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Christmas in New England had always felt magical to Arthur-- enchanted in that quiet, resolute, old-bones kind of way that everything along the coastline did.
Even as a kid, he’d known there was something special about the season here. Maybe it was the way the cold settled into the world like it belonged, or the way snow transformed even the most salt-bitten fishing shacks into something peaceable and homey. Maybe it was the history tucked under every jagged shard of ice, each half-forgotten life and stubborn tradition pressed permanently into the shores.
He remembered reading once, in some battered book from his father's personal library, that Christmas had actually been banned by the Puritans centuries ago. It was something considered frivolous and indulgent, a remnant of pagan and Christian beliefs that needed to be snuffed out.
And yet, somehow, the people managed to keep the practice alive-- quietly at first, then louder-- doubling down on their traditions and giving rise to the stubborn, almost defiant embrace of the season he grew up to know.
And just in that same obstinate, old-fashioned way, his father had his own takes on the holiday. Despite the nearby town being decked out in twinkling lights and nativities, his father didn't seem to know-- or perhaps, care-- what Christmas was supposed to look like.
Instead, he preferred his own personal version.
Arthur remembered him dragging out a massive, extendable ladder and using it to climb high into the lighthouse’s tower, securing old, broken fishing lures and pinecones on lengths of string, creating a curtain of oddities. The bits of metal and iridescent sheen from the shells would catch the light each morning, casting shards of color across the walls.
Sometimes, Tom would go fishing in the days leading up to Christmas and dredge up a massive carp from the river, then place it in the bathtub to “cleanse.” It was a tradition in some cultures, he said, although he never bothered to elaborate on which ones. Arthur would come in to brush his teeth and be met with a solemn fish staring at him through the water. He used to whisper secrets at it, just in case it counted as a wish.
Arthur didn’t mind, regardless. It might have been strange, but then again, everything here was strange to some degree.
Christmas didn't really exist under the sea, and especially not for an outcast raised by dolphins. Down there, there were no lights on string, no plastic Santas, no frigid mornings spent stomping snow out of boots by the door. Just darkness, currents, and the feeling of not quite belonging to either world.
Still, despite his general unfamiliarity with almost all parts of the holiday, there was one tradition that he was always glad his father didn't stray from: the Christmas tree.
On the eve before Christmas, they'd venture out into the snow and track down the biggest, fullest fir they could possibly find, before dragging it back down the rocks of the peninsula until they reached the warmth and safety of the lighthouse once again. Tom would pretend to grumble about the weight, but Arthur could see the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, not really minding at all.
Then, in the flickering space between black-and-white reruns of Rawhide, they'd set it into a weighted base and wrap it with lights. Most of the strands were half burnt out and tangled, and any ornaments they had were probably older than the lighthouse itself, but to Arthur, it was perfect. The patchwork decorations, the chipped glass-- it all felt like proof that they’d made something together.
Thinking back, he couldn't help but smile as he remembered the sound of the ocean wind rattling against the windows as he watched the lights chase themselves up and down the boughs, and the low glow of the fire as his father drifted off to sleep in his armchair, bringing with it the promise of a wonderful tomorrow.
And for once, Arthur had felt like he could relax. Like the world had paused just for them, and for a few brief hours, he didn't have to worry about a thing. No abandonment. No prophecies.
Just him, his father, and a perfect tree.
It was a shame, he thought, that moments like that couldn't last forever.
Decades had passed since he'd last felt that type of magic. Life changed around him, and he'd been forced to change with it-- for better or for worse. He'd loved, he'd lost, he'd fought man and gods alike, and somehow, despite every insane, world-altering thing life chose to throw at him, he'd ended up here.
At a Christmas tree farm where a nine-to-twelve foot tree cost $230. And anything over that height, well--
Arthur sighed and dug into his pocket, pulling out a wad of cash to ensure he had enough. Usually, he'd just carry a few Atlantean coins to cover all expenses on land, but the last time he tried to pay that way, it had nearly earned him a punch to the jaw. (Oh, if only they'd known the exchange rate.) So this time, he'd remembered to get it traded in for dollars in advance.
Fifty, one hundred, one fifty, two hundred…
Shit.
“Garth, you carry cash, right?”
