Tumnus knew that he could expect a cheerless reception from the Beavers. He had long been held in disdain for his neutrality. Throughout the country there were small resistance cells, beasts working in a dozen small ways to undermine the Witch, to distribute food to the creatures who were ill-suited to the winter, to hide the ones who had angered her. Tumnus would have no part of it, and he told his neighbors so. "Better to forget about the past, forget about the prophecy, and get on with the business of living," he had told Mr. Beaver once, when both were younger and still on speaking terms.

"If you could call it living, I might agree," his friend had replied.

"I can," said Tumnus. "Why can't you? You've got your home, if it is a bit run down. But you'll set it to rights eventually. You've got fish in the river, and fire in the hearth."

"Aye, I do," Mr. Beaver had nodded. "And you do. But what of the folk who can't live on fish? What of the Deer who have to paw through the frozen ground hoping for a bit of dead grass her magic may have missed? The Birds who have no berries? The Squirrels who wait instinctively for nuts that never grow to harvest?"

Tumnus had laughed. "We've lived a hundred years without those things, if they ever existed to begin with. We'll manage just fine."

That had ended that day's conversation. Just one of what would become many minor disagreements over the years. Tumnus watched as his friend slowly grew more distant, more secretive. The less Mr. Beaver said, the more the faun knew. His friend was involved in the resistance effort.

At least the Queen didn't pay me to be a spy for her, Tumnus had thought, then. But then he wouldn't have done that. At least, he thought not. There was a great deal of difference in watching the woods for imaginary humans and turning on one's fellow Narnians.

Despite his secrets, Mr. Beaver and Tumnus had continued their friendship for some time. But whenever they visited, the conversation would inevitably turn from the friendly news of neighbors to politics, as conversation so often does. Tumnus would often find some excuse to end the evening when the conversation went this way, and Mr. Beaver, ever gracious, rarely pressed him to continue.

But there came one such visit when neither chose to end the talk.

Tumnus had been commenting on the antics of Twidget the Squirrels latest brood:

"Mischief actually made one of his sisters fall out of the nest with the pranks he plays," he laughed.

Mr. Beaver had suddenly grown silent.

"What?" Tumnus asked, noticing his friend's solemn expression.

"Mischief was...punished today," Mr. Beaver said gravely. "Cauvric said he had made fun of the White Witch." Tumnus winced at the name of Maugrim's second-in-command. "One of the Trees bore witness."

"She didn't...turn him into stone?" Tumnus asked, horrified.

"No." Mr. Beaver jerked his head imperceptibly. "She was merciful."

"Well, that's something." Tumnus said, sitting back and feeling relieved. "You see, we can exist peaceably under the Queen."

"The Witch."

Tumnus waved his hand. "A matter of opinion."

"No," Mr.Beaver said, his expression changing as though he were truly seeing something about Tumnus for the first time. "No, it is not opinion, Tumnus. It is fact. There are some things which cannot be commuted or made relative, no matter how much we may wish it. The so-called Queen of Narnia is an entirely evil being, however convenient it may be for you to think otherwise."

"That's a strong accusation, Mr. Beaver," Tumnus frowned into his teacup.

"And a treasonous one, no doubt," his friend scoffed. "But I'm a Beast, and I'll speak the truth, as sure as if Aslan were in the room with me."

"It is treason," Tumnus replied stiffly, "but I was referring to your comment about me. You think I am living with some sort of delusion? Or perhaps you merely accuse me of complacency?"

"There is no middle ground on this, Tumnus. To sit and do nothing while evil roams at will is more than complacency. It is more than delusion. It is...wickedness."

Tumnus froze. Mr. Beaver looked for a moment uncomfortable, as though he wished he could call back the words. But after a moment, his face hardened into a sort of determined resignation. He would not back down.

"You always were as stubborn as a Boar," Tumnus said, rising. "If that is how you truly feel, then I shall not taint you home with my presence any longer."

Mr. Beaver's throat worked, as though he longed to say something else but could not find the proper words.

"I take my leave," Tumnus said, bowing with a touch of irony. He took up his umbrella and made his way to the door.

Mr. Beaver followed, and for a moment Tumnus thought he might apologize, but he merely put his paw on the doorknob, blocking Tumnus' exit. "She cut off his tail," he said flatly. "The Witch...she cut off Mischief's tail."

Tumnus felt his eyes go wide in horror. A young squirrel with no way to counterbalance, nothing to help him jump from branch to branch. A Dumb predator will likely kill him before a few weeks have passed...

But Tumnus, too, was stubborn. "He...should not have spoken against the Queen," he said hoarsely.

And the door had shut quietly behind him as he walked into the gently falling snow.