone angry except for Vicky as it had the opposite effect on her and she only appeared in the movie for a few seconds. It was never really explained where the Dark Mist came from so the ending seems anticlimactic to me. If the Winter Dragon that Elmer was just kidding about did exist and was the cause of it then maybe the climax could have been Timmy and co. going to defeat the dragon.

Here is my thoughts about the Santa Claus in the cartoon Fairly Oddparents Series in one of my previous posts, which is reblogged from my original post.

[warning-heckboop]

Catch me listening to Seeds of the Past and thinking about Dale Dimmadome

[darkeeveeanimatesus]

They were once one...

Basically my new headcannon kinda is that Clockwork from Danny Phantom and Father Time from Fairly Oddparents were once one entity- Kronos. But when the 'Great Divide' that's talked about in A Glitch in Time happened, he tried desperately to fix it. Though the effort was futile and ended up splitting him in half. Most of his godlike powers, and not to mention the side that took his job seriously, was yanked out and turned into Clockwork. What was left behind in the living world is the silly old man who's always late that appears in the FOP episode 'Timmy's Secret Wish.' Being separated, they're both slightly breaking apart. Clockwork, physically- which is why he has that crack over his eye. And Father Time, mentally- which is why the supposed god of time doesn't do much and is just being an old idiot for the most part.

This also explains why Clockwork mentions his powers being 'finite' during A Glitch in Time despite him seeming like an all-powerful being. He's not whole. And unfortunately, like all of the other ghosts that have been in the Ghost Zone for a long time, he's forgotten his past but not his purpose.

I don't know what's up with his redesign in A New Wish, but in the original, he has a similar nose to Clockwork? Kinda.

And I don't know if this is relevant but- their beard lines are technically opposites?

I honestly have no freaking clue. I just think this is a cool idea that explains how both these people can coexist. Clearly Clockwork is far more than just a ghost. He's a time God to some degree, right? We all agree on that? The ghosts in A Christmas Carol are kind of Gods but are called ghosts, so...?

[drinkabletoxicdishsoap]

doing how I think my top 2 favorite fop a new wish ships (jasazel and jaswinnzel) hang out together for the holidays :3

jasazel going caroling together :33 it was jasmine’s recommendation since winn was going snowboarding with their family. Hazel agreed and they went !! But, the carolers judged jasmine for her voice and how bad it was. Hazel and pulled Jasmine away once she saw it was hurting her. She cheered her up and encouraged her! They ditched the group and instead went door to door together. Caroling and having fun !!

jaswinnzel going to Hazel’s apartment and binging all of the classic Christmas movies. She gets Antony (politely and kindly dw) to make hot chocolate and popcorn for them. Hazel has a checklist and checks off each classic movie they all watch together. They chuckle, provide their own commentary, and overall have fun !! after watching them, Jasmine brings up the idea of watching hallmark movies and they do until they all fall asleep together in a blanket and pillow fort.

also bringing up the idea of winn snowboarding, they invite Jasmine and Hazel to go to a cabin with their family. After begging their parents, they eventually agree and travel with winn’s family to the cabin. Winn teaches them how to snowboard and winn is very famous for their awesome skills at the resort they snowboard at :3 (jaswinnzel)

[flightfoot]

Making my way through Season 6 and I have to say, it’s a bit meh so far. The Crystalling was just look at the new merchandising pony who is a baby character introduced 6 seasons in (FOP flashbacks). Gauntlet of Fire is pretty cool though, I loved the scenery disguises. Ended on Hearths Warming Tail which is a really great episode, if it wasn’t just an adaptation of a story that has always been good. Loved Say Goodbye to the Holidays, and Luna’s Future is high S tier song.

Yeah the Crystalling was pretty disappointing, we've had way better intros.

Personally I liked how "On Your Marks" addressed the question of what the Crusaders would do now, since they'd accomplished their major goal. Something I really liked about MLP: FIM was how once the ponies achieved their dreams, their character arc wasn't just over - life went on afterwards.

Gauntlet of Fire was pretty good, really helped avert the Curse of Spike Episodes that had been established in earlier seasons.

