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Ten Days Before Christmas

*****

Snow swirled around The Coyote as he stepped out of the car. He smiled, savoring the chill and the snowflakes against his fur. There was serenity in the snow, in scent of the frozen air, serenity he sought but so rarely found. He pinned his tan-furred ears back and sighed, breath a steaming cloud that hung in the air and struggled against its own dissipation. The Coyote pulled a few heavy bags from the trunk, closed it up and walked through the front yard. Snow crunched beneath his shoes, speckled his black hoodie with patterns of white.

There was little The Coyote loved more than the snow. It was beauty and peace. It was joy. It was, in its own way, Christmas. Without snow it just wouldn't be his favorite holiday. They coyote tilted his head back, staring up into the infinite expanse of tiny falling stars. Strange how the flakes of snow stood so stark and white as they neared the ground, yet at the edge of vision, as far up into the sky as he see they formed a twisting gray weave that gradually resolved itself into white spirals that shattered into thousands of tiny crystalline forms cascading towards the ground.

A cluster of icy dots clung to his glasses, mottling his vision with white. The Coyote blinked and turned his head away from the falling snow. His arms ached a little from carrying the heavy bags while he stared at the sky. He set the bags down on the front porch, and fumbled for the house keys in the pockets of his hoodie. He pulled his glasses off, blew the snow from them, then glanced down the street. Every house was painted white by winter. Strands of glowing lights shone even in the afternoon. Some flickered and flashed like illuminated candy canes, others cast a vibrant, multi-hued LED rainbow across the alabaster expanse. Inflatable decorations lined a few yards, a giant penguin inside a snow globe wobbled in the wind. An animatronic Santa waved to a passing car that left tracks in the fresh powder. The lights of decorated Christmas trees sparkled in the windows of some houses, including his own.

The Coyote sighed again, his muzzle twisting with a smile. His favorite time of the year. If only it could last forever.

The Coyote unlocked the front door, nudged it open and picked up his grocery bags. Warmth from within washed over him. He swiveled his ears forward, grinning at the gleeful sound of hatchling laughter and the suspiciously strong scent of egg nog. The Coyote walked into the front room, bumping the door closed with his hip.

"About time you got back, you mangy scavenger." A brassy voice rumbled from the dark, scaly shape curled near the Christmas tree. "Did you pause to scrounge through all your neighbor's garbage again?"

The Coyote laughed. "Nice to see you too, Valyrym."

The old black dragon lifted his head off the couch he'd been resting it on. He licked his gray-tinged nose, chuckling. "I bet you just paused for a walk in the snow, didn't you."

"I wish." The Coyote set his bags down on the dining room table, nudging aside a few snowman candle holders his mother collected. "Had to drive to three stores to find enough egg nog." He sniffed the air, pinned a single ear back. "Speaking of which, was does it smell like the whole house has been soaked in it?"

Valyrym made a show of gazing at the Christmas tree. He reached out with a paw to cradle a green dragon ornament hanging from a central bough. "Wouldn't know. I've been napping."

"You're supposed to be watching the hatchling." The Coyote shook his head, removing jug after plastic jug of fresh egg nog from his bags.

"And you're supposed to be writing DitD 10, so let's just say we've both been a little lax." Valyrym pushed himself up onto his haunches, smirking. "Besides, shouldn't it be Valar's turn to spend most of the Christmas story watching the younglings? I got stuck with that job last year. It's bad enough I'm nearly second fiddle in my own tale." He waved his paw, pinning back his spines.

The Coyote just grinned to himself. "You and Ayly are here first so I can get to spend some time with you, and you can spend time with your granddaughter. Besides, I think we both know you had the most pivotal scene last year. Out there, by the tree. I think we also know who's going to get top billing by the end of DitD."

"Yes..." Valyrym's voice trailed off, his golden eye shining with the reflection of the Christmas lights. "I suppose we do."

The Coyote pulled out a tray of sugar-cookies slathered with red and green icing. "It's Krek."

"Funny." Valyrym snorted and snapped his jaws, glaring at The Coyote. "That smug bird couldn't find his way to top billing if he..."

The Coyote stacked a few boxes of candy canes atop each other along with a box of peppermint gum. He unzipped his hoodie. He glanced at the dragon, scrunching his muzzle. "Yes?"

Valyrym blinked, then licked his muzzle. "I'm waiting for you to write my line. Give me..." He traced a circle in the air with a few unsheathed claws. "Let's go with a clever metaphor, or, something about a map and a guide."

"Oh." The Coyote removed his sweat shirt, hung it over a chair and tugged on the sleeves of his new Emperor T-shirt. Because nothing said Christmas like Black Metal, right? "Lemme think." He murmured to himself, then waggled his fingers at the dragon. "Try again."

Valyrym snorted and snapped his jaws, glaring at The Coyote. "That smug bird couldn't find his way to top billing if he had a map and a guide!" Valyrym smirked for a moment before his spines sagged against his head. "Hey! That was terrible."

"Yup!" The Coyote laughed, hoisting up an armful of egg nog jugs. "Guess you're not as witty as you thought."

"Damn scavenger." Valyrym hissed, rising up to his paws to pad after The Coyote. "I ought to come out there and pet your adorably bushy tail!" He blinked, and snarled. "Stop doing that!"

"No idea what you're talking about." The Coyote flicked his gray and tan tail in amusement as he headed into the kitchen.

"You're too damn cuddly for your own good!" Valyrym lashed his tail. The spines caught a package beneath the tree and sent it flying across the room. "I did not say cuddly! I said a snuggly delight! No I didn't! Stop that at once!"

The Coyote glanced back over his shoulder, narrowing his hazel eyes behind his glasses. "You break one more present or put one more hole in my wall this year, and you'll be singing my praises all story long!"

"Fine, fine." Valyrym hung his head, his wings drooping. "I'll endeavor to...behave. Just stop putting words in my mouth."

"I'll consider it." The Coyote laughed and flicked his tail again. "Now come out here and..." The Coyote trailed off when something splashed beneath his shoes. He looked down, and saw an immense puddle of creamy, yellow-white egg nod stretching across the kitchen floor. "What the hell?"

"Something the matter, Coyote?" Valyrym sounded far too amused for The Coyote's liking.

The Coyote stepped around the puddle best he could, depositing the jugs of fresh drink upon the island in the center of the kitchen. "You know damn well there's a lake of egg nog on the kitchen floor."

"Is there?" Valyrym stuck his head through the kitchen door, crinkling up the pebbly scales of his snout. "Oh my, what a mess. Guess you'd better clean it up."

"Just get some towels, you wrinkly old lizard."

"Dragons don't wrinkle." Valyrym pulled his head back, heading towards the laundry room.

"That's not what Alia tells me."

The Coyote gazed around the kitchen. Near the center of Lake Nog was a large green plastic bowl, upended on the floor. A few other plastic trays and bowls littered the floor as well, though at least they'd been empty. The platters that hadn't been knocked down were scattered across the counter. The only thing that looked untouched was the wooden serving tray floating over the counter, plugging up the hole punched in the space-time continuum by last year's story. He really ought to get that fixed.

The rest of the kitchen looked like a tiny tornado had swept through and hurled all the serving trays, bowls and platters around. "Ayly! Get in here!"

"You're asking for trouble." Valyrym padded to the kitchen, and shoved a wad of clean but crumpled towels against the coyote's midsection. "Here."

The Coyote took the towels, then flicked his ears back as Valyrym backed away. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Just getting out of the way."

"Out of the way of what?" The coyote licked his nose, splayed his ears, and glanced around.

"A hatchling that's had too much egg nog and too many candy canes."

Uh oh.

Right on cue, a black, blue and purple blur hurtled through the living room, into the kitchen, and leapt up onto the counters. Ayly sprinted down the length of the counter, knocking a few more platters onto the floor to splash down in the spilled egg nog. Then she leapt onto the center island, raced across it, and sprang straight through the air to collide with The Coyote.

"ACK!"

The coyote yelped and dropped his bundle of towels, stumbling back a few steps as the hatchling thumped against his chest. He bumped up against the refrigerator, knocking down a few magnets that shattered against the floor. The little hatchling wrapped her forelegs around his neck, and braced her hind paws against his chest, tiny claws digging into his skin beneath his shirt and his fur. The Coyote winced, got a good grip on her and eased her away to glare at the disobedient youngling.

"Hi!" Ayly chirped and giggled, then stretched her neck and licked The Coyote's nose.

Well, it was pretty much impossible to be angry with Ayly. He pulled her back against his chest, and braced a tan-furred arm beneath her black, silver-speckled haunches. "Ayly, did you knock that egg nog down?"

"No."

"Ayly..." The Coyote twisted his ears back, trying to look stern. "Don't lie..."

Ayly turned her head, craning her neck. She flared up her little spines as she stared down at the puddle as if noticing it for the first time. "Egg nogs is good!"

The Coyote laughed, stroking her wings with his free hand. "Yes, it is. But I know your tricks, and while that's not a lie, it's not an answer to the question I asked. Did you knock down that egg nog?"

Ayly turned her attention back to The Coyote. The silver sparkles in her golden eyes glittered, she scrunched up her blue-masked face. "...Yes!"

The Coyote blinked a few times. She sounded awfully exuberant once she admitted. "And why did you knock it down?"

"Cause egg nogs is my foes!" Ayly giggled and squirmed, lashing her tiny tail. "I'mma get you, egg nogs!"

"I believe you've already vanquished the egg nog, my brave little warrior." Valyrym slunk back up alongside The Coyote, and gave his granddaughter a slow lick. Ayly wriggled and swatted his nose. "Ow!" Valyrym yanked his head back, grumbling. "Just like your father when he was your age."

"There's a surprise." The Coyote smirked at Valyrym, then inclined his head towards the yellowy puddle. "Do me a huge favor?"

"Consider yourself lucky that you're holding my Granddaughter, or I'd make a very adult joke about favors." Valyrym plucked the towels off the floor and began to mop up the spilled eggnog.

"Thanks, buddy." The Coyote smiled at his old friend, then returned his attention to the bundle of beautiful scaly energy wriggling his grasp. "Ayly, do you have something to say? Something about what you did, maybe?"

Ayly blinked, and then nodded. "Candy canes is good!"

The Coyote chuckled and tried to wipe away some of the white and red speckled crumbs stuck to her purple and blue-marked muzzle. Looked like she'd chomped her way through the entire bowl of candy canes he'd set out in the living room. "Is there something else you'd like to say?"

Ayly glanced away, her ears drooping. She gave an adorable sigh, and nodded again but remained quiet.

"You can whisper it, if you want." After all, apologies could be embarrassing to hatchlings. The Coyote licked his finger pads to try and clean the blue-mask marking the dark scales of her face. Ayly stretched her neck towards The Coyote's head, and he swiveled his ear towards her, waiting. "Go on then, tell me."

Ayly pushed her muzzle up against the velvet fur of his ear, her whispered voice as quiet and solemn as The Coyote had ever heard it. "...Grandfather's old."

The Coyote laughed so hard that his grip eased on Ayly. The little hatchling seized her opportunity to escape. She braced her blue and purple paws against The Coyote's chest, wriggled free of his grasp, and then leapt off his body. Ayly twisted in the air and beat her tiny purple-rippled wings before she landed atop the kitchen island. She skidded to a stop, giggled, and leapt again, this time landing atop Valyrym's back.

"Run, Grandfather, Run!" Ayly trotted up between the older dragons wings.

Valyrym turned his head to grin at his Granddaughter. "I shall do no such thing."

Ayly whined and swatted the back of his neck. "But it's getaway time!"

"No, it's clean up Ayly's mess time." Valyrym tossed one egg nog soaked towel into the kitchen sink. He spread another out on the floor, and wiped it back and forth. "Why don't you help me?"

Ayly hung her head, her wings drooping. "Lellumgurb would make a getaway."

Valyrym blinked, cocking his head. He flared up his spines as he glanced back at The Coyote. "Who the hell is Lellumgurb?"

"Grandfather said a swear!" Ayly giggled, waggling her haunches.

"Hell is not a swear." Valyrym flicked his spines right back down, grinning at Ayly. "Damn is a swear."

"Grandfather said two swears!" Ayly's giggles only got louder. "I wanna make two swears too!"

The Coyote splayed his ears back and ran a hand over the tan-fur "hood" atop his head. "Go ahead."

Ayly took a deep breath. "Poop damn!"

The Coyote smirked at her. "Sounds like something you'd have to call the plumber for."

Valyrym grunted. "That was only..."

"Shush, Valyrym."

"Oh. Right." Valyrym flicked his tail, the spines gouging a wooden cabinet door. A few trays still sitting the counter rattled. "Sorry."

The Coyote just shook his head. "I'm going to get the cookies and things. Then I should get some writing done. I think tonight we'll order pizza, and we can let Ayly watch Rudolph and Frosty on TV."

The Coyote went into the dining room where he'd left the rest of his groceries on the table. He smirked. Calling candy canes, sugar cookies, egg nog and gum groceries might be a stretch. Just as he neared the table, Ayly streaked by him and leapt atop it. She landed on a red and green placement, slid across the table on it and toppled right off the other side with startled yowl.

The Coyote peered over the table, grinning. Somehow the placemat landed draped atop Ayly. It wriggled back and forth before her blue-masked face popped up, her little black horns crooked over the edge of the mat. She blinked a few times, then licked her nose and shrugged her wings to flip the mat off of her.

"Hi!"

"Hello, Ayly." The Coyote grinned and popped open a plastic box of Christmas cookies. The white cookies alternated green frosting with red sprinkles, and red frosting with green sprinkles. "I suppose you want a cookie?"

Ayly licked her blunt muzzle, nodding. "I wanna cookie!"

"Don't you think you've had enough sugar for one afternoon?"

"No!" She reached towards the table, opening and closing her paw a few times.

"Grabby paws aren't the same as asking nicely." The coyote bit into one of the cookies. The cookie was a little dry, and the frosting a little too sweet, and yet somehow it still perfectly said Christmas. "Ask politely, Ayly."

"Cooookiieeeee!" Ayly flopped onto her haunches so she could make grabby paws with both forefeet. "I wanna coooooooookiiiiiiiiiiiiie!"

"That's not...oh, forget it." The Coyote plucked another cookie from the container, then crouched down and handed it to Ayly. "You can have one, but that's it."

"You're enabling her." Valyrym's voice carried back from the kitchen.

"Says the one who let her coat the floor in egg nog." The Coyote patted Ayly's head as she took the cookie in both paws. By the time he'd stood back up, she'd already gotten more green frosting on her muzzle than in her mouth. "You'll have to wait till after dinner before you have anymore."

The Coyote gathered up a few boxes of candy canes and cookies and another jug of egg nog, and carried them back to the kitchen. He set them down on the counter, then transferred as many jugs of egg nog into the fridge as he could. He gazed around the kitchen, drumming his dull claw tips against the countertop. Still a lot of things to buy before Christmas Eve, when the counters and tables would be covered with enough treats and snacks to feed a whole army of his characters. Still, at least he was making good progress. This year, that was saying something.

The Coyote's ears towards the sound of clawed feet thumping onto wood in the other room. "Ayly, did you jump on the table?"

After a moment of silence, Valyrym answered for his granddaughter. "No answer means yes."

The Coyote swished his bushy, gray and tan tail. "Obviously. You almost done over there?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." Valyrym tossed his head, snorting. "Am I taking too long cleaning up someone else's mess in someone else's house?"

"You've got a lot of gum to chew when you're done."

The old dragon cocked his head, lifting his frilled ears in confusion. "What the hell is gum, and why do I have to chew it?"

"Tell you after I save Ayly from an impending belly ache."

In the other room, The Coyote found Ayly sitting next to the cookie container, surrounded by a sea of white crumbs. Red and green frosting caked her muzzle and her paws. She froze when she saw The Coyote coming, her silver, gold-flecked eyes wide.

"Ayly, I told you no more cookies."

"It was Lellumgurb!"

The Coyote folded his arms, grinning. "He's not even here yet. You're going to give yourself a tummy ache if you..." The Coyote trailed off as he spotted something on the wall he'd missed before. "What the hell?"

A large poster was affixed to the wall, above the antique cabinet his mother had brought back from England. It looked like some kind of old missing person poster, complete with the word MISSING_at the top in giant letters. A cartoon black dragon in a cage took up most of the image, along with the phrase _Have you seen this story? Missing: DItD 10.

"Oh, hah hah." The coyote snorted, and tore the poster down. "Very funny, Valyrym."

"Wasn't me!" The dragon called back, followed by the wet sound of a soggy towel hitting the sink.

"Then how do you know what I'm talking about?" The Coyote rolled the poster up, and set it aside.

"I don't."

"Then how do you know..." At the edge of his vision, The Coyote saw Ayly reaching her lilac-scaled forward towards the cookie container like a cat trying to sneak its paw onto a plate of food. He turned around to her."Ayly!"

The little hatchling froze as the coyote turned around, her purple-socked paw hovering in the air. She stared at up him. Then without breaking eye contact, she slowly stretched her foreleg into the cookie container again.

"Ayly, moving slowly doesn't mean I can't see you."

Ayly just stared back up at him. She grabbed a green-frosted cookie, and ever so slowly pulled it out of the plastic bin, and brought it up to her muzzle.

"Ayly...." The Coyote put a little growl into his voice, but it didn't come out half as stern as he wanted.

Ayly opened her jaws, and took the slowest bite he'd ever seen.

"Ayly!"

"It was Lellumgurb!"

Cookie hanging from her jaws, Ayly jumped off the table, sprinted across the living room towards the Christmas tree, then hurtled a group of packages and landed in a box of santa hats. After a moment, her horns and tiny frills emerged over the edge of the box, followed by her eyes, and then her snout, the cookie still sticking from it. Then she vanished again, muffled giggles emanating from deep within the pile of shifting red hats and bobbling white tufts.

The Coyote smiled, and closed up the cookie container. He carried it and the gum he'd bought back into the kitchen where Valyrym sat upon his haunches alongside the center island. The old dragon had the last of the towels wrapped around his spined tail, swishing it back and forth against the floor.

"Nice mopping technique." The Coyote put the cookies away, glancing back with a grin.

"I'm polishing your damn floor, so you'd better be grateful."

"Whatever, dude." The Coyote unwrapped a few pieces of gum and pushed them across the island towards the dragon. "Start chewing this, but don't swallow it."

