Disclaimer: at least half of this chapter was written years and years ago, and if you don't recognise it, why are you reading this particular fanfiction? I'm delighted you are, you know, but it doesn't make much sense.

Beta'd by trustingHim17! Thank you!

OOOOO

It was snowing. Mr. Tumnus wrapped himself up in his scarf, took his umbrella, and went on his way. He scooped up his parcels, wrapped in brown paper and placed in the hollow of a tree, and continued towards the Lamppost.

Step, step, step, the umbrella over his head, eyes on the ground. But then he looked up.

And there was someone. A tiny creature, with wide eyes. Her hand—Mr. Tumnus thought it was a her—was placed on the lamppost. It was the oddest thing—he was so startled he dropped his parcels.

He stooped automatically to pick them up, and heard a bright, kind voice say, "Good evening."

It wasn't a Dryad. It wasn't a Dwarf. It wasn't—it wasn't anything he'd seen before. It couldn't be—it surely wasn't—

But he was being rude. His parcels stacked under his arm, he stood up. This was—new. He made a little bow, to make up for his rudeness. "Good evening, good evening. Excuse me—I don't want to be inquisitive—but would I be right in thinking that you are a Daughter of Eve?"

He'd asked. She could be—all their hopes and dreams.

What he'd bargained away, he thought, but he shoved that thought away. There was no harm in merely talking to her.

Though she looked confused. "My name's Lucy."

Yes, of course, introductions should come first, that was only polite, but he had to know—"But you are—forgive me—you are what they call a girl?" He remembered that word from his father's stories, and perhaps she knew it better.

She did. "Of course I'm a girl," she responded, face bright with curiosity. But he had to make sure—he might have remembered the word wrong—

"You are in fact Human?"

"Of course I'm human." She said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, as if she didn't understand why he was asking. That—she couldn't be Narnian. She knew nothing of this place. That, alone, should have told him—

"To be sure, to be sure. How stupid of me!" He wanted her to understand, somehow, though, why he didn't know. She was kind—it was in every word and look—and he'd been so lonely. If he could just talk to her a bit longer, make her understand. "But I've never seen a Son of Adam or a Daughter of Eve before. I am delighted." The legends, stories, spring, all true! "That is to say—" But he couldn't say that.

Nor could he say what was suddenly pressing against his conscience, what his fears woke to a raging demand. What should he say? He'd let the silence go a moment too long—politeness, politeness, that was also key, to making new friends! (Or beguiling innocents. Quiet, you! I'm not—that's not what I'm doing.) "Delighted, delighted. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tumnus."

"I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Tumnus." She sounded well brought up, such nice company. But how did she get here? He—he could ask. She wouldn't leave, like—like everyone else would.

"And may I ask, O Lucy, Daughter of Eve," (he could be polite too), "how you have come into Narnia?"

"Narnia? What's that?"

Polite people did not laugh at others' ignorance. She was a child, too, he thought. He would explain, of course he would explain! "This is the land of Narnia, where we are now; all that lies between the lamp-post and the great castle of Cair Paravel on the eastern sea." Narnia. He loved it, he realized with a shock. Safe or not, it was a place he could not imagine leaving. Where had she come from? "And you—you have come from the wild woods of the west?"

"I—I got in through the War Drobe from Spare Oom."*

He had no idea where that was. He felt a pang, to have missed the places, in his search, where Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve actually lived. "Ah! If only I had worked harder at geography when I was a little Faun, I should no doubt know all about those strange countries. It is too late now."

Her face lit with merriment, and his heart ached. Someone liked talking to him! "But they aren't countries at all. It's only just back there—at least—I'm not sure." He didn't understand what she meant by that. "It is summer there."

Ah, that he understood, and this time the pang in his heart had all to do with the contrast between her world and his. "Meanwhile it is winter in Narnia, and has been for ever so long." He almost shivered, and realized he was being a terrible host. "And we shall both catch cold if we stand here talking in the snow. Daughter of Eve from the far land of Spare Oom where eternal summer reigns around the bright city of War Drobe, how would it be if you came and had tea with me?" (It wasn't for Her. It was…it was because he was lonely. It was. He was.)

"Thank you very much, Mr. Tumnus. But I was wondering whether I ought to be getting back."

