A story for the season! I fully intending on releasing this on Christmas Eve, but holiday plans interfered, as they are wont to do.
This is part of my Dichotomy universe. Familiarity with both Dichotomy and Splintered is highly encouraged! More information on this universe can be found in my LiveJournal. A link to my LJ and both stories can be found in my profile.
Many thanks to lady_songsmith for the beta and rthstewart for the moral support.
All hail to the days that merit more praise
Than all of the rest of the year,
And welcome the nights that double delights
As well for the poor as the peer!... — Traditional English Carol
HAIL TO THE DAYS
Cair Paravel, Narnia. Christmas Eve, 1009.
Stor came through the main doors with a large basket of fruit from the cellars gripped between his paws. He stopped in the doorway with a quick glance about the Royal Study. "Where?" he gruffly grunted over the flute and pipe music originating from the far corner of the room.
"Oh, thank you! I'll take them from you," Lucy quickly stood up from her piece of the floor to collect the basket from the cook. "And I was just running out, too."
Stor nodded his head in his exaggerated way. "Real food sent up soon, your Majesties."
"Just a small spread, please, I don't know who is staying around to partake," Lucy said to the Bear.
Lucy turned her attention to the basket of fruit in her hands—apples and pears, mostly, and the like that had been in storage in preparation for the cold winter months. She was particularly pleased to see that a gift of oranges from Archenland had also made it to the mix. Nature's decor, Lucy thought as she set the basket down and started sifting through for a choice few small apples to adorn her last topiary of the day.
She noticed, however, the Bear was still hovering in the doorway. "This is all lovely, thank you again, Stor," Lucy said in dismissal, and the Bear bowed clumsily and dropped back down to all fours to exit the room.
It was her favorite time of the year, to be amongst her closest friends and all of her family. And this year was an added bonus with Tumnus once again joining them in the festivities.
With a glance around the room, Lucy took stock of everyone's progress. It looked like the dwarfs were almost done mounting the tree into its base and the Beavers had already left. Baris and Tumnus were in the corner by the fireplace, collaborating with their respective instruments. They discovered early on that they had the misfortune of not being entirely compatible, with Baris' pipe a full half pitch lower than Tumnus' flute. The two had tried playing a tune anyway, and were several minutes in before Edmund had had enough and complained about the possibility of his "ears bleeding all over the carpets" before retreated to his rooms.
Without fuss, Baris had graciously taken out a knife from his waist belt, and promptly carved down the end of his pipe, with careful measured strokes until they were back in pitch. Though Lucy hadn't minded the music earlier, she understood where Edmund was coming from—they did sound much better after the fix.
Lucy felt the loss of her other close friends, the Beavers, not being able to stop by for as long as she would have liked. They could only stay long enough to drop off one of Mrs. Beaver's famous Christmas puddings. ("Infamous, rather," Edmund had muttered for their ears alone, which earned him a small slap on the arm from Susan)
It took an acquired taste, sure, to appreciate it. But still, Lucy wished her siblings would be a little bit more appreciative. "Besides," she had told them, "If you close your eyes and pretend that it's a casserole, you learn to really not mind the trout at all. It's actually quite good!"
She was sad that the Beavers could not stay long for their informal, private party, but was completely understanding of their reasons. They had a long list of deliveries to make, and with the winter storm coming, it was best they got their puddings out early.
Susan and Peter were still there, at least, though she didn't know where her other brother had wandered off to. And he was the one with the largest appetite! Part of her wondered if the small dinner she ordered from Stor would be enough for them all. I think I shall call him Edmund the Wandbreaker of the Hollow Legs. She decided not to count on him returning, assuming that if he was in one of his moods, then he likely wouldn't make an appearance for several hours.
Regardless of Edmund's absence, Lucy was happy the entire family had been present for at least a little while for their traditional gathering. It had started out questionable, but she managed to get Peter away from his desk and the pile of reports to enjoy an afternoon with friends and family—a task proving more and more difficult with each Christmas Eve. Keeping him here wasn't the problem, for he settled in nicely after only one mug of the dwarfs' mulled wine... it was always the battle to peel him away to begin with.
