A/N: Well, this would be my Easter fic of the year. I've been planning to do an Easter fic for a while (for good reason) but actually had a rather hard time coming up with the topic of the fic. Then I had an idea to do seven parts, one for each book, so I planned it all out, and then decided that I'd leave the other fics and just concentrate of this one, because I was having too much trouble coming up with seven "mini-plots" and ideas etc for all the books, let alone write all seven parts and continue other writing I was doing at the time. So this fic is from the Dawn Treader, on Ramandu's Island. I hope you enjoy and Happy Easter!
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It is dark on the island, although the first glimmers of light are beginning to shine in the East, lighting the ruins that stand proud in their forgotten splendour. In the hillside there opens a little door. The light from inside briefly outlines the figure of an old man before the door is closed. There is silence as the old man's eyes adjust to the dark, then a soft swishing sound as he shuffles slowly towards the ruins. He pauses often for breath, the silence stealing back over the island until the old man is ready to move forward once more.
So intent is the old man on reaching his goal that he does not notice the door in the hillside open again, this time to release a young child, a girl of only five years. She slips silently outside, closing the door softly behind her before following the path of the old man.
As the old man reaches the ruins, he pauses beside a table laden with food. Strangely, there are no feasters, the fare untouched. The old man gazes at the table and sighs – a strange sigh, for it is neither longing nor regret, peace nor joy. It is the type of sigh that acknowledges, as if the time has not yet come. With this sigh, the old man turns from the table and shuffles forward again, until he stands on the eastern shore of the island, looking to the sunrise.
The child follows the old man's path through the ruins and past the table, until she is only five paces back from where he stands. Here she stops, sitting on the grass to watch the ritual that follows.
The old man lifts his frail hands before him with his arms straight out and his palms to the ground. Then he opens his mouth and begins to sing. The song is indescribable – light and airy, yet meaningful and wise. It seems to go on forever – or perhaps just a minute. It is a timeless sort of song, crystal clear and shining like the sun.
The girl doesn't move, enraptured by the melody. When the old man finally lowers his hands, the last note still hangs in the air as if reluctant to be forgotten.
The girl blinks, as if just waking from a dream. Silence descends. Then, far in the distance comes an answering song. Loud and cacophonous, it is the song of the firebirds as they travel over the ocean. There is a white glimmer on the horizon that grows bigger, and then the firebirds are at the island, covering everything and swarming around the long table and its feast.
The girl laughs as the birds' wings brush against her face, but doesn't take her eyes off the old man. So she sees when one of the birds drops something like a bright coal on his tongue. She watches as the old man straightens his back and takes a deep breath.
With a loud cry, the firebirds lift off from the island and fly back towards the east and the rising sun. The table has been emptied of its food – all that is left are the dishes, waiting for their next meal.
On the eastern shore, the old man turns to the girl. As he smiles, he seems almost to glow, although it could be just a trick of the light.
"Greetings, my daughter," the old man says, his eyes twinkling as though holding some hidden secret.
"Greetings, my father," the child replies. She jumps up to embrace the old man.
"That was wonderful," she whispers to him. "Beautiful!"
The old man smiles and strokes her hair gently. "So it is," he replies, as one who sees beauty every day, yet hasn't lost his awe for it.
"But what were they?" the girl asks.
A faraway look comes into the old man's eyes. "Sit, my daughter, and I will tell you a tale of long ago days."
The child sits obediently, her eyes gleaming with impatience.
"Centuries ago," the old man begins, "I was a young star, dancing the path of the sky. In that time, I was known as the Bringer of Hope, or Ramandu in the star's tongue."
"Ramandu," the girl repeats carefully. "And I am Daughter of Ramandu."
The old man nods. "I was there in the times of Snowwhite and Lightbreeze, Ancel and Loorum. I watched the world as its people flourished and spread, and saw the country Narnia fall under the spell of the White Witch."
The child has heard the story of the White Witch before, but still listens with baited breath.
"You have seen the Stone Knife that rests on the table, and know what it represents," Ramandu continues. "I was watching on the night when it was used, when the Lion gave himself up to death to save the human king. I saw the blade pierce his flesh and take his life. And I was there, the bright morning star, to watch as He opened His eyes as the Deep Magic worked. I heard his roar of triumph against the witch."
The child's eyes shine with tears of joy. "You saw it all?"
"I saw and rejoiced. And the Lion knew my joy, and when I grew too old to dance through the sky, He set me here on this island to rest, and the guard the Stone Knife."
The child turns to look back at the ruins, where the knife now lay.
"The knife represents his love," she says slowly, "that He would sacrifice himself for us all."
Ramandu nods, taking her hand in his as he looked up to the sky and the rising sun.
"And on this, the day that marks his death and resurrection, we give thanks to Him, for He is risen!"
Ramandu's daughter raises her head to look where her father gestures. There, in the gold of the rising sun, shines the outline of a lion, standing proud in all His glory.
"Yes," she says softly, "He is risen indeed."
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Please review, and once again, Happy Easter!