#dark christmas tale | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

larvasmoon · 1 month ago

Text

Starry Nights (2)- Queen of bones

Summary : Maven is an outcast, a clumsy Christmas elf, who lives high up in the North Pole's fir forest. She dwells in the shadow, shunned by all of her peers. Yet, when the Christmas preparations turn into a disaster, she has no choice but to partner up with her sworn enemy to save the factory: Santa's secretary, Astarion Ancunín. Pariting: Astarion/Original female character Rating: Explicit Content: Christmas AU, dark christmas tale, angst and fluff and smut, moody elf stuck in an endless party, Astarion as Santa's insufferable secretary, enemies to lovers

Read on Ao3

The night is ending, and Maven spent the entirety of it at the factory. It’s snowing outside, the snowflakes swirl and dance in the pink streaked sky, glittery and fluffy like the fairy floss they sometimes sell at the Christmas market. Her mother used to buy her one from time to time when she was little — a big cloud of rosy sugar that dissolved into a sticky mess when she bit into it, evanescent and cloying like the rest of the North Pole.

She’s hunched over an enchanted music box, a gift for a little girl called Nimiel. Her arms are awfully sore, but she’s stubborn and she won’t stop until she’s done casting her spells. It’s so early that the workshop is still shrouded in darkness, and the tendrils of green light pouring from Maven's fingers illuminate the entire room like some sort of magical lantern. The fire is burning in the hearth, colorful fairy lights twinkle in the obscurity, a few sconces are lit in the hallway, but none of those things shine brighter than Maven herself. She sings a lullaby to the comb and to the cylinder of the red lacquered box, willing it to remember it by heart so that the little girl can fall asleep while listening to it.

It’s taking her a lot longer than it usually would though; she would already be done if she wasn’t so distracted and so nervous.

It’s completely irrational, Maven knows she’s safe between the walls of the factory — as safe as she can be in a place owned by a man like Klaus, at least. It’s just that… That bad feeling simply won’t go away. She’s convinced that something horrible is about to happen, every fiber of her body screams at her to run and flee.

Her hands are clammy, and her heart hammers in her chest. She jumps when a log cracks in the fireplace, and she gasps when a pile of snow falls from the roof with a thump.

You’re anxious, she tells herself as she hums a soft tune, a lot of strange things happened yesterday, you have every reason to be a bit on the edge. Just take a deep breath and focus on your work!

But it’s no use, her mind keeps drifting away from the task at hand. It conjures images of Astarion — impossibly beautiful in the chaos of the grand hall, unnervingly sensual when he laid down on one of the workshop’s armchair. It plagues her with dark visions of the creature she encountered in the forest, of its tall horns and mad glare.

And Maven’s hand trembles as she molds and sculpts a little ballerina out of the halo of her palm, pinching the seams of her large and elegant tutu between her thumb and index.

“It tickles,” the danseuse grumbles, already spinning on herself, held by no string and no golden pole, “Let go of me miss, I need to dance, it hurts if I don’t!”

She hops out of her hand and lands above the green velvet that lines the inside of the box, outstretched in a graceful arabesque. Maven contemplates her work for a little while, fascinated by the movements of the ballet dancer, by the beauty of her arched back and pointed feet. The gift is so well crafted, the music so delightfully whimsical, that she slowly falls asleep. She’s already dreaming of a long walk on the snowy paths of the forest when a noise startles her.

Someone or something is walking about the room; a few hushed whispers echo in the silence from time to time. Before she knows it, Maven is already up on her feet again, a candle in one of her hands and a small knife in the other.

“Who’s there?”

A little sneer, and a stool clatters on the other side of the atelier.

“You don’t scare me,” she lies, gripping the blade, “Show yourself!”

Everything is still once again, and there’s a few minutes of horrible silence. Maven anxiously waits for the moment the intruder will decide to pounce on her, for the moment she’ll have to make use of this deadly weapon.