Peter was nursing a steaming mug of it now, while gazing wistfully out the window from the window seat. Lucy peered around the topiary to see what it was that caught his attention. Sure enough, a lazy snow had started to trickle down and the sparkling flakes were just visible in the diminishing twilight. She smiled, delighted that the Christmas spirit would be evident not only within, but also without with additional beauty of of a fresh carpet of snow.
A rather melancholic song started, one of the new ones to the Court. Tumnus had barely made it through the first phrase before Lucy heard the sweet sound of her sister humming along. She turned from her seat on the floor to look at Susan, who was standing behind a table, meticulously clipping fir and pine boughs for Lucy to be made into garlands later.
"How do you know this one, Susan?" Lucy asked. "Tumnus had said he only just learned it from neighbors of his all the way in the Waste."
Her sister abruptly stopped clipping and looked up, eyes wide. "Oh, I don't know," Susan muttered. "Perhaps someone else knows it, and I heard someone singing it earlier." She flashed Lucy a quick smile. "You know me, constantly picking up snippets here and there."
"It does sound familiar," Peter slowly piped in from across the room. "I think we heard it last Christmas, Lu. Tumnus wasn't with us then, remember—he must have missed out when someone else played it."
Susan nodded quickly in agreement and returned her attention to the pile of evergreen branches.
Lucy's lips twisted in dismay. And here she thought she had a new discovery when Tumnus had excitedly played it for her a couple of days prior!
As more and more native Narnians came out of the woodwork from the defeat of the Witch, so did lost traditions and songs. It seemed that everyone had their favorites that carried on over the years, and it was Lucy's personal mission to gather them all again to share and spread with everyone. She was miffed as to how she missed out on the new piece the previous year…
Well, I can't win them all, she thought, and continued attaching a pear towards the top of the potted shrub.
Tumnus finished the song, and she overheard he and Baris deciding to move onto something a bit more cheerful instead of breaking it down so Baris could learn it, much to Lucy's enjoyment. The upbeat carols were always her favorites.
"I'm going to check in on Edmund."
Peter did not say anything in response to Susan's quiet announcement, and Lucy only looked up in time to see her sister exiting the room.
Why is everyone leaving? Lucy sighed, setting down her pruning shears. She stood up and brushed off the stray leaves clinging to the pile of her heavy skirts. Peter had made no motion to exit so far, but she wasn't about to let her last sibling escape.
Lucy bent over and pulled out one of the larger apples, one unsuitable for decoration and suitable for snacking, and crossed over to her eldest brother at the window. She curled up into his side, which at first surprised him before he wrapped a loose arm around her shoulder.
"You know, one day you're going to be to old to get away with this."
"Never," she protested and nestled in deeper, inhaling the comforting smell of cedar that permeated his surcoat and gave a contented sigh. "I'm just thankful you joined us. Even if the others have left!"
Peter gave her arm a mild tap of reassurance. "Of course, Lu, I wouldn't miss an opportunity like this for the world."
"Liar," she teased and handed him the shiny, red apple. "Not an hour ago I couldn't pull you away from those diagrams."
"It was your idea of a flagship, Lucy," he countered before taking a drink of hot wine.
That much was true. She and Peter had commissioned several dwarfs to draw up plans for a master ship to lead their small Narnian fleet. The results were quite promising so far, with the first drafts trickling onto Peter's desk the last several weeks.
Lucy straightened up and scooted to the other end of the seat so as to look at Peter directly. "Do you think it's really possible? That we could set sail as soon as next year?" she asked.
"No, not anymore. I think we're looking at two years from now. Possibly three," Peter said, shaking his head in resignation. "It's tedious work, and once we pick a design, there is still a lot of modifications that will need to be done once the build starts," he added.
"Yes, but I have no patience whatsoever, you know that!" she teased, hoping to elicit at least a smile from her brother.
Peter set his mug of wine down on the floor and began to toss the apple idly from hand to hand. "And I can be the same way at times. But you're getting better with keeping your patience in check, I think. This will be a good test, will it not?" he asked with a slight frown. "We have other ships in the meantime. We should make do with those, Lucy."
