Empowered

[Treadwell]

Unusual dreams, a haunting call, and an irresistible summons saw Treadwell quietly leaving his wife's side well before dawn. The rotund town councilor hastily threw on one of his red velvet robes and top hats, grabbed his walking cane and pipe, and soon found himself on the back of his equally round, just about equally old horse, Arnold, and making for the outskirts of Myrken Wood.

Now it is perhaps an hour before the dawn. A weary Treadwell is searching the woods outside of the town for something undefinable. He finally stops to give the worn out horse a rest, and he hears an Elven voice softly chime out from the darkness ahead, "Good morning, Father Winter. We have been expecting you."

Elven. Treadwell knows the tongue well enough, though not from any studying of his own; no, any talent he has in that language hails from his having been made into a jolly giver of gifts around this time last year. The Elf speaking to him, as well as a circle of others, quietly step forward from the gloom and silently surround the fat man on his horse. Treadwell opens his mouth to speak, but a fragile, willowy hand comes up to shush him.

"Say nothing, Your Eminence. I am afraid that I must clarify one matter. You are here because it is of particular importance to yourself and to your world, though you do not know the full extent of such at this moment." A pause, here, as the other Elves surrounding Treadwell kneel, with the speaker before him still standing.

"The Elves were the creators of the legend of Father Winter, of course, nearly two thousand years of mortal reckoning ago. Your predecessor's chubby frame was shaped by our whispers, formed by our lullabyes to our children, and molded through our songs raised to our deities in thanks every Sylimburn. Our gentle mother, Nature herself, saw fit to bless us with the embodiment of our imaginations: an embodiment given a short, fat, human form. It was a contrast to ourselves but also a complement; in our seeking to bring our own families closer together, we were being taught how we should see your own race with loving, open eyes."

"And then things changed."

Changed? Treadwell blinks a few times, finally dismounting from the back of his overworked steed.

"Things changed, Father, when your predecessor passed the Frost, as we know it, to you. The man you knew as Roderic Cliché was kind, was benevolent, and was caring, but he was no magician, and he was by no means completely aware of the damage he could do in transferring this gift to another without Elven assistance. This is a matter we have studied this past year and many more in preparation."

"In short, Mr. Treadwell, you received only a portion of the Frost in Mr. Cliché's hurried attempt to save your own mortal life. You, however, did not gain all that you were due. Is this not clear to you? Father Winter, though tied infinitely to the seasons, is above the limitations of mortal magicks and human ideas of power, yet you find yourself growing larger in the belly and being short of breath nine months of the year. The slightest exertions of your magical abilities--the fashioning of mere cookies and cream--leave you exhausted at any time but in the chill of winter. In addition, our children--and children in many other places besides Myrken Wood--had no visit last year from the man they know as Father Winter, the Toymaster, the Belly, Frère Frost, Santa Claus, or many other names."

"We are here to remedy this. Aloisius Horatio Treadwell, we wish to empower you. We wish to augment the powers given to you, to your wife, and, though you know not, your horse, here, and we wish to restore order to the chaos threatening the ways of many."

Treadwell has, by this time, fallen completely quiet, stunned into submission. He merely offers a nod of his head.

"The Elves will not be in this world among men forever, and our own prophecies see other races following us away as magic is doomed to slip from this land and mortals see only themselves. You must be prepared, and so must your people. Therefore, Father Winter, we offer ourselves to your cause--to fashion toys for you, to spread the word of your name, and to support you in any way that we must for as long as we are able. We have a second workshop, much greater than your own in Myrken Wood, fashioned far, far to the north, and that is where we shall be. You and your mount here," a wave to his old, pursy, bloated Arnold, "will be given the gift of exceptional speed to be able to accomplish your yearly mission. The other powers due you and your wife will be granted, and the two of you will be forevermore who you are to be."

"Father Winter, there must come a day--a day of your choosing--when the world hears no more the name of Aloisius Treadwell, when you retire yourself and your family from its haven. You have become immortal, which you know, and an immortal must not live forever among men. But that day is yet some time away, and besides. . . there is one more matter to attend."

"Your name."

"Not all people know you by one name. The legends become skewed with local ideas overtaking ancient traditions. For you to be remembered, known, and loved, there must be solidarity. There must be equality. As the elves will not remain forever among men, the name of Father Winter will not. You recently expressed a wish about this to your wife and, in a sense, to some children in Myrken Wood, and it is a wish evident in every pudgy portion of your being. We will see this wish granted."

The Elves around Treadwell stand just as silently as they got to their knees. Treadwell looks around at them before that same wispy hand comes to rest on his forearm. A smile, warm and loving, meets the confused old man.

As the first rays of the dawn seep over the horizon, Elven chanting begins, a murmur of magical tones. For Aloisius Treadwell, his vision gradually turns a brilliant white, and then there is no more. A warm, cozy, immensely comfortable Tready, dressed again for sleep, will wake with a yawn by his wife, and his horse will be back in his stable where he belongs.