Disclaimer: I own only a certain deceased faun, his flute, and his boat. (If you must know, I was named in his will.) And no, said deceased faun is not the one that belongs to a certain C.S. Lewis.

Special thanks to: Sir-William and The Happy Islander at TheLionsCall and WillowDryad here on FF for helping me out with my little battle of the titles. :)

Tumnus aimlessly rocked a quill pen between his fingers, back and forth over an empty sheet of parchment. He glowered at the fire that crackled cheerily in defiance. The only other sounds in the cave were the soft click of his mother's knitting needles and the heart-breaking tune from his father's flute; Tumnus almost couldn't tell if his heaviness of heart was caused by the song or by the shared thoughts that had brought the song out.

He blinked back a tear and finally allowed his pen to scratch out a useless line. Then another and another. He thought he didn't care about his doodle – if he could call it that – but he apparently cared enough to notice that nothing he did was in any way unrelated to his prevailing gloom. Tumnus laid his head upon his arm and continued to add lines until they took shape. Then he began to write.

Lyron Ionathus,

It's been hardly a day since you left and yet we miss you so. We miss the sound of your voice and the voice of your flute. I'm not sure any of us ever realized just how much we loved them. But now, it seems as though not even songbirds can warble your melodies, nor the wind hum your harmonies, nor the rain patter your rhythms.

Tumnus' father transitioned into another piece, similar to the last, but sweeter. Like a lullaby. Tumnus swayed back and forth with it as though the tune itself was the subtle rocking of a cradle. He closed his eyes as the melody washed over him like a gently-rolling tide.

I have heard your songs since my faunling days and never have they ceased to work their magic upon my spirit. Your gift has grown in me the desire to play as well as you: to dance the festive trills, to sing the whispering notes, to weep the saddest tones. Perhaps one day, I will learn how.

But until then, I commit your songs to memory, for few things are as precious to me as your music. And at this time, I cannot but think of your favourite composition, for it is mine also: of rolling waters and endless sunrise and gaining the prize at the end of the journey. It is the most beautiful of your works and the most fitting – though I think you have made your own voyage far more speedily and easily than your song implies.

For I am confident you have indeed gained that far-off shore. And though I shall never again hear your voice on this side of the water – though your flute-songs will ever remain in our hearts and in the halls of the Cair and in the green of Dancing Lawn –, I know I shall hear it again when I join you there in that land.

Though you knew me not, I remain
Your admiring faunling,
Tumnus

His scribbling had turned into a sketch of a boat caught between regal sunrise and faceless sea where, perched on the bow of the vessel, the small figure of a cross-legged faun piped the joyous song of life.

Sailing home, sailing home,
sailing home across the sea,
sailing home to see my Saviour,
sailing home, dear Lord, to Thee.
~ Ron "Patch the Pirate" Hamilton's "Sailing Home"

Jonathan "PeeWee Pirate" Hamilton (1979-2013), forever singing in my childhood and ever more in the choirs of Heaven.