This is another long one. And I'm sorry, because it's not one of the happier ones.

Breaking the News

Mr. Tumnus, old and grey, raised his hand to knock.

He stopped.

He shifted from hoof to hoof, raised his hand again, and then let it fall. Not since the Beavers had discovered his treachery had he felt so afraid of knocking on their door.

But they were friends. His best friend, outside of Cair Paravel, lived here. He should be the one to tell them.

"Oh dear, oh dear. I wish it didn't have to be me." But, with the courage Queen Lucy had taught him, he knocked. Immediately he heard muffled voices from inside.

"Go and see who it is, Mr. Beaver."

"I'm going, I'm going—I ain't so young as I used to be." A minute later the door swung open, and Mr. Tumnus looked down at his furry friend. "It's Mr. Tumnus! Come in, come in!" A paw grabbed his hand, pulling him inside, and Mr. Beaver called over his shoulder, "Mrs. Beaver, it's our old friend." The host looked back. "She can't get out of bed much these days. I take her out for a swim on nice days, but that isn't today. The whole of Narnia's been overcast since yesterday."

Mr. Tumnus knew that. He thought it fitting, that even the skies of Narnia should mourn. But he couldn't bring himself to say anything. Not yet, he told himself. He went to the bunk bed on the far, curving wall, and said hello to Mrs. Beaver. And then he sat in the chair Mr. Beaver pulled up for him, by the bedside, and waited as his host bustled about,getting a second chair.

"So, what news from Cair?" Mrs. Beaver asked, once all three were settled. "Did the Moles finish planting those trees? It's a bit of a rum job, planting an orchard inside a courtyard, but I told their Majesties, if they ever wanted the trees chopped down, I would come and help. Nothing better for that work than Beavers-"

"But think of the apples, Mr. Beaver! And all the Dryads who will be able to live right next to Cair! Her Majesty Queen Susan offered to bring me some, last time she visited. She said I could make her some of my apple jam, and that would be thanks enough. Always so kind and thoughtful, she is, and when she comes next time-"

"She can't come again." Mr Tumnus flinched, knowing that was the worst way to tell them, but his mouth ran ahead of him—it was so hard to hear them talking like everything was fine, like the world hadn't been hollowed out and left crownless. "I mean, I should say—she can't."

There was a pause. Both Beavers fixed their attention on him, fur still, their black eyes as intent as when enormous trees were falling.

"Is she sick?" Mrs. Beaver asked, when Mr. Tumnus said nothing else. Mr. Tumnus shook his head.

"Did the Giants, or Calormenes, or Telmarines take her?" Mr. Beaver asked gruffly.

One large tear ran down Mr. Tumnus' face, followed by many others. He buried his face in his hands. "They've disappeared!" he sobbed. "I came to tell them I'd seen the White Stag, up near my house. They went out to catch it, and they haven't been seen since. They went on long after the others stopped, like they always do when they're together. Their horses were found outside a thicket, and inside the thicket, inside—"

"They found the bodies, then?" Mr. Beaver's harsh tone—a tone Mr. Tumnus hadn't heard since before the Golden Age had begun—but it had always sprung from sorrow.

Mr. Tumnus shook his head again, tears dripping from between his fingers. "The four are gone, with all their gifts, their clothing, their crowns." He took a shuddering breath. "Inside the thicket was a thing I had not seen in many, many years—an odd tree, made of iron. Looking at it, I remembered it. It was where I first met Queen Lucy." He rubbed at his eyes with his fingertips.

"Go get him a handkerchief." Mrs. Beaver's tone was soft, and after a pause she added, "My dear."

Mr. Tumnus heard Mr. Beaver shuffle off his chair, and a bit later something soft and red stuffed itself between his fingers, just like something soft and white had done many, many years earlier.

"Now, don't lose heart, either of you," Mrs. Beaver said firmly. Mr. Tumnus finished wiping his eyes just in time to see her reach over and take Mr. Beaver's paw. "Just because they're gone doesn't mean they won't come back again!"

For the third time, Mr. Tumnus shook his head, glancing back down at the fingers holding the handkerchief. "Aslan sent word," he said dully. "We won't see them again." And that had been the final ending of his hope, for what Aslan spoke came to be.

His Kings and Queens, his friends—they were gone.

"Aslan gave them to us, and Aslan decided it was time for them to go," Mr. Beaver said at last. "They did what they came to do." His tone stayed harsh, but this, Mr. Tumnus had learned, was how he grieved.

"And Narnia is the better for it," Mrs. Beaver said, but her voice held the sound of her tears. Mr. Beaver turned to her at once.

"There, there, Mrs. Beaver," he comforted, the harshness gone as he patted her shoulder. "Narnia will be all right. We've got Lord Peridan, he's young enough to rule as regent till we know whom Aslan's king is. He'll do all right."

"All because of the White Stag," Mr. Tumnus said bitterly. "I wish I'd never seen him!"

"Oh, my dear, don't say that," Mrs. Beaver remonstrated kindly. "It's kind of fitting, don't you think? You were the first to see them—the first to meet them after they walked through their door. And now you were why they went back through the door. That couldn't be anything but Aslan's planning, don't you see?"

"But why would He take them?" Mr. Tumnus cried. He buried his face in the handkerchief again. But here, with his best friend, he could ask these questions.

"There's some questions that stay unanswered till Aslan's country," Mr. Beaver said heavily. "But my guess would be they were needed elsewhere. Perhaps in another country torn by war, or against another evil tyrant."

"Or perhaps they needed to go away so they could come again," Mrs. Beaver added wistfully. "King Edmund told me a story of a King in their country like that—the Once and Future King, he called him."

"But in the meantime, we grieve." Mr. Beaver sat on the bed by his wife. "We'll come up to the Cair for whatever ceremony is going to be held. Do you know when it'll be?"

"Tomorrow," Mr. Tumnus said. He wiped his eyes again, twisting the drenched handkerchief to wring it out. "I'll help you get there."

"And you'll spend the night tonight," Mr. Beaver said firmly. "It's not a time for any of us to be alone."

Mr. Tumnus paused.

That—that had been the worst part. All of Narnia mourned, but only these two had known the Kings and Queens as long as he had—had seen them in their fur coats, walking through the woods like tall Dwarfs, eyes open with wonder to a winter they knew nothing of. They'd been growing into Kings and Queens by the time they met any other Narnians who weren't Fell. But the Beavers remembered them as children and as rulers.

Mr. Tumnus looked into the crying, wrinkled black eyes of his two friends. "Thank you," he said, and meant it.

It was a great reward, this comfort in grief—a gift he received, because he had done his duty and told his friends.

Response to Rebecca: thank you so much, I'm happy you enjoyed!