He couldn't let her go. Not the first person to talk to him, not the only one who would ever share the cake and tea and other things he'd…bought. She had to come. "It's only just round the corner," he offered quickly, "and there'll be a roaring fire—and toast—and sardines—and cake." There would. His conscience should just...be quiet.

"Well, it's very kind of you." It was—it had to be kindness that made him do this. Or desperation for a friend. Not anything else. "But I shan't be able to stay long." Her politeness—it had been so long. It was so good to have that back again.

And he would offer it back; could protect her from the falling snow. "If you will take my arm, Daughter of Eve, I shall be able to hold the umbrella over both of us. That's the way. Now—off we go."

The walk home was everything he'd daydreamed about. Someone to share his tea with, someone who enjoyed talking to him, who looked around at this frozen, cold world with wonder. There was once when she laughed, a high, merry sound—a sound he remembered from dreams. Dreams of dances and music and this thing called joy. He'd laughed with friends once. Now—she was his friend, the two of them actually had that strange thing called friendship, where it was easy to talk and walk and come to tea, and she was laughing.

He brought the child home and let her in, stooping to mend the fire and put the kettle on. He bustled about, unwrapping the parcels (he would not think about why he had them), setting out eggs, toast, sardines, and cake—and oh, where was the honey? There, everything was perfect for his first tea with a friend in—far too long. "Now, Daughter of Eve!"

And then they talked. Tumnus told her stories, stories he had heard from his father, memories of summer and wonder and laughter and everything having someone taking tea with him reminded him of. All of the good, wonderful things in the world. The summers, the glorious summers—and she looked so interested, and charmed, and like she would have loved Narnian summers.

But it was always winter now. He said as much to her, and saw a flashing memory of terrible, cruel eyes and a paper-white face. He—he couldn't tell her about that. But he had no words left.

And he couldn't let her leave. That one flash—if he let her leave, the horrible things—she couldn't leave.

So he went to his dresser and got out the flute he'd recently played so much, and played his lightest, most charming tunes, hoping to give her the same happiness she'd given him. But the music betrayed him, for under the happiness, the dances of the forest's summer, played his fear, and his fear reached out and put her to sleep.

He watched her, her eyes drooping, head leaning farther and farther to the side. He knew what he was doing. He could not deny it any longer, not when he was making her helpless, easy to pick up and take—

How could he be doing this? To her, with her politeness, and wide eyes, and the way she'd sat and listened to stories, just as he'd done, in front of this same fireplace. Oh, he couldn't!

But how could he not?

The statues in the courtyard, sad-faced, some fearful. He'd be one of the fearful ones, he knew.** Or maybe she wouldn't, she wouldn't, maybe she'd let him live. With no horns, no tail, no beard, no cloven hooves. And everyone around him would say it served him right, that it was right, because he'd served the White Witch. Because he was still serving her now.

What was he to do?

He couldn't let her leave. But he couldn't hand her over. Oh, was there no way out of this?

It was then that she stirred, shaking herself, and asking him very kindly to stop, because she had to go home.

He laid down his flute. "It's no good now, you know."

"No good?" He looked up; her tone, for the first time, was frightened. The wide eyes of a child, in a body that had jumped to its feet. He was suddenly, achingly aware of what he was doing; that for fear of what the Witch would do to his body, he was offering this bright child's body in his place, for her to do to the child what she would have done to him.

A child who was demanding to go home, to others who were wondering what happened to her. He could not help himself, but began sobbing.

There had to be a way out, there had to be, there had to! How had he gotten into this? He had not meant to be a bad Faun, he hadn't—but he was, he was, he had taken the White Witch's presents and gone to find the innocents at her bidding, and his own hands had played the tune to send this child, his friend, to sleep, so he could hand her over. He had done it! He had played the tune, and served the food to Lucy that the White Witch had given him, and had brought her here because he wanted a friend, but he also wanted his safety. And he'd been ready—he'd been willing—

Lucy, his friend, because they had become friends in that walk and tea, had handed him a handkerchief, and was bawling in his ear to stop crying, telling him to stop at once.

He had to tell her. He must. He told her, explaining he was a bad Faun. And she contradicted him, just like a friend would, telling him he was a very good Faun.

