Author's note: You'll notice that, despite having named both of the Beavers back in chapter one, they do not address each other by name here. I waffled on this, but as they call each other "Mr and Mrs" in the book (probably for the children) and the movie shows her calling him just plain "Beaver" (even before she knew about the children's presence) and him calling her pet names ("mama" and "sweetheart"), I chose to stick with this method of address.
Author's note 2: Also, despite what I said about this story bearing no resemblance to "Baby, It's Cold Outside", bonus points for catching wee allusions to it sprinkled in.
The night was black. The wind howled. The snow fell hard and thick. And the bitter cold only made it all the harder to tramp home. Beaver set his jaw and tucked his forelegs into his woolen vest. To his right was Mrs Beaver, keeping pace with him with nary a word of complaint.
This was no doubt the Witch's doing. Whether or not she knew about the Snow Dance – and who was to say she didn't? –, it was Christmas Eve. What bitter irony, to think of her adhering to the calendar. She, the one responsible for this ceaseless winter. She, who was determined to stamp out so much as the memory of festivals and traditions.
Not that she wasn't somewhat successful tonight, he supposed, no matter how much he connected the violent storm to Christmas. He allowed himself a short chuckle: what would Miss Snowtail Badger think of the notion of her celebrating Christmas, however wrongfully? As for everyone who had gathered for the Snow Dance….
Even as his snowshoe'd feet pressed forward, Beaver closed his eyes to retreat to recent memory. In ones and twos, those who dared brave the weather entered the designated glade. There were fewer this time. There were always fewer. A couple regular attendees had passed on their regrets on account of the weather. Others whispered of recent trouble being a probable cause for more absences. Of interest to Badger was the absence of his beau, though none could tell him the reason.
The snow was no good for snowballs, so none were excluded from the actual dancing. They began without music: a listening silence, an anticipation of danger. Steps were rehearsed, though clumsily so in the moon-shrouded dark and the biting cold of the air. A Dog reported all quiet around the perimeter. Taking that as permission, a lone woodwind crooned a tune like a murmured lullaby, and the Dance began with hesitant steps.
The first snowflakes of the night began to fall before a full turn had been accomplished. The musician faltered, citing freezing fingers. Some dancers, though warmed somewhat by their movement, expressed a stiffness in their limbs. A brief debate broke out over the risk associated with the use of Beaver's tinderbox. The majority ruled the need for warmth, so a fire was built. Another musician offered to relieve the first and started up a cheerful tune none could resist. Around and around the fire they danced. Though there were no snowballs, several missteps took their place as a source of low laughter – Beaver himself proved a recurring jester, his short legs unaccustomed to dance, unlike his more graceful wife.
Then had come the wind. Only a breeze at first, though not without an edge. Here and there, dancers made their goodbyes and bade all a merry Christmas before retreating to the shelter and warmth of their homes. The remaining circle drew nearer to the fire, but it could not stave off the strengthening wind that seemed to cut through their wraps. Badger left to call on Snowtail and it wasn't long before Mrs Beaver indicated that she too had reached her limit. Thus it was that the Beavers said their farewells and left the last of the dancers to carry on as they saw fit.
A touch on his shoulder brought Beaver back to the present. "This way!" Mrs Beaver called over the wind. Beaver opened his eyes to find that his inattention had nearly led them in a dangerous direction. He reached a paw from under his vest to pat his wife's in acknowledgement, then followed as she led the way through the trees till everything opened up to the river.
Beaver pointed at a wee yellow light up ahead and took Mrs Beaver's paw in his and together they stepped gingerly onto the ice, shuffling and fighting the gusts that threatened to send them toppling. By the time they reached the door of their little house on the dam, Beaver felt as though their paws had fused together. This proved to not be the case when he pried his stiff digits from hers so he could use both paws to unlock the door, which he finally managed after a great deal of fumbling with the key. The moment he pushed the door open, a wave of heat greeted them like an old friend. Mrs Beaver already had her snowshoes off and she scurried in, Beaver hot on her tail.