Hearth's Warming Tail is a good little Christmas Carol story, yeah. Nothing groundbreaking of course, but it had some really nice songs. MLP really nailed its music.

There are a few interesting episodes coming up. 28 Pranks Later would have been a somewhat suspenseful episode if not for the summary spoiling the twist for it, and is I think a much better executed version of what the writers were going for with "The Mysterious Mare-Do-Well". The Times They Are A-Changeling is one of the best episodes of the season, and P.P.O.V. is an interesting change of pace, with everyone involved retelling the story of what happened to them a little differently.

[malewifeklaviergavin]

Ema and Klavier (but like platonically) For the holiday music writing prompt 💕💕 (Bestie i love ur writing)

(Holiday music)

"Fraulein Detective, I never took you for festive!" The fop's voice nearly startled Ema into dropping her Snackoos that she'd smuggled into the Wright Anything Agency Christmas party. Not that she needed to do much smuggling aside from walking in with them in her purse. But still, if she was discreet then she didn't need to worry about Trucy and her big puppy eyes asking for just one, please Ema?

Ugh. It was never just one. This is why she was hiding alone in the kitchen so she could snack in peace. Or rather, she had been alone in the kitchen.

"Are you saying that because you're surprised I'm at the party? If anything, I'm surprised you're here." Ema snarked. Klavier, for his part, simply beamed. She had no clue why he was always so nice to her. He'd bring her coffee when they met at crime scenes and would have the paperwork she needed waiting and ready for her before she even needed it. And OKAY, maybe she didn't hate the guy as much as she pretended to. Maybe they were actually good friends. Maybe they even had a monthly movie night.

No one else needed to know that, okay?

"Nein, it's more my surprise at seeing you bop along with the holiday music." Klavier explained, taking a sip of his drink. "Fraulein Detective is always so grouchy, I'm surprised Jingle Bell Rock doesn't make you want to draw your gun and shoot someone."

"Keep talking and we'll see about that." Ema muttered. "Why am I not surprised you like holiday music? Actually, why was there never a Gavinners Christmas album?"

Klavier chuckled and rested an elbow on Ema's shoulder, manfully ignoring the bitchy look she pulled. "Not very rock and roll. I tried, though. I really wanted to sing Santa Baby." He replied gleefully with sparkling eyes.

The song switched and softly the opening chords to White Christmas began play. Outside the kitchen, the rest of their friends and family chattered while Klavier and Ema stood there smiling and scowling respectively. "...Ema, may I have this dance? I know it's your favorite Christmas song." Klavier asked suddenly, holding out a hand. "I won't tell if you won't. Besides, what's Christmas without a little miracle?"

Ema eyed Klavier curiously. This wasn't a trap or a joke, there was no one here to perform for. Just the two of them. Klavier just... Genuinely wanted to dance with a friend? And he somehow remembered her mentioning at some point that this was her favourite Christmas song. Swallowing her snack and her pride, Ema finally quit wavering and took Klavier's hand. Carefully, he pulled her closer and the two became to make a slow circle around the room to the crooning melody.

"What brought this on, fop?" Ema asked and a few silent seconds spent getting into the rhythm.

Klavier hesitated. "...You mentioned once that you and your sister used to dance at holiday parties together when you were little. When I was little, Kristoph used to let me stand on his toes and he'd show me how to waltz to German Christmas carols. I guess, I thought it would be nice for both of us to find a new person to dance with." He explained hesitantly, clearly waiting for Ema to bite his head off.

"... That's almost... Nice of you, Klavier. Don't ever tell anyone I said that." Ema relied after a beat. Maybe that's why she had really been hiding in the kitchen. Too many memories of past parties with Lana at her side, the two of them dancing and laughing. It wasn't the same, but... This? Ema fought back a laugh as she let Klavier pull her into a gentle dip, the two of them smiling as the song drew to a close. This was nice too. Maybe a brother was just as good as a sister. And for the first time since Lana went to jail, Ema spent a Christmas party dancing and smiling.

[timebird84]

🎄 PotO Advent Calendar ‘19 🎄

While it doesn’t fit canon at all, this story takes place on Christmas. Let’s call it canon adjacent with things borrowed from Kay’s novel.

