Secret Santa Project

The central panels were each a small part of a big story; the life of St. Stephen. He stood meek, yet clearly the focal point of the whole window, in the centre, dressed in blue, and with all the other characters facing him. Ross couldn’t tell who these people were supposed to be. They seemed to be from a different time and place from each other, but all revered St. Stephen. One of the gargoyle’s favourite observation spots inside the church roof sat beside a wooden carved depiction of the stoning of St. Stephen. He never understood how anyone was supposed to see it and know what it was, especially as it was so worn over the centuries. He guessed it was simply to mark the death of the martyr, but he liked to believe it was for him. To remind him of humanity, or even to help him feel connected to it somehow.

Each of the bottom panels of the great window were as old as the ones in the top, and Latin text was surrounded by roses, paying homage to the beautiful rose garden outside, and leaves similar to the ones the dove in the West window held in its beak. Ross had lost the knowledge of Latin he had pieced together in his mind from listening to services and sermons. The Latin had been phased out centuries ago, even if a little of it remained in hymns; its long forgotten meaning punctuating the English with sudden unfamiliarity, so he didn’t know what the text read, other than the final line: “Stephanus Dei manet in gloria”. It wasn’t hard to recognise “God”, “glory” and the saint’s name. Ross chose it to mean, “Stephen has been given the glory of God”, or something to that effect. He often wondered what that might be like.

Each pane was removed with precision and care by men that Ross recognised as part of the congregation, and placed in wooden boxes, wrapped in metres of thick cloth. One by one, the boxes were carried out of the church, into the sunlit garden, and buried - it was poignant in more ways than one. There had been many times in which multiple boxes had been buried together in the yard, and each of them seemed to be more sad than the last. Earlier in the week, four coffins lay side by side in the church, as the faces of the living collectively mourned the workers killed when an explosive caused the roof of their warehouse to collapse on top of them.

For seven weeks the routine went along as it had for the past four years; steady streams of people went about their lives in the daytime, some women wore overalls and pinned their soft hair back in scarves, which Ross particularly liked. They joked and walked proudly to and from work, clutching each other in affectionate ways. It appeared that this happiness was to spite the enemies, but Ross had long figured out that it was to mask the fear, bereavement and hopelessness they felt. Nothing had changed for so long, all prospects were that things were going to be this way forever, so people just dealt with it.

The evenings ended early. As soon as the sky was dark enough to see the first stars, doors shut until morning and lights were extinguished to the point that they had never been before. Ross named more stars in those six years than he had done in his whole life, and once the six years were over, some of those stars were never seen by him again.

Some nights stayed quiet, in fact it was most nights, but the nights that were filled with noise, flashes of light and choking engines made it feel like those quiet nights were somewhere in the past, untouchable, forgotten in the chaos. Ross ached to join in the efforts, helping out in some way, but a voice from his past told him that he would be considered a monster. He’d be locked away in a cage to be poked at, blamed for atrocities which he knew nothing about, and eventually killed in some brutal way. He couldn’t put a face to the voice, but it was caring and soft, and spoke in a strange, fluid, emphasised English. Whoever it was, and wherever it came from, the gargoyle believed it, so he stayed in his hiding spots, looking out over the city, or down towards the flagstoned floor of the church.

  It was a Tuesday night, much like any other Tuesday. Everyone had gone back to their homes and Ross had enjoyed the clear skies for an hour or so, his gut squirming in juxtaposition. Clear nights didn’t usually mean air raids, thanks to anti-aircraft defences, including fantastic searchlights, but the gargoyle somehow knew that it would be a long night.

Sure enough, as the clock hands shifted their way just past eleven o’clock (the bell tolling had been disabled), the siren wailed out over the valley from its station point at City Hall, and Ross felt the walls of his church tremble with anticipation, as the community took shelter, and the emergency services prepared themselves. They had done a drill only a week and a day ago, and thanks to the devastation caused by the last raid, there wasn’t anyone who didn’t take it seriously.

Ross watched the lights attempt to pick out the reflection of metal in the sky, shadows of objects blocking his view of the stars, but it was at least an hour until the low, distant rumble of propellers reverberated in the air. Ross watched as the plane ducked over buildings on the other side of the river to drop a bomb. It swooped back up high to escape the guns that were firing at it, and Ross lost sight of it in the darkness. The light coming from the gunpowder, the noise of firing, engines and sirens, and the smells of remnants from damaged buildings and gunfire filled Ross’ senses to the point where he closed his eyes, held his breath and lifted his head towards the sky. He didn’t believe in a heaven above Earth, unseen by human eyes, but it always seemed like the most logical place to pray towards.

A second plane swooped over the north of the city, and dropped another bomb. Once it had come around, lifting into the air to get out of danger, it came back down, so low that Ross could no longer see it. But he heard the shots. Machine gun fire rained over the industrial buildings which sat beside the rail tracks. The gargoyle choked tears, knowing that he would remember this war for the rest of his life, as he listened to bricks and windows being crumbled and smashed. He climbed down from the tower, hung his head low as he leapt inside and down the walls to the cold, flagstone floor.

His small, nimble footsteps echoed around the silent, empty building as he walked between the pews to the East window. He missed St Stephen and the angels. They had been replaced with wooden boards. Glass was expensive enough in peaceful times. It was as though the parish had predicted what was about to happen.

Ross didn’t hear an engine, but heard a whistling bomb. By then it was too late. He was stronger than a human, of course, but he still didn’t much fancy his church caving in on him.

“Fitting,” he said to himself, before ducking under the archway of the Sanctuary.

The ground underneath his hands groaned in shock first, and Ross felt the tremors climb up and through his body, up towards the roof, and every window in the place shattered. Dust billowed around the building, the wooden boards had splintered onto the floor nearby, but the structure remained. In testament to the craftsmanship that had gone into the building of St Stephen’s church, the power of their beliefs at their side, not one stone seemed to shift, not one beam collapsed.

Ross counted to three before coming out from his hiding place. The walls around him were still and silent as they had been mere seconds ago, only now there was a distinct draft rustling the flower arrangements, and it looked almost as if every surface had been caught in a summer shower.