Valyrym cocked his head, and gave the gum a baleful glare with a single golden eye. "What is that foul putrescence?"

The Coyote paused midway through unwrapping another piece. "...Putrescence? It's gum, Dragon, it's not vomit. Besides, it's peppermint flavored. Now chew it already."

"Why?" Valyrym speared a few pieces of pink gum with a single claw, sniffing at it.

"So I can dragon-proof this hole in the space time continuum Valar made last year." The Coyote popped a single piece of gum into his muzzle, chewing it. He worked words around the gum. "And I can't fit a whole pack of gum in my snout like you can."

"I still don't see why we must chew this waxy substance." Valyrym pulled the gum from his claw with his teeth, then collected a few more pieces as the coyote unwrapped them and passed them over.

"I'll show you." The Coyote pulled the chewed gum from his snout, then pressed it against the edges of the platter that floated above the island. He folded it around the edge of the tray, smoothing it down a little. "There, see? That'll help hold it in place against this tear in reality. It's a little known fact that chewing gum exists outside the space time continuum. So, finish chewing up all this gum, and then insulate the edges of this tray with it."

Valyrym curled his lip all across his snout. "That's disgusting."

"So is what happens to my house every Christmas when all you dragons come and trash the place." The Coyote leaned over the island to jab a finger at the old dragon's scaly nose. "Now get chewing."

"It isn't me." Valyrym crammed a few more pieces of gum into my muzzle. "It's all your other characters. I take care of your home."

"You punched holes in my wall with your tail spines." The Coyote folded his arms, grinning. "Then your son filled them with fudge."

Valyrym snorted his amusement, lifting his spines. "He was helping! Patched them right up, didn't he."

The coyote smirked. "That's how you get ants."

Valyrym stared at him. "What?"

"Just chew the gum."

Valyrym chewed the gum a little while, then spat it into his paw. He stretched it and spread it around the edges of the hovering tray. The Coyote passed him more, and he chewed it as well. He waved his sticky paw at the platter now half insulated around the edges with used gum. "You should really get that hole in reality fixed. Someone could fall in there."

The Coyote gave the dragon a sly grin. "I would, but I can't afford any quantum mechanics."

The dragon stopped chewing to glare back at the coyote. "Are you happy with that one?"

"I am, yes." The Coyote leaned back against the fridge, flicking his bushy tail.

"Yes, I'm sure all your readers are very impressed." Valyrym finished chewing the last of the gum, and soon molded it against the last side of the tray. "There. My repulsive task is complete. May I be released from my servitude now?"

"Servitude?" The Coyote perked a single ear. "You spent the day sleeping while your granddaughter ransacked my house. I think ten minutes of work is getting off easy."

The dragon narrowed his brilliant golden eyes. "Shouldn't you be continuing my story right now?"

"Actually, yes." The Coyote opened the fridge to fetch the iced mocha he'd purchased earlier, then slipped into the living room to check on Ayly. Her purple tipped tail protruded from the pile of santa hats she'd buried herself under, draped over the edge of the box. It twitched now and then. "Looks like she's sleeping off her sugar coma. That should give me some time to write before she wakes up and breaks things again."

The Coyote padded up the stairs, and down the hall towards his room. A few more Missing and Wanted posters lined the walls. Have you seen this story: DitD 10? Wanted: One Ending. Missing: Closure. Reward offered: Immense Pile of Gift Art. The Coyote snorted, and pulled them all down. He rolled them up, opened a nearby closet, and shoved them in with the rest of the ever-growing demands. "Who keeps putting these up?"

"I've no idea." Valyrym nudged something aside with a hind paw.

"Uh huh." The Coyote glanced back at him. "You're going to put another one up as soon as I go into my room, aren't I."

"Me?" Valyrym pressed a forepaw to his chest plates, shaking his horned head. "Never! I respect you far too much to ever do such a thing."

"Liar."

"Finish my story, you slacker."

The Coyote growled under his breath, and slunk into his room. He flopped into his desk chair, and stared his monitor a moment. The background image was one of his favorites, beautiful artwork of two of his favorite dragons, pressed together in loving embrace amidst rolling green hills and shrouds of silvery rain. Stunning, and based upon an iconic scene he'd written. But not festive enough. The coyote traced a finger against his monitor, working his magic. Strings of glowing lights rolled down the dragon's neck's. Floppy red hats sprang into being atop their heads. The silver rain became beautiful white snow.

"Better."

"What do you think you're doing to my favorite image?" Valyrym pushed the door to the coyote's room open with his snout. He started to enter, but his shoulders caught on the door frame. "Little help? Or should I just smash my way in?"

"Oh. Right." The Coyote outlined a rectangle in the air with his pointer fingers. He moved his hands apart, and the doorway grew, widening until the dragon could fit inside his room. Then he drew his thumb and fingers together, and the black and gray dragon shrunk slightly. "Happy?"

"Until you shrunk me." Valyrym shook himself, scales rattling. He clambered up onto The Coyote's bed. The mattress springs gave an ominous creak, and the frame sagged. "Now what have you done to my favorite picture?"

"I've just made it festive for a little while." The Coyote swiveled his chair around, and flicked his tail at the dragon. "Like this."

A red and white santa hat appeared atop Valyrym's head. He hissed, and tried to pull it off, only to find it affixed between his horns. "You furry ass."

"I have a furry ass." The Coyote grinned, and turned back towards his computer. He took a long drink from his iced mocha. "Besides, you only like this picture because you'd just got laid in it."

"I had just given Kylaryn my candy cane, yes." Valyrym gave a smug, rumbling purr.

The Coyote nearly spat iced coffee all over his monitor. "Your what now?"

"You're the one who wanted festive."

The Coyote splayed his ears, chuckling. "It's not really that kind of image, though. It's tasteful, it's loving. It's a beautiful scene from a beautiful moment in your life, when your son was conceived. You needn't make jokes about it."

Valyrym rustled his wings against his back, glancing away. "Perhaps not. Anyway, DitD 10 won't create itself, so get writing."

"You sound like my shout wall."

"Amazing coincidence, that."

The Coyote sput in his chair, gazing around his room. A pile of presents waiting to be passed out to family members took up one corner of the room. Images of dragons collected from various reinnsance fairs and and a variety conventions adorned his walls, along with posters of a variety of death, black and progressive metal bands scored at concerts in his youth. His bookshelf contained more dragon figurines and stacked video games than anything else. Piles of unread novels and half-finished manuscripts lay stacked in every corner. His gaze lingered on an old framed photo of a chubby, nerdy looking coyote snuggled up against a female snow leopard. He smiled for a moment, shook his head and looked away.

"You should put that way." Valyrym thumped his tail against the bed.

"I like it there."

"I know, but it's been years, Coyote."

"Not the time nor the season, Valyrym."

Valyrym scrunched up a dark blue and green blanket under his forepaw. "Alright. So. DitD 10 then. You've started it?"

"I have." The Coyote smiled as he pulled up the file for his latest sprawling opus. "About half way through the rough draft already. I really cranked it out in November."

"Good." Valyrym arched his neck, tilting his horned head down at the author. "Because everyone's been waiting for over a year now."

The Coyote bristled. "Yes, I know."

"I'm just saying." Valyrym drummed a few claws against one of The Coyote's pillows. "Going to be a big deal for your fans when you finally release it."

The Coyote tried to ignore the dragon, typing out a few sentences.

"They'll all be judging it based on their expectations..." The dragon waved his claws in the air. "Expectations that have only grown and grown..."

The Coyote shook his head, deleting the same sentences he'd just written. Those were crap.

"No pressure or anything."

"You're not helping, Valyrym." The Coyote turned his chair again to glare at the old dragon. "Don't make me put on my headphones and ignore you."

"We both know those can't drown out the voices in your head, you silly pup." Valyrym grinned, curling his tail. "Now, do you want me to continue telling you my story or not? Or are you going to swap me out for all those other inferior dragons again?"

A smile crossed the canid's muzzle. He turned back to his computer and his old mechanical keyboard, tail wagging a few times. "Go on then, ya grumpy bastard. Tell me your story."

Valyrym murmured, stretching out his plated forlegs against the coyote's bed. "So, there I was. Chilling out, maxing. Relaxing, all cool."

The Coyote blinked. "What?"

"I was just..." Valyrym sighed, waving a paw. "Shooting some B-Ball, outside of Sigil Stones."

"That's not funny."

"When a couple of Illandrans, that were up to no good..."

The Coyote grit his teeth. "Okay, that's a little funny."

"Started making trouble in Amaleen's neighborhood."

"How do you even know that song?" The Coyote spun his chair around, adjusting his glasses.

"I got in one little fight!" Valyrym held two unsheathed claws close together. "And Kylaryn got scared."

The Coyote waggled a finger at him. "You're just asking for trouble, now, if she hears you."

Valyrym set his paw back down. "Perhaps you're right. Should I sing you a festive song, instead?"

"I'm not sure how that's going to help."

Valyrym cleared his throat with a loud growl, and then lifted his brassy voice into a sonorous song. "It's the most...Argleblarp time...of the year!"

The Coyote burst out laughing, rocking back and forth in his chair. "That's pretty good, actually."

"Thank you." Valyrym grinned. "Stole it from some gryphon on the internet."

"I'll be sure to credit him with an obtuse mention, then."

"Think you just did."

"Oh good, that's taken care of." The Coyote giggled to himself. "We'll have to sing that when Valar and Amaleen--"

The Coyote's laughter died when the phone rang. He cringed, his ears flattened back. He knew who that was. He didn't even have to look at the Caller ID. He just knew. Ice lumped in the pit of his stomach. He glanced back at Valyrym. The phone rang again, and Valyrym's scales cracked like black ice under a hammer. Valyrym held up a paw, bits of scale fell away from his foreleg, disintegrating as they tumbled towards the Coyote's bed.

"Oh, dear." Valyrym turned his head, gazing back at himself, watching the cracks spread throughout his body.

The Coyote wrung his hands, swallowing. His voice dropped into a half-whimpered murmur. "Sorry, Valyrym."

"Nothing for you to be sorry for, Coyote." Valyrym turned his gaze back to the coyote, his smile a moment of warmth even as his body crumbled, even as the room shifted and shrunk around him, as the presents in the corner vanished one by one. "It isn't your fault that--"

"The Doctor's Office called!" A voice from downstairs came as a cold wind, a gust that ruffled his fur and chilled his blood. The same wind scattered Valyrym like cold ash from a dead fire. The Coyote blinked, and the ashes were gone. "They want you to go back in Wednesday!"

Of course they did. That was a week before Christmas. What better way to celebrate his favorite holiday, his favorite month of the year than to spend a day in a doctor's office, getting needles jabbed into his arm again, discussing his future treatments? The thought made the inside of his elbow ache. He rubbed his arm, it felt strange, smooth.

He glanced down at himself. Oh. Right. No fur.

There was no Coyote.

He looked around his room again. It felt cramped. There was no pile of presents, just a pile of things came in atop a pile of boxes he'd never unpacked. Towers of books were arranged in random, wobbling assortments. Laundry waiting to be washed littered the ground. CDs, video games, and movies sat in random stacks. Most of his dragon images were all stacked together against a wall, waiting for frames that never got completed. His room looked more like a hoard than bedroom. The old photo was real, but it was not a coyote and a snow leopard, just a nerdy, death-metal Viking looking writer and a girl who once loved him. Valyrym was right, he should put that way.

There was no Valyrym.

The Writer rubbed at the inside of his arm. A network of tiny, pinpoint scars marred his skin from more blood draws than he could count lately. Without fur there was little he could do to hide them, or his half-receded veins. Even all that damn body hair the medications ended up causing couldn't hide the scars. Tiny little things, but so many of them in the same places. He still had a bruise there from last time he went in.

The Writer sighed, swallowed, and got to his feet. He slipped into the hallway. There were no posters on the walls, no closet full of demands. He padded down the stairs, unable to help glancing around. There was no box of santa hats. There was no tiny hatchling giggling and making him smile. They had a tree, but the lights weren't on. His old black and white cat snoozed beneath the tree, all skin and bones beneath his fluffy fur. Poor old guy, wouldn't be long now.

The Writer sniffed, and rubbed his arm again. He walked towards the kitchen. There was no egg nog on the floor, no trays scattered or floating in the air. Without the gleeful sounds of hatchling giggles, it seemed far too quiet. The only holes in the walls were those he'd punched himself in a fit of furious, misdirected anger.

"Did you hear me a minute ago?" His mother's voice called out from the living room. "You have to go in to the clinic again on Wednesday."

"Yeah, I heard." He scrunched his face, ran his hands back through his long hair. "Still bruised from the last arm-stabbing. Figures they want me back so soon. That's only a week before Christmas! I still have shopping to do, I still need to..." He trailed off, took a breath, and sighed. What was he going to say, I have to write Dragon In The Dungeon? "It's just...irritating sometimes."

"I know."

The Writer walked to the back door. He leaned his forehead against the glass panes, staring into the backyard. The backyard was small, not like in the Christmas stories. No room for dragons to slide around on their bellies in the snow. The trees that once lined their little backyard were all gone now, taken by drought and blight, save one. No more woodpeckers and hawks and beautiful green willow boughs. Just the neighbors' houses and their aggressive dogs.

The Writer glanced at the sky. It wasn't snowing. It wasn't even cold. It was sunny, and warm. It didn't feel at all like December, let alone Christmas. The grass was brown and the trees had lost their leaves, but there was certainly no chill in the air. No snow, no peace. No peace, no pictures painted with words. Nothing felt like Christmas, lately.

"You alright?"

The Writer shrugged. "I'll be fine."

His mother hugged him anyway. He didn't fight it, or pull away. He just hugged her back. As embarrassed as he often felt to be stuck living with his parents, he was glad they were there for him. Ever so glad to have a loving family, even if he never really turned to them or told them what was wrong. Or how he felt hamstrung by the bad life and financial decisions and the years of depression and the cavalcade of health issues that left him stuck living at home. He never told them, they didn't need to know. They didn't need to know how it ate at him, how he felt like some useless bum, or how he worried about taking care of them someday, when they'd need him and he feared he'd have nothing.

He sniffed, and hugged his mother, then pulled away and smiled before he ended up crying. He hated crying in front of family. He took a breath, muttering in his own mind. There is no pain without joy, there is no joy without pain.

The Writer poured himself some egg nog as he collected himself. He stared into the glass. Without pain, we cannot measure our happiness. There is no pain without joy, no joy without pain. He swirled the glass. At least the egg nog was real. Even if he'd only bought a single jug. He put it away, and headed back upstairs and back to his room. It felt empty. He settled into his chair, stared at the picture on his monitor. The art was real, at least. Above his computer was more art of a green dragon, and the human woman who took care of him. Inspiration, spurred on by his own story, a gift from two good friends.

He stared at the screen. He needed to paint pictures, but his mind was too cluttered, his emotions too tangled. He needed focus to write, needed to channel that anger, that fear, that pain. To put it towards something great. But sometimes he just couldn't. Sometimes he just...he just...

He stood up again, balling up his fists. Stupid health. Stupid doctors. Stupid fucking needles. He panted a few times, snarling through grit teeth, flailing at the air. He nearly slammed his fist into the wall, but stopped himself. Instead, he picked up a pillow, and pressed it to his face to muffle his voice.

"FUCK!" He screamed into the pillow, then hurled it across the room. It thumped against the far wall, and dropped to the floor.

Trying not to yell, trying not to scream, The Writer kicked over a stack of books, then leaned over and pounded his fists against his bed. Finally, he flopped onto his bed, panting. One breath at a time, the anger drained from him, replaced by cold bitterness. Most days he was fine. Most days he was happy. But some days...

Some days he needed to write more than anything, needed to find his snow, his peace, to forget his own body's many attempts to destroy itself. He wanted to smile, he wanted to make others smile. But when his heart was heaviest, when his thoughts were darkest, those were the days it was hardest to write. Whenever he needed it most, it never seemed to come to him. He closed his eyes, tried to make the snow fall. Tried to imagine the tendrils of lights spiraling up his book case. Thought of Valyrym's voice. But nothing came.

There was no Valyrym.

There was no snow.

There were no more words to write today.

*****

One Week Before Christmas

*****

The Coyote rose early in the morning on Clinic Day. To his pleasant surprise, it was cold in his room when he wriggled out from under his blankets. It was nice. The cold made him smile. Made it easier to be The Coyote again. He went to the connected bathroom, and turned the shower on. While the water warmed, he laid out his clothes for the day. He decided to wear his Black Collar T-shirt. He liked wearing that on his trips to the hospital. Made him feel good to wear something designed by a friend, something based on his own creation. It made him smile to know that people read his writing, that people cared. Plus, dragon. Not many people wore a shirt with a dragon on it around a hospital.

When the water was warm, The Coyote hopped into the shower. The water slicked down his fluffy gray and tan fur against his body. He glanced down at himself, ran a hand over his stomach. Getting a bit extra chubby again. Just after he'd lost a lot of that, too. Between illnesses and medications, seemed his body could never decide if it wanted to lose weight or gain it. He chuckled, shook his head, and worked the shampoo through his fur. He rinsed off, and stepped out of the shower to fetch some towels. He wrapped himself up, then settled into his desk chair to dry off.

He rubbed his fur with the towels, glancing at his computer. He contemplated firing it up to see if he had any new comments or messages, but decided against it. Instead he turned on the TV to check the weather. Looked like it was going to rain later. The coyote grunted, splaying his ears. If only it was a few degrees colder. Still, he'd take the cold while he could get it.

He stood back up, and padded through his room to replace his towels. He glanced at himself in the mirror. His fur always looked extra fluffy right after he got dried off. Looked like a pudgy canine puffball. He shook himself like a real dog, just for fun, his tail swishing. After he hung the towels back up he got dressed. He ran pads over the image of the dragon's face on his shirt. Poor Alvaranox, ever locked in that collar.

Poor all his characters, ever locked in their stories. He grimaced. So many ideas demanding, screaming to be written. Alternating helped keep him same, kept those angry voices from demanding their stories be completed too loudly. Didn't stop the readers from asking in ever louder voices, but that was alright. It was nice to know they cared.

The Coyote gathered his things, and trotted down the stairs. He picked up the keys, said goodbye, and headed outside. Often times he'd go to the clinic with a family member for moral support, but his mother had a stiff back and there was no need to make her suffer a long car ride. He pulled on his black hooded sweatshirt and headed outside.

