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“Am I doing it correctly, Professor?”
Aurora’s expression is grave, her fingers delicately holding the shiny bauble. Her hands tremble, as if she’s afraid she’ll shatter the glass if she holds it even the slightest bit too hard. It’s almost amusing how seriously she’s taking such a commonplace activity as decorating a Christmas tree. But then again, it is her first time—and Descole’s first time decorating as himself too, after so many years of leaving such celebrations behind him.
“There’s no particular right or wrong way to do it,” he says idly, stepping towards the tree. It towers above them, swaying slightly with the Bostonius’s movements. The tree is thankfully in no danger of falling over: long straps securely fasten it to the wall in an aesthetically displeasing but necessary way, and its base is bolted to the floor. If it had been up to Descole, the tree would have been arranged a little more artistically, but he won’t scorn Raymond’s hard work.
“I would suggest putting up the lights first, though,” he says, opening up the box of Christmas paraphernalia he’d had tucked away for so many years. “It’s far easier to put them up before putting up the ornaments.” He rummages through the box with hands that shake a little more than he’d like to admit.
Every item in the box brings up new painful memories for Descole when he sees them, and even more when he touches them, turning them over in his hands. He refuses to look at any item closely, too afraid of remembering who had made or treasured each little ornament. It hurts too much to remember the hands that created so many of these crafts with love and care.
He should have thrown it all away years ago.
So many other things were lost when his old self died. Nearly everything in his old self’s family’s home was destroyed. Only things tucked away in the basement beneath the house’s foundations were safe from the ravages of fire and destruction.
But Descole should have destroyed everything that remained himself. It would have been easier if he’d let everything from his old life disappear. He’s tired of driving away the ghosts that haunt his mind.
Even hearing Aurora address him as “professor” is difficult for him. He often forgets that she’s talking to him, if he isn’t fully alert. After all, Jean Descole isn’t a professor. Desmond Sycamore was, but he’s also someone who died long ago: a reanimated corpse that has now been permanently laid to rest, now that he has embraced his life as Descole once more.
And yet, Descole can’t bring himself to correct Aurora when she calls him “Professor.” Not after coming to care so much about her. Not after nearly losing her after the Sanctuary fell, and not after the miracle of finding her again.
“Let me help you, professor,” Descole hears Aurora say, and feels her pull the tangled Christmas lights from his hand. He hadn’t even realized that they were in his hands. And now, he watches her carefully work, untangling knots that had formed more than a decade ago, when a family had undecorated for the last Christmas they would ever celebrate.
“You’re quite good at decorating,” he says, and feels silly as the words leave his mouth. Christmas decorating isn’t something that one necessarily needs to be good at. But at the same time, he’s curious. Aurora seems so adept at untangling the lights, at coordinating the colours of the decorations in the room. It’s almost as if she’s done this before, despite having lived thousands of years before Christmas was ever celebrated. His archeologist’s curiosity is piqued. Here’s a chance to learn more about the civilization Desmond Sycamore spent so long studying. “Have you done this before?”
“Done what, professor?” Aurora looks up from her work. Her eyes are haunting in a deep, inhuman and ancient way. Who knows what wonders she saw long ago—or what horrors?
“Decorating for a holiday like this. Were there any holidays that the Azran celebrated in such a way?”
“Some.” Aurora spirals around the Christmas tree, wrapping the lights evenly and carefully. “They were all different from the ones that the people of today celebrate, but they were similar in concept. I often helped to decorate for them.”
“How wonderful!”
Reacting so positively to Aurora’s words feels unnatural to Descole. Desmond Sycamore showed enthusiasm and appreciation for others, but Jean Descole shows only scorn and apathy. He likes to think of himself as having a biting wit, although others might not think the same. But using that tone with Aurora feels wrong; he feels drawn to speak sincerely and kindly to her. Once again, the spirit of a dead man stirs within him. “Tell me more, if you would. What did you like best about those holidays? Do you have any special memories from that time?”
Aurora’s focus doesn’t waver; her hands continue steadily working at decorating, hanging ornaments and wrapping tinsel around the tree. “Not particularly. Holidays were busy occasions that demanded much of me. I completed my work, and that was all that I did.”
“Your work? What do you mean?” The matter-of-factness in her voice is bewildering. “The concept of holidays must have been the same back then as it is now, surely? Weren’t you spending time with friends and celebrating?”
Aurora smiles, but there’s something like sadness in her hollow eyes. “I had no friends, and I wasn’t able to celebrate.”
“Why not?”
She shrugs, returning to her work, her voice measured and hollow. “I was created as the Azran emissary. I was not one of the Azran myself. Holidays were a time for their celebration, not mine. I and other golems ensured that proceedings ran smoothly so they could celebrate. That was all that I was permitted to do.”
Just as he was in the Sanctuary, Descole is struck by the cruelty of the Azran. They’d created creatures with such power and humanity, and yet denied them the opportunities to express the emotions they’d been given. Aurora, with all the kindness in her synthetic heart, is more human than the Azran were.
…And more human than Jean Descole is, himself. He’d hurt so many and destroyed so much in his pursuit of revenge. After all he’d done, he’d given up on himself when he’d been injured in the Sanctuary. It was better for him to die a hero than to live with the knowledge of all the wrongdoings he’d committed.
But Aurora hadn’t given up on him. She’d believed in his potential for good; she convinced him to live and to move forward.
Descole won’t disappoint her. He’ll do better than the Azran did long ago. Even if the kindness and warmth that Desmond Sycamore possessed is long gone, Jean Descole can still make an effort for Aurora’s sake and make this a holiday that she will truly enjoy.
“The Azran treated you unkindly. But we will make this Christmas a holiday that you will truly remember fondly.” He says the words firmly, confidently. “What should we do to make that happen?”
“I will already remember it fondly, because I’m spending it with you, Professor.”
The small, yet radiant smile that spreads across Aurora’s face is enough to drive the chill of the winter air away—and perhaps, enough to warm Descole’s heart of ice. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says, and reaches into the box of decorations, pulling out an ornament: a painted clay cutout shaped like an angel. It’s crude, misshapen, handmade by a child. It’s beautiful. “Now,” he says, handing the ornament to Aurora. “Let’s finish what we started.”
Aurora nods, hanging the ornament on the tree. The angel smiles down on them. It almost seems to be happy. It’s no longer stuffed away in a box full of forgotten memories. It’s back where it belongs: once again watching over a family at Christmastime.