The initial relief and thankfulness that the church was still standing was suddenly replaced with loss and sadness. Whilst the angels of the East window had been saved, every other window had been utterly destroyed. Ross’s marble feet were undamaged by crunching the glass under his feet as he paced the South Aisle, but there was pain inside him. As he approached the West window, he spotted the dove of peace, strewn over the entrance in over seven separate pieces. He started picking up the jagged shards, and placed them in order on the 19th Century bible, which was on a stand just inside the door. However, the tip of the dove’s beak was missing, as was the olive branch, and as it was, the poor thing served no purpose. Ross grew more and more frantic, falling to his knees and crawling, picking up any and all fragments of glass to try and find a hint of green. Eventually, exhausted and depressed, he sat on the stone floor with his back against the heavy, bolted, wooden door, and waited for the sirens to stop.

Once they did, Ross retreated to the rafters, and the vicar pulled the door open slowly, around twenty minutes later. He stepped with extreme care, breathing in the damage heavily, and tracing his fingers over pillars, walls and furniture, thanking God as he went. Ross watched him silently pray for a while, before returning to the West door, ready to try and sleep before the sun would rise. As he reached around four feet from the handle, however, he stopped.

“What?” He questioned, as he sidestepped over to the bible, gently touching the white glass belonging to the dove. Ross smiled in pride, feeling a lot better about the whole situation, as the vicar sobbed a few tears of joy.

“Peace is on its way,” he whispered to himself, before leaving the church, this time with a spring in his step.

It took over a day for four people to sweep up the glass, and the vicar used his own time to sort through the shards and find pieces which were still big enough to be saved. He would put them in groups, laid out on tables to the right of the Sanctuary, but the dove’s beak was never found. It wasn’t until the war had ended, a year later, that repairs of the windows finally took place. The East window went back in place, pane by pane from the top to the bottom, and a great sense of relief and familiarity filled Ross’ heart. He spent hours staring at the details of the glass, which hadn’t diminished one bit.

The oldest parts of the North and West windows were similar to the bottom panels of the East window; decorated with Latin and roses. It was the biggest historical loss that the church had suffered in the blast, but thankfully, a lot of it had been saved. The vicar knew less Latin than Ross, but he had a plan in mind, so it seemed.

A slim gentleman of unremarkable height, dressed in a velvet, bottle green jacket was brought into the church by the vicar. The vicar explained that he wanted the fragments put together deliberately out of order.

“I want it to be a reminder of what happened. An homage, if you like, to the grace of God. He saved the church, and sent a sign that war would end soon, and it did. But the beautiful windows were sacrificed.”

The young, rather good looking man had blinked at the vicar a few times, as if he was silently laughing at him, but came across genuine in his reply.

“I like that idea, it’s great. I can do that, no problem.”

He spent hours at a time piecing fragments of glass back together. Ross didn’t recognise the man, but people in and out of the church seemed to know him. The gargoyle wondered why he had a bad feeling about the man. There was nothing curious or notable about him really, other than the fitted jacket, which he always wore. He didn’t talk much, and when he did, it was only small talk, but Ross simply didn’t like him, and there was an ominous feeling of doom about the work he was doing, as if it meant the beginning of the end of something.

He pored over the fragments of red, brown, green, gold and white and eventually mosaics of stained glass, dating back five hundred years, decorated the West, North and South windows’ bottom rows. The pieces of glass from the dove remained together, in a display case next to the old bible at the entrance.

The man was a good artist, and painted new panels for the windows. Saints congregated at the top of the West window, and Ross liked the way they looked as though they were at a family reunion. The South window told the story of Easter, and finally the North window depicted the nativity. It was everyone’s favourite new addition, to the point that every Christmas saw the clergy leave a lamp on behind it as soon as darkness drew in, illuminating the glass from the inside. All of the people walking past the church were treated to the colourful reminder of the story of Christmas, and a great warmth would fill them, whether they were religious or not. However, when all the windows were finished, a shadow hung over everything. No one else seemed to recognise it, but Ross rarely stayed inside the church from then on.

He would sit sulkily on the side of the tower, willing the congregation to go elsewhere. There would only be sadness inside, but he knew he couldn’t confide in anyone. He longed to have a friend, or even just someone who could see the darkness like he could, and do something about it.

It was 1959 when Ross’s fears were realised. Everything he had ever known, and all he could remember was taken from him. The vicar died, clutching hold of a pew, attempting to get to his little office to phone for help.

Ross heard nothing, it was a silent death. The gargoyle was watching a young couple walk their dog up the road, smiling at the shopkeepers who were done for the day, sighing at the squirming feeling in his stomach, which had been there for years. He didn’t know until it was early next morning, and he wondered why the vicar hadn’t opened the doors.

Climbing down the wall, Ross pondered at the lights. They had been left on all night. A flash of white appeared in the corner of the gaygoyle’s eye, and he turned to see the vicar, very much dead in between two pews.

The post mortem decided that the vicar had died from asphyxiation, yet no marks appeared on his body. The funeral was sombre, and a gentle hum resonated around the small crowd; how had he died? What could have done this? They were scared. The shadow had descended, and at last the congregation could feel it. It was mid August, but coats bundled around everyone, and unease decorated their faces.

Ross could only question why human life was so fickle. They all died so soon, so easily. He often wondered how easily he would die, or if he even could. If the church had been destroyed in the war, or if it had been pulled down when they started the urban expansion of all the shops and offices, what would have happened to him? Would he have ceased to be? He believed he had once loved the church, but St Stephen looked so forlorn these days, almost as if he was begging Ross to do something before it was too late. The gargoyle asked himself what that might be, was he supposed to just leave? Where would he go? He had never once walked out of the grounds. He only knew as much as he could see from the tower, and what he could hear from the people talking amongst themselves. Or was he supposed to do something more dramatic? How? He had no tools, and what a shame it would be. It was everything Ross had ever known. Still, everyday the eyes of the angels grew sadder and more detached. Whatever that artist had done to the church, it was full of hate.