"I know that," she countered, slightly peeved by his patronizing tone. It was Christmas, after all! With one brother storming off—all right, maybe he didn't completely storm—and Susan chasing after him, Lucy should have at least been able to depend on a good laugh with Peter. Which, apparently, was not coming any time soon.
"I wish you weren't so upset," she finally admitted.
Peter abruptly stopped tossing the apple back and forth. "Who says I'm upset, Lucy?"
She leaned over to poke a finger in his chest. "You do. Your face says it all."
"It's a season of reflection, of both the highs and the lows. It's supposed to be, is it not?" Peter slowly set the apple down on the sill.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Well, true—"
"And besides, not all of us can be cheerful all the time..." he trailed. The downturn of her mouth must have did him in, for he reached over and gave her a playful nudge on the cheek. "We have you for that."
She swatted his hand away. "Then what's wrong?" she pleaded. "It's also the season of celebration, and good friends, and family, and music, and… well, all the good things!"
Peter gave a one-shoulder shrug. "I just have a lot on my mind, is all. It's hard to take a break," he confessed with a tired-sounding sigh.
"Even if a break is justified?"
"Especially then," he confessed.
Well, this won't do at all, she thought. His own exuberance was usually quite infectious and always admirable, at least in Lucy's eyes. Peter had always been an open book to her. She noticed that as he got older, he seemed to be taking more and more of the weight of all of Narnia on his shoulders, which also was admirable, if not entirely fair. And the way it affected him didn't suit him at all, especially during the holidays.
"Peter…" Lucy hesitated and nervously twisted the loose strand of her hair that had come untucked again. "Do you like it? This, I mean."
He carefully arched an eyebrow at her. "Vague, Lucy."
"I know, I know…" She huffed in frustration at his familiar scolding. She truly wished she was more adept at articulation. "This," she repeated, gesturing towards him. "Being High King."
That apparently took him aback as he sat up straighter, his shoulder tensing up. "I love it more than anything in the world. I thank Aslan every day for this honor," he said rather defensively. "Does it seem that I'm not?"
She quickly shook her head. "No! No, that's not what I mean…"
He settled back into his seat and waited patiently for her to continue.
Lucy turned her gaze back to the view out the window. As she gathered her thoughts, she noticed how quickly the snow had already accumulated on the window since she first sat there.
"All right, how about this," she started. "You're the king above all the kings of Narnia, from Frank to your infinitely-great-grandson. Or daughter," she quickly emphasized. "Which I must admit, I don't completely understand."
Peter slowly nodded in agreement. "The notion is rather perplexing. How is it that I somehow rule above those who don't rule simultaneously with me?"
"Besides the rest of us, I know. But never mind all that," she said. She chose long ago to not to feel too bogged down with the details of Aslan's confusing decree. "It's still quite the responsibility, though. I mean, you had to start from scratch, Peter! You didn't have the benefit of learning from your predecessor."
"None of us did," he emphasized.
"Right, that's true." After all, Narnia existed without a king or queen in power for a full century. Well, no true king or queen or Narnia, she thought.
"But you in particular," she said, with another point in his direction. "It's just I've been reading a lot about King Frank—who lived a thousand years ago, Peter, can you even imagine how long ago that was?—and he and his queen were the originators of all these policies, and discoveries, and these traditions, and so much more. And, sure, we at least have the benefit of a few record books in the library—"
"You have taken an interest in those lately, haven't you?" he interrupted. "Susan was saying that you had joined her in her efforts. How is that going?"
Lucy nodded enthusiastically. "Incredible! It's all so fascinating, especially since I found this one book I came across a few weeks ago when I was searching for Christmas traditions from the time of the early kings, and though I did take the book out of the library, I promise to take care of it, well, besides that one small stain—wait a moment!" she huffed. "I know what you're doing. You're trying to change the subject away from you, aren't you?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Peter smugly denied, reaching down for his mug of wine.
"Liar. You do too, and I won't let you!" she exclaimed. "I'm serious, Peter, it's all very relevant, I promise."
"I'm sure it is," he reassured. "All right. What did you find?"
