Hey! I know it's the day before Thanksgiving (but if I procrastinate this anymore I'll completely forget about writing it) Anyways, this is Chapter One in (hopefully) a many chapter fanfic that (hopefully) should be done before Christmas itself. Also, I know this chapter is kind of sad (I figured starting it out sad would help develope the Christmas-y mood) but it will get cheerful!

Also, I made some minor edits to Fleck's backstory, so none of the years prior to the fall of Jupiter and fall stuff is accurate lol. (He basically grew up in a camp working to feed the wolves, than his family was arrested and taken to Akolan for 'inciting a rebellion' and eventually, Fleck was branded by Vitton (for defying Morbin).🤣 Enjoy! Feedback would very much be welcomed! 🤣🤣

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Fortress Justice Cove, more commonly known as Fleck, glowered at the stone wall, wanting to punch it but not wanting to explain to his twin brother Stretch why his knuckles were bleeding. He settled for digging his steel stylus deep into the beeswax tablet he had been etching in, and watching the edges of the wax curl up like little springcoils.

Fleck had spent a fruitless morning chasing a band of ragged wild wolves through the Forest surrounding the base of Cloud Mountain. He should have been inside drinking steaming apple cider to some of the other soldiers telling stories to the younglings. Better yet, he should have been hunched up with the younglings, listening to the story, somewhere where there wasn't a war and younglings didn't have to pick up their swords.

He also should have been writing a detailed report on said fruitless mission. Should be doing and were doing, though, just so happened to be two very different things. Fleck couldn't bring himself to focus on the report with his mind focusing on the revenge he'd been so close to grasping.

Fleck wasn't usually a revenge kind of rabbit, but some things, he figured, couldn't be forgiven. Cold-blooded murder, for one. And slavery. And breaking innocent younglings until they lost all hope. Those crimes were unpardonable.

Morbin was not easily forgiven, and neither was his wolf-general, Molvrek. Ex-general. Currently on the run. In a pack of wild wolves. The very pack Fleck had wasted a day’s sanity tracking.

It all boiled down to one simple task- find- and arrest- Molvrek in time for Christmas. It was the sole thought running through Fleck’s mind- his goal to avenge his family and his duty as a sworn officer.

Fleck realized the wax pad had taken a bit too harsh of a beating, and tossed the stylus to the back of his desk, a safe distance away from his twitching hands. Reports were filed on wax tablets in a unique code known only by the members of the Forest Guard. Once the message had been transcribed, the wax could be smoothed over with the rear of one of the styluses.

He shoved the tablet in the drawer of his rolltop desk, filing it away in his mind to do later, when he wasn't so frustrated with himself that he’d damage the report. Fleck stood up and straightened the sleeves of his jacket over his wrists, shuddering at the sight of two perfectly shaped Ms that had been seared into his skin. He buttoned the cuffs and pulled on his leather jousting gauntlets, for double measure. If anyone asked, he could say he was going to spar on the green.

Everything outside and in was dull and drab. Rabbits had no reason to celebrate, therefore, the mood was restless, quiet, and dark. Fleck had never experienced Christmas in its full capacity before, but even he knew this was a lonely season this year. Akolan had been dark. Even the old fishing camp had been dark. His family had set up a tree in the past. Small, and decorated in whittled wood ornaments. A single dirty candle in the window, no matter how dark the rest of the house was.

It had symbolized the hope that even in a place so totally dark, light could still shine in unexpected places.

Fleck kept his head down as he passed through the hallways. There was a time in his life when Fleck would have carefully watched each rabbit he came across. He would have understood the deep longings in their eyes as something more than sadness. Now, they served to cast his wounded spirit even deeper into sorrow. He never made eye contact.

The savory den was almost deserted. There was a faint aromatic whisper of baking bread coming from the kitchens and the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth, which was deserted. The air was freezing, yet no snow had fallen. “What a Christmas.” Fleck muttered through clenched teeth. It certainly wasn't his worst.

Yet, when he escaped Akolan nearly three years ago, the day the war started, it had been that intense hope that something good was out there that had driven him and his companions, starving, wounded, and exhausted, halfway across the kingdom, to Cloud Mountain.