Three weeks after the vicar’s funeral, the congregation thinned to less than a hundred people. A christening was held, and the child screamed throughout the ceremony. Days later, they had caught a crippling illness and the child was never able to grow up like their friends.

“Just a child!” Ross whispered to the wooden carving above his head, when he found out; as if St Stephen could help.

God took four members of the congregation in the next five months. The remaining people would hiss at each other about the ‘curse’ surrounding them all. It was attributed to the church, specifically at the ceiling.

“There’s something up there, I can see it out of the corner of my eye sometimes.”

This disturbed Ross beyond anything else. He would look around the rafters, searching for whatever the thing might be, but never once found it. He saw the ‘curse’ swimming around the building at times, like a fog, and he would sit amongst the roses, pulling off leaves, sulkily. It was only during a heavy meditation - pleading with anyone who would listen to lift the ‘curse’ - that he realised the thing in the ceiling which scared people could only be himself.

He simply couldn’t leave. He was meant to be here. He heard the old English voice in his head, “You have to stay in this place. It is where you belong, and God trusts you to be a part of it.” Sitting outside in the frame of the West window, Ross touched the glass, and felt the buzz coming from inside. He was scared to go back in.

  The city was warm with the scent and excitement of Christmas. Families trudged in the snow which had fallen over the last couple of weeks - though Ross was certain that the winters came later and shorter every year - and music played in the street all the time.

Some of the music was like nothing the gargoyle had ever heard. It had steady drum beats, like a march, but the melodies were sweet, and the singing so simple and harmonised wonderfully. A shop selling music had been opened, and the front was painted in pastel pink and green, which clashed in the most intriguing way. A face sat in the window, looking as if he was pleading with every passer by to buy him. Text under the picture read, “Cliff Richard - Travellin’ Light”. The face was pretty, and Ross wondered if he would oblige him, by buying him. After all, he was only travelling light, so wouldn’t be a burden on anyone who did. But he sat there in the three weeks before Christmas, until another picture sat next to him. This man was called Emile Ford, and he asked, “What Do You Want to Make Those Eyes at Me For?” He smiled as he questioned, and it confused Ross so much so that he aimlessly wandered across the road one night to take a closer look. He had never seen a face this close to him before, although he knew he must have done in the past, he just couldn’t remember.

The gargoyle traced a finger over the glass of the shop window, exploring the features of both men’s faces. It was almost half an hour before he realised where he was. There was a silence-shattering series of bangs coming from behind him, and he whipped round.

Before locating the source of the sound, Ross’ breath was taken back by the sight in front of him. He had never seen the church from the front before, not from this far back. His heart came up to his throat, and he panicked. The building was so dark, imposing and twisted by shadows with no origins. How had he ever lived there? The nativity window beamed out onto the snow, as if it were a glimmer of hope, but the colours looked harsh, and the gargoyle saw them as a warning against anyone going in.

Finally, with another set of loud bangs, Ross’ attention was drawn away, to the heavy wooden door. Someone was trying to get in, as if the heat from Hell was underneath their feet. They beat a fist against the door three more times, before crying out in frustration.

Ross silently crept back across the road, up the other side of the church building, and round to try and get a look at the person below.

He had never seen this person before. From what he could tell, it was a man, and he had a head of auburn hair, styled like Cliff Richard’s was, albeit messed up, which amused Ross. A spattering of stubble was over the man’s chin, and a cigarette hung out of his mouth, unlit. A black leather jacket with heavy looking zippers over it hung off the man’s shoulders, revealing a plain green t-shirt underneath. He also wore tight fitting jeans, which were covered in some sort of greenish dirt. It looked fresh and wet. Ross couldn’t see his feet.

Four more heavy bangs on the door to no avail, and the man swore loudly. He retreated into the garden, frantically looking around, the jacket clinging onto his forearms to avoid falling into the snow. He shrugged it back over his shoulders and scooped up snow around him to try and find something.

He found it before long, it was a broken chunk of a tombstone. The man slowly gazed up at the North window, into the face of the Virgin Mary, stone in his hands, and seemed to pause for a moment, as if questioning what he was about to do. He did it anyway. The stone was lifted behind the man’s head, and as he leaned back, the bottom of his torso was revealed. Ross blinked in amazement at the vulnerability of it, and the shape. He had never seen under a person’s clothes before. They were always so well dressed in church, after all. The man grunted as he threw the stone, hitting a shepherd first, which then impacted over a quarter of the window, and once again that awful shattering of glass rang in Ross’ ears, though this time it was oddly satisfying.

The man clambered deftly up and into the church via the hole he had made, somehow squeezing through the metal bars without injury. He wore black boots. Ross sat and admired the scene he had just witnessed. Whoever this was, he was amazing. His slim body was so quick and light, despite his height. He must have been almost as tall as Ross. Taller even? The gargoyle never knew humans could move that way.

He climbed back down the side of the building to survey what was left of the Christmas window. The colours were stark against the white snow, but most of the pieces lay on the inside. Cautiously, Ross peered through the hole. Glass dust swirled from the wounds of the window. The shepherds and their sheep were all separated from each other, and Ross allowed a smile. Some of those nameless shadows had been disturbed.

The gargoyle spotted the young man standing at the front of the Chancel, facing the great East window, with a flower stand in one hand. He looked angry, yet thoughtful. The cigarette was now lit, and he puffed plumes of smoke towards the roof. He turned to his right, and looked at all of the windows. Walking with a determined pace to the North window, he threw his weight behind an attempt at destroying it. However, the stand broke, and Jesus remained, nailed to the cross, his eleven remaining apostles and his mother by his side. Desperately searching for another weapon, the man swung around the aisles. Ross watched him. It was clear he could see the darkness too.

As he looked to the North porch, he froze. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it into the Font. For the first time, his face was soft, youthful, beautiful. So Ross thought. It was why he didn’t move. The man was staring right into his eyes, and he didn’t realise it. He was too busy staring right back.

The man cleared his throat. “I can’t destroy it,” he said.

