The Bells of the Great Fir Tree

The snowfall began just after dawn, light as spun sugar, and drifted through the towering boughs of the Great Fir Tree. Below, the plaza of Santa’s Village shimmered with preparations—lanterns glowed beneath red and gold garlands, fir needles sparkled under enchantment, and a silver arch had been raised between the tree’s living roots.

It was to be a wedding not just of two hearts, but of two worlds.

Carved benches formed a great ring around the stage—some with backrests tailored for dwarf stockiness, others curved to suit elvish frames, and a few generously cushioned for the handful of human guests. The choir risers below the lowest branches were already full—True Elves in green robes, warming up with bright chords and polished pitchpipes. A silver bell hung high in the branches, waiting.

Behind the stage, Chris Kringle stood in a spruce-green coat with frosted buttons. He tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves, glancing toward the snowy path. Bernard, standing beside him, brushed off his shoulders for the third time.

“She’s not late,” Bernard said. “Just ceremonial.”

“I know,” Chris murmured with a crooked grin. “Doesn’t stop my boots from shaking.”

“Cold feet?”

“More like thrilled feet.”

In a quiet grove nearby, the final reindeer preparations were underway. Rudy Winters oversaw the Emberwind Team, who had served Santa faithfully for many years. Though their muzzles were touched with white and their strides less youthful than in seasons past, they held their heads high, radiating experience and pride. Their golden harnesses gleamed, and pine garlands were braided into their manes.

The enchanted snowdoves were an old elf tradition, rarely used now. They were not real birds but delicate illusions formed from condensed fairy dust and song-spell magic, shaped into fluttering white forms. They could be set to fly on cue, trailing silver shimmer as they circled. This particular flock had been crafted by Maestro Tinsel and activated with a four-note harmony only the choir knew.

Bobbet had one job: keep the cages closed until Bernard gives the nod. He had nodded back—enthusiastically, three times—and now stood gripping the latch like it might sprout legs and run.

The chime of the plaza bell marked the beginning of the ceremony.

Dignitaries filed in first—Mayor Dal of Dromstad with his wool coat and peppermint cane, Brenna Dunn from Rostlic wearing a cloak of dark blue felt, and Mayor Ellinor Twill of Ainslo, tall and sharp-eyed beneath a feathered cap. From the mountains came Elder Smith Clara Ironpost of Dwarfheim, flanked by two hammer-bearers in silver and soot. The dwarves wore no cloaks—just thick tunics and quiet pride.

A murmur passed through the guests as the choir began to sing a soft, four-note prelude. At the top of the snowy path, Merry Lou Jensen appeared.

She walked slowly, arm in arm with Len Thornley and Elvira Silktouch, who helped carry the trailing edge of her cloak. Her gown was winter-white with embroidery of fir branches and fiddleleaf fig leaves—small nods to her garden and the North Pole’s woodlands. She wore no veil, but a delicate silver circlet shimmered in her curls. It did not come from a Fairy, not exactly—it had formed in her room overnight after Amella lingered near the windowsill, as if summoned by wonder alone. Whether the circlet was a gift or a projection of Amella’s presence remained unclear. No one asked. The air had shimmered, and there it was.