The air was delightfully chilly. His breath steamed and drifted away from him. There might not really be snow, but at least it almost felt cold enough to be Christmas. The Coyote savored the cold air for a few moments before he got into the car. Good thing he enjoyed the cold, because right now the vehicle had neither working heat nor AC, so it was going to be a chilly ride. He kept a roll of paper towels in the passenger seat in case he had to wipe down the windshield while the defroster wasn't working.

For a clinic day, so close to his beloved Christmas, The Coyote was surprised to find himself in such a decent mood. It helped him knowing when he had to go in in advance, let him prepare mentally. Maybe he could get some thinking done while he was stuck waiting. After all, he still wanted to write something for Christmas. It was his favorite holiday, a day that always brought him joy, and peace. The Coyote wanted to share those feelings with his readers, his fans...his friends.

He wanted to make them smile.

He needed to make the damn snow to fall so he could paint his pictures in it.

This year was...hectic. Though he'd dealt with health issues for much of his adult life, the last few months things had taken another turn for the worst. A lot of time in the doctor's office meant a lot less time to spend writing. Less time to spend writing meant less time feeling at peace. Writing was, to paraphrase his own characters, what kept him sane. When he lost himself into his work, for a while he could just forget the very world around him. Forget what was wrong with his own blood.

He scrunched his muzzle, backing the car out of the drive way. He needed to finish DitD 10. No, he needed to write a Christmas story. Somehow he doubted that this time he could just get drunk on Christmas Eve and magic something up the way he had the last few years. He needed an idea, though, a spark. Something that would make people smile.

He liked making people smile. It made him feel good to make other people happy.

That was another part of the reason he loved Christmas. He didn't mind the crowded malls, the packed department stores, the empty wallet. No, he liked those things because they always reminded him what time of year it was. Because there were so many people going out of their way to make someone else happy. No matter how frustrated people might get, how frantically they might shop, in the end it was all for the same goal.

To make someone smile.

That moment, when they opened their gifts, when they saw what you got them, when the joy flickered in their eyes and shone in their faces. The Coyote lived for moments like that.

A week away, and he still had things left to buy. If he wasn't stuck going back to the doctor, he might be out there now, buying things to make people smile. He growled to himself as he drove the street. Wasn't fair. Not that life ever was. Oh well. Deal with it and move on. At least he'd already gotten most of his gifts. Hell, he'd already spent too much money. His situation left him with limited funds to spend, and though he'd tried to budget them out, he already knew he'd just about blown through his available money on Christmas presents. That was what happened when he had to cram in shopping trips between doctor visits. He'd bought too many things too fast and hadn't done a good enough job keeping track of his spending.

As usual.

Still, he was glad to be able to buy things for his family, for his friends.

Since he had a long drive ahead of him on a cold day, heading for a destination he was all too familiar with, The Coyote decided to treat himself. He pulled into the local starbucks to buy himself a large iced mocha. His drink of choice for mood improvement and writing fuel. He stepped out of the car, greeted by a cold blast of wind. Ooh, he liked that.

The Coyote made his way across the parking lot, smiling at the sight of Christmas Trees erupting from the pavement on either side of the Starbucks. The earth split and cracked asunder as the mighty trees rose to tower over the building. Streamers of glittering silver and gold tinsel wove themselves through the boughs. Bells grew like pine cones from the tree limbs, the cold winds that rustled the trees left the bells jingling. Glowing lights sprang to life all around the trees. A few flakes of snow swirled around, gingerbread scented the air.

That was more like it.

The Coyote went inside and up to the counter. He ordered his favorite drink, and handed his card over to the friendly wolf behind the counter. The wolf swiped it, and he went to wait, humming to himself. "Walking in a winter Argleblarp..."

They asked to see his card again. He flicked an ear, and handed it back. They swiped it again. The wolf stared at it a moment, then glanced at The Coyote. "This card's valid, right?"

The Christmas trees outside began to wither.

"Yeah, I just used it last night." The Coyote scowled, a few fangs bared.

"Well, it's not accepting it. Do you have another card?"

The Coyote flattened his ears and ran a hand down his face. His face felt flat. No muzzle.

The wolf behind the counter was just a man, handing him his card back.

The Writer took his card and stuck it back in his wallet. "No, but I got a little cash." He handed the bills over, sighed, and went to wait for his drink.

Just what he needed.

When his iced mocha was done, he thanked them and took a long drink. The familiar flavor soothed him a little, the caffeine did its thing. The cold drink melded with the cold temperatures, and made him feel a little better. He had to head to the bank, though. He slipped back outside, and glanced around. The Christmas trees had crumpled as quickly as they'd grown, just a swirl of dead brown needles and broken ornaments littering the ground where they'd stood. The wind gusted, and blew their remains away in disintegrating clouds.

The Writer got back into his car, and drove to the bank. He glanced at the clock in his car. Still had time before his appointment, but it was a long drive. He went inside, got his transaction history, and studied it carefully. The good news was, all the transactions were legitimately his. The bad news was, he'd wildly underestimated his Christmas spending already. So much for picking up those last few surprise gifts. Hopefully the things he'd already spent his money on would still make people smile.

He made a quick drive back home to grab his change jar. It wasn't exactly full, but it would give him some extra cash to spend if he needed it, and buy him a cheap lunch. Later he'd cash that twenty dollar check his grandmother sent for Christmas, too. Wouldn't be enough for him to buy those last presents he'd planned on, but at least he could get some food and some writing fuel the next few days.

The Writer glanced at the clock as he backed out of the driveway again. Cutting it close, but he should be fine. He smirked as he put the car into drive. Wouldn't want to be late to his torture session. At a stop sign, he popped a CD into the player, and turned it up. Language, by a band called The Contortionist. He'd only gotten it a little while ago, and lately he couldn't get enough of it. It floated through his headphones during his recent writing sessions, and now its myriad textures filled his car during his long drive to the hospital.

The drive was uneventful, if a bit dreary. Gauzy gray clouds drifted overhead, brushing the tops of the skyscrapers in the distance. At a stop light, The Writer stared at the distant buildings on the horizon, peeking between trees and dull strip malls. He lifted a hand from the wheel, traced a finger over the buildings, and they were towers of stone. A dragon perched atop one, the mist swirled around him like ancient magic being summoned for some dark ritual.

"Some dark ritual?" Valyrym's voice rumbled from the passenger seat. "Is that the best you've got? And is that supposed to be me? Because we both know your dragons haven't got any magic."

The Writer glanced over, but before he could tease his creation about being small enough to fit in a car seat, the light changed. He signed and accelerated, and Valyrym dissipated into a swirl of black and gray smoke that drifted around the car. At the next stoplight, the mist coalesced back into something resembling a dragon. The voice was hoarse and whispy.

"Quit doing that."

"It's not my fault." The Writer muttered, gazing out his window. A car nearby sported a pair of antlers and a red nose affixed to its grill. That made him smile, and his smile helped Valyrym solidify a little more. "My mind is just...There's so much on it, lately. It's pulled in a thousand directions all at once, and most of them...if I stop to think about them, they terrify me. It's hard to focus on you right now." He rubbed the inside of his arm, over the little bruise there. "Sorry, though."

"Nothing to be sorry for, Coyote." Valyrym reached out to touch him, but his paw dissolved into smoke as soon as it touched the Writer's arm. Valyrym lifted what was left of his foreleg, his limb uncoiling into swirls of ashen mist. "Guess I can't do that when you're not The Coyote."

The light turned green, and The Writer drove on. He drove from one suburb to another, and another. When the opportunity presented itself, he took a toll road to save a little time. He focused on his driving, watchful for the crazies that were always out but seemed to multiple the deeper into the holiday season it got. Wouldn't want to have to call up his doctors and tell them he couldn't make because he was stuck in some other hospital. They might get jealous.

The thought made him giggle.

He exited the toll road eventually, and soon came to a stop at another stop light amidst an ocean of drab strip malls and barren trees. A few swirls of red tin emulated bows tied up the light poles. Banners reminded people that Tis the Season to shop local. The Coyote smirked, tracing his finger over the decorated poles. Streamers of Christmas lights followed in his wake, large spans of tinsel stretched across the street. Red and green ribbons shattered windows of buildings, stretching festive tendrils towards the leafless trees and swallowing them in colorful coils.

The light changed before the Writer could finish redecorating the intersection. He grumbled, and drove on. He glanced in his review mirror. Behind him, the lights exploded in a shower of sparks that set flame to the ribbons. The flames spread to the tinsel stretched across the road, and it collapsed onto the street in burning silver lines. A car drove through the flaming wreckage, scattering his crumbling imagination into shards of fading color, like melting snow.

"Are you imagining this, or are you hallucinating?" At the next light, Valyrym materialized upon the passenger seat again. He fumbled with the seatbelt, trying to strap himself in. "Because I'm starting to feel like Alvaranox over here."

The Writer smiled a little, drumming his fingers against the cold wheel. A good thing he appreciated the chill in the air, even if he wished the hazy curtains of mist drifting across the land were shrouds of snow. "Just trying to keep myself in a good mood."

"Shouldn't you have fur or something, then?" Valyrym gave a snarl of smug satisfaction when the seatbelt clicked into place. "That will show you, you troublesome bastard."

The Coyote laughed, perking his tan-furred ears as soon as they were back. "Yeah, you really conquered that seatbelt."

Valyrym smirked at The Coyote. "Made you smile though, didn't it."

"Yeah." The Coyote laughed, glancing over. "Thanks."

"Anytime, my friend."

The Coyote drove on, his mood improved enough for him to maintain the illusion a little longer. He glanced over at the black and gray dragon sitting on his passenger seat. Valyrym stared out the window, watching the world pass by. The dragon murmured his approval at a particular festive set of decorations, a tall Christmas tree with presents nearly as big as the Coyote's Car stacked all around it.

"You look like a dog sitting like that."

Valyrym, snorted, tossing his head. "Shut up."

"You want me to..." The Coyote gestured at the window.

"Kiss my stones, Coyote." The dragon snapped his jaws. "I'm not a dog."

"Be that way, then." The Coyote smirked to himself, counting down in his head. Five, four, three...

"Oh, roll the damn window down already." Valyrym huffed, shifting against the straining seat belt.

Laughing, the Coyote rolled down the passenger window. The old dragon immediately stuck his head outside, pinning his ears and spines back against his head. He opened his maw, flicking his flight membranes closed across his golden eyes. Then he snarled, and let his tongue hang out for a moment. Any moment now a line of dragon drool was going to drip off his tongue, splatter the windshield behind him and cause a pileup. Try explaining that to your insurance.

"WHHHEEEEEEEE!" Valyrym cried out. Then he blinked, and pulled his head back inside to hiss at The Coyote. "I do not say wheeeee."

"I think you just did." The Coyote smirked, rolling the window back up.

"You cheated." Valyrym growled, thumping his tail between the seats. "I was having fun, and then you had to go and ruin it for me."

"Oh, hush. I haven't ruined anything." The Coyote flicked his turn signal on, a few cold needles pricking his belly. Almost there.

"It's not fair to put words in my mouth." Valyrym growled, and flexed his tail, then made an odd face. He scrunched his muzzle, half-flared his frills and looked down. "Oh, damn."

"Now what?"

"My tail spines are stuck under the seat." He tugged on his tail, the spines that tipped it stubbornly caught beneath the passenger seat. "Your vehicle is insufficiently equipped for dragons!"

"Bet that's a letter of complaint they don't get often." The Coyote pulled into the hospital parking lot, gritting his teeth. All the years he'd come to this place, and he still got nervous every time.

"They damn well should." Valyrym flexed his tail, growling in effort. He reached his paw down to try and pull it free, and pushed the seat adjustment buttons. The seat rose higher, pushing the dragon's horned head against the roof. "ACK!" Valyrym fumbled with the buttons. The seatback tilted forward, squishing the dragon against the console. Valyrym squealed and flailed against seat and dashboard alike. "AH! Coyote! This mad contraption is crushing me!"

"Then stop hitting buttons!" The Coyote laughed, pulling into a parking spot. "And don't bang on the dashboard, you're gonna trigger the airbag." He reached down and moved the dragon's paw aside, then pushed the seat buttons until the poor dragon was no longer compressed. He undid his own seatbelt, leaned over, and carefully tugged Valyrym's trapped tail spine free. "There. Happy?"

"Don't act so smug. I could have done that." Valyrym curled his tail up to inspect the spines. He ran his paw pads over one of the spines. "Everything seems intact."

"Good." The Coyote smiled. He reached for his book and his 3DS, and saw that his hands were shaking. He swallowed, wrung his hands. "I...I gotta go."

Valyrym's voice softened. "I know. You'll be alright, Coyote."

"Yeah." The Coyote stared at his hands.

Valyrym shifted in his seat, stretching out to give The Coyote a hug. The Coyote leaned over to put his arms around the dragon, but Valyrym was already dissolving. There was nothing more than a whisper of mist that brushed against his fur, coiled around him in silent embrace, and then was gone. The Coyote sighed, and got out of his car.

There was no Valyrym.

He made his way across the parking lot, towards the hospital, fur falling from his body with every step.

There was no Coyote.

Not here, not where it was so hard to keep his mind from wandering darkened roads. He put on a brave face, he did what he had to do because there was no choice. He accepted it, dealt with it, and moved on simply because it was the only way. But that did not make it any easier, and most days he just wanted to get it over with and go home as quickly as possible.

The Writer wandered through the massive hospital complex to the offices that housed his doctor. The Christmas tree set up in the corner made him smile for a moment. He signed in, chatted with the jovial receptionists a moment. They'd known him by name for years. Then he went back to the elevators to go up a few floors to get his blood drawn. He thanked the person who held the door for him, then rode up in silence. At his floor, he made his way to the waiting room and flopped into a seat.

The Writer gazed around the waiting area as he waited his turn. Dark wood panels and recessed lighting belied the place's stark medical nature. They'd hung some pretty Christmas banners on either side of their large salt water fish tank. Another Christmas sat at the back of the waiting room, done up with glass ornaments and sparkling lights. At least they were festive here. It made him smile.

He leaned back on his chair, staring up at the ceiling. Decorative wooden beams crossed the white ceiling. The Writer lifted a trembling hand, and traced his finger along the beam. A single, tentative strand of Christmas lights crept forward, coiling around the beam. It paused, moved a few inches, and continued onward, like a snake exploring the way the world had changed after a long hibernation.

The door to the lab opened, and someone called his name. The light strand withered and shrank away like a dying vine. The Writer swallowed and set his belongings down on his empty seat, then pulled his hoodie off and set it over things. He walked into the lab area. It was stark, sterile and white. Three seats with padded arm rests sat in the corners. The phlebotomist smiled, waved at one of the seats and asked him how he was doing. The Writer smiled, answered that he was alright, and ready for Christmas.

Like everyone else here, the man knew the Writer by name. After all, he'd been getting his blood drawn here for more years than he cared to think about. Lately he got it drawn a lot more often. The writer glanced down at his right arm. There was still a mark there from last time. He glanced at his left arm. No recent marks but plenty of scars. He knew where they'd go. They'd ask, but they always went for the same place lately.

The phlebotomist spent a moment at the computer, clicking on records and checking which tests to run this time. He assembled a series of vials and tubes, each with a different colored top, and then pulled a fresh butterfly needle from the drawer.

"Which arm today, Buddy?"

The Writer gave a half-hearted chuckle. "Whichever you think you can find it in."

"Well..." The phlebotomist was an older man with a pleasant drawl and a playfully combative attitude whenever it came to the other technicians. He gently prodded the inside of the writer's left arm. "You know which one I like."

The Writer gave a bitter, knowing laugh. "Same place everyone else likes lately. It's about the only place they can get it."

Wasn't always the case. Used to be easy to find his veins. That was years ago, though. Since then, years of blood draws and needles in his arms and on again, off again medications left his veins withdrawn and in hiding. Not that he blamed them. The phlebotomists called it "rolling" sometimes, as if the veins could just roll out of the way of the needle, and leave the technician poking around blindly till they finally hit something.

Kinda like Battleship, only painful and annoying.

Actually, that was just like Battleship. Especially the movie version.

It was worse now that he was getting blood drawn so often, and they were down to just one reliable spot. It meant while that spot was still working, it was also increasingly lined with hidden scar tissue. Not only did they have to punch through it, but it often meant the vein wasn't quite where they expected it, which lead to another round of battleship. The last three trips in a row all ended that way.

The phlebotomist selected the same spot as usual in his right arm. It was alright, nothing the Writer didn't expect. And he knew well enough that this man in particular was really good at his job. The Writer braced himself. He relaxed his right arm and took a deep breath, then let it out. He waited, and as soon as the needle went in he took in another slow deep breath. The pain made him grit his teeth and clench the arm rest with his free hand.

The scars meant it hurt more these days than it used to. Some days it was quick, and some days it took a while. At least this time his favorite phlebotomist was the one drawing it. As usual, he hit the vein right away. The pain lingered longer than usual, but at least he didn't have to poke around. They chatted a little about sports and the holidays while the tech filled vial after vial with The Writer's rebellious blood. Then the needle was removed and replaced with a pad of gauze and a heavy, blue wrap around his elbow.

"Alright, Buddy, you have a good holiday."

"Thanks." The Writer rose up, and made his way out of the lab. "You too! See you next time."

The Writer gathered his things in the waiting room. He put his hoodie on, picked up his 3DS, his headphones and his book. He waited for the elevator, and rode it back to the floor where his clinic was. He checked in with the receptionist again, and went to the waiting room. Most of the seats and couchs were still open, though he doubted that would last for long. The clinic's waiting room always reminded him more of some high end hotel than a doctor's office. It had the same sort of recessed lightning and dark, paneled wood that the room upstairs had but with a more elegant design. The Writer took a seat at the front, near the little Santa display they'd set up.

He never liked the waiting room. It made him feel awkward. Nervous. He didn't like to hear people talk about their own conditions, it made him paranoid, made him worry what would go wrong with him next. He kept his eyes off the other people. He squirmed in his chair. His arm hurt. He wrung his hands. He reminded himself that there were people with worse conditions than his. Another voice in his head reminded him that his condition was worse than some of theirs, too, and perhaps far more rare. Some days it felt like a damn time bomb. How long until it went off? How long until all those preventative measures just weren't quite enough?

Lucky him. What was he, one out of a few thousand cases? Ought to play the damn lottery.