A Christmas Carol

by @maze-zen​

If you want a happy ending, this is not the story for you. 

This is a story about learning to love and showing compassion, but mostly, it’s about losing the one you love.

It happened on Christmas Eve: the night I thought I’d finally gotten everything I wanted; Christine had turned the scorpion and chosen to marry me. But not only that! She’d promised to be my living bride if I saved the lives of her little fop and the Daroga. It was a small price to pay for the promise of having a real wife who wouldn’t end her life the moment she found herself married to a walking corpse. 

However, I have learned through painful lessons in my life never to trust anyone completely, so I knew I had to have something to bargain with in case my bride-to-be chose to change her mind. 

The Vicomte was kept unconscious after I’d made him inhale chloroform through a rag; meanwhile the Daroga slipped in and out of consciousness, despite my attempts to keep him asleep. I had to get him out before he became too aware of my actions, but I wasn’t willing to let my living wife be alone with the man she’d planned to run away with. I locked Christine in her bedroom, then bound a tight rope around the Vicomte’s wrists and ankles, leaving him no chance to escape if he should wake.

Then I dragged the Daroga to the surface, to Rue de Rivoli where he lived. Snow had begun to fall and for a moment I regretted not having Christine with me there to see it; she’d often talked about missing walking through the snow on the way to church on Christmas Eve. It so rarely snowed on Christmas in Paris, she’d said.

Next year I would take her. My wife and I walking to church! I might even be encouraged to walk inside with her if she wished to have me join her.

I disposed of the Daroga in his man-servant’s care, swiftly fleeing before Darius could ask me any questions. But before leaving, I noticed a small shrine at the end of the hallway in the Daroga’s house. My eyes instantly recognized the illustration I’d once drawn of Reza so long ago in Persia. Candles and pretty trinkets were placed around the drawing. I swallowed a lump in my throat as I thought of the sickly boy who I’d ensured a peaceful death for; I pushed the memories from my mind. I had a wife to attend to.

Imagine my fright when I reached the catacombs and in a corridor came face to face with the boy - Reza - alive and looking well. My mind had finally reached total insanity after many years of tipping on the edge. 

With firm determination to disregard my mind's little tricks, I ignored the spectre and walked down the corridor that was the fastest way to reach my house from the Rue Scribe entrance; then, the ghost began talking to me! “Hello again, Erik." I was surprised of how well my mind memorized the child’s voice, though it was now strong instead of weakened by the disease. I always did have a good imagination.

I kept ignoring the boy, but he followed me, talking to me of the strangest things. “I’ve come to visit you, to help you change your ways. I’ve been chosen as the Spirit of Christmas Past.”

These words were familiar. I laughed at the child, almost mockingly, because I found my brain's use of Charles Dickinson’s novel obvious and quite tacky. Surely my imagination was better than that! “Let me guess? I’m Ebenezer Scrooge and you’ve come to show me my past Christmases!” 

“That is correct. Though you might find it unlikely, A Christmas Carol was based on true events." The boy said in a plain, serious voice. "Now, take my hand and let me be your guide. We’ll visit your very first Christmas.” With those words Reza gripped my hand; in an instant I found myself not in the damp and cold catacombs, but in the warm sitting room of my childhood home.

There was a fire in the fireplace, candles in the window sills and small porcelain angels decorated every surface. In the middle of the room sat Madeleine in her usual chair. But she looked so different from how I remembered her; instead of cold and filled with disgust, her expression was that of a lost child, frightened and downhearted.

Loud crying from an infant came from another room and Madeleine covered her ears with her hands.

Reza looked up at me with gloomy eyes; I hated pity, so I turned from him and walked into the room that must’ve served as my nursery until I was sent to the attic to live. There, in a beautiful cradle, lay a crying little babe. However, the only way you could tell it was alive was by its melodious cry. I smiled a bit, for even then, my voice had sounded beautiful while the rest of me was a corpse.