But she didn't know, yet, she thought of him like the Beavers did before they knew. But he had to tell her, he owed it to her. He told her he'd been in the pay of the White Witch.

Of course Lucy didn't know who the White Witch was. He told her, and telling her, saw it all clearly himself. What he'd really been doing, that he'd met a poor innocent child in the wood, one that had never done him any harm, and pretended to be friendly with it (for he had known what he was doing all along), and invited it home to his cave, all for the sake of handing it over to the White Witch.

And she didn't turn away. She told him he'd never do anything of the sort.

And he looked into her clear eyes, her kind face, and told her he had. For he had, and the proof was standing right there, listening to him, even seeking, with the grave deliberation of a child, to pardon him. To pardon him for what she believed was a past sin.

And when he told her that it wasn't, that she, Lucy, was that child, her face turned very white. Terror was in her glance, in her tone, as he laid his sin bare and told her what he'd meant to do. "All the time I've been meaning to wait till you were asleep and then go and tell her."

"Oh, but you won't, Mr. Tumnus. You won't, will you? Indeed, indeed you really mustn't." Her tone, her words, pleaded with him. But if he didn't-and he began crying again.

"If I don't, she's sure to find out. And she'll have my tail cut off, and my horns sawn off, and my beard plucked out"—and he told her the rest, spilling all his fears out.

But hearing them, reliving them as he had lived them once before on the floor of a cold and dark stone hall, did not change the awfulness of what he had been planning to do, to offer Lucy in his place; and he saw clearly, in that moment, that one was really worse than the other.

And he saw at once that he could not do the one that was worse, and offered to take Lucy home. "Of course I've got to. I see that now." He offered her the reason why he'd been able to agree, that day ages ago. "I hadn't known what Humans were like before I met you. Of course I can't give you up to the Witch; not now that I know you. But we must be off at once. I'll see you back to the lamp-post. I suppose you can find your own way from there back to Spare Oom and War Drobe?"

"I'm sure I can," she responded, and they quickly got ready to leave, putting away tea things and putting on coats. He kept them quiet, in the faint, faint hope that no one would see them, and they stumbled through the rough hill and back towards that tree of iron. The laughter and talk were gone, on their way back, but to Tumnus's surprise, he felt no loneliness. Walking together, working together, side by side-they were friends.

Or—he was her friend. He would not blame her if she remembered him only as a villain.

They reached the lamp-post, and he made sure she knew her way. "Be off home as quick as you can," he advised her. And—he had to ask. "And—c-can you ever forgive me for what I meant to do?"

"Why, of course I can," she said, eyes wide once again with surprise. She even reached out for his hand, shaking it. "And I do hope you won't get into dreadful trouble on my account."

Her kindness erased the last bit of loneliness in his heart, and he dared to ask for one more thing. "Farewell, Daughter of Eve," and hope of Narnia. "Perhaps I may keep the handkerchief?" As a memory of a friend.

"Rather!" and then she was off, running towards home with the speed of a child in danger. He watched her till she was out of sight in the trees, and then turned and made his own way home, clutching the handkerchief.

I think, dear Reader, that he kept it because he knew the memory of this kind Daughter of Eve, who was brave enough to forgive, had started in his own heart the fire that had once burned in his father's. Mr. Tumnus had found his answer at last. The proof of it was clutched in his fingers.

OOOOO

*I did alter this bit from what is actually said in LWW, since I'm writing it from Tumnus' perspective and this is what he heard.
**He wasn't, by the way, When Edmund sees a statue and wonders if it's Mr. Tumnus, he says the face was sad. Mr. Tumnus had found his courage, found it in the presence of the Valiant Queen. And it's one of the things I love, that those we follow make us better by knowing them. A little child led him to courage.

A/N: There is not, in this story, any implication of romance between Lucy and Mr. Tumnus. He is a very lonely person rejoicing in having a friend again, but not at all romantically inclined. I tried to make that clear, but if it wasn't clear enough, I'm sorry! And I've also tried to handle his sin correctly; to show that yes, it was heinous, an awful, horrendous thing he was doing, but that weak people do such things with weak intentions; to show the ugliness of the sin and yet why we're told to love sinners. I hope that came across as well.