He wished he had ears to pin back.

A rare blood and bone marrow disorder, derived from another rare blood and bone marrow disorder. A rare patient among a group of rare patients, all gathered to see one hell of an amazing doctor. He smiled a moment, glad that if nothing else, circumstances had led him to the right doctor.

The Writer took his hoodie off. It was warmer in the waiting room than he liked. Didn't feel much like Christmas in there. He hugged the soft sweatshirt against himself, wishing, for a moment, he had someone there to hug him for real. Someone to cuddle when he felt alone. He sniffed, and closed his eyes, banishing the thoughts. A lot of good that would do him.

He opened his eyes, and glanced at the book he'd brought. A special book, bought for him by a good friend who'd sent it to him a few months earlier. An excellent novel with a gryphon as its main character, written by someone he'd befriended on Twitter. He picked up the book, Song of the Summer King by Jess Owens, and opened it. It was signed by the author, to the name all his readers knew him by, and it made him smile. The cover artist, Nambroth, signed it as well, and even drew a little gryphon doodle. He ran his fingers over the inscription and the drawing, very thankful for the friend who'd mailed it to him. He hoped the friend knew it.

He even had a return gift lined up for that friend, the first ever prototype DitD T-shirt. Which he'd planned to have sent already, but time and funds continued to conspire against him. Soon enough, though.

The Coyote glanced at TV, pinned his ears back. It was past his appointment time already. No surprise there, but...oh. He stared at his tan furred hand a moment. Look at that. The book made him happier than he'd realized. He was half-tempted to glance around and see what the other patients might look like now, but some poor old fox who'd lost all his fur to his treatments didn't seem very cheery.

The Coyote read a chapter of his book. He wanted to devour the thing, it was an excellent story, but he'd been pacing himself. Reading about a gryphon's adventures made for excellent distraction at the doctor's office, and so he'd been forcing himself not to consume the book in the evenings when he was back home. By the time he'd started the next chapter, a few people had been called back, and a few more had settled into chairs. Someone else started talking loudly about their recent complications. The Coyote felt nervous, what if that happened to him? He closed his book, and turned on his 3DS instead. He put the headphones over his tan furred ears, and cranked the volume to max.

That was better.

For a little while, The Coyote played his game. Bravely Default. He was a bit late to that particular party, but he didn't care. He loved a good old school JRPG, and grinding dungeons made for a good way to pass the time. As he played, a hint of color and movement caught his eye. He tilted his head back, and saw Ayly hanging from one of the recessed wooden panels that surrounded the waiting room. Her purple tipped tail swayed back and forth, her black back paws kicked at the air, and then with a gleeful cry she released her purchase and dropped down otno the table with the Santa display.

Ayly landed on her feet, and bumped her purple tipped snout right up against Santa. The tabletop display was about the same size as the hatchling. Her blue-masked face crinkled as she giggled. "Hi Santa! You look funny."

Santa did look funny. It was one of old fashioned, Nordic style Santa's, with a dark robe for fighting off the snow, and a brown cloak, a burlap sack and a happy but weathered face. The Coyote always liked those old fashioned Santas, like the sort of thing some medieval village would give to their children.

Santa promptly whapped Ayly on her nose with his walking stick. Ayly yelped and flopped onto her haunches, her silver and gold-flecked eyes going wide. She cupped her muzzle in a paw, and gave a long, plaintive whine that was little more than a poorly disguised plea for sympathy.

"Coyoteeeeeeeeee!" With her free paw, she pointed to Santa. "Santa hitted me!"

Santa waved his staff at her, shaking his head. "No one likes a tattletale, little Hatchling. Besides, you're on my naughty list for spilling that egg nog and blaming it on that poor gryphon."

Ayly gasped, her eyes wide. Her muzzle hung open.

"Yes, I know about that." Santa gestured with his staff. "I know everything that you've done! Stealing candy canes, spilling egg nog, selling crack, pirating videos, refusing to yield..."

The Coyote blinked, leaning forward. "Wait, what were those last few?"

Santa tapped Ayly on the nose with his walking stick. "You'd better shape up, Little Missy, if you want to get off my naughty list, or you won't be getting any toys this year." He shook his burlap sack for emphasis, toys rattling within.

Little Ayly fixed her brilliant eyes on the bag. She licked her nose, and crouched down, waggling her haunches.

Santa took a step back. "Don't you dare."

Ayly waggled her haunches again.

Santa spun his staff around his hands, shifting his stance. "Bring it on, then, I'll knock your adorable ass back to the north pole!"

The Coyote blinked, splaying his ears. "Geez, Santa, that's a little harsh, don't you think?"

Santa kept his eyes on the hatchling. They circled each other atop the table. "It's your escape from reality, Coyote, not mine. If you ask me, this story is Ho-Ho-Horrible!"

Ayly gasped again. "You're mean, Santa! I'mma get you for Coyote!"

Ayly flung herself at Santa just as the door opened, and someone called The Coyote's name. A gust of wind from the open door caught the hatchling and hurled her through the air. She tumbled and fluttered, scales spilling from her and into the air like dead leaves torn from a tree. Ayly vanished into the floor and sent ripples rolling across the tile like a stone tossed into calm water.

"Sorry, Ayly." The Coyote's ears drooped.

The Writer pulled his headphones off, and walked back through the door to the clinic. It was larger than it appeared from the outside, as the hospital complex was laden with offices and rooms tucked away on every floor. There were four examination rooms, a long nurses area with computers and files, a private bathroom for the patients, financial offices, consolation rooms, rooms with full hospital beds for seriously ill patients awaiting admission to the hospital itself or receiving day long infusions, and more.

The Writer went through the same procedure every time. They weighed him. They took his temperature. They took his blood pressure. They went him into one of the exam rooms to wait for the doctor. He settled into his chair. His mouth was dry. He should have asked for some water. He gazed around, stared at the computer screen the doctor used, looked at the signed jersey on the wall. He lifted a trembling hand, pointed a finger at the walls, but could not seem to make the magic come this time.

He rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. His stomach twisted.

The doctor knocked on the door, then entered. He felt a little more at ease. If there was one thing he was thankful for in this situation, it was his doctor. Through a combination of luck, timing, and specific illness, he'd ended up in the care of a very rare sort of doctor, the kind of person who just had a way of putting you at ease. Not only was the doctor an exceptionally knowledge specialists in the field of blood and marrow, but he was the kind of person the Writer could easily sit around and have a beer with, and talk video games or books.

In fact, most weeks they spent more time talking about their own various hobbies than they did about actual medical issues. That had changed lately, the balance had reverted to medical problems first, and books, comics, games and movies second. The Writer relaxed a little just talking to his doctor, though the subjects were not the sort of thing to calm his fear.

They talked about his blood counts. Down a little bit from last time, but not as far as down as they had been a few months earlier. They talked about their attempts to get him on a special, rare medication that was not only outlandishly expensive but also the only proven medication to manage his specific condition for the long term. The doctor had a second appeal letter all written up, and ready to sign off on. Insurance wasn't yet ready to pay for it, but between the doctor and the medication manufacturers, insurance would hopefully come around.

They talked about the reasons for the denial, and the writer allowed himself a little smile of bitter amusement. The very complications that insurance wanted him to have shown before they were willing to pay were the exact things the doctor wanted to prevent by putting him on the drug sooner rather than later. Especially since some of those complications could be fatal. It was apparently something that they would cover...they just had to be convinced that he needed to be on it now. The Doctor sounded like there was progress there. Good.

Not that The Writer was looking forward to being on it. Truth was, the very idea terrified him. It was not a pill nor a shot. It was an infusion, and he hated IVs. His veins were bad enough now that they couldn't always get the blood draw the first time, so he wasn't looking forward to getting a large gauge IV needle jammed into his flesh every few weeks for the rest of his life. Who knows how many attempts it would take them to stick that thing in the back of his hand, the inside of his arm. And with the cost that stuff had, any chance of ever getting off assistance and feeling like a useful contributor to the real world was...well...

No joy without pain.

No pain without joy.

No sense worrying about what he could not change, and what had not yet come to pass.

For now, he was on some stopgap medications, steroids and things that helped prevent his immune system from so actively destroying his blood, and blood thinners to help prevent those mangled cells from clotting unexpected. At least it had him feeling better. He wasn't one hundred percent worn out all the time, anymore, he wasn't getting daily stomach and abdominal pains thanks to a liver tired of chewing on damaged cells.

The Writer even had a lot more energy to put into writing. Granted, DitD 10 so far was probably a stream of consciousness mess fueled by jittery energy, but it was nothing editing couldn't fix. Not exactly a win-win considering the general state of his health, but better than some of the alternatives.

Now, if only he could think of something to write for Christmas. With the traditions he'd started among his fans, it just wouldn't feel quite like Christmas if he couldn't do something to put a smile upon their faces.

Not that the month felt that much like Christmas anyway. Not the way it used too.

Not spending a day in the doctor's office, a week before Christmas.

When they'd talked about medications and blood counts long enough, The Writer moved to take a seat on the exam bed. The paper crinkled under him. Off hand, he wondered what sort of animal his doctor would be if he existed in The Coyote's world. Interesting thought. Maybe sort of a hip but nerdy lion. He opened his mouth, said AH. He breathed in and out. He leaned back, and the doctor prodded his abdomen, examining his liver, his spleen.

He checked over his counts again. His liver tests looked better this week. That was good. The doctor altered his medication dosage a little, and set up another appointment. To The Writer's pleasant surprise, as long as he didn't have any problems, he didn't have to come back for three weeks, thanks to Christmas, New Years, and decent blood counts.

Of course, he'd heard that before, but he'd take what he could get.

When they were done, The Writer made his next appointment, and headed back into the hospital complex. He wandered from building to building to see the Christmas decorations before he went home. Over in the lobby of the hospital's main tower, he discovered an immense Christmas tree. It was easily three stories tall, and laden with massive decorations. Candy canes as the size of his leg hung from its oversized branches. Peppermints the size of giant Frisbees dotted it, along with glittering ruby spheres as big around as beach balls. Glowing lights as big as his fist speckled the branches, their colors slowly shifting and changing. At the very top of the tree was a life-sized angel, with spread wings adorned in white feathers, and flowing blue robe.

It was beautiful.

He tucked his book under his arm, and lift his hand. His fingers weren't trembling anymore. He pointed at the tree, then paused. Nothing he could do to make that any more beautiful than it already was. He stared at it a while, soaking it in. Voices drifting from the lower floors transmuted in his mind to brassy notes and angelic choirs. Hints of Christmas Music drifted through his head.

He turned away, and smiled. Time to go home.

*****

Six Days Before Christmas

*****

He reads the shouts.

He reads the comments.

Mostly they make him smile.

Sometimes they make him grit his teeth.

He wishes he had the energy to answer them all.

He reads the shouts. He reads the PMs. He reads the Notes. He reads the Tweets.

Where's DitD 10?

He wonders if they understand.

*****

In the morning, The Coyote smiles. He has a new project.

He's excited.

He wants to share it.

"Hi! I have this awesome new story I'm working on, I think you'll really like it."

"Where's DitD 10?"

Ears droop.

*****

They tell him to finish something.

He knows they're right.

He wonders if they understand.

So many stories begging to me told. So many voices crying out to be heard.

So hard to tell just one.

But he knows they're right.

He tries his best. Tries to finish something.

He's excited, proud of himself. Focused.

He wants to share it.

"Guess what! I'm finally focused on finishing something!"

"Finish DitD."

Ears droop.

*****

The Coyote smiles.

It feels good to write about Valyrym again.

It feels good to be back to DitD. He missed it.

He's excited to begin the end of Valyrym's tale.

But he knows what's coming.

"I'm writing DitD 10! It'll be out soon."

"Where's Black Collar?"

"When's Volunteer Maiden coming out? I thought you were going to finish that one."

Ears droop.

*****

It's never the right story for everyone.

He wonders if they understand.

He writes to find his peace.

He writes to paint his pictures.

He writes to make the snow fall.

*****

He returns to the comments that make him smile. Tweets and messages from stoats, dragons, and kitties make him happy. He's thankful. He wishes he had time to reply to everything, but the story won't write itself.

*****

Five Days Before Christmas

*****

At least it was cold out. The Coyote stared at the low, gray sky, willing it to snow. Instead it drizzled just enough to leavea fine layer of bleary mist coating the canine's glasses. He splayed his ears, blinking a few times. For a moment he was unsure if his glasses needed cleaning or if his eyes were still bleary. He hadn't slept well, he'd been up too late. When wasn't he up too late? He pulled his glasses off his muzzle, unzipped his hoodie and wiped his lenses with his black t-shirt. He popped his glasses back on, adjusted them, and flicked his tail. He spent a moment pondering just what sort of design change glasses would need to fit on a coyote's muzzle, over his ears. Or, for that matter, on a dragon's snout. He chuckled, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt.

At least it was cold out.

Nothing else seemed to be going right today.

He'd had big plans with his family, and had been looking forward to them for a while now. Every year The Coyote's family had a tradition of visiting a local resort hotel to wander the Christmas displays. It was a sprawling place, with an entire indoor river-walk village inside it complete with water falls, a flowing river with koi, and gardens and displays with trees and plants from around the state. An assortment of restaurants, little cafes, a bakery, stores, and a coffee shop ringed the multi-leveled plaza at the center of the hotel.

Every year during the holidays that transformed it into a massive Christmas display. Every year it was a little different, and every year it was stunning. It reminded The Coyote of those elaborate, collectable models of those north pole villages. The cafés and buildings were done up to look like life-size gingerbread houses. There were presents the size of cars wrapped up beneath trees as tall as houses. Layers of fake but convincing snow covered almost every surface. Everything glowed with scintillating hues of millions of lights. Layers of white lights hung from the vaunted, sky-light filled ceilings like curtains of glittering snow drifting through the air. Red and white were like peppermint icing along the edges of the gingerbread buildings. Rainbow lines circled the trees in spirals. It was beautiful.

Or so he remembered it. Been a year since he'd been there.

Usually they went fairly early, just after Thanksgiving, or at the beginning of December. But this year they hadn't had a chance to go yet. Hadn't had a chance to do a lot of things they often did before Christmas. They hadn't had much time to go look at Christmas lights. Hadn't been able to make many Christmas shopping trips. Felt like he'd spent a lot more time thinking about Christmas than actually doing or seeing anything Christmasy. This was usually his favorite month of the year, a whole month to think and feel happy, to buy things for others, to smile. A whole month leading to that one day of perfect peace. Usually he savored the slow build towards that special, serene day. This year, the whole month just seemed compressed, it just seemed...off. Between the unusually balmy weather that had taken up most of the time, the trips to the doctor, his overspending, and the rest of the stressful things, it just hadn't felt that much like Christmas.

That trend continued that morning. He'd gotten up early, intent on doing some writing before they drove off to the see the resort all done up for Christmas. But not long after he'd gotten up, he found out they weren't going. Not that it was anyone's fault. His father caught the flu at work, and had gone from feeling a little under the weather to feeling downright terrible. He'd planned to take his mother there if his father wasn't up to it, but the back problem she'd had earlier in the week had come back worse than ever. So instead of their fun, Christmasy day out, he'd run some errands for his parents, picked up some things they needed and returned home to stare at the sky that brought no snow.

His mother wanted to reschedule for the next weekend, as they event ran through New Year. The Coyote didn't like that idea, but he didn't tell them that. He just smiled and told her that'd be fun. The problem for The Coyote was that he was very much about living in the moment most days. It was very hard for him to plan ahead because he never knew what the future would hold. The more plans he put in place, the more weight he felt he was piling on thin ice.

With Christmas, The Coyote waited all year round for that one peaceful day where he felt no fear, no worries, only joy. When December rolled around, he wanted to spend each day, each week leading up to Christmas celebrating that most wonderful of months. Visiting one of his favorite Christmas displays was a special, festive treat when Christmas was right around the corner. Visiting it in the days that followed his favorite Holiday was more a reminder of how long he'd have to wait until it rolled around again.

He still wanted to go, he still wanted to see the place done up so beautifully, but the feeling just wouldn't be the same.

This whole month didn't feel the same. Too many days of warm weather that didn't feel right. Too many days stuck sitting at home, watching the sky move, wishing for snow. Too many hours spent wringing his hands in a waiting room.

When he was done with his errands, he wanted to spend the afternoon writing, but disappointment lead to frustration, and frustration was an anchor around his mind. He wanted to talk to Valyrym, but there was no Valyrym. He watched TV, cheered on a rival football team when their victory helped his own beloved team. He checked on his parents, and made a frozen pizza.

He stared at the monitor. He typed a few words. He knew he should write more, but the snow wouldn't fall. He could force it, but he just didn't have the energy. He opened a beer. He typed a few more words, but nothing funny came out. No silly scenarios, no tricky word play or call backs.

He sipped his beer. He read comments and message from friends, and they made him smile. They brightened his mood, made him feel loved, made him feel like he mattered, eased his fear for a while. But the snow wouldn't fall. He had no silent peace, no white canvas on which to paint his pictures. There was no Valyrym, there was no coyote, and there was no snow.

The Writer picked up an old book he'd been meaning to read this year. We Three Dragons, a collection of Christmas-themed dragon stories. He'd bought a brand new copy years ago, but never got around to reading it before Christmas that year. Couldn't bring himself to read it once Christmas had passed, because the feeling just wasn't the same. He'd lost it, after that, and stumbled on a second copy at Half Price Books. Snatched it up.

Now...now it was the perfect time to read it, before Christmas was here.

The Writer took his book, and his beer, and went to sit outside in the cold to read, because there were no more words to write.

*****

He watches SNL. He marvels at the Christmas decorations, the white lights, the glowing trees. It feels a little more like Christmas.

He sits at the computer.

He visits the DitD Chat room.

He talks to his friends.

His friends make him smile.

He is thankful.

*****

Four Days Before Christmas

*****

The Coyote, trotted down the stairs late in the morning, his ears perked. Today should be fun. He'd slept in, and was ready to get himself some iced coffee together, then settle in to watch football for the afternoon. Football was one of his few rare passions that wasn't completely nerdy. He obsessed over it all season long, rode the roller coaster with his beloved teams. After writing, there were few things he could lose himself so completely in for a few hours as watching his favorite team play. Nothing lifted him higher and left him feeling happier for a few days than seeing them win. They'd won a lot lately, which was rare for his team. In fact, today was their biggest, most important game of the year, and...