Garth blinked at him, breath fogging the air. “A little, yeah,” he said. “I still need to get a few things for my friends, but I can spare a bit.”
“I’ve also got some, if you need,” Jackson chimed in, pulling out a small, orange wallet from the pocket of his jeans.
Arthur looked back and forth between the two of them, feeling something warm nudging at the edges of his previous irritation. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
Thank the Gods for those two…
If he hadn’t requested that they come with him, he might not have been able to get what he came back here for in the first place.
He was here because his beautiful, perfect, wonderful daughter, Andy, deserved to experience the same kind of magic that he had. She deserved to be able to look up at a towering, glittering Christmas tree and feel the same kind of wonder that Arthur felt when he was a child, knowing that her father had done it simply because he wanted her to know that she was loved.
He exhaled slowly, scanning the neatly planted rows of evergreens that stretched down the darkened slopes. Their branches were heavy with snow, creating ragged shapes that loomed out into the distance.
Somewhere in there was the right tree. The perfect tree.
“All right,” he said to himself-- and to the two young men flanking him. “Let’s go find ourselves a tree.”
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆟 𓆝
The trees were... fine.
That was the problem. So far, they were all just… fine. There were a few that met Arthur’s height requirements; a few that seemed like they could possibly be full enough, but Arthur bypassed every single one of them.
“Too short.”
“This one? It’s like fifteen feet.”
“No, not majestic enough.”
“That one is literally shaped like it’s out of a children’s book--”
“The branches are too thin.”
“Arthur-”
“Garth,” Arthur scowled, gesturing out at a row of trees. “Andy’s going to see this and think this is what surface Christmas is. It has to be perfect.”
Garth sighed, but still trudged after him, boots crunching through the deeper snow. “Arthur, I promise she’s not going to remember what shape the tree was.”
“That’s what you think,” Arthur muttered, resolute in his convictions.
Jackson snorted. “You’re acting like the tree’s going to form her core memories.”
“It might for all we know,” Arthur replied.
Garth exchanged a resigned look with Jackson and shrugged, but neither argued further. If Arthur was on a mission, they knew better than to try and reroute him. So instead, they simply followed along, shaking their heads as they walked deeper into the farm, caught somewhere between exasperation and a reluctant kind of amusement.
Gradually, the snow started to thicken around them, seeming clearer and less stomped on by other guests. The trees almost seemed to grow taller around them. The sounds from the parking lot-- laughter, and scraping sleds, and car doors slamming-- faded into a muffled backdrop, leaving only the whisper of falling snow and the distant, constant pulse of the ocean.
Then, Arthur paused.
There. Near the back edge of the farm, where the hill sloped down and you could see the distant gray flicker of the sea, stood a tree that made all the others look like shrubs.
It towered over its neighbors, branches thick and layered, dark green needles powdered with snow. Its trunk was straight and sturdy, at least two of him around, and three of him tall. It was somehow fuller than every other tree they’d seen, boughs dense and immaculate. The wind caught the topmost bough and set it swaying slightly, like it was waving hello.
Arthur felt something in his chest kick. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t standing in a farm at the edge of town-- he was just a kid again, boots too big for his feet, fingers numb, staring up at a tree that felt like it reached the sky.
“That one,” he declared.
Jackson followed his gaze and sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Oh God, of course it’s that one.”
“Arthur, that thing is massive,” Garth said, craning his neck. “Don't you think that's going to be a little difficult to get home?”
Arthur elected to ignore their lack of enthusiasm. Yes, it would likely be a challenge to get all the way back to Poseidonis, but he was certain that it would be worth it. Andy was worth it.
He walked forward, and laid a hand against the bark. The trunk was rough and cold beneath his palm, sap clinging to his skin. For just a moment, he let his fingers rest there, as if he were greeting an old friend.
“Hello, monster,” he said, a grin curling the edges of his beard. “You ready to go for a swim?”
Jackson rounded the trunk, peering up through the branches. “...This thing practically has its own weather system. Pretty sure it's more likely to take us for a swim than the other way around.”
Beside him, Garth nodded.
“It is lovely, though.” He tilted his head back for a better look, admiring it in spite of his reservations. There was something in his voice that said he understood-- maybe not the specifics of Arthur’s motivations, but the weight of them. The desire to make something right for the next generation.
