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I think about what Clara said. It’s not much of a sacrifice, compared to the life I lived before. I’m not going to tell him that, though, not yet. The groveling is too much fun.
“And I promise that in time, you’ll come to love me and see me and accept me as your husband.”
The fact that he went to the trouble of finding me a place to stay, to give me my space, speaks volumes about who he is.
“I’ve already decided,” I tell him. “I’m staying with you.”
Cyran closes his eyes and whispers, “I love you, Ivy.”
“And I already love you, Cyran.”
My Christmas elf kisses me again. I close my eyes, and I see forever.
Epilogue
Cyran
About fifty years later
Where is my wife, so that I can take her somewhere private and flip her skirt up over her head?
Ivy is lost among the crowd on the village square. Although I’m not a fan of parties, I have to give my wife credit. This is the most raucous party the North Pole has ever seen. Drunken elves are climbing the light poles. The trolls have taken over the karaoke stage. Wood sprites fly to and fro over the crowd of revelers, dumping glitter over everything and laughing maniacally. I tried to escape the scene by sneaking away to the reindeer barn, only to find an unknown human having relations with an orc in Santa’s sleigh. I didn’t have it in me to chase them out. The human seemed on the verge of a “breakthrough.” Also, orcs are notoriously mean when interrupted.
Who invited the orcs, anyway?
That’d be my wife, Ivy. My perfect present who confounds me and drives me mad with desire, even when she’s away from me. She and our three little half-elves are all I think about.
I trudge to the food table, ready to fill my stomach with something tasty to pass the time.
As I scan the food buffet for something other than pizza and corn dogs, a gruff voice behind me asks, “Who invited the mountain trolls?”
I turn around and there is Santa Claus, his red cheeks and nose showing evidence that he’s been into the troll whiskey.
“Ivy invited them, sir.”
He grunts and peers past me, examining the food table. “The humans are taking over,” Santa sighs, picking up a mozzarella stick and sniffing it.
“You started it!” Clara chirps. Santa’s human wife snatches away the cheese stick before her husband can toss it in the trash.
“I suppose I did start that tradition,” Santa says.
The old man can complain all he wants about the unrefined tastes of humans, but I see the way he watches his wife wrap her lips around that cheese stick. She blushes under his gaze.
I turn away, leaving them alone with their sultry looks and their suggestive cheese moment.
Surely, my Ivy is ready to leave the party by now.
At the North Pole, a fiftieth anniversary isn’t considered that great of an achievement, but Ivy has become pretty damn popular around here — almost as popular as Clara.
Clara and Ivy were pioneers who blazed quite a trail of followers. The North Pole has welcomed a dozen more human/elf matches in recent years — including all of Ivy’s favorite friends from back home. The resulting baby boom would have presented a housing crisis if it weren’t for, well, Christmas magic.
That’s the thing about Santa. The North Pole never runs out of food, shelter, heat, or water. Human aging slows to the same pace as the elves. No one fights or commits crime. So, the population boom is a non-issue.
My Ivy wanted a huge celebration for our 50th year together, and she made it happen.
Clara and Ivy enlisted my help to festoon the downtown square with cheerful, blinking lights, ice sculptures and greenery. A dozen or so elves have helped prepare the most exquisite food known to elven kind, alongside the aforementioned pizza and corndogs and cheese sticks.
A loud screeching has me covering my ears and I whip around to locate the sound.
