Work Text:
The frost on the windowpane was thick and jagged, looking like the tiny glass teeth of some frozen beast.
Philip pressed his forehead against the cold surface for just a moment, feeling the chill, before settling back into the oversized armchair by the hearth.
In his lap lay a book Gwen had brought home from the market: The Brave Little Griffin and the Golden Gland.
Back in Gravesfield, Philip's books were stern things—heavy with sermons and tiny, cramped text.
But this?
This was marvelous.
He turned a page, and his eyes lit up as the hand-painted illustration of a griffin actually puffed out its chest and let out a tiny, paper-thin squawk of defiance.
Philip let out a small giggle, finger tracing the vibrant gold leaf on the griffin's wings.
He was truly mesmerized by the moving ink.
For a few minutes, the strange, loud world of the modern Boiling Isles didn't feel so scary.
It felt like a place where even a little griffin—or a little human—could be brave.
Philip was just reaching the part where the Griffin encounters the Frost-Wolves when the heavy oak door creaked open.
Gwen stepped inside, shaking a thick, fur-trimmed cloak that was a deep, vibrant crimson.
Snow shook off the fabric like powdered sugar.
Following close behind was Dell, his large frame nearly filling the doorway. He was lugging a massive burlap sack that clanked and shifted with the weight of its contents.
Philip's breath caught in his throat.
He forgot all about the Brave Little Griffin.
His eyes darted from the bright red of Gwen's cloak to Dell—at the towering height of him and the way his thick, orange beard was dusted with so much white frost that it looked silver.
Philip's breath hitched, and the book began to slip, the paper-thin squawks of the characters fading into the background.
He didn't feel the weight of the book sliding against his knees; he only felt the sudden, frantic thrum of his heart.
It was them.
The legends had crossed the veil of the sea and the stars.
They had found him.
...
Philip waited until the house went quiet, save for the crackle of the dying embers in the hearth.
He gripped his book—the one about the Brave Little Griffin—to his chest like a shield and crept toward the door that led to Dell's workspace.
The sweet, spiced scent of palistrom shavings and the thick, earthy aroma of glowing sap greeted him.
The workshop was filled with long, dancing shadows cast by the golden glow of fire bees in jars.
There, on the long wooden table, was the burlap sack.
Philip approached on his tiptoes.
He expected to see toys.
Instead, the sack was filled with dozens of small, unmoving wooden shapes: birds, stags, and strange creatures with wide, unseeing eyes.
'The toys', Philip thought.
'He hasn't given them their souls yet'.
He reached out a trembling hand to touch a small wooden owl. It was smooth and warm. Beside it lay a piece of parchment covered in Dell's messy handwriting—a long list of names.
"Up past your bedtime, aren't you, little human?"
Philip spun around.
There stood Dell, his orange beard glowing like a low flame in the dim light.
"I... I was looking for the list," Philip admitted, holding his book tighter.
"To see if I was... if I was good enough this year. Does the Griffin in my book know you, Mr. Santa Claus sir? Is he one of your helpers?"
Dell looked at the book and then back at the small, serious boy.
He shared a look with Gwen, who had appeared in the hallway.
She gave a small, knowing nod.
"The list is quite long this year, Philip," Dell said, his voice deep and warm.
"But I think I can tell you that your name is right near the top of the 'nice' side. And yes—the Griffin speaks very highly of you."
...
The next morning, the Boiling Isles sun rose with a strange, purple-pink hue over the white snow.
Philip woke up and sat up quickly, his eyes darting to the foot of his bed.
There, sitting on a small wooden stool, was a package wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with twine.
He opened it with trembling fingers.
Inside was a miniature griffin carved from warm, polished wood.
It was captured in a regal pose, its tiny wooden wings slightly unfurled just like the illustration in his book.
It even had tiny, sparkling stones for eyes that seemed to wink in the morning light.
Tucked into the griffin's talons was a small, beautifully carved wooden bookmark for his storybook.
Philip clutched the wooden griffin to his chest, feeling the smooth grain against his palm.
He looked out the window and saw Dell outside, his orange beard bright against the snow.
He didn't need to see a sleigh or hear the bells.
The warmth in his chest and the weight of the wood in his hand were all the proof a boy like him would ever need.