She bit her lip as she thought back on the particularly beautiful book with exceptional calligraphy from Susan's stack of books had caught her eye. Lucy was delighted with the detailed the histories of the first two hundred years or so of the Narnian monarchy, all the way from the first king to King Col as he left to establish the kingdom of Archenland. It was full of political and economical details and specific dates, all of which that didn't capture her interest much. However, the origins of the traditions—such as the music and dancing—were absolutely fascinating to her. And all of what happened during the reign of the first King Frank alone! It was so impressive.
"King Frank ruled a long time, Peter," she finally said. "And it took his entire lifetime, and that of his son, Frank II, or the Brown King or Son of the Brown King—the book kept going back and forth on that title which isn't even entirely original if you ask me—and his first born was Frank III the Explorer King, who was famous for riding a beautiful big bay Horse—" she stopped herself. Once again, her mind was running away from her.
"Sorry. What I am saying is that what you have done in just these past ten years or so took lifetimes to accomplish. Even if it is just reinstating what was there before."
Peter idly nodded, obviously taking it all in. He didn't say anything to disagree with her, but she knew it was not out of cockiness. Peter did have such tendencies, but he could be just as much as a realist as Edmund when he wanted to be.
"But then again, the population was exponentially smaller back then, too," Lucy added. She briefly wondered where the rest of the people mentioned in the histories came from and the time before the first declared King of Narnia, but quickly put it out of her mind. It didn't matter how, just that they were.
Peter's brow furrowed. "Even so, the perspective of it all is all the more daunting in our times," he slowly admitted.
A gust of wind blew against the window, loosening some of the flakes that had been clinging to the chilled glass. It was not completely dark outside and it appeared that several inches now carpeted the gardens. Lucy snuggled in deeper into the warmth of her seat in response, and Peter reached for another sip of his warm beverage. The two sat in companionable silence for a moment as they took in thoughts of Kings past.
Ever since her discovery, Lucy often compared Peter's experience with Frank's. Naturally, this book did not fully describe the missteps taken, though some of the other books in Susan's collection had. But Lucy chose not to dwell too much on that, just like she chose not to get overly analytical when the same thing happened to her or any of her siblings.
Though Peter was not one to dwell, he could be a terrible perfectionist at times. Lucy really disliked how much he could berate himself when things went awry, be it miscalculations on the battlefield or in the council room. "Learn from your mistakes, move on, and only grow. To dwell on the past only robs from the future," Tumnus once told her, and it was a philosophy she had held dear ever since.
Lucy only wished her siblings shared the same philosophy as Tumnus. Especially Edmund. And Susan, too. Edmund's was understandable and heartbreaking at times, but Susan… Sometimes Lucy could just not wrap her head around how Susan's memory worked and why the past mattered so much to her.
Never mind all that, Lucy told herself, taking her own advice on non-dwelling. She looked up to her brother to find him cautiously eyeing her.
"Lucy...is this all supposed to make me feel better?" Peter asked, his voice tinged with worry.
Lucy leaned forward to lay a reassuring hand on his arm. "It should. I know I don't have much clout, but really, Peter…you're doing a marvelous job. I do hope you know that."
Peter placed his hand on hers. "I only want the best for the future, and not just how well I—we, rather—manage it."
She wondered if Tumnus had any wise words regarding the future. She turned to look at her friend, but he was rather busy being taught a new accompaniment by Baris, note by note. Edmund would have found this exercise excruciating to sit through. For a split moment, Lucy was rather relieved that he wasn't there—his overly-dramatic whinging was most definitely not missed.
Lucy turned her attention back to Peter. "I—I think the Kings of the past would be very proud of you and what you've done for Narnia," she said.
Peter's blue eyes squinted in the way they always did when he was trying to rein in any sign of emotion. "I could never do it alone."
"Well, I should hope not!" she replied. "I can imagine how preoccupied you are lording over the rulers of the past and the future to give the present your all."
That was enough for him to crack a smile. "Then thank you, Lucy. That does make me feel a bit better."
Lucy frowned. "Only a bit?"
Peter picked up the apple from the sill and began tossing it back and forth again. "Well, despite what you claim, I am rather focused on the present. I would feel fully better if all of the Witch's forces were completely gone, I could settle things once and for all with the Giants up north, and if we were in decent enough shape with Calormen to get a permanent Embassy set up in Tashbaan."