Ross finally came back to himself. He was suddenly aware of the warmth from the lamp above his head, and looked towards it. It reflected in his aquamarine eyes, and in the blue speckles of glass over his body. He was discovered. He heard the man sigh, shudderingly, and faced back towards him, terrified, but unable to move.

“You’re beautiful,” the man gasped. Ross saw him swallow, still soft faced, but now with the hint of a smile in his eyes.

“Thank you,” came a rather raspy, unsure reply. “So are you,” Ross replied without thinking.

The man laughed out loud this time, his broad, mischievous grin spread all over his face.

“I try,” he cryptically raised his eyebrows as he walked over to the broken window.

When he reached the gargoyle, they each sensed the great energy and magic radiating from the other, and there was a holy silence between them for long enough to take in all features. The gargoyle was made of marble, dark veins embedded all over, different shades of blue glass and precious stones adorning him in patterns, and those stunning eyes absorbing everything in front of him in turn.

It was then that Ross finally realised. This was no man. There was no way he could be human. River green eyes beamed with powerful magic, though it was hard to tell if it was good or bad. His skin was pale and smooth, and gave off an illusion of fluidity. Indeed, the waves in his hair reminded Ross of the rivers which flooded the gutters during storms.

“What are you trying to destroy?” Ross asked, sure that he wanted nothing more than for the creature to be happy.

“The windows. They put a curse on this place.”

Ross looked confused for a moment before asking, “How is that going to help? The whole place is cursed.”

The creature paused for a moment. Then his eyes twinkled in excitement, but he remained still. “Would you like me to burn it down?”

“What?” The gargoyle replied, softly.

“I need to stop the curse. If the walls are infected, it needs to go; all of it.”

“People have died,” Ross assured. “I don’t want anyone else to suffer. The congregation are good people.”

The creature snorted laughter, and looked suddenly unsure. “They’re only good when they’re in church, believe me. That’s not the reason why I want it gone.” He answered to Ross’ shocked expression. “The damn demon who painted the glass and set the curse works for a rival. Everyone is going to him for magical remedies and advice. The people who come to church are passing it on to others. It’s like an infection. It’s all over the city, and this rival can cure it quicker than us, because he’s got the antidote to hand. It’s halved business.”

Ross was perplexed. “You want to destroy it because of business? It’s my home, it’s everything I’ve ever known. I have nowhere to go. The people need the church.”

“Listen, there are thirteen other churches in the city. They will find another one.” The creature paused again, and the twinkle came back. “Come with me. That’s where you can go.”

It was a little too much for Ross to think about. Thirteen churches? He had never known there were so many. Did they all have gargoyles like him? He knew he wanted to stay with his new friend; in fact he wanted nothing more. A weight was lifted as soon as their eyes had met, the sadness was gone, he had been found, and it wasn’t terrible, like the voice in his memory said it would be. He remembered the satisfaction he had from the window smashing, and wondered if he could feel it again.

Ross shook his head, “I need to be here. I need to have the tower, the angels, St Stephen…”

Then the creature reached through the bars of the broken window and touched Ross’ face.

It ignited life inside him. He felt love, his heartbeat, his organs, his tears on his cheek, as he reeled from the emotion. The creature smiled, and his eyes pierced to Ross’ soul.

“I live even further up the hill. You can see everything from up there. There’s music all day every day, there’s food for you to try, there are people around who will adore you as much as I do. There’s a place for you.”

Ross breathed in hope and pride.

“This place needs to go. Think of how much better it will be.”

Gulping down the last of his attachment to the walls, Ross closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

“Right, let me back through,” the creature said, excitedly. He was looking forward to it.

Ross obliged, and the two of them stood face to face finally. Their hands reached out to each other, and Ross felt the touch of someone else under his fingers for the first time in his memory. It was wonderful.

“Smith,” the creature stated.

Ross blinked at him.

“Call me Smith,” he clarified.

“Ross,” the gargoyle replied.

Smith grinned again, clasped hold of Ross’ hand and led him up the hill, along the pavement. Ross took in every sight he could. the buildings were all made of different materials, tall and each one a different personality. He couldn’t help but smile, excited at what might be around the next corner. His pleasure was short lived, however. Smith stopped at a long, ridiculously stunning brand new Chrysler New Yorker. Ross marvelled at the squareness of the shape, unlike anything anyone drove around the city, and he wondered how on earth anyone could drive something like this in the snow.

“This is yours?” Ross asked.

Smith merely smiled in response, in such a way that it was obvious there was a long story behind it. Ross watched him gather some things from the car; a canister of liquid, and something that looked like a package.

Ross took Smith’s hand again, and Smith couldn’t seem to shake his grin. They walked in silence back to the church, Ross looking at everything he might have missed on their first passing of the other buildings on the street. They reached the broken window again, and Smith let go of Ross, and licked his lips in anticipation.

“Stay here,” he advised.

Ross watched Smith slip with relative effortlessness back inside the church. He fiddled with the package, separating it into small pieces, and put them all around the building. The canister of liquid was poured, linking all of the pieces together. Ross couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something. The prospect of everything changing for him was making him grip hold of the bars in front of him and warping them. He breathed heavily as he watched Smith working.

The shadows were angry. The swirling around the building was heavier than ever before, and it only reinforced to Ross that this was necessary. It meant that the angels and the saints would be lost, the bible, and… the dove.

Without thinking, Ross crawled up the side of the North window, then clambered up the tower, and inside. He made his way to the case which housed the dove, and broke the display glass with care.

“Ross!” Smith screamed, as the gargoyle picked up the shards of painted glass which he had rescued only seventeen years before. Ross looked over to where Smith was leaning just out of the broken window. He had set a trail of fire from the window towards the first small package. “Get out!” Smith shouted, terrified.

Ross fumbled for a moment, before putting the shards of stained glass in between his teeth, climbing up and out of the tower. Smith stood at the bottom, panic on his face as he looked from the gargoyle to the fire. He looked ready to sprint, and at last Ross realised what was about to happen. Fire wouldn’t destroy the stone of the church. It had to be something explosive.