“From the moment I was born, my mother rejected me. She couldn’t find it in her heart to comfort me.” I whispered to Reza as I looked at myself in the cradle. I reached out to the baby, to give it some of the human touch I’d been denied from birth, but I found that I couldn’t touch him.

“We’re only here as spectators,” Reza said. “We cannot change the past.” This whole thing seemed like a strange dream to me, a hazy illusion, but I found myself playing along. 

I was a hideous child - no doubt about that - but I longed to show this child that he wasn’t alone. Even though he was, as I had been.

“Why do I need to be here?” I hissed at Reza. “I lived long enough in this house and I’ve had no desire to return.” Reza held up a hand, then pointed to the door.

Madeleine entered the room, carrying a large box. “Stop crying,” she yelled at the infant as she put down the box in front of the cradle. Traces of tears stained her cheeks. In response, the child instantly silenced; he was finally being acknowledged. 

“I cannot be a mother to you,” she whispered, not bringing herself to look at the little boy who was eager to see another person. “I cannot give you the unconditional love that every child should have.” 

I felt a pain in my heart, as another piece of it broke. I knew all this already, but it was nonetheless difficult to hear.

Madeleine bent down and reached into the box, lifting a young dog out of it. “This is Sasha. No one else will be able to give you love, but Sasha will love you no matter what you look like. That is my Christmas present to you.” She placed the dog in the cradle where it instantly licked the boy’s face and carefully laid down next to him. The boy buried his deformed face into its fur.

“She may not have given you the love you needed, but she showed enough compassion to provide you with the chance to get it,” the ghost child beside me mumbled.

Despite my conviction that this was only a figment of my imagination, I found myself overcome with emotions. I turned away in haste, striding out of the room. Reza ran after me, gripping my hand. Suddenly, I found myself in a familiar Persian house.

It was the Daroga’s house, but the room I was standing in belonged to the sickly boy in the bed. Around him stood toys of every kind; each of them built by my younger self. I knew the scene in front of me as a living corpse walked into the room with a bowl of sherbet. Neither the Daroga nor Reza knew it at the time, but it had been Christmas in another part of the world - the one I came from - and the poison hidden in the sherbet was my present to us all.

“Eat this, Reza, it will make your throat feel better.” My younger self said to the boy in the bed; the latter obeyed.  

Next to me stood a healthy Reza with a weak smile on his face. He looked up at me. “You did the right thing. The disease was killing me slowly. I was in so much pain. And though it hurt you, you gave me a painless death.”

“I murdered you, so I was spared of watching you die slowly. And so your father could be free of taking the decision.” My voice was angry, but not with him. I was angry with myself for allowing the child to die. I should’ve found a cure. A brilliant mind was all the world had gifted me with and yet I couldn’t help an innocent child.

“You did it because you hated to watch me suffer. And despite your wish to keep me with you, you let go of me. Out of love.” Reza argued as the dying version of himself in the bed sagged slightly; his breathing began to slow. He slipped into unconsciousness, but to any other person it would seem as though he simply fell asleep. 

We stood in silence as his body started to shut down. The Daroga, Nadir, entered the room the moment Reza exhaled for the last time; I’d often wondered if that was the moment his immortal soul escaped - if such a thing existed. 

While the younger version of me stayed composed as he lifted the boy and placed it in his father’s arms, I found that I was sobbing. There had been much pain in my life, both physical and emotional, yet letting Reza die was the most painful moment of my life. And I’d never let myself feel the pain before now. Instead, I’d buried it in opium and later morphine.

“Get me out of here,” I growled at the living Reza beside me. The sorrow was plain in my voice and it started to make me angry. “Let me wake up!” I attempted to punch my fist into the wall, but it went right through. I turned the fist on myself, hitting my jaw hard enough to make my teeth rattle. But I was still in that godforsaken house, watching a crying Nadir sink to the floor with his dead son in his arms.

Finally, the Ghost took pity on me. He put a hand on my arm and a second later I found myself back in the catacombs. “I have no time for this,” I mumbled; gathering my bearings and wiping the tears from my horrific face, I nearly started running towards the direction of my house on the lake. I was deeply disturbed by the events, no matter how unreal they were, and I needed to find my way back to reality.

