Disclaimer: for those of you who may not know, Patterfeet is a character from Enemies Against. He belongs to me and I am glad to claim him, but nothing else in the story does! This takes place very soon after that story. It's pretty much straight fluff.
Patterfeet felt homesick.
It twisted the little (very big) heart in his chest, took the excitement away from climbing over the walls, and left him feeling like he was missing something. He'd spent half a day trying to figure out what was wrong, but his heart again gave that strange twist the moment he thought of asking his mother. His mother, whom he wouldn't be seeing this Christmas. He missed his home.
He hadn't expected to. Squirrels who saved the High King and wrestled pirates off of cliffs shouldn't be bothered with anything as silly as homesickness. He was the High King's page!
But it was Christmas. Right now Mum would be pulling the very best nuts down from the bottom of the hollow oak, where she hid them to make sure Patterfeet and his older brother didn't get into them beforehand, and Papa would be scrambling off no-one-knew-where, because he always had a surprise for the family at Christmas, like the one time he brought the Great Owl to tell stories, or the one time he'd saved some molasses he'd found and they made the most delicious biscuits with it, and Patterfeet didn't know what it would be this year, and he wasn't home to find out.
A great big tear (for a Squirrel, mind) fell down the page's whiskered cheek and splashed to the ground. Another one followed on the other cheek, and Patterfeet shook himself. He was a page. He may have cried on his first adventure, but he was far too old to do that now! He'd find something else to do instead.
He'd….he'd...he…
He'd go find the High King!
Oreius said the High King should always be guarded. He said that about King Edmund too, and whispered (Patterfeet wasn't sure he was supposed to have heard Oreius say it) that the Queens could each use a devoted guard as well, but Patterfeet couldn't be in four places at once. (He could get close to two, if the rooms had windows right above one another. But he couldn't do four!) So he stayed with the High King, who'd kept him warm after that cold, cold watery fall, and he only left when the High King was training, or with his family.
And that was the reason he was staying, anyway. The High King was home, he was safe, and Patterfeet just wanted to make sure that stayed true!
Even if it meant the High King got to be home and Patterfeet didn't.
But it was worth it, to make sure the High King stayed safe, so King Edmund and Queen Susan and Queen Lucy and Por and Leo and…and everyone could laugh at Christmas. And so Oreius wouldn't be grumpy or stern but would have that small smile that Queen Lucy once pointed out to Patterfeet, just at the corner of his mouth, and so Lord Peridan would still do his sword snow dance early in the morning the day after Christmas and the Wolves would join, and so everything good would happen. That was why Patterfeet was staying.
Because, Patterfeet thought as he ran up the very long wall of the courtyard while dodging red ribbons and green branches, everyone said the High King might have been lost without Patterfeet's help, so what would happen if Patterfeet wasn't there to help?
He reached the wall and ran across it till he got to the nearest window, where he lifted the latch gently with his tiny black claws. He slipped inside—and remembered to shut it, thanks to his mother's voice reprimanding him in his head.
He fell off the wall. He hadn't meant to think of that. He hadn't meant to think of her.
He landed on the wooden arm of a chair, paws catching (claws bent out so as not to scratch anything), and crouched to jump back on the wall again.
Only to sigh, and let himself fall on the arm of the chair, four legs dangling down. He rested his head on the wood, his tail laying flat behind him for balance.
He was not going to cry again, he told himself. He was just…resting a bit.
He jumped a good three times his height, straight in the air, when he felt human fingers brush his head.
A swift hand caught him as he fell back down, and he clung to the dark green arm of the tunic, gasping. "Sorry, good cousin," said the quiet voice of the Just King.
Between the heaving breaths Patterfeet squeaked, "You've been around the Cats too much, you're too quiet. Sorry, King Edmund, sorry, I shouldn't say things like that, and I shouldn't be on your arm," he remembered, grasping it and flicking his tail to get ready to jump, but stopping when he felt the King's other hand land gently on his body.
"My arm is being put to no other use, and why not let it be used for a good Narnian's resting place? Be welcome, and stay. But what ails your heart?"