"Oh, is that all?" Lucy asked with a casual air. "I'm sure Father Christmas will grant all of your wishes in the morning."
His laughter in response was infectious, and she soon found herself laughing along. Once they both settled back down, Lucy closed her eyes and took a moment to appreciate the warmth in the room and in her heart. She was so thankful that all of her family was together and safe for yet another Christmas. Lucy was also delighted to partake in the gathering and practice of old traditions with those of the new, and wondered if any of the Narnian Kings—or Queens!—of Christmases past had similarly sat in this seat as the cold winter blew outside while warm tidings were shared within.
She opened her eyes again to take in the room. The Royal Study was nearly ready for the morrow, when the doors would be open and welcome for all Narnians to visit on Christmas Day. The topiaries were a new addition this year, being one of the ancient traditions of King Frank and Queen Helen that Lucy wanted to implement. The dwarfs had finished installing the large tree and were gathering the last of the trimmed branches to add to Susan's pile of boughs. The fauns were momentarily quiet with their heads bowed over sheets of music, scribbling notes here and there. Lucy had all the faith in the world that their playing would be perfected by the morning.
All that was left was for Lucy to assemble the garlands, a task guaranteed to take half the night, but she didn't mind. The evening was young, Stor would be here soon with food and drink replenishments, and she had no doubt Susan would return to help her with the task. And, of course, the new tradition she had convinced everyone of partaking in this year—the midnight toast to Christmases past, present, and, more importantly, the future.
But, for the moment, Lucy decided to enjoy the brief respite with Peter. Only for a few more minutes, she allowed herself.
Her brother was just about to set the apple back down on the still before she stopped him with a nudge. "Are you going to split that or not?" she dared.
Peter grinned and gripped the fruit in both hands. He tightly gave the fruit a twist, effectively breaking the apple in two and handing her half.
"And before you say such a thing, the answer is no, I won't ever be too old to be amused by that," Lucy said before he could remark. She settled back into the seat, appreciating her brother's warm laughter. He wasn't as relaxed as she wished, but she was so incredibly thankful for his diligence. They sat back and started eating their apple halves and listened as the fauns started to play another festive, cheery song.
Susan was surprised to see the main door to Edmund's rooms wide open. She crossed the threshold but had to stop to let her eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. A familiar, musky smell invaded her senses in a wave of nostalgia. It was something she hadn't smelled in years, though she couldn't quite place what it was exactly.
After a moment of blinking, she saw the figure of Edmund sprawled on his cushioned window seat, still as stone while gazing out the window towards the western gardens and the forest beyond. The one lone pillar candle on his desk provided an eerie glow, flickering shadows out across the room that competed with those of the dwindling fire in the fireplace.
A sudden movement from atop Edmund's bent knee caused Susan to step back in surprise.
"Oh!" Susan quietly exclaimed, and put a hand up to her chest. "Milletpeck, my apologies, I didn't see you there!"
The Bird gave a brief bow of her head and ruffled her wings a bit. "Please do not mind me. I am headed out anyway, your Majesty," she gravely said, and without preamble, took flight from off of Edmund's knee. Susan turned to watch her pass through the door and round the corner, presumably towards the Rooksturret.
Susan turned back to her brother, but remained where she was. He had neither acknowledged his friend's exit nor her entrance.
"She is such a sad bird," she mused aloud.
He continued to stare out the window. "You would be to if you were statued and forgotten for nigh on seventy-five years. Cut her some slack."
Susan didn't respond to his snappy over-protectiveness, though she wish her brother knew that she, too, could understand. All too much, sometimes.
The snowfall she saw out the window must not have gone unnoticed by her brother, for he now definitely was in one of his moods. At least it had been awhile since his last spell. That I know of, she thought. She put it in her mind to ask Baris of her brother's state at a later time. He had been out with his Patrol for nearly a full month earlier that autumn, and she had yet to fully catch up with him.
"You know, legend states that the Jackdaw was the first joke of Narnia," she said, crossing over to her favored chair to take a seat.
There was a muffled thunk! as a journal dropped from his hand and onto the floor. "Then I was the second," Edmund bluntly replied. "Rather fitting we make such good friends, then."