Arthur planted a vindicated hand on his hip. “See? Garth gets it.”
“Well, I didn’t say we should take it,” Garth responded, although his voice already held an air of resignation. Arguing would be pointless; that he already knew. Once Arthur had his mind made up about something, like it or not, there was really nothing that could be done to deter him.
Especially when it came to decisions regarding his family...
Arthur clapped his hands together, stepping back to finalize his thoughts. “All right. Let’s get cutting.”
“Fine,” Jackson said, crossing his arms over his chest in mock indignation. “They’ve got saws up front; I’ll go--”
“Oh, no need,” Arthur cut him off. “We're not going to need a saw.”
Both blinked at him, incredulous at this newest statement.
“We don't?”
Arthur grinned, raising his pointer finger towards Garth. “We’ve got that.”
Garth glanced down at the finger, then back up at Arthur. “Excuse me?”
“Your eyes will be much quicker.”
Now it was Garth’s turn to cross his arms.
“You know I can't control the intensity of that, right? It's a bad idea for plenty of reasons, but I'm also pretty sure that your ‘perfect’ Christmas tree is gonna end up as a pile of ash if I do that.”
“Just hit it around the base, Minnow, I'm sure it'll be fine.”
Garth pressed his lips together, a frown forming over his features. “And if anyone sees?”
“If anyone sees, I’ll tell them it’s a new eco-friendly cutting technique,” Arthur teased, sending a wink in his direction. “No fossil fuels, all natural. They’ll probably try to franchise you.”
Garth's frown only deepened.
Arthur sighed. “Look, the people of Amnesty Bay have certainly seen weirder. Besides, I doubt anyone's looking. They're all too busy with their own things.”
Arthur gestured around them to the-- admittedly-- rather empty space they currently occupied. Every other person had stayed relatively close to the front of the lot, busying themselves with chatting and warm beverages, leaving the three of them well hidden behind the masses of trees.
“Fine…” Garth sighed, and drew in a breath, letting his internal magic flow through him.
Arthur watched as his former protégé's focus tightened, eyes going sharp before a beam of searing, indigo light lanced out from his pupils, colliding hard with the base of the trunk. It cut through the wood in an instant, leaving the base smouldering in its wake.
Moments later, the tree began to tip, wood splintering as it collapsed under its own weight.
Arthur lunged forwards, boots skidding through the snow as he threw his shoulder under the trunk to catch it. Jackson dove sideways, just narrowly dodging a branch the same size as torso as it whipped past his head. Garth flinched backward, arms thrown up on reflex to cover his eyes, the last wisps of magic still flickering in his lashes.
It tottered for a moment, precarious and wobbling against Arthur's grip, until he slowly, carefully managed to lower the monstrous thing to the ground.
“See, that wasn't so bad, was it?”
For some reason, Arthur didn't receive a reply.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆟 𓆝
By the time the tree was paid for and hauled down onto the beach, the pinkish tinge of dusk was already creeping over the horizon. And by the time they finally managed to get it fully submerged and started on its way down into the depths of the ocean, the stars were already poking out between the blackness of the sky.
…And, for Arthur, what once was complete confidence in his plan was slowly morphing into mounting uncertainty as the massive tree started to be swept away by the sea.
Even with Jackson’s hard water construct weighing it down, it was still painfully unwieldy, branches snagging on rocks and needles pulling away; detaching and floating away in the force of the waves.
Even so, he wasn't going to let that discourage him. This was for Andy, after all. She deserved this. She deserved to feel the same kind of magic he'd known. And even if he had to drag that feeling down into the ocean with his bare, bleeding hands, he would. Without question. For her.
It just really didn't help that the damned tree seemed to be developing a mind of its own the deeper they went. Every shift in the current sent it pitching upward, threatening to twist and roll, or wrench itself clean out of their grip. Arthur pulled down on the trunk with both arms locked tight around it, simultaneously thinking of what kind of fish he could call to help. It was a shame that calling them would probably be a bad idea in this particular situation… He’d really rather not risk them getting tangled up in the branches.
