Not beta'd, sadly, because I wrote this in an hour and wanted to post it tonight. Please do not blame trustingHim17 for any errors. You can, however, blame ScribeOfHeroes for the tale, as that particular friend requested more of Khonat. I don't think this can be read without reading Crown of Life; it draws too much from that tale. I'm sorry.

OOOOO

I know far better than you the darkness that surrounds you. I endured the Stone Table; I know what it is to be alone.

Khonat knelt on the stone. Above him shone the stars, the Narnian stars, brighter and clearer from the tower than the sky in his former home, hidden by the treetops. Here he heard the rush of wind flowing over stone, and felt the exhilarating cold brush over him a moment later, ruffling the feathers of his new wings.

He had wings again. Wings of flesh, of feathers. He'd been given—so much more than he deserved. When he repented of his sins, he had known it came too late to save him. His stone prison came on him, and his heart ached at the justice of it. It was what he deserved.

But he had not been given that. He had woken, flesh lungs expanding with the air he flew in, his flesh heart beating.

And before him stood Aslan. The Great Lion there, before him, love unfathomable in those piercing eyes. Nor was that all the Lion had given; for He commanded the Kings and Queens care for Khonat. He commanded the rulers, the ones Khonat had helped to kidnap, care for the exile.

Khonat had no words to give thanks for a love like that.

Even if he had, there was no one to speak them to, nor to speak them with.

He knelt on the tower alone, no trees to shelter him and make him home, no Telar to kneel with him in this Christmas ceremony, and no family to take his hand.

He knew the utter loneliness of being the last of a race.

I know how hard you try.

"To the Giver of magic and flight, I offer ou—my thanks." Khonat brought his large hands out, spreading them wind, the cold wind flowing around them.

In former times another Telar would speak the next line, bringing her hands up and grasping one of his as she did so. One by one the others would follow, till all the hands joined to complete the circle, and all said their part in the litany of gifts.

With no other Telar, Khonat spoke the words alone.

"To the Maker of trees and of shelter, I offer—offer thanks."

Khonat's hand was cold, growing numb without other warm fingers wrapped around it. He had no home, no tree large enough to make into one. But he was all that was left of his culture, and this, at least, he would keep. This Christmas memory of gifts.

"To the Creator of both father and son," and Khonat's voice caught, and he cleared his throat, beginning again. "To the Appointer of both father and son, I offer thanks." Short, this would have to be short, this year, but he could at least finish the four phrases each circle said, for just two couples joined together could make it. Khonat clenched his fingers, unclenching them again to spread them out when the ache reminded him how he was supposed to hold them.

"To the Creator of both mother and daughter, I offer thanks." There, he had said them, the four lines, and he flapped his wings, letting himself rise into the sky. Years, it had been years since the sound had been that of feathers instead of stone. Startled by the difference, aching with the sudden stab of memory, of the Prince smiling at his father as he spoke of father and son, of Jumak beaming with joy and rejoicing in the new roof of his home—of a Christmas with so much.

So very, very much, when he wasn't the last of his race, when there were other voices calling through the wind, when there were hands holding his-

The Telar crumbled to the stone surface, tears sliding down his furred face.

I know the charges you level at yourself.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry-" Khonat struggled to breathe. Before hope, life had not hurt so much. But Aslan made him alive, given him a future, a beating heart, a place where he was no longer resigned, and oh, how hope hurt.

Because he could hope to live. But he could not hope for anything more than solitude.

And it was his fault, he knew, to some degree at least; he could have saved Juddaham, perhaps Sirrioth, if he had just tried, if he had just told, explained what he had seen in the words and eyes and love of the Kings and Queens, perhaps he would not have been the only one. Surely he could have done something-

Surely he could do better now, instead of crying in the cold on the tower. What, he didn't know, but there had to be something else Aslan wanted from him.

But all he found were his own limitations, all he could not do. I am sorry.

I'm sorry for what I am; I'm sorry for what I am not.

I'm sorry that this is so hard for me, when I have seen You.

I'm sorry was not enough to take away the pain.

I know you. I love you. And I give you My own.

