Over Snow and Storm
Reindeer Plains - November 1509
The winter of 1509 came hard and early to Christmas Island.
The plains of Evela were already buried beneath heavy snows by the first week of December, and the frozen forests creaked under the weight of ice like weary old bones. From the hills near Lone Pine to the edge of Rostlic’s lake, the land lay hushed beneath a deep, white stillness.
At the heart of his tiny village, Neik Klass — not yet called Santa — stood outside his workshop, wool cloak pulled tight and beard rimmed with frost. He squinted into the swirling wind that bit across the tundra, tugging at the edges of his sleigh tarp and rattling the loose icicles on the rooftops.
Beside him stood his eight reindeer, stamping their hooves in the snow:
Brisket, Frostmane, Hearth, Thistle, Mirth, Beryl, Tundra, and Solace.
Their breath streamed like plumes in the dim light, rising to the sky like offerings.
Their harnesses were simple, woven from frostvine and silver-threaded jute. A few early bells jingled faintly when they moved — not magical flight-bells, not yet, but tones of rhythm and hope, newly forged in the elves' smithy just that month.
Behind them, the sleigh groaned under its burden:
Toys hand-crafted with care, bundles of warm woolen blankets, carved candles dipped in honey wax, and baskets of sweet preserved fruits — apples, cherries, plums, and strips of sugared root — all meant for the settlers in Dromstad, Anslo, and Rostlic.
Last Christmas, Neik had carried everything on his back, trudging through the woods and sneaking into human homes alone. But this year, the need was too great, the snow too deep, and the world already growing larger than one man could bear.
He turned to the reindeer and placed a hand on Frostmane’s strong shoulder.
“You're my only chance,” he whispered.
With that, he clambered onto the sleigh, cracked the reins gently, and called out,
"Onward, my friends! Tonight we travel for joy!"
❄️ The Journey
There was no flying yet.
No soaring over rooftops.
No red dust, no golden spark.
Only hoof and runner, and the determination of hearts.
The sleigh glided across the snow, pulled by the tireless eight, but every mile was a battle. The elves jogged beside them, bundled in heavy cloaks, their feet wrapped in waxed boots to stave off frostbite. At times, they had to leap down and carve paths through snowdrifts as high as fences, using enchanted shovels that glowed faintly blue in the cold.
They crossed frozen rivers, Frostmane always in the lead, his hooves tapping with uncanny precision as he felt the flex of the ice beneath him. When it groaned, he slowed. When it held, he pressed on. He had learned the language of winter.
They passed through groves of black trees, where no birds called and no winds whispered. In those woods, the cold was so deep even the owls had fallen silent. Tundra’s breath came hard and fast, and Neik muttered songs in the old tongue to calm the animals.
Blizzards met them head-on as they reached the low passes near Anslo. Snow howled in every direction, and visibility shrank to nothing. But Solace, true to his name, held steady at the rear, guiding the team through the storm. When one reindeer faltered, he nudged them forward. When an elf stumbled, he slowed the team’s pace. His presence alone felt like a warming fire in the dark.
The elves sang songs to lift each other’s spirits — tunes from Dondavar, melodies from Elven homesteads near Lone Pine, and silly made-up chants with verses added on the fly. Neik hummed quietly too, remembering carols his mother had once sung as she braided holly into the hearth beams of their long-lost home.
Their first stop was Dromstad, a village of stone cottages wrapped tightly around a frozen well. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, but most houses lay dark. Quietly, Neik and the elves left their gifts: baskets tucked near doors, toys set gently on windowsills, candles placed just inside latch cracks.
No one saw them — not yet — but when dawn came, Dromstad would wake to a miracle.
They pressed onward to Anslo, nestled near the foothills where wild reindeer sometimes watched from the trees. The path narrowed into a gorge with steep rock walls and icy switchbacks. Partway through, a slab of rock shifted, and the sleigh lurched dangerously sideways. For a moment, the front runner dipped — but Brisket, stout and stubborn, lowered his head and pulled.
With sheer force of will, he dragged the sleigh upright. Snow scattered. Ropes strained. But the sleigh held. The elves cheered, and Brisket gave a grunt of satisfaction as if to say, “Told you I could.”
Last came Rostlic, the youngest of the three villages. Just a few scattered homes around a half-frozen lake, its lanterns burning like stars in the snow.
The snowfall here had thickened to a silent blanket, and the reindeer struggled to lift their legs through the drifts. Their pace slowed to a crawl. Spirits began to flag.
Then Mirth, the cheeriest among them, threw back his head and let out a joyful, whistling snort — a sound so absurd it made one of the elves laugh out loud. Without warning, Mirth surged forward in a playful gallop, jingling his bells like a parade.
The others followed. In moments, the whole team was bounding through the snow, fueled not by strength alone, but by laughter and lightness. The final deliveries were made in minutes.
The Return
Exhausted but triumphant, Neik Klass and his companions returned to their hidden village just before dawn — as the first green glimmer of the northern lights spilled across the horizon.
The sleigh runners were caked with ice, the reindeer’s sides heaved with the effort, and the elves’ boots were soaked through with melted snow — but all of them were beaming.
Santa leaned down from the sleigh, patting each reindeer on the neck one by one, whispering soft thanks in the old tongue of wonder and winter:🌟 The Return
Exhausted, half-frozen, but triumphant, Neik Klass and his team turned toward home. The eastern sky was already paling, the blackness giving way to a faint green shimmer: the first flicker of the northern lights.
By the time they crested the ridge overlooking their hidden valley, the sleigh runners were coated in ice, the reindeer’s flanks heaved with exhaustion, and the elves' boots squelched with half-melted snow — but every one of them was smiling.
Neik climbed down slowly, patting each reindeer in turn.
He whispered words in the old tongue of winter and wonder:
“Well done, my brave ones.
You have made the world a little brighter tonight.”
The elves hurried to warm the animals, brushing out their fur and wrapping them in cloaks that shimmered with stored warmth from enchanted hearthstones. Then, together, they made their way to the Great Hearth Hall, where the fire crackled and the feast had already begun.
Roasted chestnuts. Cloudberry preserves. Honeyed apples.
Simple fare, but earned in full.
And above them, strung high on the central beam, hung the very first Silver Bell ever awarded to a reindeer team. It didn’t chime with magic — not yet — but it gleamed in the firelight as a symbol of something greater:
With endurance and kindness, even the farthest roads can be crossed.
Outside, as the feast continued, the winds calmed.
The aurora danced above the rooftops in soft green waves, as if the stars themselves had paused to witness the birth of something wondrous.
That night, the tradition of Christmas Delivery was truly born — not yet for the whole world, not yet with flying reindeer or faraway chimneys, but already glowing with a purpose that would one day cross every ocean and reach every child.