His companions worked alongside him in laboured silence, doing their best to wrestle the tree under their control. Garth gripped onto the back, pushing it down in his best attempt to match Arthur's pull. His jaw was set tight, expression pinched with both effort and worry, as if he could somehow will the whole mess to behave.
Jackson swam backward ahead of them, brow furrowed as he reinforced the hard-water plate he'd placed over the trunk to keep it from bobbing away. “This is ridiculous,” he exhaled. “Like actually ridiculous. We’re wrestling a tree. And losing.”
“We're not losing,” Arthur tried to assure him, although his voice held more than a modicum of strain. “I’m sure we'll have it home within the hour.”
Garth ducked just in time to avoid a rogue branch that came whipping up toward his face. “Are you sure about that?” he asked. “Because I don't know if it's some kind of precognition or not, but, for some reason, I highly doubt that statement.”
Arthur furrowed his brows.
“Yes, I'm sure,” he grunted. He more than understood that this situation was frustrating, he could really do without either of his protégés' quips at the moment. Arthur closed his eyes against the bubble of irritation rising in his chest, redoubling his efforts. He heaved with all his might, trying desperately to bring the massive tree under control.
For a moment-- just a moment-- they seemed to be getting into some sort of rhythm. Pull, push, stabilize, pull, push, stabilize again. Carefully, they maneuvered the tree inch by stubborn inch toward the next drop-off. Once they cleared that, Arthur reminded himself, they’d be able to angle directly toward Poseidonis. No more fighting the crosscurrent, no more scraping along rock shelves.
Briefly, he allowed himself to believe that the worst of it was over with.
But then, just as quickly as that hope came over him, it-- regrettably-- vanished.
It started as a faint glimmer out in the ocean’s gloom-- just a distant and steady blink of red where there shouldn’t have been any light at all. Arthur slowed and squinted, tightening his grip on the trunk. Another pulse followed, then another, each one brighter than the last.
“Arthur?” Garth pried, feeling the shift in him. “Why did you stop?”
Arthur didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the horizon.
Jackson drifted up on his left, following his line of sight. “What is it? Did we lose part of the tree? Because honestly, I won’t cry.”
“Look,” Arthur grumbled.
Of course. Of course things would have to go awry.
Garth and Jackson both looked, and almost instantly, their spines went rigid.
Out past the slope of the seabed, beyond the mist of sand and needles, something large and imposing was coming into view. Its silhouette appeared slowly, peeling itself out of the darkness to reveal sleek metal and dangerous intent.
The long, angular hull cut through the water with unsettling purpose, crimson lights glowing along its underside like watchful eyes. The sound of the engine hit next-- a low, rumbling vibration that thrummed through Arthur’s ribs.
Garth went still beside him. “Aw, hell…”
Jackson’s expression hardened. “Are you kidding me? He picks now to attack us?”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. He shifted his stance around the massive tree, muscles coiling with precautionary tension.
Slowly, Black Manta’s submersible slid fully into view.
And it was headed straight for them.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆟 𓆝
Finally, after multiple excruciating hours, they were able to make it back into the city.
…Barely.
By the time the gates of the palace eventually came into view, the tree-- once magnificent and towering-- looked like it had just survived a war.
Which, in all fairness... it basically had.
Half of the branches were snapped on one side from where Manta’s submersible had clipped it., and the top third was bent at a 120° angle, burn marks streaking across the trunk in black scorches, leaving patches of bare bark in their wake.
No one bothered to say much of anything… they didn’t need to.
Even if they’d complained about the whole idea earlier, this... wasn't what either Garth or Jackson wanted.
Garth simply chose to keep his head down, hauling what remained of the tree in terse silence, guilt simmering just beneath the surface of his skin. Jackson had bitten down on his lip almost to the point of drawing blood, trying to prevent himself from cursing about his father and how unfair all of this was.
Still, it was mostly Arthur they were worried about…
Arthur kept his hand practically glued against the trunk, jaw tight, and shoulders hunched in a way that made him look smaller despite his size. He’d set his face into a stony expression, but anyone who knew him well enough could easily see the rage barely concealed beneath his facade, and the immense exhaustion that threatened to break free.
Even so, they maneuvered it inside together, weaving through familiar palace corridors with heavy hearts and, admittedly, slight embarrassment at the looks a few of the guards gave them.