The Gentle Queen had seen Khonat serve those of Cair Paravel all day, flying the heaviest of the decorations to their places, lifting up Mice to check his work, smiling at all who spoke with him. Cair Paravel had been told he'd saved the Queen, and had made him welcome.

But Susan had also seen the loneliness growing stronger in the pauses before he spoke, and the pain in the stillness as he watched the Cair making merry. She had not been the only one to notice; other exiles, Jarrod especially, had watched in silence, a knowing look in their eyes-and a memory of their own pain.

So Susan had seen him slip away, flying through the open doors, his wingbeats hidden in the chatter. She had asked Robin to find him; and Robin had found him on the roof. So Susan made her way up the stairs, one tired step at a time. She braced herself before opening the door, for she had not brought her cloak. The wind tore the door from her hand, and shivering, she caught it before it could slam into the wall.

Khonat's curled up form called her to hurry, tugging at her, and she pulled the door closed and hurried over, kneeling by his head. She could hear his muttered apologies; she had heard them before. And she knew there were no words to take them away. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his large neck, pushing through the warm fur to hold him, and ignoring the start he gave. In the warmth of his body heat on her arms, she could feel the water of his tears. He broke off speaking, and hesitantly brought a hand up to cover one of her arms. They stayed like that for minutes Susan didn't count, as his breathing leveled, and she could hear him try to calm himself.

But she could not stop herself from beginning to shiver. The moment she did he moved, breaking her hold as he rolled over. He gently scooped her into his lap, moving his arms to rest on his legs as a barrier to the wind, and his wings coming around to circle both their heads. It was nearly as warm as inside, and Susan leaned back, letting her arms go as far around him as she could reach.

"It's not your Christmas, is it?" she asked softly. A tear as large as a crown jewel fell onto one arm as Khonat shook his head.

"I thought to keep our Christmas traditions, but all alone-" Another tear fell, soaking Susan's sleeve. "I have much to give thanks for, but the words we use are all wrong. And I do not have any of my own."

Robin had whispered what he'd heard Khonat say. Susan bit her lip. Sometimes it was better to have things said; sometimes it was better to give time a chance to teach words. But Christmas came but once a year, and Susan did not think waiting that long would be wise. So she, hesitantly, began, "To the Lion who led us to Khonat, that my life should be spared, I give thanks."

Khonat stilled.

"I'm sorry," Susan offered softly. "I am sorry I cannot do more, and I am sorry if what I said hurts. I did not mean to make it worse."

Khonat's arms swept inward, holding her in his own hug. "To Aslan, who led me to the Kings and Queens who rule for Him and showed Him to me, I offer thanks." He held her as if he meant it, as if this one was precious.

"To the Emperor-Over-the-Sea, who sends Aslan to us always when we need Him, I offer thanks."

"I offer our thanks," Khonat echoed. His arms tightened and relaxed. He said nothing more.

"And now?" Susan asked.

"Now we rise to the sky, and when we are a Telar's length above the ground, we look at all the faces, distant or close in the circle, and we cry "Merry Christmas!" He grew still for a moment, thinking, and then stood, his wings rising, and gently set Susan on her feet. She turned to face him, and he lifted her up, rising in the air. She laid her own arms on his, clasping the tops like a brother-in-arms, and they made their own circle. When he hovered, she looked at him and smiled, though tears began falling from her own eyes as she saw the pain in his.

"Merry Christmas," she whispered, holding the tops of his arms more tightly.

"Merry Christmas," he offered back, his own tears falling. A moment longer he hovered, his eyes reaching to the forests-the small forests, by comparison, but then he felt her shiver again, the cold wind cutting into her, and he hastily descended, setting her down and letting her go. She took one finger in her hand-it was all she could hold-and gently pulled him towards the door she'd shut.

"Queen Susan, I do not think I can make merry any more," he admitted.

"Not this evening," she agreed. "But you do not have to weep alone."

He looked at her for a moment, then obeyed her unspoken command to follow. "And for that, I can thank Aslan as well."

"Some years it's wonder, and lights in the sky-
Some years, it's okay to cry.
In your silent night,
When it's not all right,
Lift your eyes and behold Him!"
~"Behold Him," Francesca Battistelli

There is a time to weep. There will also be a time to laugh. This is my Lion's promise. Joy will come again in the morning.