"Your mom's in the ER right now."

The Writer froze at the bottom of the stairs. "What?" He turned towards his dad, settled in a recliner, dressed and plinking at an old, battered guitar. "Why? Is it her back again?"

"Yeah, she has a kidney infection, they have her on morphine." His father plinked a few more notes, the concern that hung heavy in his voice didn't diminish penchant for randomly playing guitar through any conversation. "If it helps, I can bring her home in a little bit."

"Kidney infection?" The Writer rubbed his forehead, heart thudding against his chest. Well, that escalated quickly. If it wasn't such a serious, worrying conversation, The Writer would have laughed at the way his father explained it. It was typical for him. He seemed to either circle around the point for ages before finally getting back to it, or he'd just straight to it and leave out everything else. "I thought she had a stiff back."

"Well, she felt worse this morning, and wanted to go in to get checked out." The Writer's father strung out a few more notes from the old guitar. They were out of tune, and his dad twisted the tuning keys a few times. Though his dad had quite the collection of nice guitars, the one who carried around the house with him was always one of the cheapest, crappiest, pieces of junk he could find. Seemed like he had to tune it against every couple of notes. Granted, that also meant if he dropped it or a cat knocked it over, no big loss. "Turned out to be a pretty serious kidney infection. They thought it might have been a stone, at first."

"So..." The Writer wrung his hands, scowling. "She's okay, or...?"

"They think she will be, but if the morphine doesn't help, they may have to admit her to the hospital for a day or so." His dad set his guitar aside for the moment, scratching his face. "I would have stayed, but for some reason, they didn't want me hanging around while I'm sick myself."

"Yeah, imagine that."

"By the same token," his father said, rising to his feet. He used that saying a lot. "I'm about to go see if I can bring her home or not, but three other flu patients came in just while we were in the waiting room, so you might wanna wait here. Your mother wouldn't want you risking it."

The Writer folded his arms. "Yeah, nothing a crap immune system likes more than flu germs." Same reason he'd been keeping his distance from his dad the last few days. He'd had his flu shot, his doctor always made sure it got him early, but could never be too careful. He drummed his fingers against his arms. "No offense but I probably shouldn't spent any time sitting in a closed car with you till you're better, either. I'll wait, and if they have to admit her, I'll go visit as soon as she's in a private room."

"Yeah, that's smart." His father fetched his jacket, and his car keys. "Okay, I'm going to go, then. With any luck I'll be back with your mother a little later."

His father left, and the Writer paced around a little bit. But pacing and worrying wasn't going to do him or his mother any good. He decided to spend a little of what money he had left and treat himself to an iced mocha. It was still nice and cool outside, so he went without his sweatshirt to really savor the chill. On the way to the coffee shop he turned on the local sports radio and listened to their predictions and analysis of the upcoming game. Everyone seemed optimistic. That was good. Win this game, and his beloved team would clinch their division, and finally make it back to the playoffs after five long years of mediocrity and depressing endings.

At the coffee shop, he waited in line. His thoughts alternated between worrying about his mother, ideas for his Christmas story, and nervous excitement for the football game soon to begin. Sometimes he thought it would be nice if his mind wasn't always so scatter shot, but true focus was something that usually eluded him. There were always a hundred things on his mind, a cavalcade of worries and hopes and fears and dreams and ideas demanding to be written. It was one of the reasons he wrote so many different things. Sometimes it was the only way to get a few of those ideas out of his head, to make room for more. Sometimes writing was the only way to focus, the only way to quiet the fear for a little while.

"You getting' the usual?"

The Writer blinked. Lost in his thoughts, as always. "Yup, that's it." He pulled out a few bills, then grinned. "Actually, make it a peppermint mocha today."

"Whoa." The barista, a taller gentlemen who often wore a top hat, gave him a fake glare. "I don't like it when you throw me off. What have you done with my regular customer?"

Okay, now he knew he'd spent too much time and money in that particular Starbucks over the years. The baristas were making jokes with him. He chuckled and paid, and went to wait for his appropriately festive peppermint mocha. He took his drink when it was ready, and headed back outside. The cooling peppermint flavor made the cold air outside feel even colder, even more Christmasy. It wasn't snowing, and it wasn't going too, but at least it felt a little more festive.

It seemed strange to think that Christmas was so close, when it still felt like it should be weeks away. So many things they hadn't gotten to do this year. Still, that was how life went.

Once he was back home again, The Writer paced around a little more. He watched some of the earlier football games to occupy his mind while he waited for word about his mother. Not too long after he got home, she got home with his father. He hurried down stairs to see how she was, and while his father helped her to the sofa, The Writer got her tea started.

"So they let you out, huh?" He laughed a little as he waited for kettle to boil.

"Barely." His mother groaned in pain as she eased down onto the sofa with his father's help. "Morphine was making me nauseas so they had to stop it."

"Oh, so you talked your way out of there." The Writer shook his head, grinning. Same thing he woulda done. "So what did they give you for the pain instead? And what kind of antibiotics?"

"I don't remember." His mother tried to make herself comfortable, waving her hand towards a stack of papers stapled together.

The Writer made tea when the water was hot, then added some milk and brought it to his mother. She thanked him, and he took the papers. He read through all the tests they'd administered, and the prescriptions they'd given her. They'd given her some very serious antibiotics, so he hoped they'd get her feeling better soon. A lot of pain pills too, and some nausea pills.

"Do you have to go back or anything?"

His father answered for her. "Only if she can't keep the medication down. Or if she doesn't get better."

The Writer scowled. Not exactly the definitely answer he was hoping for, but it was to be expected. He knew well enough how doctors worked after all. "Yeah, that makes sense."

He put the papers back, and then sat with his mother a little while. He talked with her and his father, drank his coffee, and kept her company till she was ready for a nap. He made sure she had her phone and made sure he had his turned on in case she needed anything. That way his father could take a nap too or sit out back on the patio like he enjoyed, and his mother could just text them if she needed anything.

The Writer headed up stairs to watch his team play. Now that his mother seemed to be doing a bit better than that morning, the excitement for the football game was returning. He settled into his desk chair with the rest of his peppermint mocha, checking out the scores from the earlier game. These days he preferred to watch football games on his own TV. It sat near his computer, which meant not only did he get to sit up close to the HD TV while in his desk chair, but he also got to use his computer at the same time. The multi-tasking suited his easily fragmented mind.

Watch a play, turn to the computer tweet about it.

Tweet again, then turn back to the tv and watch another play.

Cheer, growl, snarl, scream, yell, roar, celebrate.

Share his sports happiness, commiserate his football misery.

On this day, there was little to commiserate, and much to celebrate.

His beloved team took a commanding lead early, and never let up. The Coyote cheered every touchdown, every good hit, every turnover his team forced, every point they scored. The game was effectively over long before the full sixty minutes had been played, and soon every touchdown his team scored to widen the lead only added to the celebration that was brewing inside their fans. Inside the Coyote. Five long years of irrelevancy, four seasons in a row that ended in heartbreak, all erased in one beautiful, perfect game.

Joy.

Strange that so simple a thing as men throwing a ball around and hitting each other could bring him so much happiness, but he was happy to feel it just the same. Sometimes he wished he was still that nerdy, awkward kid from his youth who didn't care a thing about sports. He was still nerdy and awkward but he sure as hell hadn't been a kid for years, and somehow, his favorite football team had crafted a barbwire cage around his heart and held him captive for sixteen games every year.

Most years it ended in heartbreak. Most years it ended in mediocrity at best, but not this year. This year they were Champions again. Granted, only champions of their division, but after all the years of failure it felt like they'd won at all. He was happy enough just to get to see a playoff game that mattered to him again. Even if they lost it, it was still a beautiful season.

"Division Champions!" The Coyote yelled, thrust his tan-furred fists in the air and jumped out of his seat. "Playoffs! Finally!" He jumped up and down a few times, wagging his tail. He spun in a circle, and then thrust a finger at the TV when they flashed a graphic announcing that his team's victory had vanquished their rival from the playoff chase. "Yes! Suck it, you nerds! SUCK IT!"

Granted, calling a team of professional athletes nerds only pointed out who the real nerd was. The Coyote didn't care. He jumped and bounced, he clapped and wagged, and if he wasn't so damn awkward he might have even danced a little.

The Coyote bounced on the balls of his feet a few times, ears perked, panting in glee.

"WHEEEE!" A familiar voice echoed his happiness.

The Coyote glanced over. Ayly stood atop the messy blankets on his bed. She hopped and bounced on her little purple and blue paws, giggling. She waggled her silver-speckled haunches and swished her tail in vague approximation of a canine. The Coyote laughed at her antics, wagging his own bushy, gray and tan furred tail harder. He bounced a few more times.

"WHEEEEE!" He grinned at Ayly.

"WHEEEEEE!" Ayly giggled and grinned back at him.

The Coyote bounced. Ayly bounced.

The Coyote flopped into his chair and spun it in a circle. Ayly spun in a circle atop his bed.

The Coyote jumped back up out of his chair, and threw his arms in the air again. "We won! Division Champs, Ayly!"

Ayly leaned back onto her haunches to thrust her purple and blue paws into the air. "Wheeeeeeee!"

The Coyote laughed and went to the bed. He snatched Ayly up and tossed her into the air over his head a few times. "Wheeeee!"

"WHEEEEEEE!" Ayly giggled and cried out each time she was tossed into the air. She flailed her paws on the way down, only for The Coyote to toss her back up into the air.

"Division Champs, Ayly!" He tossed her into the air again, laughing.

"What's thaaaaaaat!" Ayly squealed as she dropped back into his arms.

"It means we're awesome!" The Coyote tossed her up one more time.

"YAAAAAAY!" Ayly flared her tiny, purple edged wings and glided back down onto the bed. She flopped into the blankets, spun in circles a few times. "WHEEEEEE!" Then she stumbled to a stop. She cocked her head, a funny look crossed her face. She scrunched her nose a little. "Wait. Doesn't weeeeee mean peeeeee?"

"What?" The Coyote dropped his arms, blinking. Uh oh. "Oh no. Ayly, don't you dare! Don't you even think about peeing on my bed!"

Ayly glanced at the blankets, her wings shaking. "....Oops."

"Ayly!" The Coyote ran a hand down his muzzle, flattening his ears. "You didn't."

Ayly giggled and shook her head. "Noooo! I peed on Grandfather's bed!"

"You did what?" The Coyote went to the bed, checking the blankets just to be sure. "Wait, he sleeps on the floor...and my bed!"

Ayly giggled and cupped her muzzle in her paws, her tiny spikes flared in mischievous glee.

"Very, funny, Ayly." The Coyote sat down on his bed, then flopped onto his back and pulled Ayly onto his chest like a scaly cat. She snuggled down against him, purring as The Coyote stroked her wings. "You know, that reminds me. Wanna hear something funny about your father?"

Ayly arched herself into The Coyote's petting, nodding. "Uh huh!"

"Okay, but you can't tell anyone I told you this. Or your father will be angry with me."

Ayly swatted at The Coyote's chest with her purple paw. "Tell! Tell me tell me tell me!" She gave a long, drawn out whine. "Tell meeeeeeeee!"

"Alright, alright." The Coyote laughed, tracing a line around the tiny, smooth scales of Ayly's black neck. A festive, red velvet ribbon followed in the wake of his finger. "When your father was a hatchling, even younger than you..." He tapped her throat, and a bell materialized at the front of the ribbon. It jingled merrily as Ayly giggled and squirmed. "The first thing he did after hatching...was pee all over himself in his parents' bed of soft things."

Ayly's silver eyes got so wide the tiny golden flecks in them shone like Christmas lights. She burst into a fit of giggles so intense it nearly shook the little scales from her body. "Father peed himself!?"

The Coyote laughed with her, rubbing her neck. "Yes! And then they took him out into the rain to wash him and--"

Ayly jumped to her feet, still giggling. "Father peed himself!"

"Ayly, keep it down!"

Ayly did no such thing. "I have to tell Lellumgurb!"

"He's not even here yet! And I told you to keep it to yourself!"

"Lellumgurb!" Ayly hopped off the Coyote, whirling around so fast her tail whapped him on the nose.

"Ow!" The Coyote rubbed his nose, wincing. "Mind the tail, Ayly!"

Ayly ignored his carefully placed callback. "LELLUMGURB!" She jumped off the bed, sprinted through the door and ran down the stairs, her bell jingling. "FATHER PEED HIMSELF!"

The Coyote sat up on the edge of his bed. He adjusted his glasses, grinning. "Merry Christmas to you too, Ayly."

*****

He wants to celebrate.

He checks on his mother.

He buys a rare beer on tap at a nearby bar.

He celebrates his team's division championship by himself.

He smiles.

He drives around and looks at Christmas lights.

It feels a little more like Christmas.

*****

Two Days Before Christmas

*****

The Writer spent the afternoon shopping with his mother. They had a lot of catching up to do to get everything they needed for Christmas and Christmas Eve meals. The Writer offered to do all the shopping himself but his mother insisted on going with him while she was feeling marginally better. After being basically confined to her bed and the sofa for the last few days, he couldn't blame her for wanting to get out of the house.

Outside, the air held a nice chill again. The breeze was brisk enough for The Writer to contemplate bringing his coat instead of his sweatshirt. He stuck with his hoodie, may as well enjoy the pre-Christmas chill while it was here. The sky was overcast, leaden and gray rather than white. They'd seen cold rain the night before, but no sign of snow.

They had quite the journey before them, and his mother hatched quite the well laid plan that included four different stores to be visited in a particular order. Any moment now, Nicolas Cage would show up and start searching for hidden clues in his Mother's extensive notepad lists.

They had to buy ham and salami, cake and cookies, egg nog and cheese, and even some vegetables just so they wouldn't have an immediate heart attack or a frozen bowel. Their search for the greatest of savings carried them across town, from store to store, each more festively crowded than the last. There were old ladies knocking each other out with bricks over ginger snaps, rootin', tootin' cowboys firing their guns in the air to scare off the egg nog looters, and a couple of Santas on bath salts biting each other's faces in the parking lot.

At least the Writer and his mother didn't get punched and didn't have to bite anyone.

In the end they were able to prevail and pick up all the things they needed. Despite the crowds there were still enough hams remaining to satisfy even Galvarys The Ham Dragon. The fourth store still carried the egg nog that the others had sold out of. A selection of delicious and not-too-overpriced salamis meant the Christmas Eve platters would not go adorned with cured meats. Several aged cheeses were on sale, red velvet cookies with cream cheese icing and red sprinkles were too good to pass up. If nothing else, Christmas Eve was going to be delicious.

The sprawling array of snack trays filled with meats, cheeses, crackers and cookies that The Writer always featured in his Christmas stories was a real tradition among his family. They never had anything quite that extensive, but their little assortment of delicious bites was one of the best parts of Christmas Eve. His family started that tradition from long before he was even born. Rumor was, one of the first years his parents spent Christmas together they were nearly broke. They'd spent their money on their Christmas Dinner, and had nothing left over for the night before, so they'd just gathered up whatever snack foods they could and spread it out around the kitchen and had a few friends over to share.

Over the years it became tradition, and now it just wasn't Christmas Eve without it. There'd be sliced meats and cheeses, cured salamis and sausages, crackers and biscuits, pickled herring, tins of smoked oysters and clams, chips and dip, Christmas cookies, deviled eggs, and probably a bunch of other crap, too. But not really crap, because it was all delicious. Also, while The Writer was in the last store, they were sampling an assortment of champagnes and ales, and so this part of the story felt just a little more like the usual Christmas tale for a minute or seven.

The hours passed, and in time they returned home. It took journey after journey between car and home to finally empty out the truck of its delicious hoard. The Writer felt like some villager, bringing in the last harvest before the coming snows to prepare for the long, cold winter. A shame in his part of the world there was no such thing as a long cold winter. No sign of snow or ice, just the many dead leaves that crunched beneath his shoes each time he crossed the front yard to the car and back.

Once everything was inside, The Writer made some room in the fridge. He moved a few colonies of strange life forms from the bottom of old containers into the trash, and packed everything he could into the refrigerator. With some careful re-arranging he was able to get everything inside and close the door, too. If only he could organize his life the way he could organize a fridge, he might actually be onto something.

While he packed food away, his mother hobbled outside and got the mail. Upon return, she handed him an envelope addressed to him. A quick glance at it made him scowl. Looked like it was from some medical lab. He knew what that was, then. He opened the envelope and pulled out the letter, and sure enough it was an expensive bill for a blood test he really shouldn't be getting billed for. It was, after all, supposed to be the sort of thing that was covered. But from time to time, the labs who did his more exotic blood tests liked to send him bills to politely demand more money than he could possibly afford. Usually it turned out to be some kind of billing error, like the time they tried to charge him for the adjustment payment between lab and insurance company. Most of the time a phone call was enough to straighten things out. Right off the bat, he saw that they seemed to have misspelled or mislabeled the insurance group they were supposed to be charging. He was no expert, but he'd wager it might be hard to payment when you labeled the insurance company wrong.

Or maybe the insurance company had refused payment. Maybe something had changed. What if he'd hit some invisible cap? Maybe after they denied they special medication, they decided they didn't want to pay for anything else related, either. Maybe it was a rare test they didn't cover. He'd have to borrow money from his parents just to pay the bill. His hands tightened against the letter. The paper scrunched. He grit his teeth, his fingers shaking.

Get a grip. It's just an error. You can straighten this out.

No joy without pain.

Sometimes it was so easy for his fears to take hold. One little moment of worry, and suddenly his mind was nothing but a cascade of worst case scenarios. Some days, unexpected things like this just crushed him. All it took was that one unexpected problem, that one anxious knife in his gut and all his anxieties came flooding out at once. A smothering weight of uncertainty and fear.

One unexpected bill, probably in error, and The Writer was fighting off waves of panic, trying to convince himself his insurance wasn't canceled.

And now he had to call somebody.

God, he hated making phone calls like that.

It was a foolish, meaningless fear over nothing, and yet it squeezed his heart just the same.

Most days he was fine. Most things he could handle. Other days the simplest things could terrify him. Like calling a lab's billing agency to talk about an error. The Writer would never understand why such things scared him so deeply. He'd put it off, and dread it, and it would grow and grow in his mind. His stomach would twist and his hands would shake when he picked up the phone. Even now, even writing about it, the anxiety in the back of his mind, that formless worry left his fingers icy and trembling with every word he typed.