But none of that transpires, instead something even more terrifying happens.

The clock above the door stops ticking. Outside the window, the valley suddenly looks like a painting. The snowflakes have stopped falling from the sky, eerily suspended in the cold air. In the fireplace, the flames have also stopped their undulating dance, frozen in time. And in the trees, the Christmas lights have stopped flickering, stuck in a new and foreign arrangement of bright colors.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Maven sees a small horned silhouette stepping out of its hide. She gasps and turns with a hiss, both of her hands clamped around the handle of her knife.

The creature’s face is obscured, cast in the shadow by the bright light of the fire burning behind it, but she already knows it’s an imp — the kind that lives on the other side of the hill, right behind her house. The Christmas elves call that place the Black Woods; for beyond them sits the wide and dangerous realm of Klaus’ oldest enemy: Lord Krampus, the malevolent.

The old man has always strictly forbidden his elves to venture past the limits of the enchanted forest for that reason, but Maven broke that law more than once in the past.

Santa’s blessings do not reach that part of the North Pole, and all sorts of creatures hide amongst the thick fir trees. She has seen them with her own eyes countless times; boggarts, satyres, brownies, banshees and trolls lurk in that dark undergrowth. Maven used to play with the hobgoblins and the pucks down in the dim lit groves when she was young, trading a few candy canes for a handful of rare gemstones. She wasn’t afraid of them then, and she still isn’t.

No, what still terrifies her is the memory of the day she was found out by one of the guards near the limits of the enchanted forest, hand in hand with a little brownie. The scar on her cheek is an ugly and painful reminder of it.

“Mistress,” the imp says, ever so softly, “Lay down your blade, I won’t do you any harm.”

“Why are you here then?” she rasps, frantically looking outside the window to see if one Santa’s sentinels is near. “And how did you manage to get inside of the factory? They’ll kill you if they find you, you know… Actually, they might kill us both.”

The imp slowly steps closer, raising his hands in surrender.

“Mistress Maven,” he breathes, and something about the way he says her name is awfully familiar, “It’s me. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten—”

Two golden eyes, not unlike her own, rise to look at her. Maven stares down into them, and all of a sudden she’s ten again, racing down the path of the dark forest to outfast one of her little playmates.

“ Mistress Maven! It’s not fair, your legs are much longer than mine and you said we can’t use magic!”

“I’ll beat you one day, spells or not! I swear it on the pointy horns of my lord and master Krampus!”

Amongst all the friends she had in the Black Woods, one was especially dear to her. A little devil that she loved like a brother, and that in turn, loved her like a sister. It’s the closest thing to a family she’s ever had after the death of her mother, but after the incident, she couldn’t bring herself to go back to the rocky banks of the river…To their river.

And when she lost that love, she pretended that she was doing it for his own good. She convinced herself that her presence would only put him in danger, that he’d be better off without her — Maven, the curse, the child who only brings misfortune to those who dare to care about her.

“Your eyes are beautiful, Mistress, don’t let the others tell you otherwise! They are bright and wide like those of a wolf, the true king of the cold forests of the north.”

“Rufus?”

Sometimes, an entire world lives in a name.

She says ‘Rufus’ and parts of her that she has long kept locked away break free of their chains. The hopeful Maven, the rebellious Maven, the Maven who still knows how to laugh: they all come rushing back like a child running into the arms of her mother.

Maybe everything isn’t lost, afterall? Maybe life is still worth fighting for, if Rufus is part of it again?

“It’s been a long time since we last saw each other.” He bows low, little tail flicking in the air. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

Maven’s only answer is a choked and strangled sigh, as she falls to her knees and takes him in her arms. At first, Rufus doesn’t move at all, tense and rigid in her embrace. Right when she’s about to step away though, the imp holds her back, gripping the fabric of her jacket and sobbing in her hair.

“I missed you so terribly, I’m sorry I never came back to the forest.”

