He picked up the journal with trembling hands. “December 25th.”
Under the date scrawled in the beautiful messy handwriting was a quick sketch of a tree bedecked with strings of colorful lights and ornaments. The glimmering star at the top was smudged, and he pressed his finger against it sadly, then flipped the page.
“The day has come,” he read. “They are set to rebel. I understand why they want to, but still, I question it. Fighting is not always the answer. I wish they would see the error of their ways and revert to the old peaceful solution they had in mind, but after the disappearance of Nephthys, everything has gone wrong. Now it is too late, and I can only hope it will ever happen again. I am writing this account in the hopes that someone will later find it and use this knowledge to stop another similar impending war.
“I certainly don’t get, though, why they chose Christmas night. They are bent on revenge, but it seems a little cruel. Sure, the enemy will be distracted in celebration, for we must celebrate too, but I fear it is for a deeper, darker reason. I dread that they wish to rob the enemy of happiness and joy on this joyous night, to break the spirit so that one would associate this day in the future with death and destruction, and not happy at all. I know I shouldn’t say this, but I am currently unsure who the villain really is in this tale of woe.”
He closed the book and tucked it into his coat pocket, clasping his gloved hands together. “I’m not sure either, Cara-delle. I am not sure.”
He turned away from the abandoned snowy den, bundling his face in his hood as he trudged through the blizzard. The trouble was brewing once more, and he feared for the lives of everyone.
After passing a thick, dark fallen tree, he knelt in the snowdrift and dug even though his hands were completely numb. His fingers felt the hard circle and he dragged it out, wiping off the excess snow, then placed it on thicker, denser snow and stood on it. It powered to life, the blue rings of light hardly visible, and he sped off over the snowbanks. As he did, he began to think about the journal.
Christmas Eve? I’m beginning to wonder if anyone has heart anymore.