Digory strove to keep his impatience hidden. It wasn't that he wasn't interested in Emeth's story—in another place and time he would have been fascinated by the implications behind Aslan's statement that all Emeth had done for Tash was accounted to Aslan—but another interest was rapidly becoming more pressing.
Though the youngsters hadn't guessed it yet, Digory figured they were dead. It was only logical, though he felt more alive now than he had at any point in his life. Though that was logical too, if one believed in an afterlife.
They were here, in the Real Narnia, with the shadows gone forever, and all the dear Narnian creatures who knew and were known to Aslan here with them. He would explain it to the children if he had to, though he would wait a bit and see if they came to that conclusion on their own accounts. After all, as Socrates said, one couldn't own knowledge unless one had reasoned it out for oneself. And it was perfectly simple, really, if one put one's mind to it.
If they were dead, then, it followed, (according to what he understood), that the ones who had gone on before were here as well, further up and further in.
Surely, surely that meant that his beloved, his dear girl, his sweetheart was here somewhere, too, waiting for him.
Oh, not waiting. Time had no meaning here, as it did in the other realm. Hadn't Digory watched as the High King closed the Door to Time? No, she wasn't waiting, per se, but she was here. Expecting—yes, that was a better word—expecting him.
Digory's feet twitched underneath him, alive with an impatience of their own, ready to run and run and run until he could catch his girl in his arms and hold her again.
I'm coming, beloved. Can you sense that I'm here? I'm hurrying to you as quickly as I can.
Polly's hand was at his elbow, and Polly's voice spoke in his ear.
"She'll be there, Digory. Don't fret."
He wasn't surprised that she knew what he was thinking; Polly always did. It was one of the benefits of a lifelong friendship.
"She'll still be young, and I am so old," he blurted unexpectedly.
"Old? Nothing of the sort!" Polly scoffed. "We're young again, Digory—younger and older both. Come now, you don't need me to explain it to you."
Digory chuckled. "No, I don't suppose I do." And he found that he couldn't fear the coming meeting—not really.
So it was, a short while later, when Jewel urged them all to run, that Digory let his fearless love lend wings to his feet.
"What, cousins!"
"Fledge!" Digory and Polly shouted together. "Good old Fledge!"
They rushed forward to throw their arms around the great neck they remembered so well, and for a moment Digory was a young lad again, fearing for his mother but trusting in the Lion, snuggled safely to sleep beneath Fledge's wings. He could almost taste the toffee-fruit on his tongue.
Fledge snorted with delight, nudged them with his nose, and blew in their ears. After only a few moments, though, he pulled back.
"There's someone else to see you, young Digory."
Digory's heart beat faster—or, if that was not physiologically possible in this new state, he thought it did.
"Oh, aye. We've been keeping each other company, sharing stories about you," with the neigh that passed for a horse's laugh. "Here he is, my lady," he called over his shoulder.
She stepped out from behind the great wings. Clothed in shimmering white, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, her brown eyes glowing with even more life and love than he remembered, she was as glorious as the rising sun in his eyes.
My love.
"My love," he breathed.
Polly pushed him forward, else he might have stood there dumbfounded for the rest of eternity. Then she was in his arms, and her scent filled his nose, and her lips were on his. Digory's heart filled with joy, and then spilled over, touching the air and grass and everything around him. Polly and Fledge backed away by mutual understanding, and the lovers were reunited at long last.
And Digory knew he was home.
The End.