“There is no need to apologize,” he sniffs, hoarse and broken,“I know why you stopped coming down the hill, and I know who is to blame for all the time we’ve lost.”

Maven’s eyes drift toward the fire and its unmoving ambers; flashes and images fill the cracks of her fractured mind.

The face of the little brownie as she died.

Dark terrified eyes.

Blood staining the white snow.

The skin of her cheek burning and sizzling against the cold steel of a blade.

“Actually that’s why I’m here, mistress Maven,” Rufus continues, still all curled up in her lap like a big cat, “I did not come alone, there is someone else here who would like to talk to you.”

She has no time to ask any question before a tall shadow emerges from the corridor, gigantic pointy horns cutting into the wood of the ceiling’s joists as it bursts into the workshop. Maven trembles and lowers her eyes, both in reverence and in fear. All she sees are the creature’s large goat hooves stepping closer and closer, hitting the floor so hard that it shakes beneath her.

“Who are you?” she dares to ask, hopelessly clinging to Rufus for reassurance.

The voice that answers is surprisingly smooth and gentle. “You already know who I am, sweet child.”

“Lord Krampus—”

He chuckles, warmer than she’s ever heard Klaus laugh. “Oh there is no need for such formalities, please call me Krampus.”

She slowly tilts her head up, finally daring to look at him properly. It’s the same tall horns, the same rough and bumpy skin, the same piercing crimson eyes, as the monster she saw a few hours ago.

There is something inherently different about him this time, however.

A gentleness that seems entirely misplaced on his gruesome features; a softness she failed to see that morning.

“Have you come here to punish me?”

He scrunches his nose and furrows his brows, clearly displeased by her choice of words.

“I’m a teacher of lessons, not a master of punishments — punishment seems to be Santa’s speciality, not mine, as far as I can tell,” he huffs, his burning gaze lingering on her scar, “I come to children to guide them on the right path, not to hurt them.”

“But Santa kept talking about the evil kingdom—”

“True evil knows how to charm the world, how to appeal to the masses, my dear,” he says, and as he speaks, black smoke curls drapes around his frame and sparks of light dance around his face, his appearance slowly morphing into that of a beautiful elf. “True evil rarely has a set of rather sharp teeth and coarse black fur… No, true evil hides behind pretty lights, joyful carols, bright red uniforms and wide smiles.”

Long dark green curls fall on the back of his black cloak, and for a brief moment, Maven feels uncomfortable. It’s almost like staring into a mirror…. In this shape, Krampus looks like her — or rather, she looks like this Krampus, the one that has glowing amber eyes and pine green hair.

“I can look beautiful when I want to. I just feel more comfortable when all the world sees when it looks at me, is a monster,” he smiles, sharp and rakish, “It's one of the many differences between Klaus and me. I’m a beast, I’ll always be. I don’t care about power or prestige—"

“Why have you come then?” she finds herself asking, feeling like there’s more behind his words, an answer she longs to hear.

“Have you ever wondered why you have always felt compelled to tread down the path that leads to the Black Woods, or why all the Christmas elves are so wary of you?” he asks, kneeling down on the floor in front of her and the little imp.

He smells like crushed pine needles and the damp soil of the woods, like home, and Maven fights this feeling, tries to bury it deep in her heart.

Of course, I have, she sneers, eyes pricking with tears, I’ve spent my entire life thinking about those things, desperately looking for ways to fix what is wrong with me.

Krampus gently takes her face in his hands, and the things he says next feel like a dagger to the heart. “You’re the flesh of my flesh, and the blood of my blood, Maven.”

“Wait wait wait —Are you implying that —” she gasps, pushing him away and stumbling back into one of her coworkers’ workbench, “No, it’s not possible— I’m not — You’re not —”

“Filthy monster! Krampus Kin!” The children laugh and scream at her in her memory. She’ll never forget the countless days spent running home after school, trying to flee the crowd of little elves who liked to make fun of her clothes or throw little stones at her.