Susan chose not to reply to that, knowing full well that to do so would allow Edmund to indulge even further. She instead looked over to his desk and saw there was a second plume of smoke next to the candle emitting from a small tin container, a red glow coming from within. "What is it that you're burning over there?"
Edmund finally turned away from the window, but only to look towards his desk. "Just some incense one of the dwarfs gave me. It's crystallized wood sap. Or something."
"It's lovely."
"Mmmm," he hummed in response, returning his dark gaze to outside.
Susan's efforts were proving fruitless, much to her dismay. She decided bluntness was her only option. "Would you prefer to be alone, Ed?"
The inner debate was quite evident on his face. After a moment, though, Edmund finally turned to her and gave her a small smile. "No. Not particularly," he conceded.
She thought as much. Sometimes his insistence on solitude was nothing more than a cry for attention…an act she wish she had recognized years earlier in the sullen, young boy he once was.
"For the record, I'm rather sick of my moods and angst, too. I disgust myself sometimes," Edmund said.
Well, self-deprecation is always a good sign. The opposite could not be said with her other siblings, but things were always easier to handle when Edmund was fully aware of the problem. His problem was not being able to step away from his troubles to analyze, and therefore, fix them.
Still, it wasn't the most comfortable thing to discuss with him. Winter has always been sensitive for Edmund, and Susan could be quite protective whenever he was experiencing such moods.
"Well, I wish you wouldn't feel as such. It's understandable, it truly is," she gently said.
"It's irrational, more than anything," he scoffed, and gave the window a few knocks with his knuckle. "The way something so simple as a sight or a smell and I have this involuntary reaction. Or at least, I think it's involuntary…"
"Perhaps it's only a sense memory," Susan offered. "Like if one were afraid of spiders, and can call up that physical feeling of danger with just a mere thought of one."
Edmund looked at her, his eyes alight. "Exactly. It's just plain obnoxious," he said with a sneer. "I mean, my mind knows better. I know better, but still, the mere sight of winter—I mean, for Aslan's sake, it's just snow!—and I start falling."
Falling. Susan did not understand exactly what he meant by that, and though she was severely tempted, she held back from asking for details. Perhaps another time.
Edmund sat straighter in his seat and continued. "And it goes deeper than the thought of a spider or a great height, or anything the like. Much deeper. Just the thought of… the thought of her and what happened. It's a slow fall. And a slower climb out of it." He let out a big sigh and rubbed at his eyes with one hand. "But anyway. This is all silly. It's better than it used to be—it's something I do consciously try to combat. Within, that is."
She smiled warmly at him. "I can tell it's better. And I'm sure the others do, too. It's a slow process."
He nodded slowly. "It is. Peter gave me some things to think about that has helped some, but that was the spring before last…"
"… And Narnia wasn't in the deep of cold winter, of course," she said. But Edmund's face spoke more than he did, though, and she was also reminded of the incident during his last Patrol. And it all adds up.
As her brother eased back into his seat, she stood up from her chair. "What about a distraction?" she offered.
"What sort of a distraction?" Edmund asked as she made her way to the window seat. He moved his feet to make room for her to sit.
Susan settled into the cushion and turned her attention to the drifting flakes outside the frosted glass. She wanted to suggest all the good memories associated with the season, of the Christmases and the snow days of their early childhood in England. Of the snow forts he and Peter had built the winter before the war had started, when Father had sent them out of the house for causing too much raucous indoors. Of Mother taking them all out ice skating on the lake. But she couldn't.
"Concentrate on the present instead," she said instead. "That you're here with your family, that you have good friends, that we all are in good health again. That you are a powerful and well-respected leader. That you are loved by your subjects," she added warmly.
He turned away at that, uncomfortable with the praise. "I wish I was more like Lucy at times. Not giving two figs for the problems in the past. Her eyes are always set ahead on the horizon and what's to come, to a new dawn in the east."
"Well, that's a rather poetic way of putting it!" she teased, which prompted a small grin from her brother. "I'm the same way, too. As you, that is."
Though Susan did not share the wicked past as he, she had a similar burden and wish it could be shared if only to lessen the strain. If you only knew, Edmund. She wondered if nearly a dozen years of memories that were lost to her siblings could be comparable to what weighed on Edmund's mind, but silently chastised herself for thinking such. They should not be compared—everyone has their own burdens, after all, their own story.
