Vulpes Medico: Winter's End Chapter 1: Fairy Tale, a chronicles of narnia fanfic

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[Chapter edited 2-10-16)

Chapter One: Fairy Tale

At a knock on the door, everyone in the den froze.

"Hide!" Rawlstow hissed, and as they had practiced many times his three little sisters dove under the pile of old, half rotted hay that served as their bed. In moments, only the tips of three black noses were visible, and the end of Velma's tail that she could never learn to completely cover. But in the shadows at the back of the den, it was sufficient. With a last glance to assure himself they couldn't easily be seen, Rawlstow went to open the door.

The sight of eight dwarves huddled together did little to calm his fears; it was well known that most dwarves had joined the White Witch. "Yes?" he said cautiously.

The oldest of the group stepped forward. "Please, Mr Fox, all we ask is shelter for the night."

"Are y'fugitives?" Rawlstow asked bluntly.

"Aye. We got word she was sendin' us to work in her mines, so we ran away."

Still Rawlstow hesitated. They could be spies, trying to trap him into sheltering those he believed to be fugitives running from the White Witch…and would true fugitives dare admit it so easily to a stranger who for all they knew could be in the pay of the Witch himself?

"Please, Mr Fox," the dwarf begged, sensing his hesitance. "It's a hard freeze tonight; we'll be frozen if ye send us away."

Rawlstow looked again over the group and saw the way they huddled together, not even daring to hope…and he knew he couldn't risk turning true Narnians away. "Come in," he invited, pulling the door wider. "I have little enough t'offer but a warm fire, but yer welcome t'share what we have."

"Thank ye," the oldest dwarf said as they filed in gratefully. "I'm Baladan, and my companions are Danskot, Norindal, Padovan, Donkor, Nikoden, Jorkin, and Halkin." As he spoke the last two names, he glanced at a dwarf who leaned heavily on the shoulders of one so like him in appearance that they were obviously brothers.

"M'name's Rawlstow," the fox introduced himself.

"Mr Fox," one of the two said in a low voice, "I don't know what ye foxes use for sleepin', but Jorkin's ill; he needs to lie down."

"O'course; bring him this way." He paused to bark an "all-clear," and the pile of hay exploded into what seemed to be far more than three kits, yapping and talking excitedly at the idea of guests.

Deftly weaving between dwarves in a suddenly crowded den, Rawlstow led Halkin and his charge to the featherbed that had been his grandmother's. "He c'n lie here. What's wrong w'him?"

"Chills an' fever; a bad cough. He wasn't well to begin with, an' then goin' out in th' cold…" Halkin shrugged helplessly.

Rawlstow touched a paw to the dwarf's garments. "He's wet through; d'y'have any dry clothes fer him?"

"Think so; lemme see if they're still dry." He rooted in his pack for a moment, then with Rawlstow's help stripped the sick dwarf of his wet garments and dressed him in the dry ones. When they had finished, he tucked the pack under the featherbed at the dwarf's head to serve as a pillow. "I don't suppose ye have a blanket…?" he asked doubtfully, looking at the fox's own coat of red fur.

"As a matter a'fact, I do," Rawlstow said.

The dwarf raised an eyebrow at the ragged piece of material Rawlstow produced, but spread it over his brother without arguing. It had once contained the hay for the little kits' bed, but in these hard times nothing was thrown out, and it had been kept even when it was worn through in too many places to serve as a mattress anymore.

Rawlstow touched his nose to Halkin's shoulder. "Call me if there's anythin' else I c'n get fer you."

The dwarf merely nodded, and Rawlstow wove his way to the south side of the den, where a few scraggly plants struggled to grow in a sunny windowsill. Gathering a pawful of leaves, he carried them to the stove to put them to steep.

There he was met by the sight of his three sisters apparently standing guard over the pot of soup that had been boiling most of the afternoon. Understanding at once what was in their minds, Rawlstow shook his head but fixed the herbal infusion before turning to the kits. "And what do y'think yer doin'?" he asked in a low voice. *

"We're keepin' the dwarves from stealin' our soup."

Rawlstow glanced around the room at the dwarves. Sitting hunched over or leaning against the walls in attitudes of utter weariness, they didn't appear to hear or care, but he switched to the sharp yaps and barks of a fox. "Is that how we treat guests, Vivian?"

"But there isn't enough to share!" Velma insisted.

"We'll starve if you give them our soup!" Verdette added.

Rawlstow touched her nose with his, unable to be harsh when he knew they were right. "We'll starve anyway; you know this is the last we have. So we'll share it with our guests without complaining; we all eat together, and then we all starve together."

The three kits sighed as one, but none of them argued with their brother.

"Don't tell the dwarves what type of meat it is," Rawlstow added warningly. "For some reason, a lot of bipeds have an aversion to eating rodents."

He counted himself fortunate to have caught that mouse; most wild beasts in Narnia were long gone, eaten by the Talking Animals and deprived of their own food as nothing grew during the long Winter.