Behind me I heard Reza shouting: “Watch out for the Spirit of Christmas Present!”

It was in a haze I reached my house; I emerged through the hidden door in the music room and immediately locked it behind me. Why, I didn’t know, as there was no sign of the Ghost having followed me. There was not even proof that any of it had been real. Of course it hadn't been real! It wasn’t possible. Yet, I felt unsettled by the whole thing.

I entered the sitting room where the Vicomte was still lying unconscious on the floor. I checked his pulse and breathing, but he seemed to be healthy enough. The boy just couldn’t handle the trauma of almost drowning.

Christine was quiet in her bedroom, but came running to the door when I unlocked it. She was docile, but had obviously been crying. I let her follow me into the sitting room where she could see that the boy was alive, then left her alone as I dragged him to the dungeon where I disposed of him. 

I would figure out what to do with him later. He was useful for making sure that Christine would honor her promise to be my living wife, and I liked the knowledge that he wasn’t coming to rescue her again. 

I found myself in a good mood as I left the dungeon. The eerie feeling I’d carried with me after the imagined encounter with Reza was still with me, but I was succeeding in storing it away in the back of my mind. I was aware that Christine was the only one left in my house, waiting for her husband-to-be, and I didn’t wish to keep her waiting any longer.

However, as I turned a corner and came face to face with the recently deceased M. Comte de Chagny, I realized that the plans for my evening once again were being disrupted. I spun around and took down another path to my house, but not surprisingly, he manifested in this new path as well.

“Hello, Erik,” the Comte said politely and held out his hand for me to shake. I didn’t take it. “We’ve never officially met, not until I was being pulled underwater, but I assume you know who I am.” Without offense he took back his hand. “I’ve been assigned to be the Spirit of Christmas Present. I’m here to show you what...”

“Yes yes, just get it over with,” I grumbled, not caring that I was interrupting him. I didn’t have time for this sudden discovery of a conscience that my mind was having. I knew well enough that my actions were morally wrong, but Christine had left me no choice, and she was meant for me. I’d made her what she was!

The Comte huffed in a superior manner that only people of high society did. “Well, you’ve made my job somewhat more difficult by rendering most of the people you know unconscious - those who haven’t died, of course, or isn’t being held prisoner in your home,” the handsome Comte glared at me as though it was expected of me to behave as any other member of society. A society that had shunned me from the moment I was born! 

“Therefore,” the older de Chagny continued, “I’m going to show you what the people closest to you did earlier this Christmas.”

With those words, I expected the Comte to touch me as Reza had done to transport me to the past, but he didn’t; instead, I blinked once and suddenly found myself in a house above ground. I quickly recognized it as the Daroga’s house. The interior was mostly Persian, though the design of the townhouse was Parisian. It was much like the townhouse I’d imagined for me and Christine to live in, like a normal couple. 

The musings about my future with Christine was cut short by a loud sigh. That’s when I noticed the Daroga sitting in an armchair in the sitting room I was standing in.

I jumped a little when the Comte came up next to me, looking at the same scene as me. The Daroga was holding another of my drawings, this one of him with Reza. I’d never added myself to any of those illustrations; there was no reason to. But the Daroga traced the space beside the drawn image of himself and mumbled my name as if he wanted me to be there. 

“Master, do you wish for a warm supper tonight?” Darius asked from the door to the hallway.

The Daroga never even lifted his head in acknowledgement, just shook his head. “I have to go to the Opera Populaire again. I have to find Erik before it’s too late.”

“Pardon for my asking, Master, but why do you still bother with that nuisance? He has damned himself many times over.” The man-servant sounded agitated, but I’d always been aware of his dislike for me; unlike others, Darius attempted to hide it, in respect of his master who kept company with me.

“I feel responsible for him and the damage he causes, Darius. To the little soprano, to the Vicomte. Not to mention to the opera goers.” The Daroga replied, putting down the illustration on the coffee table and burying his face in his hands. I huffed in response to this answer. I’d always known that his supposed moral responsibility for my evil doings was the reason he’d traveled to Paris.

