On the Move
I struggled to move my lower paws. I couldn't feel them anymore; I could only hear them, crunching down the ice and snow.
More of winter. Another storm last night, another layer of the crisp white beauty that was all the young had ever known. It covered everything—the trees, the choppy ice on the river, and, last of all, them.
They stood in a clearing. They'd been turned to stone forty years ago. The Dwarf, his axe raised, mouth open in a shout. I used one large brown paw to dust the snow from his stone hat, his shoulders. Carefully—a Bear's paws were often clumsy. The three Fauns, one with his bow still bent, the string a thin line of fragile stone. I huffed warm breath into their ears, watching the snow melt and leave the openings free. The others—Narnian after Narnian, working my way through the clearing. They had given up their lives to fight her. I would not let her winter imprison them more. I came every snowfall.
An hour passed, and I had but one more. A large Bear on his hind feet, arms spread out, stone claws extended. I was finally as tall as he was now—my father. His eyes had been very, very gentle when I was growing up, but I had not seen that gentleness in many years. He had been fighting when he died. I dusted the last of the snow from his stone fur, and rested my head on his cold, cold shoulder. "I miss you," I whispered, closing my eyes.
He never hugged me back, never said a word, but just in case he could feel it—I always had to give him this. Even though it hurt.
A flash of something strong, something wild, something sweet, blew past my nose. Something warm in the icy winter, and I opened my eyes. Too slowly, too slowly. There was nothing there.
But I had smelled something. Something I had only heard about. "Aslan," I whispered to myself, clutching my stone father more tightly. "Aslan must be on the move."