AN: This was written in the spirit of silliness and fun and should be read with that understanding. Most of the disclaimer is embedded in the story. I shall only add that the original idea is borrowed with permission from King Caspian the Seafarer. My thanks to him, and to WillowDryad and Laura Andrews for their beta help.

Enjoy.

This is a story about something which happened a week or two ago, in a medium-sized university town, in what your grandfather may have called the Middle West of America. It is not, I am afraid, a story which has any basis in fact, except for this: The Kilby Center, where you may see a Telmarine mask or Lucy's candle or the famous Wardrobe itself, and where the lamppost by the gate never goes out, is indeed a real place, though in reality it is known by a different name. It is located on the campus of our friendly Middle Western campus, where it is lovingly maintained by a team of archivists, catalogers, and student workers, who I am sure would never allow an intruder anywhere near their treasures. While this is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons real or imaginary is probably intentional, and names have been changed to protect the author.

My story begins on a Thursday afternoon, about quarter past one, when the door to the Kilby Center opened and a young, dark-complexioned man entered. He nodded to Silvia, behind the front desk, and examined the one-room museum display—the Professor's chessboard and pipe, Lucy's candle stub, C. S. Lewis's writing desk, and especially the great and curiously carved Wardrobe—with no more interest than the average Narnia fan. He stood a long time before the Wardrobe, though he did not open it.

Seemingly satisfied, he wandered down the hall to the reading room, where he read and signed the list of rules. After a quick tour, courtesy of Archivist Lilygloves, he was set free to browse, and he spent some minutes perusing the books of C.S. Lewis before finally selecting Prince Caspian. There was only one other person reading there. The girl looked to be in her late teens and she had three books open and others piled around her on her table. (The young man did not pause to note the titles of her books, but I happen to know that she was reading Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics, with the Seamus Heaney version, the original text, and an older rhyming translation of Beowulf ready to hand; besides the Concise Anglo-Saxon Dictionary.)

The newcomer paid her no attention, but took a seat at the table farthest from her and from Lilygloves's desk, and nearest the window. For several hours he read, hearing the clock chime the quarter hour, the girl behind him laugh softly at her book, or the librarians talking quietly together. He had never read Prince Caspian before, although he had heard a form of the story, and sometimes he scowled blackly or smiled mockingly at the page. At ten to four, Archivist Lilygloves came over to say the reading room would be closing shortly. He rose, replaced his book, and went out, calling a nearly-cheerful "Good day."

Let us leave our mysterious young man to his own devices for a time and follow the young woman studying Beowulf. Her name, at least for our story, was Clipsie, and every week she spent a day studying at the Kilby Center. She read everything from Beowulf to Lord Peter, but her especial joy was the land of Narnia. She loved to sit on the bench outside the Kilby Center, and the sight of the glowing lamp post never failed to calm her worries.

That evening, her homework nearly done, she came back to the Kilby Center and the bench just before dusk, for the dorm was noisier than usual and she could not write. She sat there beside the bed of daffodil and wrote steadily for a page and a half. Then she paused to think of a word, chewed her pencil and looked up at the lamppost. It was dark.

She had come to half-believe it alive, if not rooted in the soil. For a moment she stared, with the wild thought flashing through her head that something was terribly wrong in Narnia. Then she heard a muffled noise that sounded like glass breaking and she jumped up. A light clicked on inside the building.

The doors were locked, and she pounded on them before stopping to think. Off went the light, and with a feeling of nosy foolishness, she pounded again, half-surprised when someone came to let her in, muttering something about plumbing and drains and working late, but he was none other than that afternoon's reader of Prince Caspian. He carried a lit candle—Lucy's candle—and he paused in surprise for just a moment when he saw it was she.

She dashed past him into the museum. Two of the display cases were smashed. The Professor's matches, Nikabrik's sword, Peter's messenger bag, and the Telmarine mask-helmet were out and jumbled on Lewis's desk; and the man was right behind her. She grabbed the Dwarfen sword and spun around.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, feeling a right and a duty, as a long-time friend of the Kilby Center, to defend its treasures from recreant rogues posing as researchers. She did not pause to consider that she was alone in a dark building on the edge of campus with a man of unknown strength. But Lady Luck or Mighty Wyrd or her guardian angels were on her side. If the man had been a fighter of any skill, I do not know what would have happened to Clipsie; as it was he knew less about things like swords than she did (which was very little indeed) and he backed away when she twirled the Dwarf-sword.

"Who are you?" she repeated.

"Trizelian, son of Dexter, son of Glozelle," he stammered.

"From the South Seas Island?" she exclaimed.

"Yes."

"How did you get in here?"

"I hid in the elevator before closing-time."

He had been hidden just feet from them when she and Lilygloves walked blithely out the door! "What are you doing here?"