Gasping, he leapt down from twenty feet, picked Smith up in one arm, and jumped over the stone wall of the yard and through the snow, out of the way. He slipped, and they both went over onto the ground. Ross covered Smith with himself.

Finally, after years of feeling as though he no longer belonged in his home, and some even feared what he might be, there was nothing to go back to. A series of explosions smashed every window in the buildings Ross had admired only minutes before, and plumes of ancient stone dust and rubble littered the snowy street.

He heard Smith giggling in his ear, uncontrollable and breathy. Putting him down and looking at him, Ross saw the thrill of destruction on his face, and found it utterly endearing.

“That was- that was so good!” Smith gasped shrilly.

It was infectious, and Ross took the glass out of his teeth and started laughing too, if only to release some of the shock he was feeling. After being still and quiet for so many centuries, this all happened too fast. He wanted to go back and see the damage, to see if St Stephen had survived at all, but almost immediately, the sounds of shouting people grew louder.

“Come on!” Smith urged. “We have to go, now!”

Ross ran with Smith back to the car, and soon forgot the link he was supposed to have had with the church, as he experienced being in a car for the first time, and gaped at the sights they drove past. His heart raced more than it had ever done before, but it was out of sheer joy and excitement. On reflection, the gargoyle wondered if there had even been a link in the first place.

  Some twenty one years later, Christmas 1980, Smith came home to find Ross prodding the shards of glass again. He often did it when he was feeling useless or bored.

Handing the gargoyle his long, fitted black coat which made him look like Gary Numan (so Trott said, trying to be complementary), the kelpie raised his eyebrows.

“I’m taking you out,” he stated. Ross followed. “Bring those with you,” Smith hinted at the shards of broken white glass. Ross hesitated for a few moments, before placing the dove carefully in his pocket

They walked rather than drove, to enjoy the crisp afternoon and comment on the people they walked past, and came to a guild hall, now a museum. It focused mainly on the stories from the city during the war, but at the very end of the building was a display of stained glass. St Stephen stood, no longer forlorn, but back to how Ross had remembered him; meek yet powerful. The angels eyed Ross from across the hall, knowing and amused at seeing him again. Ross walked blindly over to the display. Chunks were missing, of course, but the gargoyle could tell that they were happy, and they were loved. They looked more clean than Ross could ever remember.

Smith came up close behind him, the kelpie’s hand on the small of his back. “They restored everything they could,” he explained. “It’s only just been put on display. The story is all here. Though of course, no one knows who did it.”

Turning to Smith, Ross smiled knowingly.

They paused, looking at each other. “Thanks,” Ross said.

Smith nodded in acknowledgement, and gestured towards where the story of St Stephen’s church was written. Ross walked closer and read, all the while feeling the gaze of the angels on him. He knew they were grateful, and so was he.

Ross got to the bottom of the description of the display, and read:

‘The case contains what was left of the rest of the ancient glass. Only one piece of the “miracle” dove has ever been found; just the tip of its beak and the olive branch it held.”

Moving his gaze slowly up to the glass box which contained mismatched colours that could have been from anywhere, he spotted it. It was the missing piece of the dove, just sitting there, in the middle of all the rest.

The gargoyle’s heart beat steadily in awe as he stared at it. There was no way this was chance. He had searched every corner of the church for that final bit, and it certainly wasn’t in the collection the vicar had gathered together.

“I don’t believe it,” Ross breathed.

Of course, he had recounted the story to his friends, so Smith merely smiled back.

After a few more minutes of looking around, reading, and remembering, Ross took the dove in its fragments, and placed them discreetly on top of the glass box. He and Smith left the hall, with no more words to be said, and the last of the shadows which might have gripped Ross were gone.

NOTES:

My time is spent in the city of Norwich, one of the oldest and most important in Britain’s history. Norwich once had 57 churches, one for each week of the year, and then some. 31 still stand to this day, and St Stephen’s is one of them.

I walk past the church every day. It sits right in the city centre, overshadowed by modern buildings, and practically sitting on the pavement/sidewalk. During December, the nativity window is lit from inside, so passers by can see the beautiful colours of the stained glass.

Having a sneaky look at Rhydart’s blog, I knew architecture, colour, fashion and character would be important. I hope I have delivered.

In the end, it was Ross’s reaction however that had sealed the deal. Throughout the half-hearted argument, he’d said nothing, and Trott glanced at him always to find him gazing into the distance, in the direction of the loch, although it could hardly be seen through the early morning mist. He hadn’t said anything about whether he’d prefer transport via bus or bike or kelpie, and if he had given his input, Trott was sure he’d say he was fine with whatever they decided on. Trott however doubted that Ross had even been paying much attention to the conversation at all.

But looking at him like this, all starry-eyed and filled with wonder like he was with so many things they introduced him to… Well, Trott might never admit it, at least not to Smith, but he did have a weakness for making sure Ross’s first experiences went off as figuratively magically as possible. And the thought of Ross straining to peer through a dirty window, surrounded by a cacophony of chattering tourists and their sniffling children because he had been able to tell from a glance earlier that morning that most of them had underestimated Scottish winters, and being shepherded around by a voice with a megaphone, shoved this way and that, elbows jabbing everywhere as camera flash after camera flash went off. Well. Ross probably wouldn’t mind, bless his heart, even if he might not have one. But…

Looking away from Ross, he turned back to Smith to find the kelpie grinning at him smugly. Trott sighed. “This is going to take one hell of a glamour, you know.”

“Whatever, Trott. That’s an excuse if I’ve ever heard one.”

“And it’s still going to take us over a day to get there.”

Smith shrugged. “So? There are camp spots and towns along the way. We needed to do that anyway taking a bus.”

“Pony has a point.”

Trott interrupted before Smith could spin around to deliver a retort through gritted teeth. “I can’t believe I’m asking this, but can we even all fit on you?”

“With enough lube…”

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, you dirty fuckers?” Smith leered at Sips.

