Thawmyrrh and the Mitten Tree

Thawmyrrh and the Mitten Tree

Long after the villagers of Tiller’s Field had gone to sleep, tiny lights flickered among the branches of the Mitten Tree in the square. Fairies with nimble fingers and hearts full of generosity had spent several nights crafting mittens for every villager—soft wool spun with threads of warmth and magic. One by one, the fairies hung the mittens on the tree’s frosted boughs, giggling as they imagined the delight of the humans when they awoke. By the time the first stars dimmed, the tree glimmered with promise, each mitten a gift of comfort and cheer.

But before dawn could arrive, a furious blizzard swept down from the northern peaks. Winds roared, snow thickened into drifts, and freezing rain glazed the branches. When the morning finally arrived, the villagers hurried to the square, eager to see the fairy gifts. Their excitement froze in dismay. Every mitten was entrapped in ice and stuck fast to the branches. Children shivered and huddled with their parents, hearts sinking at the thought of bare, frozen fingers.

Above the village, Thawmyrrh, a kindly dragon with golden scales that shimmered even in gray light, spotted the distress below. With a sweep of his wings, he descended purposefully, nostrils flaring with gentle fire. Carefully, he exhaled across the Mitten Tree, letting warm flames caress each branch. The ice hissed and cracked, snow melted into sparkling droplets, and the mittens loosened without a single tear.

The villagers rushed forward, astonished. Slipping their hands into the thawed mittens, warmth immediately spread through fingers and palms. From that day forward, they whispered gratitude for Thawmyrrh’s gentle fire, knowing that any mitten touched by dragon magic would remain forever cozy, dry, and warm—a testament to fairy craft and to dragon kindness alike.