Dondovar

Exploring Dondavar

by Santa Claus (as told to the young ones of Evela)

As we learn in school, the Earth is a great spinning sphere of rock and molten iron, wrapped in oceans and clouds, bustling with life and wonder. But Earth, marvelous as it is, is not alone. There are other worlds—hidden worlds—layered beside our own, separated not by miles or stars, but by something far thinner: the veil of a higher dimension. That barrier is so slight, so delicate, that if you stacked the pages of all the books in the world, their collective thickness would still be more than the distance between Earth and one of these hidden realms.

Most people live their entire lives unaware that such places exist. Yet they do. Some are wild and alien. Others are dreamlike reflections of Earth—similar in landscape and form, but running on different laws of time and magic. And some… well, some are close. Very close. So close that, under rare and peculiar conditions, a traveler might cross over.

One such world is known to those of us who live there—if we name it at all—as Dondavar. The name is borrowed, of course. It was first whispered by a fairy named Forlot, overheard by a clever elf named Skit, and passed down to Santa himself. It has no exact translation in the human tongue, but its meaning might be guessed as “the Shimmering Elsewhere” or “the Other Home.” Those who dwell in Dondavar don’t use such titles often; they are too busy living their lives among the snow-laden pines, singing with harmonicas, baking star-shaped cookies, or soaring through the skies in sleighs drawn by reindeer with glittering hooves.

Dondavar rotates more slowly than Earth, completing a single day in 25 hours rather than 24. This tiny difference, invisible to the eye, makes all the difference in the cosmos. It creates a subtle rift between the two worlds—a twist in space and time that keeps them apart. Passage between them is nearly impossible in the warm middle latitudes. But near the poles, where time and space behave more loosely, the dimensional curtain thins. There, if the wind is just right and you carry a trace of fairy dust, you might catch a glimpse—or even find your way through.

Some humans have wandered into Dondavar unknowingly. They return with confused dreams, unable to recall what they saw clearly. Yet fragments of their visions echo in Earth’s fairy tales and bedtime stories. The Neverland of Peter Pan, the White Witch’s forest, or the mountains of Norse myth—these may all be reflections of Dondavar glimpsed in sleep or spirit.

But let us not confuse dream with reality. Dondavar is real. It has forests and mountains, seas and sky. The sun rises, the snows fall, and laughter fills its villages. On a northern continent called Evela lies Santa’s Village—our most familiar home—and from there, paths lead to human towns like Dromstad and Ainslo, and further on to Trollheim, Dwarfheim, and the great volcano, Mount Kloor.

Its people are much like ours in heart, though not in kind. Some are Human. Some are Elves—True Elves, who live for centuries and take joy in art, mischief, and music. Some are Shoe Elves, master craftsmen of toy and leather. Others are constructs—like the Messenger Elves, born not of flesh but of magic, infused with the red shimmer of flight. There are Reindeer, cleverer than you might imagine, and Fairies, who skip between dimensions like a child hops across stones in a stream. The Fairies are not bound by shape or scale, and though they appear to be small winged folk, they are in truth vast and ancient beings, glimpsed only in part.

Trolls lurk in the Dead Hills, and though they are not the mindless beasts of Earthly fiction, they are often grumpy and suspicious of outsiders. Dwarves live deep in the Grey Mountains, beneath peaks laced with veins of copper, silver, and memory. But it is the Elves who are the heart of Dondavar’s magic—and its music.

Dondavar has no internet, no jet engines, and no skyscrapers. It does not need them. Its magic flows not through wires, but through fairy dust—each color with its purpose. Red dust gives flight. Yellow dust allows teleportation and travel between worlds. Green alters shape, and Blue bends time itself. This is how Santa crosses into Earth, and how he returns. This is how toys vanish from his workshop and appear inside his sack, and how the sleigh rides the winds between moments on Christmas Eve.

But the magic of Dondavar isn’t only in its dust or spells—it is in its people. They tell stories under the stars. They sing by firelight. They remember. Their calendars mark the days of the Reindeer Games, the Elf Olympics, the Golden Bonfire, and the Harmonica Jam. Their history stretches back to when Neik Klass first arrived in 1508, and when Chris Kringle assumed the mantle of Santa in 1810.

To explore Dondavar is not to conquer or to map—it is to listen. To let go of what you think you know about worlds and time and people. It is to sit beside a snowy brook and hear a Fairy laugh as she rides the back of a dragonfly. To walk down Candy Cane Lane and smell Crumbelle’s fresh gingerbread wafting from her bakery. To hear the faint tootle-toot of Penny Trueleaf practicing her harmonica beneath a peppermint lamppost.

Dondavar is more than a place—it is a whisper at the edge of knowing. It is the joy of believing, the comfort of kindness, the thrill of wonder.

And if you ever find yourself wandering near the northern lights, with your heart open and a little magic in your pocket—don’t be surprised if you hear sleigh bells far off in the sky.

Because you may be closer to Dondavar than you think.