Meet Christos

One does not have to believe in mythical or magical creatures to encounter Christos.

This is fortunate, because Christos has never considered another person’s belief in him to be particularly relevant to his existence. He was here long before anyone began debating which parts of the world were real and which were merely too wondrous to be explained, and he suspects he will remain long after humanity has exhausted itself trying to place proper labels upon everything.

He is a unicorn, of course, although saying so tells you considerably less about him than you may imagine.

Christos possesses the unmistakable presence of a creature who has stepped out of legend without feeling any obligation to behave impressively once he arrives. There is something ancient in the way he carries himself, something powerful in the deliberate placement of each silver hoof, and something undeniably mischievous in his expression whenever a plate of Linzer cookies has been left unattended.

His passion for the beauty of a Linzer cookie is known throughout the land.
Christos maintains that this appreciation is refined rather than excessive. He will speak at considerable length about the delicacy of the pastry, the brightness of the jam, the importance of a properly dusted surface, and the extraordinary restraint required to admire such a creation without immediately eating it.

He does not possess that restraint.

He has been known to liberate a cookie from another person’s plate when their attention wanders, although Christos objects strongly to the word steal. In his view, a neglected Linzer cookie has entered a state of temporary abandonment, and he considers it an act of mercy to prevent such loveliness from going unappreciated.

Consider this your one and only warning.
Should you count four cookies upon your plate and find only three when you look again, there is no need to search the Library. Christos will be standing nearby with an expression of such radiant innocence that his guilt becomes immediately apparent.

His coat is luminescent white, though white is far too simple a word for what happens when light moves across him. At dawn, he carries the palest blush of the sky. Beneath the afternoon sun, silver and pearl ripple over his back like water. By moonlight, his coat seems almost to glow from within, as though some part of the night has remembered its own brightness and chosen to rest upon him.

His mane falls in long, silken waves along his neck, catching the occasional glimmer of gold, lavender, blue, and rose. The colors are never quite still. They shift according to the light, the weather, and perhaps his mood, although Christos denies this whenever someone notices a sudden flare of crimson after he has been contradicted.

Then there is his horn.

It rises from his brow in a silver-gold spiral, elegant and powerful, carrying the unmistakable marks of a life that has not always been peaceful. Christos has seen his share of righteous battles throughout his legendary years, and his horn bears a nick or two from moments when retreat was neither possible nor desired.

He does not hide these marks.

To Christos, a scar is not evidence that beauty has been ruined. It is proof that beauty was willing to stand between harm and something it loved.
When the light strikes his horn just so, the old nicks catch the brightness and scatter it. Colors move across the Library walls and through the garden in flashes of violet, emerald, sapphire, amber, and shades for which ordinary language has never found satisfactory names. In those moments, he is resplendent in all the colors of the universe, and even those who claim not to believe in magic tend to become rather quiet.
Christos notices.

He is gracious enough not to mention it.

Usually.

His magical and Irish roots reveal themselves not only in his speech, but in the way he views the world. His voice carries a rich brogue that becomes more pronounced when he is amused, deeply moved, or defending a position he has no intention of surrendering. He speaks as though the boundary between this world and every other world has always been thinner than people suppose, and perhaps only a fool would pretend otherwise.

To Christos, mystery is not something that must be solved before it can be trusted.

He knows that some things are true because they can be measured, while others are true because the heart recognizes them before the mind has gathered its evidence. He has walked through forests that remember the names of everyone who has loved them. He has watched moonlight settle upon water and open paths that were invisible during the day. He has heard messages carried in the wings of birds, the sigh of old trees, and the silence that arrives just before someone finally remembers who they are.

Christos does not find any of this unusual.

He finds it unusual that humans have worked so hard to forget.

He has little patience for those who dismiss wonder simply because they cannot place it beneath a microscope, although his impatience is generally softened by affection. Christos understands that disbelief is often less about certainty and more about protection. People learn to mistrust what they cannot explain because wonder makes them vulnerable, and vulnerability has not always been treated gently.

He will never force someone to believe.

He will simply continue standing before them, luminous and impossible, until they become curious.

Christos is fiercely protective of those he loves. Should danger enter the garden, he will be the first to charge toward it, his silver hooves striking the earth and his horn blazing with a light capable of making even the bravest threat reconsider its plans. There is nothing hesitant about his courage. He does not pause to calculate what protecting someone may cost him. His loyalty is immediate, instinctive, and absolute.

Yet the same creature who would charge into battle without a second thought will lower himself gently onto his haunches beside someone who is hurting.