I looked impatiently at the Comte, signaling that there was nothing new for me to know here, but he held up a hand - his eyes still focused on the Daroga.

When Nadir’s face resurfaced from his hands, tears were falling from his eyes. “But I admit that it’s much more than that,�� he whispered, his voice hoarse with withheld crying. “Erik has been there for me in times of need. He is my friend. And though he doesn’t understand it because he’s never had any other friend, friends will aid each other in any way they can. This is the only way I can help him!”

At first, I admit that the words stunned me; I’d not expected to hear the Daroga say such things about me. Then, I became angry. “I’ve never asked you to care!” I shouted at the old man. “I never asked for your help! You meddle in things you have no business in and dare to call yourself a friend to me! Stupid booby!”

The Daroga, of course, didn’t respond. He couldn’t hear me which the Comte in that moment was so kind to point out to me: “He cannot hear you, but I’m sure this is nothing he hasn’t heard before.” His voice was cheerful, amused. “Sometimes one’s intentions can be misguided, but the point is that he cares, Erik. He tries to do what’s right. That’s more than you have ever done.”

I glared at him with fiery eyes. “I’ve no reason to be here. I have a lady waiting for me in the real present.”

I turned around to leave the townhouse, a task I should be capable of, as I was incorporeal, but all of a sudden found myself in the hallway of the 2nd cellar in the opera house. In front of me was Christine, standing in the Vicomte’s embrace. I stopped in my tracks, slightly snarling at the couple. I noticed then that she was crying.

“I’m telling you, Raoul, I’m not leaving him without saying goodbye,” she sobbed. 

Next to me the Comte unsurprisingly reappeared, shaking his head and tutting as he watched the scene unfold. “I love my brother, but he will never understand the relationship, that girl has with you. He sees no nuances in the world. Everything is still white and black to him.”

“Christine, if you go on that stage, I fear that he will take you,” the boy whined into her golden hair. “I cannot let you do that.”

“It’s not your decision to make,” the strong-willed Christine emerged with these words; it filled me with glee when she talked back to him. “He has never known any kindness, no love! How can you expect him to show others what no one has shown him?”

“Does that mean that you’ll go back to him? After you promised that we’d run away together?” The boy once again sounded like a spoiled child being denied something he wanted. 

“No. I will go with you. But I will sing for him one last time. It pains me deeply that I cannot be what he wants me to. How I’ve wished that I could give him what he’s been missing! The least I can do is say goodbye. Hopefully, then, he can let me go.”

I felt a bitter taste in my mouth as the lovers said goodbye before Christine went to her dressing room to get ready for the stage. She’d expected me to let her go, hoping that I had enough kindness for that. And I’d failed her belief in me. How could I face her now?

“She’s got spirit, that girl, I’ll admit to that,” the Comte nodded at the fleeing soprano’s direction. “I understand my brother’s fascination with her. And yours of course. You have both lacked that kind of woman in your life.”

His words infuriated me and in a bout of rage I gripped the lapels of his coat and pushed him into a wall. To my surprise I could both touch him and hold him against the wall without either of us falling through. But the Comte just laughed in my face. 

“Such anger you hold inside! However, you cannot hurt me. You already killed me!” Disappointed and deflated by his words, I let him go. I had killed him only hours before, but for some reason he didn’t seem very concerned about that. 

“She has soul where you have none. Watch out, or you’ll crush it.” The Comte de Chagny straightened his clothes, surely more out of habit than of real concern to who might see him. “Now, it’s time I take my leave. We both have places to be. Beware of the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come!”

In the blink of an eye he was gone and I was in front of my house on the lake. I once more began convincing myself that it had been a hallucination, that I’d imagined the whole thing, but no matter how I tried, something inside me had accepted that these occurrences, to me at least, were real.

Hesitant and fearful of what awaited me on the other side of the door, I put on the mask I kept in my pocket and ventured into my house in search of Christine. She was in the sitting room, anxiously waiting for me on the couch. She stood upright when she saw me, nervousness clear in her eyes.