The kits looked at each other, an idea glinting in their eyes.

"No," Rawlstow barked so sharply that several dwarves lifted their heads to look at him. "You aren't telling them just so they'll leave the soup for you — and I suspect they're hungry enough to eat it anyway; they just won't enjoy it as much. You hear me?"

"Yes, Rawlstow," Verdette said meekly.

Rawlstow narrowed his eyes at the other two, but left it at that.

Dipping a mug in the soup, he set aside a portion of the broth for the ill dwarf. Then he added water to what remained to stretch it as far as possible, his sisters whining pitifully as they watched.

"Hush," Rawlstow scolded. "The dwarves are just as hungry as you are."

Though unable to understand the foxes' speech, one of the dwarves had been watching them quietly and guessed the subject of their conversation. Getting slowly to his feet, he began moving among his comrades as Rawlstow issued his final warning to his sisters.

As the kits sat with drooping heads, their tails curled around their feet, the dwarf approached the older fox. "'Tain't much, Mr Fox, but we've got a bit o' somethin' ta add ta yer pot." He held out a tiny strip of dried meat; a small, wrinkled potato; and a nearly rock hard heel of bread.

"Thank y'," Rawlstow told him sincerely.

With a nod, the dwarf produced a knife and began shaving slivers of meat into the soup, then tiny pieces of potato. The bread wasn't enough to make even a bite for each of them, so that, too, he scraped into the pot; the crumbs would at least serve to thicken the broth a little and make it seem more substantial.

When he had finished, Rawlstow stirred the soup and put the lid back on, allowing it to simmer half an hour longer to soften the potato.

"Do y'have yer own bowls?" he questioned, lifting the lid and allowing a waft of pleasant-smelling steam to escape.

"Aye, an' spoons."

The kits began whimpering as the dwarves lined up in orderly fashion around the stove, each holding a bowl he had taken from his pack.

"Guests first," Rawlstow warned them sternly, ladling some soup into each bowl. When all the dwarves had received a portion, he divided what remained between his sisters' dishes. As they began eagerly lapping, he picked up the cup of broth he had set aside and made his way to Jorkin's side.

"Are y'awake?" he asked softly.

The dwarf's eyes opened heavily, but he merely moaned in response.

Rawlstow crooked a foreleg around the dwarf's shoulders, supporting him as he held the mug to his lips. "Drink that, now. It's good an' nourishin'; been simmerin' all day." He didn't add that one half starved mouse was scarcely enough to fortify an entire pot of broth, even when he had included the bones to boil out every bit of goodness they held. "Nice an' warm, too," he added, watching with satisfaction as Jorkin slowly sipped the steaming liquid.

At last only a few drops remained, and Rawlstow laid the dwarf back down, smoothing the ragged blanket over him. "Ye rest now," he murmured.

Turning, he found a dwarf standing holding out a nearly full bowl of soup. "What's this?" he asked in surprise.

"We saw ye didn't give yerself any," the dwarf explained in a low voice, "so each of us saved ye a few spoonfuls."

"Thank y'," Rawlstow said, deeply grateful. His first impulse was to divide the soup between his sisters, but even as he considered whether such an act would be throwing the dwarves' sacrifices back in their faces, he turned to find three pairs of eyes looking mournfully up at him.

"We didn't think t'save y'any, Rawlstow," Velma said sorrowfully.

Rawlstow smiled at them. "That's all right; I have plenty," he assured her. Lifting the bowl, he lapped slowly to savour the soup and fool his stomach into thinking it was getting more than there actually was. It was more than mere broth; the dwarves had taken care to leave him some of the scraps of meat and potato. "Thank y'," he said again when he had finished. He turned to look sternly at his sisters. "Isn't it time ye kits were in bed?"

Yapping shrilly, they dove for the pile of hay, disappearing and then popping their faces out one after the other. "A story, Rawlstow! Tell us a story!" they begged.

Rawlstow jumped over two dwarves to sit beside the hay. "And what story do y'want?" he asked unnecessarily.

"Spring! Tell us about Spring!" they demanded yet again.

"Someday, all the snow will melt…when Aslan comes again," Rawlstow began the story the three kits knew by heart. "…Th'leaves will come out on all th'trees —"

"What are leaves?" Vivian interrupted, as one of the kits always did.

"Leaves are green, like m'herbs, and they grow on th'ends of tree branches."

"I don't believe there's any such thing!" Verdette declared.

"Not now, but someday there will be," Rawlstow assured her. "When Aslan brings th'Spring."

"Will there really, Rawlstow?" Velma asked seriously; for once it was a new question and not merely a traditional part of the story. "Is there really such a thing as Spring, or is it all just make believe?"

Three pairs of eyes stared at him, and Rawlstow hesitated as they anxiously awaited his answer. "I…hope it's real," he said finally.

Baladan had been listening to the story, and now he broke in. "Don't go losin' yer faith now, Fox; Aslan'll come through. Fifty years…or a hundred…whatever it's really been — it's a long time, but not so long for a dwarf as a fox." He leaned toward the kits as if to share a great secret. "An' ye know what?"