He'd always been like that. Dealing with people that way just left him nearly overwhelmed with a sort of social anxiety, a near-crippling fear of everything that could go wrong. It was hard to pick up the phone, and it was even harder to and see people in person. He'd have to do it, though. He'd have to find a way. For now, though, there was fear. Worry. Dread.

Wonderful timing, lab billing company. Right before Christmas. Thanks a lot for that.

Just what I wanted to spend Christmas obsessing over.

The Writer folded up the bill and stuffed it back in the envelope. He took a deep breath and let it out slow. Sometime after Christmas he'd call them, and see if it was just a mistake. If not, they'd have to re-submit it. He swallowed and ran a hand back through his hair. He tried to remind himself he knew what to do. He'd been through this before. The hospital financial consultant told him how to handle it last time. This was something that should be covered, and the lab had to work it out with the insurance. He shouldn't let them bully him.

But what if...

No.

Maybe they won't...

No!

He affixed the envelop to the fridge with a magnet. He hated having to see it every time he went into the kitchen, but he didn't want to forget it, either. Maybe in a week or so, he'd try calling them. When he'd worked up the nerve. Wouldn't do him any good now, anyway, it was late, they'd be closed, and he doubted they'd be open Christmas Eve, anyway.

Besides, it was Christmas. He wanted to enjoy himself.

He scowled, huffing. If only it would snow.

The Writer checked on his mother. She'd settled into bed with a heat pad for her back. He made himself some coffee and slunk up the stairs. He knew one way to settle his mind, if only for a little while. He flopped into his desk chair, turned on his computer. He sipped his coffee and fired up Word. He drummed his fingers against the keyboard, scowling.

Time to try and make it snow.

*****

A surprise, early Christmas gift from a good friend makes him smile.

Tail wags.

*****

Christmas Eve

*****

The Coyote leaned back in the lawn chair on his back patio. He propped his feet up on the glass-top table, staring up at the late afternoon sky. It was clear and blue, and on any other day the azure expanse would have been breathtaking. But on Christmas Eve, it just felt wrong. Too bright, too clear, too warm. He didn't even need his sweatshirt to sit outside, not with the sun warming his gray and tan fur.

The Coyote pinned his ears back, grunting. It just didn't feel like Christmas. Certainly not physically, not with the sun and the warmth returning just in time to spoil the Christmas weather. Going to be warmer tomorrow, too. At least they said it would get nice and cold overnight. It would make for a pleasantly chilling Christmas morning, even if the cool air would be usurped by sunlight and a warm breeze come the afternoon.

Emotionally speaking, it sure as hell hadn't felt like Christmas either. Where was the sustained, month-long feeling of happiness he remembered? Maybe it was all nostalgia, all tinted by some youthful filter, back when the whole month seemed geared around that one special day. Back when it was full of surprise and anticipation and wonder. Back when he thought, for a moment, that his life held promise.

The Coyote scrunched his muzzle. Nonsense. He still had promise. Just hadn't fulfilled much of it yet. Hardly the point of the story, though. He flicked an ear, chuckling. Getting too meta for his own good again. Besides, it wasn't just some nostalgic lens he gazed through that made it feel different. It wasn't that many years ago he recalled taking his time with the month to really draw it out, to really enjoy it. He used to make lots of shopping trips all month long, several a week to buy a few things here, a few things there. He'd take time to wander the malls, marvel at all the beautiful displays, get himself a meal and a beer, and take time to drive home the long way to look at lights. He'd peruse places like Half Price books, pick up gifts for family, browse the myriad fantasy novels and feel inspiration stick its claws in his brain with a bevy of new ideas.

But the last few years...just hadn't gone that way. A few years ago, it was that idiot who rear-ended him at a stop light on his first shopping trip of December. Hit him so hard it left the car's very frame warped. No one was hurt aside from bruises, thankfully, but insurance totaled the car. Had to squeeze all the shopping into a single week that month, right before Christmas. Then there was the ice storm that came last year. Much as he loved the cold weather, inches of ice coating every road put a damper in your holiday plans. Then this year, the extra trips to the doctor's office, and his own stupid spending exuberance. Felt like it had been so long since he'd gone Christmas shopping, he just got carried away and blew his monthly budget in the first couple days of shopping. Left him sitting on his furry butt the rest of the month while the days dragged on and the holiday month bled away.

Strange how the days could both fly by in an instant, and yet in the moment to moment, they felt suspended, a scene that would never end, a day that would never come.

But the day always came. Sunny or cold, a good month or bad, stressed out or carefree, Christmas always came, and Christmas was always wonderful. A day of peace and relaxation, a day of celebration, and love. A day to share with family. A day to give gifts and make people smile. That was his favorite part. Oh, and getting stuff was pretty cool, too.

Speaking of gifts, The Coyote still had things to wrap. He wagged his tail against the chair cushion. Where everyone else liked to have everything done long before Christmas Eve, The Coyote had his own little tradition. He always left wrapping his presents for last. He liked to wrap things in the evening, on Christmas Eve. It was one last holiday tradition before the morning came, before the presents were opened, before dinner was eaten...before that beautiful moment was swept away by the ceaseless tide of time for another year.

Oooh, he had some peppermint bark in his room, too. Yum. He wagged his tail a little more. Heh. Bark. He'd let the readers make their own pun about bark and canines. What else did he have stashed away up there? Ooh, candy canes. Assuming Ayly hadn't gotten to them first. And all the gifts he'd bought, piled atop one another waiting to be wrapped. He'd do that last, after the traditional Feast of Many Snacks, and after he'd gone out looking at Christmas lights.

Driving around to see the local Christmas light displays on Christmas Eve was another family tradition. Every year his father made the same argument that no one was home on Christmas Eve and no one's lights would be on, and every year he admitted his surprise that so many light displays were shining. The Coyote chuckled and shook his head. This year it would probably just be him, he doubted either of his parents would be up for it. He knew a couple of friends who liked Christmas lights almost as much as he did, but given that they lived two hours away and had two young children, they weren't exactly available for a light tour on Christmas eve.

That was alright, driving around by himself just meant he could look at even more lights for even longer.

Wag, wag, wag.

"I wanna go swimming!" A little hatchling's voice dragged the coyote back out of his thoughts. Ayly peered up at him, her blue-masked head tilted. She licked her purple tipped nose. "I'mma go swimming, Coyote!"

The Coyote laughed, shaking his head. "Your father would eat me if I let you go swimming without supervision."

Ayly whined and shifted her weight back and forth on her paws. She coiled her little black and purple tail. "I wanna swiiiiiiiim!"

"But Ayly--"

Ayly turned and pointed her paw at the swimming pool. "You can stupidvise me from here!"

The Coyote blinked, splaying his ears. He wasn't sure if she'd just insulted him or not. He gazed across the small backyard. It had two small tiered levels. They had a small swimming pool, surrounded by pebbly pavement and a little gardening space. Below the pool was a narrow strip of land that used to be lined with towering willow and pear trees. Years back, wood peckers and hawks and things nested in the trees. But drought and blight had killed them off, and they had to have them removed. Now the only thing he saw when he gazed into the backyard was the walls of the neighbors houses.

The Coyote grunted, and glanced at the pool again. The water looked a little brackish lately. The filter needed repairs, and the water needed to be shocked and hit with algaecide. His father had planned to do all those things recently, but the same financial constraints and illnesses that had derailed their holiday plans had also impacted his pool maintenance schedule. Not that The Coyote himself minded. He wasn't much of a swimmer anyway, he'd only used the thing a time or two. When the summer heat set in and everyone wanted to use the pool, he'd rather just sit inside where the AC kept it nice and cool.

"Ayly, I don't think you wanna swim in there right now anyway."

"Why?" Ayly glanced back at the coyote, then trotted up to the pool to stare into the water.

"Does it look like water you want to be swimming in?"

Ayly looked at The Coyote again, confused. She shrugged her little wings. "Looks like water."

Oh. Right. She was from a world without chlorine. Wasn't that long ago he was writing a scene in which she was swimming after a duck in a mud puddle, and yelling for a gryphon to rescue her. Oops, spoiler alert. Too late. The Coyote chuckled and sat up in his chair, watching as Ayly paddled across the pebbly surface to the stairs that lead into the water.

"Ayly, I don't think you should swim in there right now."

Ayly padded to the first stair, and waggled her haunches. "Why not?"

"Cause it's got algae and stuff in it."

Ayly gasped, her jaw dropped. She hissed at the water. Then she blinked, huffing. "What's al-gees?"

"It's algae, and...well..." He scratched at his ear, licking his nose. "See all that greenish stuff? And the black patterns on the bottom? Those are algae, and normally we'd kill them all off but we haven't had the money. Besides, the water's too cold to swim in right now."

Ayly had already stopped paying attention. She glared at the water. "Al-gees is my foes!"

The Coyote flicked an ear back, rising up from his chair. "Wait, what?"

"I'mma get you, al-gees!" Ayly backed up a few paces and waggled her haunches again.

"Wait, Ayly, don't! You'll freeze your scales off in that water."

Ayly, of course, ignored him. She bound forward and leapt over the stairs that led into the pool. The Coyote yipped in alarm, and thrust his hand into the air to summon something to stop her. A coil of tinsel and lights, a wall of santa hats, anything to keep her from plummeting into the icy waters. Little materialized, just a puff of swirling snow that Ayly plunged through with a squealing cry of glee. Ayly splashed down into the cold waters of the brackish pool, vanished a moment, and popped back up, paddling around and coughing.

"Coyote, Help! It's a trap!" She splashed and whined and whimpered. "It's cold in here! The al-gees getted me!"

The Coyote stared at his hand as he walked to the pool. He still had his fur, but not much of his Christmas magic remained. He fetched the long-handled pool skimmer, and turned back to the water. "Hold still, Ayly, I'll get you out."

Ayly paddled in a circle, yowling. "Coyote! Help! HELP! The al-gees tricked me made it cold! The al-gees are getting me!"

The Coyote couldn't help a laugh. He shook his head as he pushed the skimmer net into the water. "That's not what's happening, Ayly. I told you the water was cold, but you didn't want to listen." He pushed the net towards her, and Ayly paddled away from it, giggling. "Hey! Quit screwin' around, you screw too much." The Coyote grinned. Couldn't even remember what show he was referencing anymore. He pushed the net towards Ayly, but she only paddled away from it again. "Ayly, do you need rescuing or not."

Ayly just giggled and paddled around the pool. The Coyote sighed and pulled the skimmer back, only for Ayly to start paddling towards the stairs. "Coyote, help! I'm cold!"

"I..." The Coyote trailed off, flicking his tail. No sense arguing with hatchlings. This time he pushed the skimmer towards her with a lot more force, and scooped her up in the net. She squirmed a little, tiny claws tore holes in the fabric. "Cut it out, Ayly, I'm trying to rescue you."

"It's gross in here!" Ayly whined and tried to climb out of the skimmer net as The Coyote pulled it back across the pool. "There's leaves and bugs and Lellumgurbs!"

The Coyote burst out laughing. One of his most frequently used expressions had to be included in a Christmas special, after all. "Ayly, there's no Lellumgurbs in there!"

Ayly giggled to herself as she started wriggling free of the net. "It smells like there is!"

The Coyote pulled the net out of the water. He set it down and went to pull Ayly free, only to have her launch herself at him. "ACK!" The Coyote flopped back onto his butt, nearly landing on his tail as Ayly wrapped her forelegs around his neck. "Ayly, you're soaking wet!"

"I'm cold, Coyote!" Ayly clung to The Coyote, shivering as she pressed herself to his warmth.

"I know, I know." The Coyote eased back to his feet, cradling Ayly against him. "Come on, let's get you dried off."

The Coyote carried Ayly back into the house. He found a towel and got her dried off, then wrapped her up in a little blanket and let her snuggle against his chest till she was a warm bundle of purring hatchling. He grabbed a couple of Christmas cookies from the plastic container, and went back outside. He settled into his chair, and offered one to Ayly. She poked her head out from the folds of the blanket, snapped up the cookie and vanished into her warm shelter again.

The Coyote laughed, munching a few cookies. He stared out past the fence. At least the neighbors had nice Christmas light displays. They'd look good once the sun went down. He licked a few crumbs and a bit of frosting from his nose. His ears swiveled at the sound of the back door opening.

"I hate to ask..." His mother stood in the doorway, slightly hunched over with a hand on her back.

"Everything alright?" The Writer rose up. Ayly vanished into hints of swirling purple smoke. "You okay?"

"Good as ever." His mother laughed a little. "I need to go get something else from the store, can you take me?"

"Of course."

The Writer smiled and went inside. He grabbed the keys, and went to the car, then drove her to the store. As expected, it was maddeningly packed, so he dropped his mother off at the front and went to find a parking spot. It didn't take him long to find her inside, and he playfully joked that she hadn't gotten very far. They picked up a few things for their evening treats and drooled over all the other amazing things on display.

Once they got back home, The Writer helped put a few things together. Before they were done, his father got home from work, along with a big basin of leftover fajita goodies from the office Christmas lunch. He also brought The Writer a rare beer he'd picked up for him as an early Christmas present, as well as a bottle of luxurious and hard to find spirits from a renowned local distillery that he was given as a present at the office.

The Writer helped his father sample the spirits, and then he helped his family prepare dinner. Most years, they'd lay everything in a series of platters and trays spread throughout the kitchen, and let everyone choose whatever they wanted. This year, they kept things a little more casual so his mother could rest her back on the couch. His father prepared a plate of food for her, while The Writer laid out a carefully-arranged plate of cured meats for his father and himself. He set it on the table, along with some fig jam, and then sliced some aged cheeses to go with it. After that, the two of them just got whatever they wanted for themselves and assembled their own plates before settling in to eat.

It wasn't quite their usual tradition, but everything was still delicious.

By the time he was stuffed, it was dark out. Time to go and fulfil his own little personal tradition. He stuffed some Christmas cookies in his mouth and grabbed a few Christmas music CDs. He went upstairs, snatched a candy cane from his stash, and then headed out into the night to see the Christmas Lights.

By the time he'd made his way through the first neighborhood, it already felt a little more like Christmas again.

*****

"More music!"

The Coyote smiled, and glanced into the back seat where Ayly romped from one window to another. He wagged bushy tail wagging against his seat and turned the Christmas music up.

Ayly sang at the top of her lungs. "Jingle Bells, Lellumgurb smells, grandfather is ooooold!"

The Coyote laughed and glanced at Valyrym, riding in the passenger seat. He tossed his head and snorted but could not erase his grin. "Yes, yes, Aylyryn, your satirical lyrics are revelatory." He lowered his voice, hissing at the Coyote. "Shouldn't she be in a car seat?"

"They don't make car seats for dragons." The Coyote chuckled, turned a corner and gazed at a house layered with scintillating lines of red and green lights. An inflatable santa stood at one end of the yard, while a giant polar bear wobbled back and forth at the other. "Besides, how do you even about car seats?"

"Good question. Seems like every time I'm in this world, I learn something new about." The dragon curled his neck, glancing down between the seats. "Like how to avoid getting my tail spines caught while riding in a car."

"Yeah, try not to do that this time."

"Oooh, pretty!" Ayly squealed in glee, hoping around on the back seat, staring out the window at the lights. "Ooooh! That one looks like snow! Ooh! That one's flashing!"

"I know, Ayly, I know." The Coyote glanced back, grinning. "Be careful back there, though, okay?"

"Look! A fat man!" Ayly pointed out the window, then ran to the other side of the car. "Look! A big white dog!"

"Yeah, that's a polar...oh." The Coyote grinned. "Actually, that's Snoopy."

"What kind of terrible name is...in fact, what _is_a Snoopy?" Valyrym flared his spines a little.

"Never mind." The Coyote gestured towards another house, all its windows edged in white and red lights. "I like that one! Looks like peppermint. Or ginger bread."

"Look at all the deers! Glowing deers!" Ayly put her paws on the glass, pressing her purple-marked nose against the window. "I wanna eat the deers!"

"You can't eat those deer, Ayly."

Ayly whined, thumping her tail against the seat. "But deers is prey!"

"Those deers are--"

"Look!" Ayly had already leapt to the other window to point something else out. "A lellumgurb!" She had a giggle fit.

"That's a penguin, Ayly."

"Nuh huh, it's a fat lellumgurb with a red neck!"

"That's a scarf."

"Look!" Ayly hopped back to the other side once again. "A bear showing his butt!"

"What?!" The Coyote wasn't sure if he should slam on the breaks or hit the accelerator. What the hell kind of display did those people have? When he spotted it, he laughed and perked his ears. "Ayly, that's just a polar bear that fell over."

"No, he's showing his butt!" Ayly giggled, and waggled her own haunches. "Butt, butt, butt."

"Just keep driving." Valyrym glanced back at his granddaughter, lowering his voice. "Or the next thing you know she'll be talking about where tails go and so on."

Though The Coyote had planned to get back from looking at lights early enough to get back to writing and make up for time spent shopping, he enjoyed himself so much he didn't get back home for over two hours. Which as usual, left him without time to edit his Christmas tale. He knew he'd still be up writing it at the last minute, and still had presents to wrap, but that was alright. At this point, not finishing his yearly DitD Christmas story until late Christmas Eve was becoming a tradition all its own.

He finally pulled into the driveway, and parked the car. He opened the door, expecting Ayly to hop out and bound across the yard. Instead she was curled up on the back seat, half asleep. She blinked up at him, and yawned, her little pink tongue curling in her muzzle. The Coyote reached down and picked her up off the seat, cradling her against his chest.

"Hi Coyote." Ayly murmured into his ear as she laid her head on his shoulder.

"Hello, Ayly."

"Where's my presents?"

"You'll get them in the morning." He held Ayly with one arm and opened Valyrym's door with the other hand. Somehow dragons just couldn't seem to open car doors without damaging something.

"Is Lellumgurb bringing them?" Ayly rustled her wings, her eyelids drooping.

"We'll see Ayly." The Coyote didn't have the heart to tell her that Lellumgurb wouldn't be visiting with her this year. He just didn't have the energy to manifest more than a few of his characters for Christmas this time. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

"I want egg nogs." Ayly gave a half-squirm.

"Alright." The Coyote chuckled, padding across the lawn with Ayly snuggled against his chest.