I expected my mind to conjure up an image of the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come now, when I was finally with my bride, but no such thing came forth as I neared Christine. She waited for me patiently as I carefully walked towards her, as not to frighten her. Then, she put out her forehead in offering to me; she was presenting me with the opportunity to kiss her bare skin, willingly.

I leaned down and planted a gentle kiss on her pale forehead; her skin was warm and softer than I’d imagined. She let me have what no one else had allowed me before and I felt happiness unlike any other!

I gazed down at her as she looked up at me. Her eyes were tearful - tired and withdrawn. The brightness I’d always seen in them was dimmed. And it was because of me.

It was then I saw the Christmas Yet to Come; it was her all along, without her knowledge. If I kept her with me, she would wither and die. There would be no walks through the snow as we ventured to mass on Christmas Eve; no townhouse where we would live together as a normal couple. Christine might keep her promise to stay alive as my wife, but every blessed thing that made me love her would perish if I married her. 

I had to show compassion, though I’d none to give. She was the only woman I’d ever truly loved and felt could love me back, but if I didn’t let her go, I’d have to watch her die slowly. When I’d been faced with Reza slowly dying, the choice had been easier than it seemed now.

It wasn’t her voice I fell in love with, but her spirit, her soul! Without it she’d be an empty shell. And despite everything I could not allow that to happen.

I fell to her feet, crying of love and regret. She cried with me, her tears mingling with mine. And though I took off my mask, she took my hand and stayed with me. She didn’t know that I was letting her go.

I fetched the Vicomte and followed them both up to the Rue Scribe entrance; I watched as they walked into the snowy street. Dawn was breaking and bells began to chime, calling the Catholics to church for Christmas morning mass. 

For a brief moment I longed to join the Parsians in their Christmas cheer, like Ebenzer Scrooge had joined the Cratchit family with a large turkey. What a happy ending that had been! But such a thing would never be. I crawled back into the catacombs, down to my house on the lake and into my coffin. It is where I am lying now, waiting for death to come for me. 

It is my love and compassion for Christine that is killing me, but it’s also what saved her soul. If I have to die for her spirit to soar, then it’s a price I’m willing to pay.

I am thankful that I spent my last Christmas with her. 

[heyho-simonrussellbeale]

"I am not a particular fan of Restoration comedy,” confesses Simon Russell Beale. “I spent a few years doing Restoration comedy 30 years ago and I don’t think it’s of particular interest to people now.” 

We’re talking about the recently publicised objections made by some Rada students to the study of Restoration comedy, as part of an anti-racism plan presented in the wake of the Black Lives Matter protests this summer.

The plan, drawn up by the school’s student body, stated 17th and early 18th-century plays like Wycherley’s The Country Wife and Farquhar’s The Recruiting Officer were “very white” and featured characters who “were figureheads of the empire”.

One of the foremost actors of his generation, Beale, 59, maintains that questioning the repertoire, and the current rhetoric about white privilege, is fine: “I welcome it. It has been building for a long time. It can only be a good thing. Diversity is a good thing.”

Yes, agreed. But, hang on... What about reports of reverse racism in Hollywood, of white actors losing out on the basis of their skin colour? “I don’t know about Hollywood,” he responds. “Do I still have a place here as an actor? I think I probably do. I don’t think one thing excludes the other.”

It’s hard – truth be told – to get into a sustained debate with a man as distinguished as Beale, knighted last year, via a Zoom call. Moreover, confronting where “woke” culture is headed feels – temporarily at least – by the by. The past few months have been about survival, slog, getting open.

The last time I interviewed him, four years ago, we were face to face in bucolic Stratford-upon-Avon, where he was preparing to tackle The Tempest for the RSC.

Had we known what lay ahead we wouldn’t have believed it: the world shaken by Covid-19, the RSC and National facing the worst crises of their history, his own profession quasi annihilated.

“It was as if the job of actor had disappeared, that there was no such thing,” he says of this year’s shutdown. “Normally, if you lose one job you find another, but there was no such job, in any medium. It was extraordinary.”

He’s looking back from the vantage of rescue: he plays Scrooge (and a co-narrator) in Nicholas Hytner’s new staging of A Christmas Carol. This production is perhaps the most hotly anticipated of the many iterations of the story this year, including – by coincidence – another in which he had a hand, or voice: lending his figgy-pudding rich tones to Scrooge in a dance film version released in cinemas today.