He held up the mask. "I wish to reclaim my forefather's helmet and return to my ancestral land. I have come here because only the Door," he gestured to the Wardrobe behind him, "can take me back. But truly, I mean no harm."

"It can't take you back," she said. "Narnia ended sixty-three years ago, eight years after your grandfather Glozelle led the Telmarines to the Island. And if it still existed, the only way back would be with the Rings through the Wood Between the Worlds. I don't know where they are. Probably in Mr. Walter's house, in England."

"You lie. The Door is magical. I shall go through, with provisions in this bag and the sword to defend myself against wild animals."

Not Talking Animals. She opened her mouth to insist that it was impossible, but thought better of it. "If I give you this sword and keep watch against interruption as you make your preparations, will you go in peace?"
He blinked at her sudden change in demeanor. "Certainly."

So, keeping her eyes on him, she inched her way over to the case and took out the dagger. Then she set the sword down next to the scabbard on the near end of the desk and backed away, taking up a post by the Dorothy Sayers display, where she could see both the door and the man who called himself Trizelian. He packed the bag (Peter's bag, and he treated it like a grocery sack!) with food and matches, tried the mask on, found it not to his liking, and placed it also in the bag. Then he belted the sword on (it was much too small for him) and hung the bag over one shoulder. He reached for the candle, still burning on the table, but she spoke.

"Oh, please don't." She could not bear the thought of him filling the lovely fur coats with smoke, or catching them on fire. "I'll get you a better."

She ran to the front desk, where she miraculously found a flashlight. She showed him how it worked, and he willingly traded his candle for the bright white beam of light. Candle in hand, Clipsie retreated once more to the Dorothy Sayers corner, and Trizelian opened the Wardrobe door.

"Does anyone come?" he asked.

"No. The coast is clear. Good luck, Trizelian."

The door on the Wardrobe only opened three-quarters of the way down, and he climbed in, one leg and then the other. Clipsie darted forward and shut the door behind him, locking it and leaning against it. Her heart pounded, and she reached for her cell phone to call someone—Lilygloves, Silvia, Alba—but then realized what horrendous trouble she would be in if all those treasured film props went missing. Oh dear. Oh, dear. Oh, dear, dear, dear.

It was about then that she realized Trizelian was not pounding on the inside of the Wardrobe, as it is customary for a person shut into a cupboard, closet, or wardrobe to do. She held her breath, but there was no noise coming from the Wardrobe.

She dared to step away and blow out The Candle; then fumbled in the dark for a light switch. Still, there was no sound, and she might have been alone. She took out her cell phone again, but called her cousin, Cole, who was taller and stronger than she and might make fun of her but probably would help.

Cole arrived five minutes later and she let him in.

"Man, what's with the broken glass?"

"Someone was in here, stealing things. I got him into the Wardrobe and locked the door, but I think he's still in there and I don't know what to do next."

Cole glanced at the dagger she was still holding and raised his eyebrows, but he went over to the Wardrobe, saying after a moment, "Clipsie, are you sure? I don't think anyone's in here."

"Well, he was in there fifteen minutes ago, and there's no way to unlock the door from the inside."

"I guess. Let's see." He turned the handle and opened the door.

Clipsie took a step back.

"There's no one in here!" he said, poking through the tweed and fur coats. "Come on. Look."

She looked, and there was no one there. Nothing was out of the ordinary, and the Wardrobe back was solid wood paneling with hooks on it, just as it always was. Except—when they looked again they saw something on the floor, and when they pulled the somethings out, they were all the missing props. Peter's bag, Nikabrik's sword, all of it. But Trizelian himself had disappeared into thin air.

Cole rolled his eyes at what seemed like an elaborate hoax, but he was good-natured enough to help Clipsie sweep up the glass, empty the bag and put everything back exactly where it belonged. She sent Trizelian's bread and cheese with him when he went back to his dorm, but she stayed behind to look at the Wardrobe once more, and the notice on the inside of the door. It reads (and if you visit the Kilby Center you may see it there still), "Warning! Enter at your own risk. The Kilby Center assumes no responsibility for persons who disappear or are lost in the wardrobe."

Clipsie had a good deal of explaining to do the next day, and she had to pay out of her own pocket for the broken glass of the display cases to be fixed, but the prank, as most people thought of it, was eventually forgotten, and she was not very sorry to have had the adventure of meeting the grandson of General Glozelle. As for Trizelian himself, I do not know for sure what became of him, but I think he fell through the back of the Wardrobe onto the island whence he had come. I do not know if it was the goodwill of Luck or Wyrd or Clipsie's guardian angels that returned the Narnian treasures to Clipsie, but I think it was long-suffering Silvia, at the front desk of the Center, who nearly a week later had the last word.

"Has anyone seen my new torch?"

~ finis ~