Why me? What have I done to deserve all of this? She still ponders, after all those years, always persuaded that the fault is hers, entirely hers…

Krampus and her bear an unsettling ressemblance — the kind that makes her question the things her mother said and the things that she omitted to say. Did she have secrets of her own? A crime so unforgivable that she took her secret to the grave? Maven doubts and questions, teetering on the edge of madness, clinging to the hope that her mother didn’t lie to her. Wouldn’t a creature as powerful as Krampus be able to assume whatever shape or form he desires? What if he created this one especially from her, an appearance specifically tailored to gain her trust and feed her all sorts of lies?

“I took a risk by coming here, and my little trick only works once,” Krampus sighs, turning around to look at the hour hand of the clock, still and unmoving, “As soon as time takes back its course, the magical wards placed around the factory will alert the guards of my presence.”

“Why?” she asks, speaking so low that she’s almost whispering, “Why would you go to such lengths?”

“Klaus knows that one of his elves is a child of mine. His secretary has been tasked to find the half-blood elf for years. The number on your wrist is a seal, a way for Klaus to keep the Christmas’ elves under his influence, to prevent them from having thoughts of their own. It never worked on you for… obvious reasons. It’s only a question of time before he finds out!”

Maven’s eyes widen; she stopped listening as soon as he talked about Santa’s secretary, about Astarion.

“I came back for you, to take you back to the woods, where you’ll be safe.”

Astarion. The entire time, all those days he came to see her down into the factory… He was only trying to collect proof, wasn’t he? He was only doing his job, and obeying Santa's orders.

See, I told you so, a jaded voice chuckles in her head, nobody cares about you, you’re just a pawn in his game, nothing more.

“I don’t believe you, stop lying to me,” she snaps, running a trembling hand through her hair,“If you are truly who you claim to be, where were you all this time? When all the elves of the North Pole mocked and abused me? Spit it out! What is it that you want for me? There must be something, a reason why you’re here!”

There’s always a reason; nobody truly wants to be with Maven. She is one unlovable creature…Rufus was right, she is like the big lone wolf that sometimes roams the Black Woods, with big sad eyes and a sharp jaw still covered in the blood of his last catch.

“This place has done a fine job of teaching you that love has to be earned, that only the good ones are worthy of affection, but this is unconditional, Maven. I’ve always watched ove —”

“Stop it— “ she cuts him off, sobbing and snarling like a wounded beast, “Stop saying that!”

How pitiful… She spent her whole life yearning for a love like this, but the day the universe finally hands it to her, she doesn’t know how to welcome it, how to believe it, or how to accept that she’s deserving of it.

“Mistress Maven,” Rufus says, grabbing her hand and desperately tugging on it, “Please, come with us.”

She looks at her friend, and a new terrible thought crosses her mind. He came here in the middle of the night, with Krampus himself— does Rufus serve him in the same way Astarion serves Santa?

“Rufus,” she breathes, new tears rolling down her scarred face, “Were you truly my friend, or were you only doing what was asked of you?”

The imp turns white as a sheet, the pout of his lips a silent confession of his guilt.

“I — I— At first, master asked me to protect you — But then I truly —” he stutters, pressing his face against the red fabric of breeches, “I promise, Mistress Maven.”

“I should have known…” she mutters, and Krampus says something again, words lost in the chaos of her mind.

At first, she doesn’t notice the growing pain in her skull, too upset to feel anything else but her heart breaking in two. She’s crying and the next second… She’s struck down by the pain, twisting and screaming on the floor, pulling her hair like a madwoman. Her body is changing, she can feel another pulse than her own beneath her skin, and magic coils tight around each of her limbs.

One final explosion of blinding pain, and she hears something growing out of her head, breaking and twisting her bones like clay in the deft hands of a sculptor.

“Help her, Rufus,” Krampus says in the distance while she heaves and retches on the floor, “There’s no time left, we must leave.”