This time, Trott left them to it. He suspected that this was one of those instances where Smith would indeed realise that he hadn’t thought things through and that they wouldn’t all be able to ride on the kelpie at once for an extended period of time. But they’d work it out somehow. He himself would walk if he had to, if only for the chance to see Ross riding, eyes glowing with excitement.

Instead of pursuing the matter further then, he took a few steps closer to Ross, who was draped over the stone fence in front of him by then. His eyes were fixed on that same distant point, although Trott, following his gaze, could see that the mist was clearing up a bit now. Wavering outlines of the peaks could be seen now, with a tiny sliver of what must be the actual loch barely visible between two of the mountains. Ross seemed entranced by the view nevertheless, tail waving back and forth in an absent rhythm.

“Enjoying yourself, sunshine?” Trott murmured.

Ross took a moment to respond, finally dragging his gaze away from the view to look at Trott with shining eyes. “It’s all so…” He gestured at the landscape that lay before them. “So vast.” His voice was hushed, almost reverent.

The thing is Trott sometimes forgot exactly how much of the world Ross had yet to see. In their normal daily routines, it had become normal to see something new and interesting–a gourmet chocolate bar, an interesting snow sculpture on the way home, a new recipe on the internet–and just buy it, or snap a photo of it, or download it, and present it, whatever it was, to Ross. It was sometimes easy to forget, that there were things outside their city, things from their pasts or that even none of the rest of them had experienced before themselves, that Ross knew nothing about. Things such as wide open spaces like this, that still sang with the old magic that was now all but buried in the foundation back home. Still powerful, still all-binding, but in an undercurrent, not crackling in the air as it was out here.

Trott wondered what it felt like to Ross and if that had anything to do with the gargoyle’s fascination with their current surroundings. If, to Trott himself, the magic permeating the area already felt like ozone if ozone could sink into the bones and produce a steady hum in his very marrow, what would it feel like to a being made entirely of magic?

He didn’t ask. Sips was usually the one Ross went to, when he broached the subject aloud at all, to talk about the nature of beings and souls, magic and subsequently free will and such, but Trott heard things. And he knew lately it had been a touchier matter than usual, especially with that whole debacle with the horned Sidhe lord and his new consort. Ross was better now, but it was not so long ago such that Trott had forgotten the haunted look in those blue eyes as Ross had asked in a tiny voice if he was a monster. No, best not to turn his thoughts in that direction, especially not on this trip that was meant as a break for all of them. There was much trouble brewing back home, and any moment free of it ought to be cherished.

Trott placed a hand on Ross’s head and leaned forward to rest his other arm against the fence. His fingers rubbed against one of Ross’s horns, and he smiled to himself as Ross’s eyes slid shut at the touch. “I don’t know how much you heard, but Smith’s offering himself as transport to get down to the loch.”

“Can he do it?”

“Is he able to? I don’t know; that’s his call to make. Kelpies are supposed to be very strong though. Anyway, if it doesn’t work, we’ll figure something out.”

Ross hummed contentedly. In the background, Smith had gone from gritted teeth and leering to being full-on pressed up against Sips, straddling one of his legs. Their eyes were locked together. The loud taunts had died down into hushed voices that were no less intense, though Trott couldn’t quite make out what they were saying from where he stood.

Later, later, they would have a big argument, standing outside the boundary of Inverness. Although by “they,” it would really be just Trott and Smith as Sips would be content to just sit back and watch, injecting unhelpful comments between sips of hot chocolate laced with bourbon, with his arm slung around Ross’s shoulders. Ross himself, by then, would have acquired a hot chocolate as well, piled high with an absolutely decadent and precarious amount of toppings. He too would be content to simply watch the argument with a smile on his face, except it couldn’t really be called an argument either, as it would mostly be Smith gloating that, yes, he could carry all of them on his back at once actually, didn’t know that, did you, Trott. And Trott would snipe back, but that was just the way it was.

Still later, there would be even more arguments when they were out on the heath, small ones of “For fuck’s sake, Smith, Sips and I can actually break our bones if we fall off,” and “Um, Smith, are you sure this way’s passable?” “Fuck off, Sips. It wasn’t like this the last time I was here.” “…when was that, the Middle Ages?”

And even later, they would face the dilemma of needing to stop somewhere Trott hadn’t anticipated their stopping, and therefore not having found a place ahead of time for them to stay the night. There was something that more closely resembled an actual argument then, ultimately resolved by Smith stalking off towards a nearby campsite with a “Well, for fuck’s sake, I’ll do it then,” and returning a few hours later with surprisingly little blood on him, wearing a shit-eating grin and a baseball cap that didn’t belong to him. The empty cabin had been very comfortable and well-stocked.

They would finally reach the loch a few days later in the afternoon. Trott and Sips would slide off Smith’s back, but Ross would remain sitting for several long moments, simply staring and staring. Sips would quietly take a photo of him with his phone and pass it to Trott for him to see. That night, when Sips remembered, he would show Smith and Ross as well, and Smith would go very quiet before laughing and telling Sips to set that as his wallpaper if he dared. Trott would already have gotten Sips to transfer the photo to his phone and already done so.

But before night came, they’d have settled on the shore, in a part of the loch where the boats ferrying tourists to and fro across the water were only tiny shadows and easily ignored. Ross would wander off and Sips would go after him, “probably perched on some big-ass rock somewhere, staring out to sea dramatically.” During their absence, Trott would sit down next to Smith, who would have been uncharacteristically quiet, for Smith, since they’d arrived, and he would say nothing. And while sniping at each other was amusing and friendly in its own way, this would be nice too, and Smith would eventually start talking about the last time he’d been there. Starting with the humorous, “Did you know some army guy took a photo of me while I was swimming and it got published in the newspaper?” and trailing off as Smith commented that he hadn’t stayed long, he’d never stayed too long in one spot, had just been wandering, and there were things there that did not need to be said.

Sips would find Ross at last, and the two of them would come back to find Trott and Smith with clothes already half shed, and Sips would shake his head at “you two horny assholes,” but there would be no bite at all in his words. And the sun would set and set the waters ablaze with color, and Trott would find a moment to look up at one point and see his court cast in that light, and he would close his eyes and try to burn that image into his mind so he would never forget it.