He more or less fell on the door to close it. The wind still howled, its gusts like the rhythm of a battering ram against the walls, its wheedling whistles at the windows like a dog begging to be let in.
"What a storm!" Beaver exclaimed once his face defrosted enough for speech.
Mrs Beaver nodded mutely from her place by the open stove, still shivering in her wraps. Beaver joined her there and inspected the fire. Not bad, considering the length of time it had gone unattended. With a clumsy grip, he added two more logs.
Mrs Beaver practically fell onto a stool. "M-my p-p-paws are all p-pins and needles," she said through chattering teeth.
Beaver looked about till he spotted the dish towel that hung near the stove. This he wrapped around his wife's forepaws, then rubbed. "How's this?"
She groaned and sniffed. "It-t hurts, b-but it's nice too."
"Alright, keep rubbing while I take care of this." He unwound her scarf from her neck and ears. Almost instinctively, she raised a paw to smooth down the fur on her head. "Oi, never mind about that; get those paws warm first. Besides," he added tenderly, "your fur is lovely."
Mrs Beaver dipped her head shyly. He loved it when she did that. The smile that always accompanied the movement was beautiful.
He peeled off his hat and vest, shaking them out and laying them over another stool to dry. He shook out a little of the lingering chill and relished the heat that penetrated his ruffled fur to warm his skin.
With her paws sufficiently warmed, Mrs Beaver followed suit. "I'll put on a little tea," she announced. "Something to warm the innards before bed. Would you please bring my rocking chair over?"
Beaver complied, then busied himself with laying out Mrs Beaver's things by the fire and hanging up his snowshoes – "Sweetheart, did you bring in yours?" He held up one of his snowshoes.
She looked up from pouring the tea. "Oh! Dear, no. I slipped them off at the door and must have left them out there."
"I'll fetch them then."
"Just leave them. They'll keep."
"I'll only be a jiffy." He popped open the door and slipped out. The frigid wind bit him ferociously and the snowflakes flew at his eyes with a vengeance. Beaver stood stunned for a moment before he remembered what he'd gone out for. He snatched the snowshoes from the drift they lay half-buried in, and made a hasty retreat back in.
Mrs Beaver took the snowshoes from him and laid them against the wall. "Tsk, your paws are like ice!"
"Hardly," he protested. "It was only a minute!"
She led him to his stool and planted a cup of tea between his paws. The heat stung a little, but nothing like it would have when they'd first come home. He sniffed at his cup. "Peppermint?"
Mrs Beaver settled herself into her rocker. "A little treat for Christmas."
Beaver blew on it and took a tentative sip. "Ahh, that hits the spot." He scooted a little closer and pulled her close.
"Ooh, your fur's cold," she laughed. But she snuggled into the embrace anyway.
They sat quietly, content in each other's company, watching the flames dance in the stove in defiance of the mournful wails of the storm outside.
"She's whipped up a real blizzard tonight," Mrs Beaver murmured.
"That she has."
She shifted in as close as the rocking chair's arm allowed. "When do you suppose it'll all end?"
Beaver took another sip of tea. He had no definitive answer. No one did. No one could know, apart from Aslan Himself and perhaps the stars, if they were permitted to know such things. "I don't know, dear. But it will, someday. We've just got to hold on to hope. As long as we do, there's no winter that can take it away."
Her head rested on him the way it did when she was drowsy. He laid his head on hers to reciprocate. His eyelids threatened to droop when she disrupted him with a turn of her head. "It's after midnight." She tilted her face up toward him. "Merry Christmas, Beaver."
He kissed the top of her head. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart."
It's always winter, but never Christmas:
It seems this curse just can't be lifted.
Yet in the midst of all this ice and snow,
Our hearts stay warm 'cause they are filled with hope.
~ Relient K's "In Like a Lion"
Whatever the day itself looks like for you, may you find joy and hope in the King over all high kings. Merry Christmas!
Please review!