"My heart?" Patterfeet sat up straight, tail straight and fluffed, and pressed both his paws over his heart. It felt like it was beating fine.
"Thou laid on the chair as if the weight of the Cair rested upon thy shoulders—or if something weighed heavily on thy heart. What troubles you?"
Patterfeet twisted so he could face the King, clutching to the shirt and the arm. He hadn't meant to tell the King this—he hadn't meant to tell anyone this—but something about the grave, listening attention of the King's face and the quiet eyes made the words spill from the Squirrel. "I miss my family!" Patterfeet looked down, letting his nose droop down. "I miss them. I miss being with them. I want two places at once! I want to be here, because I love here, I always love here, but I want to be there, because I love them too—I'm torn in two!"
"Ah," said the Just King, and he walked forward, sitting in the chair Patterfeet had recently been clinging to. He kept his left arm up, however, so the Squirrel remained level with his eyes. "I have felt the same before—particularly when my siblings need must be in two places at once, and I must choose one or the other. I am sorry this weighs on thee, good cousin."
"It's okay, it is, because I'm a hero, and heroes—heroes don't cry?" Patterfeet hadn't meant the last part to be a question, but it came out as one, because he suddenly remembered seeing the High King cry, and Queen Lucy beside him, his arm around her shoulders, and if they cried…
"Heroes cry," King Edmund corrected, but his tone was quiet, thoughtful. "Aslan cries."
"Aslan?" Patterfeet gasped, scrubbing his two front paws together furiously as he thought. King Edmund nodded. "Then heroes cry. But I can't picture all of them crying," he added doubtfully. He'd never seen Oreius cry. Or Durai, or…but lots of the warriors did, too. He looked up and King Edmund was smiling, as if he knew what Patterfeet thought.
"Not all cry in the same manner, little soldier. Some keep their tears till they rest alone, for they fear their unfettered strength will do harm. And some cry alone for it is easier for such to face their hearts that way. Still, Christmas is not often the time of tears! So be off, little cousin, to seek the High King, and find there an answer to thy homesick heart. He has something for thee. And a Merry Christmas!" he called as Patterfeet sprang from his arm, raced along the floor, and stopped at the door. The Squirrel turned and bowed, small body bending almost to the floor, before he scampered off again.
The High King was not in the study, looking for his brother, nor in the elder Queen's tearoom, conversing with her on the coming festivities, nor out in the snow with his youngest sister, building snow sculptures taller than she was and placing candles around the courtyard. (Patterfeet privately thought her squirrel sculpture didn't look anything like a real squirrel, but he left before he could blurt that out, and was quite glad he did, once he realised what he would have said to the Queen.)
Patterfeet did not know where else to look for the High King. In times of war there was the war council room, of course, and in times of dip-lo-ma-tic negotiations (Patterfeet spelled out the word in his head to make sure he got it right, somehow the second words was easier than the first), he could be found with the Owls or Elephants or Oreius or someone else in the library, but in times of peace, he was usually around his siblings. When he wasn't travelling around Narnia, that is.
So where was he?
Patterfeet sat on a window ledge (inside, because even with his fur, sitting still outside was unpleasant), and tried to think. Where would the High King be?
Just then a tap sounded on the window, and Patterfeet looked out to see a small Sparrow fluttering just outside. He jumped to the other side of the window, quickly moving to open it, and the Sparrow landed on the window ledge, shivering.
"His Highness the High King is looking for you, in the North Tower," the Sparrow sang, shivering a little as it hopped from one foot to the other. "I knew I could find you fastest if I flew outside," it added proudly, but Patterfeet was already bowing and scampering along the wall towards the door. It took almost no time at all (and he didn't fall this time) to reach the North Tower's spiralling stair, where he heard the High King's footsteps as he strolled down the stone steps.
"High King Peter!" Patterfeet called, and the footsteps stopped just as Patterfeet raced around the curve. The High King held his arm out and Patterfeet jumped on it at once.