This time of year held a different meaning for each member of the Garbage Court. It was bound to. Christmas didn’t really fit under the fae set of rituals. Midwinter was the closest you could really get, or Yule if you were a witch. The only person who actually knew how to celebrate Christmas properly was Sips. He spoke fondly of the traditions he observed, like creating paper snowflakes and baking gingerbread cookies, but he never spoke of the people he observed doing them with. Ross was taking in everything that Sips said, as if the words that left his mouth were the divine truth. Being so old but still so young in the world meant that the childlike wonderment was still in the gargoyle’s eyes. Smith was always for gift giving. He wasn’t the best with words, but he felt that a good gift would be able to say what he couldn’t. Trott was a bit more laid back than the others. This part of the year was bittersweet for him. He spent years following the rules with his family, only to break them over a mortal, a kelpie, and a gargoyle. If only his parents knew he was still alive, then they could really be ashamed of him instead of mourning their ‘lost’ son.

The Christmas tree they had wasn’t very hard to come by. With Smith’s smooth talking and Ross’s strength, the tree was soon in their apartment. The next issue was the decorations. They all had different tastes but everyone was confident that it would come together in the end. Sips gave everyone a budget of $50 to buy as many decorations as possible for the tree. He told Smith to not spend his money on booze and smokes, because he knew what the kelpie was like most of the time. Little did Sips know, Smith was bursting at the seams with the excitement of buying the decorations. The kelpie didn’t often get excited, preferring to stay aloof in most situations, but when he did he really did.

Ross decided to take Will with him shopping. It had been a while since the pair had seen each other, and the rest of the Court was afraid that Kirin was going to get the young mage to join the Sidhe. Keeping regular contact with the young mage was the only way to ensure that his powers weren’t going to the glorified gardener.

They remained in comfortable silence for the most of the journey to the mall. They had met in their favourite small coffee shop, full of hipsters and teens who believed that they were the only people in the city who knew about it. They got their normal coffees to go - Ross had something overly frivolous and Will stuck to just a flat white - and made their way slightly out of the city. Thankfully, even though the sky was a threatening shade of grey, the weather was reasonable. It was unnaturally warm for this time of year, but it meant that Ross didn’t look so strange being unaffected by the weather.

Upon arriving at the mall, the pair headed straight for the pop-up decoration shops. The tacky aesthetic of them was exactly what Will thought the Garbage court needed for their celebration. Also, it meant that Ross could get all the sparkly ornaments that he wanted.

The gargoyle was like a child on Christmas morning, his eyes were full of awe and joy. Will walked around, picking up ornaments and putting them down with a look of slight disgust, but Ross was blissfully ignorant to his friend’s distaste for the ornaments. Ross kept walking around, lost in the sheer amount of glitter that dusted the trinkets in front of him. The money he had could buy half the store, and he intended to do just that.

Will took up a position near the back of the store, uninterested in the stock and more interested in watching his friend. His life had taken the weirdest turn in the last couple of years. Moving to the city to live with his uncles and cousin had really changed his life forever. He had two rival fae courts battling over him and his powers, a deeply confusing love life, and a university degree to try and finish. He often thought to himself that he should have stayed at home, stayed where he was safe, where he knew what was around the corner. He should have just settled down with a small computer repair shop job that wouldn’t make him an amazing amount of money, but word of mouth would spread that this guy could fix any computer problem, so he would never be out of pocket. He would have a little house to himself that he could decorate however he wanted, free from these issues and free to just be himself.

Will was pulled from his introspection by a soft touch to his shoulder. Ross’s ice blue eyes were crinkled in a soft smile. Will returned the expression, “Have you got what you wanted?”

“Yeah, I think so. Who knew that Christmas involved so much glitter?”

“It never used to, but it guess it must do now,” Will chuckled to himself, “You ready to go?”

“Yeah, I think that Sips wants us back tonight for decorating. I also may have promised to make gingerbread cookies and I haven’t started yet.”

Will pushed off the wall to join Ross in step. The baubles in Ross’ bags jingled as he walked.

“How did you used to celebrate Christmas?”

“Huh?” Will had become accustomed to the silence that the pair often shared when they were together, so Ross asking a question had taken him mildly by surprise.

“You know, Christmas. How did you and your family back home celebrate it?”

“Well, I guess it was your normal christmas. Lots of food, lots of family, lots of gifts.”

“So, is that was Christmas is? Food, family, and gifts?” Ross looked as stoic as ever. Will had forgotten that the gargoyle was several hundred years old but had never celebrated the holiday. The church he had protected must have had services at some point so the technomage was confused by this question.

“For me, sure. For you, it might be something different. This is your first year with the court, right?”

“Yeah it is. It’s strange though. Sips is the only one who really understands what’s going on.”

“Well, this is a chance for you to learn! Christmas is a time for giving, and I guess your present this year is the gift of knowledge!” Ross stopped dead in his tracks, causing a stop to Will’s gesticulating.

“Seriously?” Ross raised an eyebrow. Will dipped his head to hide the shade of embarrassment he was turning. Ross began laughing to himself. Will started to smile along with the laughter. “That was the cheesiest thing I have ever heard!”

“Well it’s true!” Will stood defiantly with his hands on his hips. Ross just laughed and continued walking. Will couldn’t help but laugh at himself and continued walking.

They reached the building where the Garbage Court lived soon after the little exchange. It was a gorgeous building, definitely something that Will could never afford to live in anytime after his studies. The joys of student loans affected even the most powerful mages. Will was ready to say his goodbyes when Ross reached into a bag.

“I got this for you, in the shop. Your uncles will have a tree like ours, won’t they? Do they even celebrate Christmas?” Ross ran his hand over his hair and scratched at the base of his horns.

“I think they have a tree to celebrate either Midwinter or Yule, not necessarily for Christmas, though.” Will tried to pull a comforting expression. He knew that his friend was slightly embarrassed by whatever was now in his hand.

“Well, this is for you.” Ross handed Will a small red bag and walked into the building, leaving Will to unwrap the gift on his own.