"One day at a time, Edmund," Susan finally said, giving his shin a pat. "Be thankful for the here and now. I know I am. A new year will be here soon, with new adventures just around the corner. It's a time of new beginnings, is it not?" She hoped to be reassuring, even though she struggled in believing these same notions.
But Edmund didn't answer, nor did she expect him to. The two sat quietly, and she thought back on seasons past and the ongoing trend of her brother's moods during such. They had been getting better. That first Christmas as king had been the roughest for him, of course, but she believed that they slowly got easier for him in time even as he grew into the young man he was now.
Edmund sighed loudly and idly rubbed at his knee. "Thank you," he said simply, and flashed her a quick smile.
"Worry not," she answered back. Nothing more was needed to be said. Not now, at least. "Would you care to join us downstairs? Lucy should be done decorating, and Stor was going to bring some food for us."
"Actually," he said, his eyes squinting into the whiteness of outside, "I think I'm going to join the boys for a pint outside the gates," he said, swinging his feet to the ground. "That ought to warm me up some."
"But it's Christmas Eve!" she protested. "It's the only time for just our family before the onslaught of tomorrow!"
"But they're my second family, and they don't have anyone else."
"Oh, all right, " she acquiesced. She could hear the cracking of his knee as he stood up and she winced in sympathy. "Just please don't do anything stupid."
Edmund let out a short laugh. "I'll be with Peridan and Ferrin. Of course we'll get stupid." He crossed over to his desk and doused the incense with a few pokes of a calloused finger.
Well, she expected nothing less from Ferrin. She shook her head in dismay and also rose from her seat. "Will you be up in time for Father Christmas?"
Once the red glow had turned to grey ash, he placed a matching cover on the vessel and stepped over to her. "I will be back in time for Lucy's toast later tonight. I promise. Besides, I would never miss an opportunity to see Father Christmas. Not again, that is," he said. Without waiting for an answer, he gripped her by the shoulders, gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and crossed to the door. He stopped short of exiting, turning instead to face her. "Merry Christmas, Su."
She smiled warmly back, relieved at his improved mood. "Happy Christmas, Edmund."
"Don't forgot to put out the candle when you leave," he said. "Oh, and when Baris is done aurally torturing everyone, let him know where we are, will you?" And in a flash, he was gone.
Susan sighed. Typical, she thought as she crossed to the other side of the room. Though it had been put out, the scent still lingered and she took another deep breath of the intoxicating smell.
Frankincense. The word just popped in her head. She had no idea how she could have ever forgotten it. A flash of a memory flooded her mind, of Christmas Eve services as a young child. A memory of her mother leading them to the family pew as she gripped on to little Lucy's small hand. Lucy, who would fall asleep half way through service, probably from the excitement of the decorated cathedral mixed in with the general hustle and bustle of the season. Peter would look smart in his suit, while Edmund would sit slouched in the pew, eyes wide and unfocused, his feet swinging, barely hitting the floor. She didn't have an image of Father, though.
Susan shook her head to clear her thoughts. In her slight daze, Susan crossed back over to the window, stooping to pick up a journal that Edmund had carelessly dropped on the floor and set it on the window seat. She sat back down and drew her knees up, shivering. Though the room was warm from excellent ventilation and engineering, the window was naturally cold and she could see her breath fog the glass panes. She adjusted her skirts to cover her feet and wrapped her shawl tighter across her shoulders as she leaned her forehead against the cool glass.
This season was always confusing for Susan here in Narnia. Peter and Lucy had adjusted well, and Edmund… well, of course, all of that. But ever since that first visit with Father Christmas, when she first received her bow and horn, Susan was uncertain on what she thought of it. It had always been her favorite time of year as a child, with the fondest of memories being of Christmas mornings, and the carolers at the door, and Mother's thick cake that her brothers would snatch extra pieces of, giggling at the idea of how much brandy they were consuming.
Of course, things had been different the last couple of Christmases before they came to Narnia, with most of the celebrations being kept indoors. The candles were no longer placed in the windows, the tree was smaller, and the carolers silenced. Still, Mother had done her best to keep their spirits high, despite their father's absence. It had not gone unnoticed by Susan, and she was thankful for all that their mother had sacrificed.