"I was looking for thee, good cousin," the High King said, smiling. He was once again (to his family's dismay) bearded, so Patterfeet always stood below the King's elbow, so he didn't get entangled in the beard. "I would give thee two Christmas gifts. Does thou wish to have them now, or would prefer to wait?"
"Now!" Patterfeet said immediately, and the High King smiled, as if he knew this would be the young Squirrel's answer. He stuck his hand in his pocket (since Narnian clothing always has convenient pockets that are never sewn closed) and pulled out a small velvet back, holly-berry red, and tied closed with a golden string. He put it in Patterfeet's two paws with a smile, watching fondly as the Squirrel pulled on the string with clever fingers and then stuck his whole head in the top of the bag, sniffing.
It smelled like metal, not the sharp scent of steel, but more…cold and gentle. Patterfeet withdrew his head, not even noticing as the King quietly held the bottom of the bag with his other hand, and Patterfeet put both paws in and scrambled about, feeling something round, with dips and grooves in it. He withdrew a small gold medallion, just large enough to hang between his two arms, and engraved with the words "Saviour of the High King" on the middle. On the other side was a raised acorn.
"Oh!" Patterfeet squealed, turning it over and over. The gold flashed in the light from the window, and it felt quite heavy, but only in the way that made Patterfeet know it was there, was real. "King Peter! King Peter! I get a medal!" he chattered, hanging it on his neck. He looked down at it, unable to stop talking. "It tells me what I did on it! It's what I'm proudest of! And I like the acorn. I like it too. Though the top is a bit odd, they don't normally stay whole unless they're attached to the branch still, but it's beautiful, and that would make mother happy, and thank you, thank you, thank you!"
He turned, jumping for the wall, but he forgot how much extra weight he was bearing now, and he fell to the floor before he was halfway. He jumped back to his feet, only to hear the High King say, between laughs, "Wait, good cousin! Didst forget there were two gifts?"
"Two?" Patterfeet asked, turning. He straightened himself to attention, tail behind him, nose pointed up so he could look the King in the eyes, but the King was already kneeling.
"Yes, two. 'Tis fitting thou hast a medal for what thou hast done, since thou refuses a knighthood, but 'tis also fitting that thy family sees it. My sisters say I am but underfoot in all this planning, and would fain have me gone for a few hours. Wouldst thou kindly show me the way to thy home?"
"Home?" Patterfeet whispered. "Home?"
"Home," the High King repeated gently.
Patterfeet sprang for the kneeling King, climbing up the front of the red tunic and wrapping himself around the King's neck, the biggest hug he could manage. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" he chattered, holding tight. The King got to his feet, and if he found it difficult to breathe, he did not say so, merely began walking towards the stables.
Patterfeet rode home that hour on the High King's shoulder, a gold medal around his neck. It was but an hour's ride before he began greeting more and more people he knew with a "Merry Christmas! This is the High King!" and the High King also called Christmas greetings in a big, booming voice, and soon the air was filled with Christmas cheer and love, so Patterfeet's entire family heard them coming before they'd even reached the family tree. And all of them came spilling out, and later Patterfeet thought he might have been more impressive if he'd stayed on the High King's shoulder, but no, he'd flung himself into the trees and at his father, and the two had crashed through a few branches towards the ground before the Dryad caught them, but Patterfeet was holding his father too tightly to care, and his father was telling Patterfeet that Patterfeet brought the biggest surprise this year, and it took Patterfeet a moment to realise that father didn't mean the medal currently squished between them in their hug, but the High King that all his siblings were swarming over, taking Patterfeet's former seat as proof that the High King did not mind Squirrels running over his body and perching there.
And then Patterfeet's mother came out, saying she'd saved three of the best nuts just for him, and he should share with the High King, and the High King was politely declining, saying he was not hungry, but Patterfeet resolved to take one of the nuts back with him, just as a Christmas gift, and they were all moving closer to the tree, and Patterfeet realised he was home.
He was home, and the High King was near, and this was the best Christmas he had ever known.
"Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me." ~ Matthew 25:40b