A puddle of blood is spreading beneath her head, soft and red like the suit Astarion was wearing the night before. She reaches for her forehead, trying to see if there is anything left of her skull, but her fingers hit something hard and pointy. A bump or… A horn?

No, those are not horns, they are… antlers…soft little antlers picking from under her thick dark curls.

Rufus bends down, groaning as he tries to push her up on her feet, again and again.

“Don’t touch me!” she screams, the green halo of her magic enveloping her once more, “I won’t go with you! You’re no better than all the others.”

A flash of lightning in the warm atmosphere and Maven is alone in the workshop again, bloody and confused.

Above the door, the clock is ticking again, and some kind of alarm rings in the distance.

“Seize her!” The guards scream at each other as they march towards her, “Master Klaus is already on his way.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

When Astarion arrives at the factory, Maven is tied up in a corner of the Christmas elves’ atelier, flanked by two bulky guards. She always looks a bit terrifying, but today she is a true vision of horror — covered in blood, cold golden eyes shimmering in the early hours of the morning, and… antlers? She didn’t have those before, did she?

There’s something different about her, and Astarion quickly realises that the ‘emergency’ that Gale was talking about in his missive isn’t just a small fire in one of the warehouses or any kind of silly plumbing problem. No, this disaster could actually ruin his carefully thought-out plan, goddamnit!

He has known about Maven’s evil lineage for quite some time now. When Klaus asked him to find the half-blood vermine all those months ago, he immediately thought of her. She was the perfect scapegoat and the obvious choice, but it was almost too good to be true… So Astarion kept looking through the endless crowd of Christmas elves, charming them into coming home with him, looking for signs of a family tie between them and the dark lord of the Black Woods.

His intention was never to hand the child over to Klaus though, he always thought he could find an ally in Krampus’ offspring. He would lure the fool with promises of power, paint a pretty picture of them sitting in Santa’s place in the big office of the factory — or convince them with a few caresses and languid kisses if the rest didn’t work.

But at the end of it, he’d be the only one to ascend, the only one to become the new master of this factory.

A new Santa for a new Christmas!

“Lord Krampus was here,” Gale whispers as he steps beside him in his ugly purple suit, “And Aelfric now has a set of horns…I think Santa has finally found the child he has been so afraid of for all those years.”

Astarion frowns, eyes drifting back towards Maven and the enchanted manacles around her wrists. “Indeed, he has. One less thing I’ll have to deal with, I suppose.”

Her head slowly turns towards him, her furious gaze quickly finding him in the crowd of elves gathered near the entrance of the atelier. Instead of the despair he is used to seeing in her amber eyes, Astarion only finds a quiet sort of fury. Anger suits her better, she looks quite beautiful like this — taller, coiffed with an intricate crown of bones, glorious and bloody like a queen riding into battle.

Well, not quite… That queen lost the battle before it even began, she’s a prisoner of war and who knows what Santa will do with her.

Astarion already knows the answer to that question though, he knows Klaus better than anyone in the factory. The old man is cruel and paranoid… Maven is a threat to his power, in more ways than one. He’ll either imprison her somewhere — or worst 'put an end to her sufferings,’ like the little reindeers who are born with a birth defect in the stables.

A chill of fear runs down his back. He needs her alive, she’s his only hope of overthrowing Klaus… If she dies, all is lost — they are all lost.

Behind him, the Christmas elves tremble in fear and in disgust, pointing fingers at Maven.

“Gods above, look at those antlers, I always knew she was a monster!”

“She has the eyes of a hungry beast, what a dreadful thing…”

“I can’t even look at her anymore, she terrifies me.”

The girl doesn’t lower her head, she stares down at them, unblinking and regal. If looks could kill, all the elves around him would have already drawn their last breath.

The commotion dies down when Klaus finally enters the factory, all clad in a thick white fur. His long silver hair is tied into a braid and his round cheeks are red. His two sled dogs, Azrhina and Wirinaris, growl at Astarion when he crosses the corridor and steps through the threshold of the workshop.