He went into the house and gently laid Ayly down inside the box of santa hats that had become the default bed for sleepy hatchlings. Then he went to the kitchen, poured a little bowl of egg nog, and brought it back to Ayly. He held the bowl while she leaned over the edge of the box and lapped it up, getting as much on her muzzle as she did in her belly. When she'd emptied the bowl, she flopped back down against the soft, velvety red hats and the little white puffballs.

"What do you say, Ayly?"

Ayly licked her muzzle, curling up. Her answer came in a sleepy hatchling murmur. "Egg nogs is good."

"Yes, Ayly, egg nogs is good." The Coyote smiled, and put the bowl in the sink. "I think I'm going to go sit out back for a while, Valyrym. You wanna come?"

The old dragon smiled back at him, brushing a wing over The Coyote's back. "Of course. But first I want some of that booze you and your father had earlier."

"Ah, the Rumble." The Coyote flashed him a grin. "It's good stuff. It's a bit like the spirit version of mead, distilled from honey and figs, and just as strong as good whiskey. Let me get you some."

The Coyote dug out a larger bowl, and poured Valyrym some Rumble. He set the bowl on the counter for the dragon, then retrieved his own bottle of beer stashed away for the night. He poured the dark liquid into a tulip glass, took a sip, and then gave a happy groan.

"Don't ruin your trousers." Valyrym snorted, then lapped up some of his own drink, and gave a very similar groan.

"Don't ruin my floor." The Coyote grinned back at him. "Told you it was good."

"So you did." Valyrym waved his paw towards the coyote's glass. "What about you? What have you got there?"

"This," The Coyote said, hoisting his glass in a tan-furred hand. "Is called Christmas Bomb!"

"You don't have to yell."

"I'm not yelling."

"You used an exclamation point."

The Coyote blinked, then shook his head. "Too meta for your own good, Valyrym. Listen to what I'm saying, and don't look at what I'm typing. The exclamation point is in the name. It's an imperial stout that has Christmas spices added. And it's really good."

"Sounds awfully for a mangy scavenger like you."

"It's also eleven percent, so if you're not careful it'll knock you on your ass." The Coyote took another sip as he headed to the back door.

"So that's what your previous Christmas stories have been so unreadable."

"I think the word you're looking for is nonsensical." The Coyote pulled the door open, and held it for Valyrym.

The old dragon clutched his drinking bowl in one paw, hobbling through the doorway on the other three. "No, the word I'm looking for is garbage. For your previous standards, this one is damn near a literary classic."

The Coyote followed the dragon outside, set his beer down, and then flopped down into the patio chair. He gave a long sigh, leaned back and stared up at the sky. The night was clear, a thousand points of light glittered like white and gold Christmas lights strewn across the black expanse. It wouldn't snow, but at least the clear sky meant it would get nice and cold overnight. It would make for a pleasantly chilly Christmas morning at least.

"Two questions, Coyote."

"Hrrm?" The Coyote sat up, swiveling his ears towards the dragon.

"One." Valyrym lapped up a little drink. "Why a coyote?"

The Coyote flicked a single ear back. He sipped his beer. "What do you mean?"

Valyrym unsheathed a single claw, tracing an outline of the canine. "Why do you represent yourself in these stories as a coyote and not, say, a dragon? Isn't that what you really wish you were? Not that I can blame you. Isn't your...sona...as they call it...a green dragon?"

"It is." The Coyote offered Valyrym a wistful smile, and sipped his beer again. "I've always been a dragon at heart."

"So, once more, why a coyote?"

The Coyote smirked. "It's my secondary."

Valyrym held up his paw. "Stop right there. That's not the answer I'm looking for, and we both know it."

The Coyote set his beer down, then gazed down at himself. He pinned his ears back, flicked his tail. "Because, it's a better representation of the real me, the real person behind the writing, behind my characters. Because, whether I like it or not, I'm a human. I wear clothes, I live in a house, I have glasses, I drink beer, I wear metal band t-shirts...I'm terrified of unreasonable things, I'm pudgier than I care to be..." The Coyote drummed his fingers against his belly, huffing. "It's easier to represent myself in a humanoid form than it is as a dragon. As The Coyote, I can do all the things in the story I'd do in real life." He stared at his hands a moment, then gave the dragon a little smile, and wagged his tail. "The Coyote represents the real me. The Dragon represents the person I wish I was. The dragon is idealized, my favorite form of my favorite creature, the thing I'd be if we were given a choice in our lives. The Coyote is what I've made of myself." He smirked. "Plus, The Coyote is scruffy, and so am I."

"Can't argue with that." Valyrym eased back onto his haunches, and gave the canine a long stare. "So, the other question. Why snow?"

The Coyote splayed his ears. "Arf?"

Valyrym sneered. "Isn't that adorable. What I mean is...why your fixation with the snow? It rarely snows here in reality, and yet every time I've visited for a Christmas story, everything is white. You've..." Valyrym trailed off, glancing away. Starlight reflected in his glistening golden eyes. "You have wrapped the best moment, and the worst moment of my entire life around the snow."

"I...I haven't...thought about that."

"You have shrouded the life of my son and the death of my first love in snow, and every time I see it I am buoyed by joy and pierced by pain. And every Christmas you long for it, and when the snow doesn't come, you sit at your computer and you write until it does. In your head, it always snows for Christmas, and so I ask you why?"

The Coyote wrung his hands together, ruffling his fur. He turned his eyes away from Valyrym, unable to meet the dragon's gaze. "I...I dunno."

"Don't be evasive, Coyote." Valyrym reached out and gently rubbed The Coyote's back with a paw.

"It quiets the fear."

"Oh?" Valyrym pulled his head back for a little while, his neck arching.

"It fills me some days, till I can't think straight. Some days the fear is quiet, hidden, som days I can forget it's even there. Some days its loud, and terrifying. Some days it backs me into a corner and leaves me trembling, clutching for comfort I can never seem to find. But when the snow falls, it all goes away."

Valyrym tilted his head, blinking. His spines drooped a little as he waited for The Coyote to go on. He rubbed the canine's back.

The Coyote sighed, arching his shoulders into Valyrym's touch. "It's the peace of it. There's nothing more peaceful to me than snowfall. It's so silent. It's serenity itself, the silence and the falling snow."

Valyrym tensed at that phrase, and The Coyote took a trembling breath. "It is as etched in my heart as it is in yours, Valyrym. But the snow, it...it's peace. I walk in it, I stand in it, and I watch it fall. It quiets the fear and replaces it with joy. It's a very powerful feeling, a very personal image to me, and so I have woven it into your life without, I think, even intending it. A little part of me entwined in your best, and your worst moments."

The Coyote took a deep breath, and when Valyrym stroked the fur on the back of his neck, he leaned into the dragon's touch. He sniffed, closing his eyes. "When I think of Christmas, I think of peace, and joy, and a day without fear. I think of snow. If I can't have the snow, at least I can write about it. In fact, writing is like my snow."

Valyrym moved his paw to grasp The Coyote's chair. He pulled The Coyote closer, then slipped his arm around the Coyote's shoulders to hug him up against his scaly body. The Coyote gave a canine yip but did not resist the embrace. "What do you mean by that?"

"Just as the snow quiets the fear, so does writing." The Coyote leaned his head against the dragon's scales and closed his eyes. "It's...not something I talk about, but...writing brings me peace. Snowfall and writing are two of the only things that ever really bring me peace. They center me, they let me find my focus. When I'm writing, the whole world just...falls away for a little while. All my worries vanish, all those fearful whispers fall silent, washed away by the pictures I paint in the snow that falls in my head. When I write, the snow falls, and when the snow falls, I am happy." He sniffed, his throat tightening. His body trembled. "Sometimes, painting pictures in the snow is the only thing that makes me happy, the only way to ease my fear. Yet those are the pictures that come out the best, those are the words I pour myself into. When everything seems like it's falling apart around me, I write to make the snow fall, and for a little while, I'm happy again."

The Coyote buried his face against Valyrym's chest, a few tears wet the old dragon's plates. He sniffed, lifting a hand to wipe his eyes. "Sorry."

"Dear God, Coyote, be anything but don't be sorry. You've nothing to be sorry for." He hugged The Coyote against his body. The old dragon's breath shook a little as he rubbed The Coyote's back. "Do you...want to talk about them? Your fears?"

"No." The Coyote shook his head, swallowing the growing lump in his suddenly parched throat. He reached for his beer, and took a long drink.

"I think maybe you should."

"We did that last year."

"Not well enough, I think." Valyrym lowered his head, nuzzled the Coyote's ears. "Go on. Let it out."

"No." The Coyote whimpered, pinning his ears back. He laid an arm over his muzzle, hiding his face beneath it, against the dragon's hide. "They'll read it. They'll know more than I want them too."

"Everyone has fears, Coyote. You hold yours so close to your chest I worry they may one day smother you."

"Something's gonna kill me eventually." The Coyote closed his eyes.

"That's a start. Do you want to talk about that?" Valyrym rubbed The Coyote's shoulder a moment.

"No." The Coyote glanced up at the dragon, his eyes wet and shining. He splayed his ears to the sides of his head. "Don't give them the wrong idea. I'm not dying."

"Yet you fear you will be."

"Everyone will be eventually."

"Stop." Valyrym brushed his muzzle against the Coyote's ears, then pressed his nose against the canine's. "I am not some mere acquaintance you can brush off with a smile and a clever word. I know you, Coyote, in your heart and at your all. I know what you fear."

"Then I don't need to say it, do I." The Coyote pressed his face against the dragon's scales again.

"Then let me." The dragon lifted his head, and took a deep breath. "Where shall we begin? Fear in general, your health, or perhaps love?"

"What?" The Coyote lifted his head, blinking up at the dragon. "No."

"Love it is then." The dragon ran his paw down the back of The Coyote's head, stroking his fur. "You are filled with it, more than you could ever share. You long for someone to share it with again, you keep that picture up in your room because you remember how it felt to be loved, to feel like you mattered to someone's life. You won't put it away because you're afraid to forget that feeling, just as you're afraid you'll never have it again. You fear every chance at love you've ever had since then has slipped through your fingers because you're too afraid to try and seize it. You are filled with love, and terrified that you'll never have someone to share it with again. So your write it, you pour it into your characters, you give them love and you take it away and you rejoice and cry and celebrate alongside them. People feel that in your stories, people feel that love, people feel it because you're put your heart in there because it's all you have. And you fear its all you will ever have, but at least you have that. At least, in that way, you have touched lives."

Valyrym tilted his head. "Is that about right?"

The Coyote shook his head, but could not hold back his tears. He put a hand over his face, trying to hide himself against the dragon's scales. Stupid perceptive characters. Stupid Christmas story.

Valyrym's voice softened. He wrapped his wing around The Coyote. "I'll take that to mean I'm on the right track. Not a day passes you do not worry about your health anymore. Some days you can nearly forget it, some days you feel normal, you feel healthy. Some days you can almost convince yourself you're not afraid of being sick. But in the back of your mind, you are. There is a terror there, dark and cold, and from time to time it clutches you, it smothers you, it steals you breath, and leaves you curled and trembling. You think you know how this will end, Coyote, and what you never tell anyone, what you keep to your safe is your vivid terror that this will end in some sterile room, some hospital bed. You've been there, and you don't want to go back. They tell you you're strong, but have trouble believing it. You don't know if you can handle that again."

"That's enough." The Coyote patted Valyrym's belly with a hand, unable to look up. His stomach churned. He reached a trembling hand for his beer, and drained half the glass.

"It isn't." The Dragon strengthened his voice. "Not yet. You worry every day. No one knows how deep it runs, how often you think about it. How hard you fight to forget it just so you can stay cheerful most of the time. But the worry is there, it has embedded itself in you with barbs and claws and it will never let you go. One moment you worry that your insurance will stop paying, and your health will bankrupt your family. The next moment, you worry your blood and marrow are time bombs and you can almost hear the ticking clock. In the darkness, at night, when you feel alone, you wonder how long you have. Ten years? Fifty? One?"

"I'm not dying, Valyrym." The Coyote shook against the dragon, fighting back sobs.

"Tell yourself that, Coyote, don't tell me." The dragon gave a long sigh, and hugged The Coyote against himself. "We both know the truth of this, Coyote. You have already accepted that you will fight this for all of your days, and yet that worries you all the more. When you were in the hospital, and your insurance lapsed, your father fought tooth and nail and fang and claw, and he got you covered again. Emergency insurance for those in poverty, because you had no job and no way to pay for your ever mounting treatments. You don't want people to know because it humiliates you to be on that kind of assistance, and yet you fear you'll never escape it. It's a Catch-22, isn't that what you say? You stay on it, and you are covered, assuming of course your doctor can convince them you do in fact, need this medication they've denied. You go off of it, and this medication would bankrupt your entire family. You're terrified to sell anything, from a book to a T-shirt to a little plush dragon because you've got to report that income, you've got to stay qualified for this assistance, because if you lose it your whole family could go bankrupt trying to keep you healthy. Why, the blood tests alone over the last few months would have paid for that car we drove around in earlier. And that, like everything else, terrifies you. You feel trapped. You want so desperately to sell your work, to sell T-shirts with your characters, if only for your own validation. And yet the very act of doing so will result in more uncertainty and fear than you think you can handle.

"Even this very conversation, this very subject. You don't want anyone to know. You're terrified to let them see you for who you really are, to know you are your core, to know the things about you that make you feel worthless. You feel like a drain on society and that feeling pierces you with thorns and spines, and still you're afraid you will never be able to escape it.

"So you don't want them to know. You don't want your readers to know. You don't want them to know about your degrading health, or your financial and insurance situations, because you're afraid of what they'll think. You're afraid of how they'll see you. What they'll think of you. And yet, deep in your heart, you are so desperate just to have someone understand you that you are writing this very story just to share your worries and your pain. Just so they'll understand.

"So they'll know why you pour yourself into each and every word."

As The Dragon spoke, as Valyrym put word to some of The Coyote's deepest fears, eh could not hold back his sobs. He tried, at first, but the harder he fought them the stronger they became, till they wracked his whole body. Till his shoulders shook, his ears drooped and his tail twitched. He wiped his eyes, swallowed, took a few deep breaths, struggled to control his tears.

"Let it out, Coyote." Valyrym rubbed the back of the canine's head, stroked his ears. "You hold in far too much."

The Coyote took a trembling breath. "Are...are you done?"

"Nearly." The dragon ticked off a few things on his other paw. "Let's see. You fear your blood will kill you. You worry the medications you've had over the years and your receding gums are going to leave your teeth falling out some day, and people will judge you for it."

The Coyote glared up at him.

"It's your irrational fear, Coyote, not mine. I'm just letting them know."

"Well stop it." The Coyote chuckled, and swatted the dragon. "I think you've bared enough of my soul, anyway."

"No...No, not quite."

"Leave that one alone."

"You fear, Coyote, that when the time comes for you to support your family, you will be unable. That your life will have lead you nowhere, and you will have nothing to offer them. And you fear that when your_time comes, the life you've led will have meant _nothing. That even if you live many more years, you will someday pass from this world and you will have meant nothing. That there will be no one to remember you. No wife to cry over your grave, no children to grow up and feel proud of their father. That your life will pass in your terrified state, that only your closest family will even miss you, let alone know that you're gone. That you will have accomplished nothing, that you will existed in a state of limbo, touching no hearts and meaning nothing to anyone. You may as well be a whisper. You fear that you are an empty shell, nothing but a drain on the system that no one will ever mourn unless you pass so early that your parents must bear that pain."

The Coyote recoiled from Valyrym, horrified. His fur stood on end, his breath came in pants. Tears soaked the fur of his cheeks. "Wh-what? Why...why would you say something like that to me!"

"To prove you wrong! To help you get through this!" Valyrym took a deep breath, then snatched The Coyote up against his chest, hugging him so tight the Coyote wheezed. "To show you that you are loved, even when you do not feel it. We love you, Coyote, even if we are only in your head. But others love you too, real people. People you have touched whether you know it or not. You don't need some old picture of a love long shattered to know you've meant something. Your father put himself through hell to make sure you wouldn't go broke with your medical bills! You mother cried herself to sleep in your hospital room. She goes with you to the clinic nearly every time because she knows you're scared, even if you won't ever admit it! And it's not just them, Coyote. You have friends the world over who care for you, now. A whole legion of fans that have had their hearts touched by the words you've written. The words you've poured your heart and soul into, the words you've poured in the love you've nowhere else to direct."

The Dragon eased away from the crying coyote, and took a deep breath. "Let me get you something. This, I think, will ease your burden."

The Coyote eased back in his chair, and reached for his beer with a trembling hand. He drained the last of the glass, and set it down, whimpering. His ears drooped. He glanced at Valyrym's half-finished bowl of Rumble. What the hell, that stuff was about 94 proof, no dragon germs could survive in there. He dragged it across the table, and tilted it back to his muzzle, gulping some of it down. It burned his throat, he took a breath, and drained the rest.

He set the empty bowl down, and Valyrym soon returned. He gazed into the empty bowl, shook his head, and settled down on his haunches against near the Coyote. "I've brought you something, Coyote. Something that should prove to you that you matter. That you've touched lives. That, should the worst happen...you will be remembered. I promise you that."

"What is it?" The Coyote swiveled his chair towards the dragon, still sniffling.

"I know Christmas hasn't been what you've hoped for this year." The dragon gave a long sigh as he set an old scroll case down on the table. "I know it hasn't felt he way it should, or brought you the peace you'd longed for."

The Coyote scowled and glanced away. He rubbed the inside of his arm, ruffling the fur over the tiny scars.

"But this...I think..." Valyrym patted the scroll case, then pushed it towards the Coyote. "This, I think...will help. Open it."

The sniffling coyote took the case, then opened the fastener. Looked like something he'd write about. Belonged in a museum. He glanced at the dragon, a little smile stretched across his muzzle. "As soon as I open this, snakes are going to jump out at me, aren't they."

"Not unless I grabbed the wrong scroll case."

The Coyote chuckled, popping the end open. "I think my typing is getting worse. I shouldn't have had all that drink."

"You drink because you knew how this story would end, and that was the only way you'd ever work up the courage to bare that much of your soul. Besides, you're used to people pointing out your typos. They're trying to help, even if they don't understand how every time someone feels the need to tell you you've made a mistake its another little needle in your heart, a feeling that they can't overlook your mechanical problems to see the beauty and love at the heart of your tale. At least your friends help you fix those errors now."