It hadn't bothered him last year, or the year before. Maybe he was older now, and understand more. Or maybe, potentially, he had more empathy.

Fleck had wanted a new life. He’d gotten it, but times were hard. Fleck wasn't the only one who's family had been murdered by Morbin. He wasn't the first rabbit to be enslaved and he wouldn't be the last. There had to be a way to let the light back in.

He sat down in front of the fire and carefully replenished the tinder stacked amidst the logs with fresh pine cones and pine needles using a set of iron tongs. He added another log to the blaze and sat back, watching the flames lick at the wood. He savored the aroma of pine bark and the smell of woodsmoke that reminded him so much of home.

Fleck couldn't help wondering if Christmas was really as wonderful as his friends described it. Fresh, white snow, as clean as the air, free of ash and soot. Cold, and yet not so cold that touching it would give one frostbite. Bells and tinsel and cookies and candles. A cozy family gathered around the crackling hearth eating popcorn and telling ghost stories to huge-eyed younglings. Huge Christmas trees with ornaments that glittered red and green. Topped with an angel, one with a candle in its hand.

All he'd seen was the drab cold of winter. Snow that fell gray and turned to ice so thick the barges couldn't sail for weeks, and families starved and froze and huddled together for warmth, afraid to start a fire.

He'd seen a snow that felt remarkably like ash. The cruel rustle of wings taking flight and talk of a feast. Anger, sadness and loss.

“You look sad, Fleck.” Fleck snapped out of his daydreams and tugged his gauntlets further over his wrists. He pulled his arms into his chest to hide more of his scars, and looked into a pair of contagiously happy green eyes. The orange-furred doe sat down next to him, far enough away that they wouldn't feel awkward, yet close enough that they could talk honestly.

“I'm not sad.” Fleck lied. Truth be told, he felt like crying. Or frying an egg, since he was awfully hungry.

“Stop.” Hana’s answer was brisk, sharp, and angry.

“What?”

“Stop doing this to yourself!” She snapped, grabbing his arm so he couldn't dart away. “All this blame, this revenge! Feeling like you're failing when you're really succeeding. Doubting your worth. It needs to stop. You are not just some puppet of Morbin’s, you are so much more.”

“Hana,” Fleck replied as tears spring to his Hazel eyes. “Don't you see? It is my fault. All of this.”

“You can't blame a war on yourself, Fleck.”

He stood up, knocking over his stool in his frustration. Why couldn't he believe what she said? “Hana, my mother used to light a candle in the window every night in the winter. She said it was because there's always some light in the world, but I don't see it.” He knew it was off subject, but he hadn't told a soul, not even Bastille, about his lineage. He was the son of the king. His loss had, in ways, started a war. If it was hard for him to believe, it would be even harder for someone who saw Fleck as someone driven and scarred by years of living in Akolan, but someone who never shied away from leading others, having fun, and doing the right thing.

Truth be told, Fleck had been happy. For two Christmases. Two years. But now, he was so close to victory, but so very far away. He had friends. Stretch wasn't deathly ill. They had a home, a place to belong. Both of them.

Bastille had said no one wanted Christmas this year. Fleck saw that. He understood it. But it only served to drive him deeper into doubt. He'd been faking being fine, but he really wasn't. Hadn't been.

“Fleck, you are the light.” Hana said in a voice so quiet it could have been a whisper. She stood up and faced him, and Fleck immediately tucked his arms into his chest. No one needed to see the scars on his forearms that marked him as a rebel. “You don't need to hide your spark.”

Fleck sighed, wishing he could melt into the stone floors and stop feeling these crazy, conflicting emotions. Instead, he pulled his flint out of his pocket, stalked over to one of the candles on the nearest dining table, and struck his flint.

A little flame danced on the wick like a ballerina in full flight. Fleck turned around and faced Hana. “I did it.” He said, wishing he could scream it. “I lit a candle.”

Hana pulled out her own flint and lit a second candle. Fleck met her eye and continued, stroking flint against stone and watching the dancing little flames spring onto the wicks. Fleck had been so scared of lighting his light this year, but he knew it needed to be done. The world needed his glow, and he was done hiding. “Merry Christmas.” Fleck whispered in a scratchy voice.

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-Fleck 😉