The Grimoire of Yule (The Shadows of Legend Book 1)
Page 37
A reflection in the side of his flagon caught his eye and he gasped, his smile instantly soured. A shudder of horror spread through him as he saw a flash of wild, maddened eyes and flesh torn from the bone.
“The atrocities I have done in your name hang around my neck like millstones,” the ghost of a voice that had once been his whispered in his mind. “Oceans of innocent blood stain me. I thought I could never be clean . . .”
“You were never that man,” a soft soothing voice sang as his wife crossed the room, seeming to glide in a cloud of white gossamer silk, “that world never was.”
“Ah, but I remember that man, love, both of those men . . . all of them, actually. And not all was remade, some memory remains. The Northmen still tell tales. They use ‘Old Nic’ as a name for the Devil Himself.”
“Shush,” his wife said firmly as she dropped into his lap. “Others tell tales too, tales of magic and wonder, and the saint who brings joy to the children of the world. You are an avatar of joy, and happiness, a man of white magic. You maintain the balance, my love. You shine the light of hope.”
He squeezed her knee affectionately, and she rested her perfectly sculpted elven cheek upon his chest.
Perhaps I can be clean after all, he thought in silence. Perhaps we both can.
The man, who both had been and never was a servant named Tulio, raised his flagon toward the cloak in the corner and offered a silent toast to a friend he had loved, hated, and never known.
Rest now my brother, your trials are ended and your legacy is safe. Sange Klau is dead, and Santa Claus will live forever.
The End.
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