The next day had dawned bright and clear. The snow sparkled like crushed diamonds – at least, that's how a Dwarf had once described it. Beaver had never seen a diamond himself, and would sooner liken the sight to grains of sugar. When he had stepped out to do a little fishing, he had turned his eyes skyward to the moon that still hung over the horizon, a near-perfect sphere of white almost every bit as icy as the very air he breathed.

That was what brought him to the cliffs in the early afternoon. Beast though he was, he was plenty grateful for the knitted cap and woolen vest his wife had insisted he wear. Especially when he had to skirt around a copse of Birches he'd been told were spies. Word might get around anyway, but at least he wouldn't give the Birches the satisfaction of being the ones to report him. Even if that meant wallowing in snowdrifts at the edge of the stretch of wood they inhabited. If only he'd remembered before he'd left, he could have made the trek in his snowshoes.

Beaver did not like being in the open. Too visible. Too much snow. Too cold. And he was a beaver, a creature born out of forested riverbanks at the beginning of time, so said the old stories.

Ah, the old stories. Perhaps he could hear one while thawing out in front of a roaring fire. Though at this point, it'd be nice to hear something other than the swish of snow and his occasional grunts of effort. Just so long as whatever "other" sounds didn't involve sleigh bells, Wolves, or any other spies. Silence prevailed till he reached a door in the cliffside. Music: a cheerful, woodwindy tune that already seemed to warm him up a little. Much as he hated to interrupt, he knocked on the door.

The music stopped. A moment, then soft footfalls. The door opened a crack, then just wide enough to reveal half of a Faun, his large brown eye finding his visitor almost immediately. "Beaver!" he exclaimed in what seemed a half-whisper. "Come in, come in, warm yourself by the fire." The door opened wide enough to admit Beaver, then closed immediately, very nearly on his tail. "What brings you all this way on a day like this? Don't tell me dear Mrs Beaver is unwell?"

"We are well, thank you, Tumnus. Brrr! is it ever cold." He rubbed his paws together.

"Come in, let me take your wraps, you simply must sit by the fire," Tumnus rattled off with hardly a breath. "I was just about to put on some tea. You must be hungry after that walk. How about a bit of cake – oh, no, that'll never do – or some biscuits? I made them just this morning!"

Beaver left Tumnus to continue what amounted to talking to himself in the kitchen, making a beeline for the fire. A plush rug embraced his hind paws in a warm welcome. The crackling fire made quick work of the chill that had seemed so severe only a minute or two before. Beaver turned to warm his back as well, and found his attention drawn to an open book on the side table by Tumnus' chair. Beaver lifted the front cover just enough to see the title, without closing it on the flute that marked the open page. Is Man a Myth? Beaver scoffed to himself. Rubbish book, that. No good for anything but an exercise in philosophical debate, if one cared for such things. Beaver had never seen a man, but he didn't need to. "When Adam's flesh and Adam's bone", and all that. Anyway, he knew of folks toward the south who managed to conduct trade with Archenland, a land of men.

"Here we are!" Tumnus announced cheerily. "You may take that chair, Beaver, I'll make myself comfortable here. A little cream?"

"Yes, thank you," Beaver said. His saucer was laden with two biscuits before it passed into his paws. He inspected one curiously, sniffing at the thin layer of brown that coated one side. He dipped it into his tea and took a bite. There was something familiar about the brown coating, but try as he might, the memory eluded him.

Tumnus settled back into his seat. "And how have the Beavers been keeping?"

"About as well as can be expected," Beaver answered. "We were rather hoping for a longer warm spell; Mama will be having a harder time of it with this cold snap."

"Mother's joints didn't take kindly to this weather either," Tumnus said with a sympathetic nod. "Tell her to try a cream of stinging nettle. It helps with the inflammation."

Beaver nodded, unsure as to whether or not he should bring up that Mama didn't suffer from arthritis, but loneliness.

"But I see the cold affects you little," Tumnus said easily, well before Beaver's lacking response could cause a lull. "Do you still make long trips on the regular?"

"How regular is 'regular'?" Beaver asked jokingly. He took another tea-moistened bite of biscuit. "Actually, that's why I came today. The moon is nearly full, and we're meeting just south of here. We could use another flute." He nodded at the flute on the side table.

Tumnus first tensed, then squirmed. "Oh, I don't know, Beaver."

"Even if you don't play, we'd still love to see you there."

"Maybe next time."

Beaver sighed softly into his tea. "When will 'next time' become 'this time'?

"Things have been uneasy here. I'm not comfortable with the thought of dancing in the open."

"That's what I don't understand, Tumnus. You know better than I that 'uneasy' is the way it's been for years. When will you stop letting it hold you back? We need a little joy, especially in the uneasy times. You used to hold to that. You still do." Beaver took up the flute for emphasis.

Tumnus flushed. "A Snow Dance isn't a little music by the hearth or a quiet tea with a friend. You know what would happen if you were caught? You'd risk everything for that?"

"Better than surrendering to hopelessness," Beaver said defiantly. The Faun dropped his gaze at that. Perhaps he'd come off a little hard – he hadn't meant to imply that Tumnus, of all people, had lost hope.

Or had he?

Beaver looked hard at his surroundings. Is Man a Myth? The new rug. And – chocolate. That was what coated the biscuit. But no, he shouldn't jump to conclusions. After all, he'd read the book – or parts of it – himself, the rug may well have been an excellent trade, and as for the chocolate, well, Badger had told him it could be procured for a price.

But then there was Tumnus himself, huddled in his chair and still unwilling to make eye contact. What might he see in his friend's eyes now? He set aside his tea, turning the saucer till the cup hid the chocolate-coated biscuit from his view. No harm in being careful.

Sliding off the chair, he said, "I'm sorry to have spoiled tea. It's a poor way to end a visit after such a long wait."

Tumnus stirred. "You're not leaving so soon? We've hardly begun."

"I'm afraid I ought to get home. The missus worries so if I'm not home before dark."

Tumnus nodded. "I'll see you out."

As Beaver wriggled into his woolen vest – damp on the outside but still dry within –, something in the pocket poked into him. "Oh, I'd nearly forgotten! I brought this for you."

Tumnus accepted the wooden coaster with both hands. "Thank you, Beaver. This'll certainly last longer than my little doilies. Good and sturdy, and finely fashioned too. I've, um, got something for you as well." He turned around and trotted back to the sitting room. "My father used to take this to winter dances, and, well, perhaps you can make better use of it than I." He set into Beaver's paws a tinderbox, ordinary at first blush, but closer inspection revealed carefully engraved figures dancing.

Beaver ran a paw over the figures. "Wonderful workmanship. Thank you. And Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas."

As the opening door let in the biting cold, Beaver decided to try one last time. "Surely you'd rather do the honours?"

Pain creased his friend's brow before it was smoothed somewhat away and he finally met Beaver's eyes. Soft and sorrowful, but ringed with fear and flickering with dwindling hope. "You'll need it in this cold."

Beaver nodded and pocketed the precious gift. "All the more reason to come. Aslan guide your steps, my friend." Peering skyward for any sign of airborne adversaries, he ventured back into the snow.

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