"What?" Vivian asked breathlessly.

"I've seen spring. Not in Archenland, mind you, but here in Narnia."

Instantly he was nearly knocked over as all three kits jumped on him at once. "Tell us! Tell us about Spring!"

"Kits!" Rawlstow barked. "Is that any way t'treat a guest?"

Velma instantly sat down, curling her tail around her legs. "Please?" she asked contritely.

The old dwarf chuckled. "I don't mind," he assured Rawlstow. "You kits get back in bed now, an' I'll tell ye all I c'n remember about Spring. An' you just remember, one of these days Aslan will defeat the Witch, and it'll be Spring again."

"For sure an' certain?" Verdette breathed.

"For sure an' certain."

Rawlstow sighed as he got up and wove his way to the stove, wishing he shared the dwarf's faith. Maybe it was easier if, like Baladan, your life spanned the Winter. But Rawlstow had been born in Winter, and known nothing else his entire life; like the kits, he found it hard to imagine or hope for anything else.

He picked up the mug of herbs he had been steeping and swirled it, sniffing the brew. Jorkin had been coughing harshly all evening, and now Rawlstow carefully made his way over to him.

"Has he been coughin' like that all night lately?"

Halkin looked up sharply from where he sat bathing his brother's flushed forehead with a scrap of cloth dipped in cool water. "I'm sorry if it keeps you awake, Fox!" he snapped sarcastically.

"It's his rest I'm thinkin' about," Rawlstow said, cocking his head as Jorkin's body shook with another coughing fit. The spasm seemed to do little good, the dwarf too weak to cough deeply enough to clear his lungs as he needed to.

"I brought some herbs fer 'im," Rawlstow continued. "Let him sleep, mebbe do 'im some good."

Halkin nodded wordlessly. "Can't hurt him any, I reckon," he said soberly. Unspoken was his doubt that it would be much help, either.

Once more, Rawlstow supported Jorkin's shoulders on a foreleg and encouraged him to drink.

"Thank'e," the dwarf gasped when he had swallowed the potion.

Rawlstow lay him gently down and swiped a comforting tongue over his forehead. "Ye rest now," he told him, coiling himself to sit at the patient's side.

Within a few minutes, Jorkin seemed to be resting a little more comfortably. His coughing lessened and his congested breathing slightly eased, he soon drifted into a sleep that seemed more or less natural.

"Ye know what yer doin'," Halkin admitted admiringly. "Where'd ye learn about herbs?"

Rawlstow smiled a little sadly. "M'grandmother saved them when th'Winter came; she taught m't'use them." He sighed, touching his nose for a moment to Jorkin's face. "What I have c'n only ease his pain, not cure him…an' I only have enough t'give him one or two more times."

"Mebbe if that gets him over the worst of it…" Halkin suggested hopefully.

"So he c'n starve t'death w'the rest o' us?" Rawlstow asked a little cynically.

"Don't give up on Aslan as easily as that."

Rawlstow shook his head. "Aslan's the same as Spring, as far as I'm concerned. If he's not a fairy tale good only fer lullin' kits t'sleep, he's still too far out o' reach t'be of help now."

"I thought so, too, until ye opened yer door to us, an' fed us, an' gave Jorkin medicine."

Rawlstow shook his head. "An' just prolonged yer death; if Aslan was real an' near, surely he could do better'n that."

"Ye've suffered a lot," Halkin observed.

Rawlstow gave a short yap of laughter. "Haven't we all? I daresay I'm fortunate compared t'some, but I was the only survivin' kit o' my litter, an' m'mother died when th'kits were born. M'father went out huntin' one day an' never came back; dead or taken by th'Witch, we'll never know. Granny died soon after — let herself die so we wouldn't have t'share th'food w'her. An' now th'last group tryin' t'get supplies from Archenland has been captured or lost…" He shook his head. "Spring might be more than a fairy tale, but for us it might as well be, for we won't live t'see it."

* Illustration can be found in the Narnia folder of my DeviantArt account

A/N: If you really think about all the ramifications of a hundred-year Winter, Narnia could never have survived. And Tumnus was in the pay of the White Witch, so he might have gotten some "extras," but where would the beavers have gotten all the good food the Pevensies shared? But I happened to be thinking this story out during a very snowy winter, and I realized that it wouldn't take long to start saying it feels like it's been winter for a hundred years. From there it's a short step to saying it has been winter for a hundred years, especially in a society like Narnia where I expect they use the changing seasons to mark off years instead of having calendars. So while I don't come right out and say it wasn't a literal hundred years, several of my stories hint that it may not have been. Barbie

Next week…Merry Christmas!

I proofread all my stories at least once before posting, but if you see any mistakes I might have missed, please let me know! (Note that this story is formatted using British spellings.)

Please note that I have internet access only once a week, and may not have time to respond to all reviews/messages. Thanks for your understanding! Barbie