He will nuzzle a trembling hand, rest his great head against a weary shoulder, or stand quietly near a person who has run out of words. His strength does not disappear in those moments. It becomes tenderness. Christos understands that protection is not always a dramatic act performed beneath a blazing sky. Sometimes protection is remaining close enough for someone to feel that they no longer have to carry their sorrow alone.

His hugs are legendary, although technically they consist of a considerable amount of nuzzling, leaning, and careful arrangement of hooves.

Christos does not have hands, a fact he occasionally considers a profound oversight in the design of unicorns. Hands would undoubtedly make opening biscuit tins easier. Nevertheless, he has perfected the art of placing his chin against someone’s shoulder and gently wrapping the curve of his neck around them until the rest of the world feels slightly farther away.

There are people who have wept into his mane.

Christos has never told anyone who.

The garden is one of his favorite places within The Lantern Library. He can often be found standing among the roses while butterflies settle nearby, bees move between blossoms, and the lavender bends toward him as though sharing news. He does not consider the garden quieter than the Library. It is merely speaking another language.

And Christos is fluent.

He converses freely with the fae, although these discussions occasionally become complicated because the fae are fond of riddles, technicalities, and agreements that mean something entirely different by sunrise. Christos enjoys them enormously but trusts them only as far as one should trust any creature who answers a simple question with a song and disappears before the final verse.

He is equally familiar with the leprechauns who wander through the lower garden, though he refuses to discuss the location of their gold. This is not because he does not know where it is. Christos simply believes that anyone who still imagines gold to be the most valuable thing a leprechaun possesses has not been paying proper attention.

There is also a wayward gnome who appears from time to time near the herb beds.

The gnome insists he is not lost.
Christos insists that anyone found facedown beneath the rosemary three mornings in succession should remain open to the possibility.

Their conversations can continue for hours.

No one is entirely certain what they discuss, though the gnome has occasionally been seen marching away with renewed purpose while Christos watches him go with the solemn expression of a trusted adviser. Ambrose suspects the subject is philosophy. Alden believes they are exchanging knowledge about underground root systems.

Christine has heard the word turnips more than once.

Christos refuses to elaborate.

His humor is warm, irreverent, and occasionally accompanied by a suspicious gleam in his eye. He is perfectly capable of delivering ancient wisdom, but he sees no reason wisdom must always arrive dressed in solemnity. 

He has lived long enough to know that laughter can loosen what fear has tightened and that a person may be more willing to face the truth after they have first been reminded that life is still allowed to delight them.

He may offer a profound observation about courage, then become distracted by a particularly handsome biscuit.

He may speak of destiny while attempting to remove a burr from his tail with his teeth.

He may remind everyone that the universe is full of infinite possibility and then complain that someone has placed the Linzer cookies on an unnecessarily high shelf.

This does not diminish his wisdom.

It makes his wisdom easier to trust.
Christos has little interest in appearing spiritually impressive. He knows that the sacred does not vanish when someone laughs, spills the tea, misplaces the answer, or eats the last cookie. He suspects the sacred may be especially present in those moments, watching to see whether we are wise enough to notice.

To him, magic is not an escape from ordinary life.

Magic is ordinary life seen without the veil of indifference.

It is the first rose opening after a difficult winter. It is the dog who knows you are sad before you have admitted it to yourself. It is laughter returning to a room where grief has lived for a very long time. It is the moment someone stops apologizing for who they are and the entire world appears to shift around them, although not a single piece of furniture has moved.

Christos notices these moments.

He honors them.

And should anyone attempt to dismiss them as insignificant, he may paw the ground once, lower his magnificent head, and ask in the gentlest possible brogue whether they are entirely certain they wish to continue that argument.

He is a creature of battle and tenderness, legend and laughter, ancient magic and shameless affection. He can stand before a storm with his horn raised and then spend the afternoon listening to a butterfly describe her disagreement with the wind.

He knows that strength without tenderness becomes brutality.

He knows that tenderness without courage can become surrender.
Christos carries both.

Perhaps that is why he belongs within The Lantern Library.

He reminds us that we do not have to choose between being powerful and being soft, between believing in truth and leaving room for mystery, or between carrying the scars of what we have survived and remaining resplendent in all the colors of the universe.

Should you encounter him in the garden, you need not bow, gasp, or question whether what you are seeing is possible.

Simply say hello.

He may tell you a story, introduce you to a nearby faerie, or stand quietly beside you while you remember something you had almost stopped believing.

Just keep one eye upon your Linzer cookie.

Christos has been expecting you.
And unlike the cookie, you are perfectly safe.