At long last, they reached the royal suite and managed to wedge the battered base of the tree into the stand that Arthur had prepared.
Almost immediately, it listed to the side.
Arthur stepped away from it, his lips pressed thin, fingers drumming an agitated rhythm against his leg.
The silence seemed to stretch on almost forever.
Mera arrived a moment later, summoned as if through some sort of psychic connection that let her know whenever Arthur was near. Her hair floated around her in soft crimson waves, expression warm-- until her eyes landed upon the jumbled mess of a tree.
And then, her polite smile froze.
“Oh,” she said delicately, eyes flicking up the lopsided height. “It’s nice... But it certainly doesn’t look like the one you showed me in New York.” She meant it kindly. She really did. But Mera was many things, and subtle was, unfortunately, not one of them.
Arthur’s face fell.
He stared at the ruined tree with a scowl, like it was somehow a personal failure rather than a matter of circumstance; like Black Manta hadn’t just tried to run them through, and that each and every dent and scorch mark was somehow his fault. And as if, by not protecting this one ridiculous piece of perceived joy, he’d failed at something a lot larger than the tree itself.
Arthur closed his eyes against all of the feelings swirling around in his mind. Somehow, he wasn’t angry-- which was genuinely surprising wherever Manta interfering with his family was involved. He wasn’t even tired in the usual sense. He just felt... worn. Frayed at the edges. Like every small thing he’d been carrying with him had finally caught up all in a singular moment.
“I just wanted Andy to have what I had,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “A piece of something... good. Magical…”
Mera stepped closer, reaching for him, but before she could speak, a soft babbling sound echoed through the room.
All four of them turned to look at where it had come from.
Andy had freed herself from where she’d been contained in her crib, tiny body wobbling on hands and knees as she half-swim-half-crawled her way toward the unfamiliar object. Her eyes were wide and curious, sparkling with wonder as she stopped at the base of the lopsided fir, curiously admiring the new and fascinating thing in her environment.
She reached out with both chubby hands and grabbed a drooping branch, instantaneously deciding that she was smitten, and squealing with pure, unfiltered delight.
A shower of loose needles drifted down around her like green confetti, making her giggle even harder.
Arthur’s breath caught-- almost stunned that Andy didn’t seem to mind the absolute mess that was standing before her. She tugged another branch experimentally, shaking it with her arms like a rattle. One of the remaining clumps of needles bobbed up and down in the current, and she gasped like she’d just discovered buried treasure.
To her, the tree wasn’t any kind of failure.
Somehow, despite all odds, It was pure magic.
Gradually, Arthur’s shoulders loosened, the weariness around his eye melting away to reveal something soft. And his chest-- heavy with emptiness just moments before-- suddenly felt blissfully, wonderfully full.
From behind him, Garth watched Andy with soft, fond eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting to form a slight smile. Jackson let out a relieved breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, tension ebbing from his posture as he watched Arthur’s daughter delight in something so simple yet perfect.
Mera slipped her hand into Arthur’s, squeezing it gently. “Well, it looks like someone disagrees with me,” she said, leaning her head into his shoulder.
Arthur huffed a laugh in turn, low and a little watery. He bent to kiss the side of her head, and then took in the room with a small spark of satisfaction bubbling in his gut.
Well, it certainly wasn’t the tree he remembered from childhood. It wasn’t towering, it wasn’t full. It wasn’t speckled with lights or ornaments. Hell, it barely resembled a tree anymore.
It was far from perfect.
But then again, neither was he. Neither was his life. Neither was this wonderful tangle of people he’d somehow-- through every tide and storm-- come to have as his family. And frankly, he wouldn’t trade any of it.
Not for the finest fir in New England.
“Yeah,” Arthur murmured, squeezing Mera’s hand back as Andy shrieked again in delight. “Thankfully, I think she’s found her own kind of magic.”
He stepped forward, crouching beside his daughter as she shoved a handful of needles into his palm with the proud enthusiasm only a baby could muster.
Arthur laughed, loud and long, and the sound filled the hall, echoing through the water like the sun breaking through the clouds.
No, things weren’t perfect.
But they were his.
And at the end of the day, that was all that mattered.