“My poor poor child,” he coos, affecting an air of worry, “What has Lord Krampus done to you?”

Maven smiles, sharp and menacing, and that is also new . Astarion can’t remember if he has already seen her laugh before.

“Oh please, spare me the pitch. Let’s not pretend that we don’t know what is going on here. Let’s skip to the part where you tell me what kind of fate I will suffer.”

A whisper of indignation rises through the crowd of obedient Christmas elves.

Klaus laughs, loud and obnoxious, and Astarion can hear the anger in his cackle. He has learnt to recognize it over the year, for Santa never yells or gets mad — even when he punishes, he laughs.

“You have always been such a rebellious little elf, Maven. It is sad that it has come down to this though, I still had high hopes for you.”

She stirs a little, nervously swaying on her feet, and Astarion’s heart is in his throat.

Santa turns around, speaking to his Christmas elves in a joyous and festive tone. “We all know there is no cure for Krampus’ corruption, don’t we? Every creature that has been touched by him will die in atrocious suffering!”

Lies, Astarion seethes, clenching his fists by his sides, your propaganda grows tiresome, master Klaus.

Yet, behind him, all the others scream ‘yes’ in unison, spell-bound and blind to his petty tactics.

“I have no choice but to put you out of your misery, my child,” he says, smiling sweetly at Maven like he is not sentencing her to death, but rather offering her a warm cup of tea.

The guards grab her by the shoulders and force her to kneel on the wooden floor, already soiled with her blood. No elf has ever been killed before, and in spite of their repulsion for Maven, some of the factory’s employees gasp in horror and turn their backs on the scene.

“Lae’zel Of K’liir,” Klaus calls out, and the officer steps in front him, hand on the richly adorned hilt of her sword, “You will be the one to ease her pain.”

Maven doesn’t cry or beg, she sits still, staring up at her executioner with unwavering rage.

“You have a brave heart Aelfric, you stare death in the eyes without fear or regrets,” she says to the elf, unsheathing her blade, “I will give you a death worthy of a warrior.”

The gyth raises the sword in the air, and Astarion notices the way her hands tremble slightly. Is she hesitating? Doubting her master’s orders?

“No!” someone shouts in the assembly, and soon Shadowheart is standing beside him, the threat of magic shimmering at the tips of her fingers, “You’ll have to kill me first. I won’t let Maven be put down like a dog.”

“Me neither! I won’t sit silently while you kill one of my friends,” Karlach fumes, brandishing one of her heavy hammers, “I’ll fight an entire army if I have to.”

Halsin steps out of the crowd, nostrils flaring, chest heaving, a long knife in his hand.

“Let her go,” he growls at Klaus, more furious and menacing, as protective of Maven as he is of his reindeers, “I won’t say it twice.”

Santa laughs again, a little twinkling sound in which fear and fury collide.

“Oh please, calm down,” he chuckles, gently petting his vicious dogs by the fire, “Why does it matter —”

He doesn’t have to finish before Maven breaks free of her chains with a flick of her thin wrists, bending the iron like it’s made of glass. Her glowing hand shoots up, and she murmurs something that Astarion is too far to hear properly. Santa stands up, ready to bark an order, but a flash of light hits him so violently that for a moment Astarion thinks that the impact has turned him into dust. His joy is short lived though; Klaus was simply propelled against the farthest wall of the room, crashing into one of the glittery Christmas trees like a rag doll.

The cloud of light spreads its wings like a bird high up in the sky, nestling Halsin, Shadowheart, and Karlach in its warmth. The very foundations of the factory shake, every of the windows of the workshop shatters, and just like that, they’re all gone.

A trail of magnificent green rushes out into the snow, and Santa’s dogs race after it.

But it’s no use, they’re no fit for Maven’s magic.

Not strong enough to catch the Queen of bones.