But here in Narnia, things were different. When the Witch was gone, so had all of the inhibitions of the previous century by the Narnians. The celebrations were wild and raucous, an approach she had grown to be completely unused to back in England. It was such a shocking transition.
That, and, well… it didn't make any sense. She was well familiar with Christmas and what it stood for back home. But they didn't have such stories, legends, nor traditions here in Narnia. Susan always wanted to ask Aslan about it, but never seemed to remember to when he visited, having so many other questions that would be on her mind at the time. Plus, it had been awhile since he was at Cair Paravel last. And he never seemed to present during the Christmas. So, how was it that they celebrated Christmas in Narnia, and even call it such? Solstice, she could understand. On top of it all, some of the traditions weren't completely foreign to her, though they more old-fashioned from what she was accustomed to…
Her mind drifted to earlier and Tumnus' song on his pipe. She knew very well why it had sounded familiar. It was a variation on Greensleeves, the tune of a suitable carol for the season.
And it was not the first time, either, that familiar melodies would trickle in and out of "traditional" Narnian tunes. Her siblings head remarked on such familiarities before, but they mainly dismissed their recognitions as songs that they must've heard when they were younger—"When we first came to Narnia!" Lucy would wistfully say—ignorantly say—with no mention to the time before.
Susan had her own theories that she did not share with the others. Greensleeves was just one example of a link to their mostly-forgotten world. There were so many...from Father Christmas, to the fairy tales she would hear some of the colonist grandmothers share with the brood of children at their feet, to the very language they spoke! The incidences were countless and surely were not purely coincidental.
There was only one thing for Susan to do about it and that was to research. It was most logical to start from the beginning, so she concentrated her efforts on the story of Frank and Helen, the first King and Queen of Narnia. She had already spent countless hours pouring over the tomes in the library, reading about the histories, the campaigns, the legends, the ancestral lines. Lucy, too, recently had discovered a fascination with them, with an interest in the Christmases of the past. But her sister was more focused on what the traditions were and not where and how they originated.
Apparently, they had celebrated the holiday all the way back in the first King's time, which got her mind churning. The holiday practices did not seem to differ much from what they were now, nor from what she was used to back in England. Lucy no longer recognized similarities that existed between there and Narnia, whether they be about Christmas or anything else, for that matter. But Susan did, and it deeply bothered her. And it got her mind churning about who were King Frank and Queen Helen and where they had come from….
Her thoughts were interrupted as something out the window caught the corner of her eye. She leaned closer towards the window pane just in time to see her younger brother in the garden, bundled up against the cold, blowing snow. He briefly bent over, and in a flash, forcefully threw a handful of powdery snow up into one of the bare ash trees.
A flicker of a dark shadow flew down from a branch and landed on his shoulder, bits of snow flying out from Milletpeck's wings. She saw Edmund let out a laugh, probably one of his hearty ones that she wished she could hear from several stories and through the glass. Edmund then turned and walked towards the front of the gate, presumably to join his friends for an evening drink.
Susan slowly stretched her legs out and let out a small yawn. The room had grown chillier with the diminished fire, and she rubbed her hands over her arms and gathered the shawl closer for warmth.
Enough of this, she thought. Susan decided to follow her own advice for Edmund, to put away the worrying and be thankful for the present. That meant going back downstairs where warmth and laughter were sure to greet her. Peter and Lucy should still be in the study for some late dinner, last minute decorating, and some nice, quiet celebrating.
Tomorrow will be a full and exhausting day as it is. I can give my mind an evening off—for once. And with that thought, she imagined what treats Stor must have laid out for the Eve's festivities and what other carols the fauns had in store for entertainment. The music was her absolute favorite part of the season, after all.
Susan slowly stood and gathered her skirts to lay behind her. She then crossed Edmund's room to blow out the candle, with nothing but the dying embers of the fireplace lighting her way to the door.
...Good fortune attend each merry man's friend
That doth but the best that he may,
Forgetting old wrongs with carols and songs
To drive the cold winter away. — Traditional English Carol
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