He stood in the bitter cold. He didn’t mind. A chill the sub-zero snow covered field was a mischievous whisper from a childhood sweetheart. He had come to love the cold and had accepted it as a part of his essence. With nightfall and the brilliant beams of the workshop completely out of sight, this would be the final meeting before things went underway for Christmas Eve. At first only a handful had gathered to his side. Before long there were hundreds, then thousands.

A humble servant, a trusted friend, and once the angel of Father Christmas, he had long forgotten his given name. For the longest time he had simply been called Noel. He’d been there since the beginning. He had stood at Santa’s side. His friend had been known by many names. Kris Kringle, Saint Nick, Sinterklaas, but Noel remembered when he was Bishop Saint Nicholas of Myra. He’d assisted him in a small, dusty shop as benevolent gift-giving spread through towns, nations, and continents.

So many lifetimes and so many centuries had passed for mere mortals on earth, but for those who were brought to this place, this special place, this wintry plain of magic and wonder, decades passed with a moon’s turn. It was the embodiment of the season of joy, giving and laughter. At least it had been.

Once invited you could stay as long as you wanted, but when you left another would be chosen and there would be no going back. The last remaining years would be spent as a mortal in a world where centuries-old friends and loved ones were only known as “elves”.

But it was a choice! At least we had a choice! Wooden boats and dolls had been enough to keep them busy for months, but since the first locomotive had carried passengers in the industrial age toys had become more and more complex and refined and detailed. Tin soldiers had become G.I. Joe’s. Lovable rag dolls soft enough to cuddle with gave way to Malibu Barbies. The world had grown from several million to over 7 billion people -causing insatiable, unrelenting demand on those who worked in the shop. Now no one was permitted to leave and Santa Claus had turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to the cries and the overworked hands of his helpers.

Noel had begged Kris to allow the others to go. To take pity. For his efforts he was banished to the far side of the North Pole—a frozen wasteland where he could only watch as Santa brought more and more helots to follow him under the pretense of a winter wonderland. There was no time for making snow angels or caroling. All anyone could do was work until they dropped.

It had to end.

After years of planning a decision was made. There would be an accident. The younger ones and newcomers were kept in the dark for the time being. The rest who had been there for the past thousand years were all with him. It would be a trick of fate, and the careful maneuvering of the winds by Jack Frost would see that the operation succeeded. Even Mrs. Kringle had reluctantly agreed.

After tonight everything would change. There would be mourning, confusion, rumors, and inevitably chaos. The truth would be lost in all of the noise and Noel would have to avoid being remembered as a plotting, underhanded backstabber. War would follow between the conspirators and those who had supported the man in the red suit.

But once the struggle was over he would lead the restoration of the life that was, where all were happy; where time for rest and play and singing and love was no longer a memory.

I know I can do it, he told himself. He was the original apprentice, the beginning flame. He was The First Noel. He had instilled faith in all of his brothers and sisters beside him.

They braced themselves...and drank a final toast to Santa’s last ride.