Speaking during a break in rehearsals at the Bridge Theatre, in London, he looks relaxed, his old genial, avuncular self. “I feel I’ve come home,” he says. A restoration, then – albeit there are only three actors, with no touching, and the Damoclean threat of London being put into Tier 3 (bringing the show to a halt) looming over the run. He marvels at how he – and others – initially thought the ordeal would be over in weeks.

“I had no conception of what it meant. I thought it was a holiday,” he says. But, after returning home to Wiltshire from Broadway, where he’d been starring in The Lehman Trilogy, weeks of waiting turned into months. His anxiety grew. He was one of the millions not to receive extra government support – the so-called “excluded”. Savings and frugality have kept him going. He reckoned he could last a year. “I was anxious. I had sleepless nights because I’ve got a mortgage to pay. I had a bit of money in the bank and that has now gone.”

Had things not picked up, Beale, who has two Olivier awards to his name and has triumphed in some of the most demanding roles in the canon, would be applying for universal credit.

Swift to ensure this isn’t all about himself, he adds: “We’ve all had dark, panicked days. Everyone has their own difficulties. I’m luckier than most. There are people who are now desperate.”

Despite this, when I ask whether he’d call Rishi Sunak a Scrooge he demurs. “I can’t. I can’t see much point in being angry about something that we had no control over, which is this virus. It must be difficult to organise [a response] but it is a very strange gap in the support system.”

There’s an intense reasonableness about Beale, a lucidity and scholarly intelligence, that surrounds him like an aura, whether on stage (where it captivates) or off (where it charms). Following his (post-Cambridge) training as an actor at Guildhall School, he played show-stealing fops and wags – hence his Restoration jibes.

But in 1990 the late Terry Hands cast him as Konstantin in The Seagull at the RSC. “It was the first time anyone had said, ‘You don’t have to be grotesque and funny on stage, just use what you’ve got’.”

Often since then – whether in comedy (Benedick in Much Ado, Sir Harcourt Courtly in London Assurance), tragedy (Hamlet, Lear), or combinations of the two (Stalin in Collaborators, Uncle Vanya) – he has exuded an air of being himself. Which isn’t to say that he hasn’t shape-shifted, or “acted”, but that he presents the character like a mirror into which he peers, inspecting its truth, glancing inward, creating a sense of the role – and human nature itself – as a shared work in progress.

He once described acting as “three-dimensional literary criticism”. He holds by that, and his reading of the role of Scrooge resists the stereotype of the miser as “grisly, grating. I can’t help softening him in my head. We’d call him depressed now.”

What’s more, he doesn’t want “Bah! Humbug!” to “sound like a catchphrase”. More important, he believes, is the response of Fred, Scrooge’s nephew, to this rejection of Christmas and Fred’s insistence that there are many things in life which, although not profitable, make you happy; a message, Beale says, that can also be applied to culture in general.

“Theatres aren’t different from pubs or football matches – they’re all what makes life worth living,” he says. “It’s an argument we’ve avoided in the arts because it doesn’t persuade the Government. You have to use an economic rationale. But now people are saying: we need it back, for our mental health, for our souls.”

Assuming the country’s cultural life does return next year, Beale hopes to be playing Bach in a new play by Nina Raine and see the Covid-postponed Bridge project of Ibsen’s John Gabriel Borkman (again directed by Hytner) come to fruition. He is also starring in two forthcoming films: Benediction, about the war poet Siegfried Sassoon, and Operation Mincemeat, an adaptation of a book of the same name by Ben Macintyre.

But live theatre is where his heart lies. There’s seemingly no plan to stream A Christmas Carol. And he approves.

“It’ll be a live performance in front of living, breathing people. We might have to do it outside, using megaphones. But we can’t wait for the perfect conditions. We must will British theatre back into existence.”

A Christmas Carol runs until Jan 6 at the Bridge, London SE1. Tickets: 0333 320 0051; bridgetheatre.co.uk