The Coyote reached into the scroll case, chuckling. "Still get those comments on the old stories, though. But it's alright. As long as they love the story, that's what matters. What is this, anyway?"

"Read it."

The Coyote pulled an old fashioned scroll from the case. The parchment was gold, its edges frayed by wear and time. Sentences and paragraphs were etched upon it in ink that somehow seemed both black and glowing at the same time. The letters wavered and trembled, as if only temporarily present, their place in time uncertain. At first he couldn't even read it, the letters were all scrambled, but slowly, moment by moment, they formed themselves into familiar words and phrases.

"What is this?"

"That, dear coyote, is a record of sorts. A record of lives you've touched, and of people who will always remember your work, no matter what happens to you. Read it, won't you?"

The Coyote took a few trembling breaths, and began to read the record.

*****

He asks his fans if he's ever meant anything to them. If he's writing has ever touched their hearts.

He doesn't tell them what it's for.

He knows how this story will end. He knows baring his soul will bring him to tears.

He knows a kind word will cheer him up, knows hearing he's touched someone's heart will make him smile.

He saves the comments for Christmas eve, and finally, he reads them.

They make him cry.

He decides to try and include them a portion of them all, a thank you to everyone who took the time to comment.

If you'd rather skip what other people have said, just scroll down a bit to the happy, sappy Christmas ending.

*****

Honestly don't know how to express my gratitude for what you've done for me. I started off as a shadow, lurking in the darkest recesses of the fandom. I've been part of your chatroom for around a year now, through thick and thin, and honestly? It's basically become my favorite place of social interaction. No worries of being judged, no fear of having to hide a secret of mine. Only acceptance and friendship. Long story short: You've given me a wonderful place to hang around and the opportunity to make some of the best friends I've ever had. All because of you and DitD, a story that I look back on and think "I have no idea what drove me to sit down and read through all of it, but I'm glad I did. Many nights, I lay awake for hours and hours reading and I enjoyed every second of it. The world you created captivated me and I got attached to all the characters, which made every heartbreak a soul-crushing experience. Tears were shed, laughs were had, and fingernails were gnawed on.

DitD was the first series i read here (well that i can remember) and the fact is the story was so incredible for me, i saw the characters, i saw the world through Val's eyes, i saw Valaranyx play in the snow. basically DitD to me is one of those stories that really grasped ahold of my imagination and has yet to truly let it go, i may have not read any other stories yet as i been looking at what other ppl have typed but i can only imagine that DitD will still remain my favorite even after i do.

Well, Dragon in the Dungeon helped me distract myself with what happened when i seperated from my last job. As well as being a great story to boot. I left due to harassment at that workplace It has ended well for me though, I am employed again at a much better job.

"Valyrym..." The Coyote glanced up at the sky. A few white clouds began to build and swirl above him. "What is this?"

"Your fans, Coyote. Offering you encouragement. Inspiration. Love. Letting you know how they've enjoyed your work, or how you've touched their lives. Keep reading, you silly scavenger."

Smiling again, The Coyote turned his attention back to the scroll. He read on.

It feels like I'm looking through a window at a whole other world, one which has been running for ages, and I hunger to step through the glass and take it all in. You have every right to be proud of the work you've done, and at the very least, you've inspired me to take my stories to that next level. I know all too well what it's like to struggle with shitty health, and to feel like some days just aren't worth fighting for. But they are. Hang in there, Wilds, and keep on kicking tail! Or getting kicked in the tail, I won't judge. :P

Hope your Heath and fortunes change soon wilds ! I will say your stories , characters , plot , development and immersion match any of the published authors I've read recently.

I have seldom found myself to be so moved, enthralled and touched by a novel before. Your stories have a warmth and humanity about them that I have seldom been so drawn to. As I've read Black Collar and now DitD I have experienced a vast range of powerful emotions as I discover and experience the worlds you have so vividly created. On more than one occasion I have found my self transitioning from fear to laughter to sadness to tears and back to laughter again within only a few moments. To me this is an incredible talent! I would also like to express my gratitude and thanks for all of the hard work and dedication you have shown to your works despite your ongoing health issues. I wish you a rapid recovery.

DitD is one of the best books I've read, period. It's definitely one of the most emotionally rich and expansive stories I've read, the characters especially are amazing. Some of the most emotional moments I've had reading have been in this series. The same goes for all of your works, really, but DitD is still my favourite. I, and the rest of the fanbase I'm sure, are extremely thankful to you for it, and wish for your health to get better. I'm sure they will, if you just have a positive outlook. Merry Christmas!

You've given so much, and made so many people happy with what you've provided so freely and generously. I for one hope a heartfelt "Thank You" means enough to you, as you've given so much of yourself. I truly hope things work out for you with your health and well-being. Good people deserve good things -- and you're right up there at the top of the list. I wish you what I ask for my family and myself -- Good Health, Happiness, and Fulfillment, always. Once again, Thank You!

DitD is by far my favourite, it helped me through some hard times as I know what it is like to have poor health that has on more than one occasion put me in hospital, and it has made me house-bound, your stories help me to forget the pain for a time whilst I am taken to a world of awe and inspiration. I can see the world through Val's eyes and all of the people he has met, his son Valaranyx, Kylaryn, Voskalar, Korvarak, and his sister Nary, these are amazing characters, and you have the most amazing gift of story telling, you can make people feel what your characters are feeling, happy, sad, frightened, angry, this is what your gift to people all around the world is, and I thank you for your stories as they help me through when times are tough.All I can say is, keep doing what you are doing and keep your head held high, you are an amazing person.

I found myself laughing along with Alia, I found myself trying to cup my melted heart in my hands when Val and Amaleen reconciled at Lenira's grave. Most astonishingly, I found myself crying with Valyrym when his son was attacked. I am not one to cry when reading or watching a movie, the last time I did so was in elementary school. Yet your words were so powerful that I could feel Val's grief as if it was my own, I could taste his desperation, I could hear the echoes of his mind beginning to crack.

I have never been so moved by the written word before or since.

Black Collar resonated with me for reasons I was unaware of until recently. Only a few weeks ago did I realize that I felt lost in the world, that I was scared and didn't know what to do or where to go. The fact that the collar placed a veil over the eyes of Alvaranox and the world he saw and the world he was in were two different things superbly mirrored my own life at the time. Fortunately, once I discovered my plight I have since been able to put myself on the path to correcting it.

I think that I mentioned this in a comment somewhere, but your writing inspired me to try my hand at the craft as well. I am no where near as skilled as you are, but I enjoy this new hobby of mine and I hope that one day I will be half as good as you, which brings me to my last comment.

If someone had asked me just over a year ago who I believed to be the greatest fantasy author of the past century, I would have instantly responded with "Tolkein." After reading your work, I am afraid that Tolkein has lost his spot at the top. In my personal opinion you, Wilds, are the greatest fantasy author of the past century, if not of all time.

The Coyote dropped the scroll, flopping back into his chair. He couldn't stop smiling. The clouds grew above him. A few flurries of snow swirled in the air. "Valyrym, I...I can't...I don't even..."

The Dragon chuckled to himself, reaching for the scroll. Despite its seeming age, it was surprisingly durable. He passed it over to The Coyote again. "We asked for these, together. For people to tell you what their writing meant...but you're reading many of these for the first time, tonight, aren't you."

The Coyote slowly nodded, trying to wipe the smile from his muzzle. He hugged the scroll against himself.

"Read the rest." Valyrym glanced up at the sky. "And I think....something good will happen."

The Coyote took a deep breath, scanning through the rest of the wonderful, Holiday-making comments. He wanted to include something from everyone who took the time to reply, even if he was quickly running out of space.

He read every comment, and he was ever so thankful for each, and every one.

You, your stories were that final push I needed to start writing myself. Thank you, really. I daresay you may have even changed my life. Your stories mean a lot to me, and hold a special place in my heart.

What has your writing meant? your series (namely DitD) are the only stories that have ever moved me emotional enough to cause me to cry IRL (not simple water in the eyes that could be taken care of with a finger swipe, talking waterworks here to the point that needed a full blown soaked handkerchief treatment) while I was reading it. You have succeeded in changing the archetype Dragon from Tolkien's Smaug to your Valyrym. At least in my mind.

You are the first to bring me to tears simply through writing alone. that is a feat by itself, normally when i read i feel very detached, like an observer but you, you made me feel like i was there. I laughed, and cried along with Valyrym and Alia, i felt all the anger, sorrow and joy. your writing was the first time i really got sucked into a story, and for that i thank you

I think my overriding memory will be finishing DitD 6 for the first time, and being so overtaken by Val's sorrow that I lay on my bed for about half an hour in a very quiet mood.

I read ditd while i was lying sick in a hotel in Greece with my friends out bathing i must say it saved my trip.Thanks for posting and GET WELL ;)

As for your stories overall, you paint wonderful characters and make me care about them; this is at the core of any good story.

I don't think there is a story anywhere that has made me laugh, cry, worry for the character's well being as much as DitD.

DitD is the single best non published piece of literature that I have ever read. It is the FIRST series I have ever had the pleasure of reading where I actually had to step away for a little while because I couldn't stop crying, only to come back and see something that had me laughing my butt off a few paragraphs later.

As an aspiring writer I find myself looking at the structure as something to reference, and an inspiration to make something better than yours!

You've managed to put love into words by way of the actions of your characters, and that is a tremendous gift. Not many have it. I'd tell you to cherish it, but I'd be a fool to tell you something you already know. :) From your writing, I'm sure you also know its downside (loss) all too well, but you clearly understand the twinned natures of those two states in a way few do. As to impact you've had on me? I'm still discovering that daily. I've never felt this inspired before and don't know what I'm doing, but I'll be damned if that's going to stop me. Thank you for that. <3

Honestly I see you as a storyteller/writer that all should aspire too, your characters are so well fleshed out it's amazing and mindblowing.

You want to know how much you touched my heart? Well, considering i have been working tirelessly, even on my own birthday, to make a rather special holiday present for you...I would say you touched my heart about as many times as the total word count in the DitD series. I can only hope its done in time for Christmas....

Your writhing has defiantly affected me, for instance I am not to ashamed to admit crying at certain parts of DitD which has never happened from any other story I have read. I have also literally laughed out loud many times when reading your work especially volunteer maiden. There you have it that is all from me so I hope you get well soon and keep up the great work and well your at it have a Merry Christmas.

I've only cried while reading one other story: Where the Red Fern Grows. The very end of that made my eyes water, way back in elementary school. When I got to Valar's accident in DitD 5, I full-on cried. I consider it rare for me to cry at all. The following installments did not let up on this front, and I'll admit I cried (or my eyes watered) many other times. I had to stop reading for a few minutes while on 5 and 6 because I was too choked up. DitD managed to get me to me, which I consider very hard to do.

Needless to say, I greatly appreciate your work, and I also appreciate the community you've surrounded yourself with here on SF, as it's one of the friendliest I've ever seen. I think we all have our ups and downs, and people tend to focus on the downs, but your work really brings joy to me and surely many others.

I think Dragon in the Dungeon resonates with me emotionally more than the other stories. When Valyrym came to the realization that Lenira wasn't going to be around much longer, he regretted missing out on all the time he could have spent with her. He had thought that there would always be more time, until suddenly her time was up. I use to be so focused on my plans for the future, that I was letting the present slip by. I have a greater appreciation for the people in my life now.

I n a lot of ways, particularly the sections with Valar... I feel this story is about rising beyond who you once were... and no matter what happens having the strength, the will, and the sheer COURAGE to spread your wings and try to fly once more. Not long after I started it... and while there were other things that factored into the decision to be fair.... I decided to try going for my masters...and am even now taking a mild breather from my 1st semester finals before I dive back into them. Some of what you said to me when we first talked, plus the...example I think... that Val and later Valar showed, about just having the strength to dream... and the courage to stretch your wings out and reach out for that dream were a big part of why I am sitting here right now. Not the only part... but a very big part, coyote-dragon amigo ^^

I have read several hundred books ( real paperbacks!) in my life and have only a few dozen of these momensy of glee, joy, anger, sadness and and and. And it was you who brought me this. Here to my computer, at times in some of my darker hours, you take me to fly on your back through the realm you thought up, be privy to the characters you created and life the lives you allowed to be. This is already quite some legacy ( at least for me) you did there and even if you were to die tomorrow ( which I really really do NOT hope), I would remember you as someone who brought these things to me. I do just hope you will publish your stories ( at least the Dragon in the Dungeon) someday so I can get my paws on it as paperback :)

When I first read your work it was like a window into a different world. I have told you this before. You are a superb story teller. When I encouraged you to set up a blog it was with the idea that you would be building an audience for your future publication beyond the furry community. We would all like to see you focus and finish something. I have steered folks to your blog for as long as it has been in existence. I would love to point them toward a book for you. You have the potential to be another Anne MacCaffrey, but you must finish something to be recognized. Readers will wait 7 years for the Game of Thrones author to complete a book, because they are hooked. You need to publish and hook them first.

As for what your writing has meant for me? You asked for this! And it's a hell of a road! It's a road paved in tears of joy, sadness, and sorrow leading across smooth plains, bumpy hills, and impossible mountains. But you know what? Given the chance over and over again, I'd tread that road every time! It's worth each and every step! Your characters and stories have taught me a few life lessons or strengthened others!

I hope this message, such as it is, has brought some small measure of the warmth and joy too you as your stories bring me. Merry Christmas to you and yours.

*****

He hopes he hasn't left anyone out.

He loves you all.

Thank you for being his readers, his fans, his friends.

You mean the world.

*****

By the time The Coyote had read the last comment, it was snowing. Voices echoed from inside his home. His ears perked, and swiveled, and he slowly rose to his feet. He glanced at Valyrym, narrowing his eyes. "Is this some kind of sappy Christmas ending?"

"You like sappy endings."

The Coyote glanced down at the scroll, smiling. "Yeah...Yeah, I guess I do."

"If nothing else, Coyote, do not fear you will pass unremembered. Do not fear you will touch no lives. If nothing else, let this be proof your life has mattered. That you have mattered."

The Coyote swallowed, sniffing. He fought back a few more tears, and then threw himself against the dragon. He wrapped his arms as far around Valyrym as he could, hugging him tightly. "Thank you, Valyrym. You've...you've made my whole Christmas, I think."

"They said those things, Coyote...I only gathered them for you." He lowered his head and nuzzled the Coyote's ears. "But it seems it's started snowing."

The Coyote laughed, a joyful, jubilant sound. He could scarcely believe all the heartwarming things he'd just read. Now...now it truly felt like Christmas.

The fear was gone, and in its place was joy.

The Coyote lifted up the scroll case, something rattled around in it. "There's something else in here."

"Yes, it's a gift from your friends. Go on, look at it."

The Coyote pulled another scroll. He opened it carefully, this one was an image. It depicted him as a green dragon, sprawled in a beautiful meadow, writing his stories. All his closest friends from the DitD Chat were there, supporting him, sharing time with him. Sharing their lives with him. It took his breath away, and he hugged it to himself, murmuring. After a few moments, he set it down on the table nearby, and traced his finger around its edge. A mahagony frame carved with a Christmas wreath design sprang into life all around the painting.

"Looks like your magic is working again." Valyrym snorted, smirking down at The Coyote. "Does that mean everyone will be visiting after all?"

"You said it yourself, Valyrym. I like sappy endings."

The Coyote thrust his hands towards the backyard. The neighbors houses receded into the distance. A line of towering pine trees wrapped in glowing lights sprang from the ground. The Coyote turned, waving his hand back and forth in the beautiful falling snow. An icy field paved over the brackish pool, plenty of room now for dragons to romp and play in the snow. More laughter and voices spilled from inside the house.

"I'd better go say hello."

"First..." Valyrym grabbed his hand, his voice firm. "Promise me one thing."

"What is it?"

"Try and publish something. The only way to overcome your fear is to face it. Put something out there, Coyote. Not for your fans, but for yourself. You fear you have no legacy? Then create one. Do this for yourself. Share your writing with your family, and put something out there to prove to yourself people want to buy something you've created. This year, if you can."

The Coyote swallowed, and then nodded. He took Valyrym's paw and squeezed it. "I'll do my best. Thank you, Valyrym."

"Merry Christmas, Coyote."

The Coyote smiled, and went inside. Everyone was there, all his characters had come to visit for Christmas after all. He gazed around, beaming. Ayly sat atop a black gryphon snuggled with a queen. Valar and his mate watched and laughed. A blue dragon in the corner hoarded all the ham. A green dragon with a collar had corralled all the wine and egg nog. A couple of red haired women swapped stories about their dragon friends. Hatchlings stuffed themselves with cookies, and on and on. He went around and hugged them all, smiling.

Glimmers of reality broke through, but this time they did not bring him down. They made him happy. Happy to have a family who loved him, who supported him. Who was always there, even in his darkest hour, when he could not bring himself to tell them what was wrong. Who went out of their way to give him the best Christmas he could. He could only hope he'd done the same for them, that his efforts would make them smile.

He loved to see his family smile.

The Coyote thanked everyone for coming, and then carefully sectioned them off. He spread his hands, separating his reality from his fantasy. His characters could have a wonderful Christmas without him. He'd make sure his family had a wonderful Christmas with him.

The Writer smiled, walking to the couch. His mother lay upon it, and his father sat the other end. They were watching a movie, one of his mother's favorites.

"Is that It's a Wonderful Life?"

"Yeah." His mother lifted her head, grimacing a moment as she got comfortable. She was still sore. "I love this movie."

"I know." He'd bought it for her on DVD a few years ago yet anytime it was on TV, she couldn't stop watching it. It just made her happy.

"Can I watch with you guys?"

"Of course!"

His mother shifted, making a little room, and his father did the same. The Writer plopped down between them, and gave them each a hug. It surprised them, cause he rarely did that. They both returned it, and he settled in with his family to watch the movie, and wait for Christmas to come.

The story had not turned out the way he'd expected when he started it, and he'd have no time to edit it. After all, he still had presents to wrap. But that was alright.

For now, everything was perfect.

For one wonderful night and day, The Writer was happy just to be with his family.

"Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad."

"Merry Christmas!"

The fear was gone.

The snow fell, silent, serene, and peaceful.

---

Merry Christmas, everyone. I want you to know I've read all your comments, and I loved and appreciated each and every one. Thank you to my fans, and most of all to my friends. You mean more to me than you know.