Will decided to walk to the bus stop before opening his present. He didn’t want to damage what was in the small package. As he opened it, a smile crept onto his face. It was a small ornament in the shape of a metal disk. Cut of of it were small stars which somehow looked festive. ‘Merry Christmas William’ took pride of place in the centre of the ornament. Ross may not have the best taste most of the time, but this time, he got something right.

“So how’s the boy?” Sips looked up from his magazine as he heard Ross enter the apartment.

“He’s legally old enough to drink, I’d hardly call him a boy,” Ross started to defend Will before realising it was futile, “He’s fine I guess. He wouldn’t talk about Kirin.”

“Shame really. The others are back, by the way.” Sips returned his attention to the magazine he was reading.

Ross deposited his bags of decorations in the hall, toed off his shoes by the door, and walked into the kitchen to start making the gingerbread cookies he had promised everyone he would make. He found Trott and Smith just talking aimlessly about nothing and everything at the same time. Smith was sat at the breakfast bar, nursing a beer, and Trott was leaning against one of the counters. They got on so well, it was strange to think that these two were natural enemies.

“Whatcha doing there, eh?” Smith’s eyes followed Ross as he pulled an apron around himself.

“I’m making those cookies that you won’t shut up about.” Ross pulled his phone out of his jeans and started looking up recipes. He finally settled on one that didn’t seem too complicated and started preparing everything. The whole process should have taken about an hour but the mix of alcohol and Smith constantly getting in the way meant that it was about midnight by the time the cookies were done.

Ross plated up the still-warm cookies and walked out into the living room. Smith and Trott followed him like lost puppies. Ross couldn’t wipe the smile off his face when as soon as he put down the plate, three sets of hands grabbed at the cookies, fighting for the biggest ones of the batch.

“Tree time?” Smith somehow managed to say from around his mouthful of food.

“Alright, sunshine” Trott ran his hand through the kelpie’s hair and walked over to the small bag in the corner of the room.  Sips had stood up to go and get his decorations so Ross went back into the hallway to retrieve his offering. Smith didn’t move from his seat, but instead lit up a cigarette and remained seated on the sofa, content to watch everyone for the time being.

Trott started with some basic lights. Nothing too fancy, just simple white and blue. He then added green tinsel to the tree, much to Sips’ abjection. To his logic, the tinsel would blend into the green of the tree but Ross soon hushed him.

‘Everyone gets to put something on the tree, Sips. We shouldn’t judge each other.’ Trott walked over to Ross and placed a small peck on his cheek.

That was all Trott had to offer, defending his lack of baubles by the fact that lights were expensive. Sips went next, and added red tinsel to match Trott’s green. Then they started pulling out golden baubles from his bag and handed them to Ross to put on the tree. When met with the gargoyle’s incredulous look, Sips merely argued that he was old and didn’t want to bend down to the lower boughs of the tree. Ross opened his mouth to argue the fact that he was over ten times the man’s age in reality, but a quick look from Trott silenced him. The golden baubles came in all shapes and sizes, from simple spheres to stars. It looked almost complete in the eyes of Ross. So much so that he didn’t want to add any of his own. After some encouraging words from the other three in the room, Ross was all smiles again.

Ross pulled out of his bag what seemed like miles of glittery ribbon which soon weighed down the branches of the tree. Next came the baubles, each one shedding almost all of its glitter as it came out of the bag. Unlike Sips’, Ross’ didn’t follow any particular theme; they were all different. They ranged from personalised baubles which said ‘Happy Christmas Yvonne’ to menorahs hung on string. No matter what he pulled out, it was covered in far too much glitter for most people’s liking. However, if Ross liked it, they all liked it.

Smith was up last, and he walked out of the room to retrieve his contribution. When he returned, it was only a box that he came back with, the packaging overflowing slightly.  He set it down and quietly got about placing the decorations on the tree, making sure that all of them were exactly where he wanted them. When he’d done with the baubles, he placed a star at the top of the tree and stepped back to admire his work. A smile played at his lips, and his eyes took on a slight glossy sheen to them. With a sniff, Smith ran his hand under his nose and announced he was leaving because he was hungry. It was not an unusual occurrence for the kelpie to leave all of a sudden, but he had fed yesterday. Everyone just let him go. It was no use following after him when he was in one of his moods.

When everyone turned their attentions back to the tree, they had noticed what Smith had done. The baubles he had placed had small photos in them. Each one of them filled with a happy memory of the court, from the crowning of Sips as the King of Misrule to a picture of Trott asleep on Ross during a particularly lazy Sunday. The star on the top of the tree was engraved to read ‘GC Forever’.

“That sappy bastard. What a guy…” Sips reflected as he made his way into the kitchen to grab another beer.  Trott simply took Ross’ hand and lead him over to the well worn sofa.

The living room suddenly got darker as Sips entered, beer in hand. He decided to switch off the main lights in order to see the tree in it’s full glory, and what a glory it was. Ross had placed both his arms along the back of the sofa, so Trott and Sips could both sit cuddled up to him. It wasn’t too long after Sips had finished his beer that the trio had fallen asleep.

Smith returned to the flat in the wee hours of the morning. He threw his boots off by the door and hung his jacket on the stand. He had been driving around The City for a few hours, just to give himself some space. He had never dealt well with his own emotions.

The slamming of the door startled Sips awake. He was always a light sleeper, even in his teens. The bright dawn light would always wake him up, forcing him to be a morning person whether he liked it or not. Ross and Trott just shifted slightly, with Trott somehow burying himself deeper into the person next to him.

Sips stood up and wiped the sleep from his eyes. He made his way over to the kelpie, who had taken up a position in the doorway. The young man seemed weary, despite not really doing anything for most of the day. Sips moved his hands to rest around Smith’s hips, and Smith moved his arms to rest around Sips’s neck. The pair just stood there for a while, looking into each other’s eyes. The sky outside was still dark.

“Thank you Smiffy,” Sips rested his head on the taller man’s chest.

“‘S nothin’” Smith planted a kiss to the top of his king’s head.