† Tumnus †
The worst part of dying isn't the pain. Sure, you don't know how painful it will be or what kind of pain it will be, but what does it matter? It's over with soon enough. Not even the pain of every organ, every system, every fluid and every tissue turning to rock is bad as all that.
The worst part of dying isn't the goodbye. Life may be like a party, but everyone has to leave sometime. That's how it was for my parents, that's how it'll be for me, and that's how it will be for everyone else.
The worst part of dying isn't the unknown. After all, when you're dying, the unknown becomes known. What it looks like, what it feels like, what it sounds like, what it smells and tastes like, whatever lies on the other side: you're about to figure that out. And what if you don't? What if death is just a big empty blackness, or you go to sleep without ever waking up? Well, then, none of that other rot will trouble you anyway.
The worst part of dying isn't the regret. Sure, we all know what regret is—that heart-rending, soul-chewing monster that opens its mouth and says two words before it digs into your flesh: You failed. It's the knowledge that if you had been a little stronger, a little wiser, a little cleverer, things might have turned out better than they actually did. It's the hopelessness you feel when you realise all the opportunities you missed and all the moments you lost. But that's not the worst part of dying. You did what you did, you left the mess behind, and there's nothing you can do about it, so regret is meaningless.
No, there's something even more terrible about dying, and it has nothing to do with dying whatsoever. What if you come back to life? What if Aslan breathes on you and gives you another chance? That's the ugly part of the bargain. Everyone knows I worked for the White Witch and tried to give her a Daughter of Eve, and all Narnia thinks I'm a traitor and a coward (I've certainly earned all that). And all the others who were turned to stone won't treat me as one of theirs. I worked for the Witch, and I was dead for a single day; I lost nothing except an extra day in the cold. Others stood up to the Witch, and they paid for it with their lives; some of them were dead for forty years, and their families are either dead or gone. I'm a constant reminder of the unfairness of the situation.
The indignation of the entire country is a heavy burden to carry, but that's not even the worst of it. No, the worst part of it all is having to live. When you die, everything is over and done, but if you get another chance, you have the same duties as everyone else, but you also have to fix your mistakes and atone for your treachery, and if you can't, that makes your failure all the worse. I can't go back and undo what I've done. I can't blot out the memory of it all. Now that the Secret Police are captured or dead, I can't even redeem myself. Even though the Lion has forgiven me and the Daughter of Eve has gone on being friends with me, all Narnia looks at me like I'm Maugrim, and I'm half-certain I see a wolf's face leering at me whenever I stand in front of a looking-glass.
If I had stayed dead, everyone might have been singing songs about me. Fancy, a little faun standing up to the Queen of Narnia and looking death in the eye. But no: I have to tell the truth. If I don't, Aslan will set the record straight. However, what if I could do something good, something grand, something that will get my name sung about? Now that I'm in Cair Paravel, I'm privy to most of the affairs of state. And suppose someone mentions the word "trouble", and someone says they're in desperate need of a faun to help save the day, or what if Oreius could stage a battle, and I happen to be there in the thick of it?
Whatever it takes to blot out these memories and have a good name again, I have to try.
By the Lion, I have to.
To be continued...