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Prompt: Though the dawn always comes, the nights are sometimes very dark and very long.


The summer of Narnia's liberation from the Witch was longer than any other summer had ever been or would ever be, and this assisted mightily in the recovery of her land from a century of snow. Healing for the minds of her citizens, however...this was not to be found as rapidly.

The air grew colder, as it always had. The days grew shorter, as they always had. But many Narnians who had never before known the turn of seasons began to fear the approaching winter as though it might never depart, as if that glorious summer had been only a respite from the Witch's ice. They knew this feeling made no sense, but they could not help feeling it anyway, and many were the families that quietly stored up pantries of additional food.

Even Lantern Waste, which by all rights ought to have been the one region of Narnia whose inhabitants were certain the prophecies had been fulfilled, had its share of those who doubted. Robin—still only Robin, though now that other robins had also returned to Narnia he might one day choose a name of his own—had led the Four to the beaver himself, and yet still could not shake his nerves.

(Perhaps it was because he was a bird. Birds, or at least songbirds, had always been prone to anxiety. The degree seemed to correlate with the measure of their music, as if a great capacity for joy must be balanced with a great capacity for worry.)

Word was sent out that the grand Christmas festivities at Cair were to be extended through the beginning of the new year, but Robin did not go. He was embarrassed by his entirely irrational anxiety, and preferred to do his watching and waiting alone. One of the black dwarves loaned him a pocket watch, and the night of 30 Natali Sennd found him perched on a tree along the eastern coastline. Upon hearing why he wanted the watch, the dwarf had also insisted he take a small towel from her linen chest, so he was quite snug despite the cold.

He had inquired of a centaur what time the sun ought to rise, and as the hours crept by he kept one beady eye on the timepiece. The rest of his mind was occupied in keeping himself awake. There was no moon, and only the stars cast light on the snow-heaped branches and the ice-strewn ocean. At last the darkness of that longest night of the year began to lighten a fraction.

A light began, ever so slowly, to gleam in the east. It spread pale blue across the belt of the horizon, then warmed to lavender, lilac, rose, coral, and at precisely the moment predicted by the centaur, the sun reached above the sea and set it all to flaming gold. A breath of wind came from the east, bearing the faintest—the very faintest—hint of warmth.

The towel fell sixteen feet and landed in a snowbank that glittered blindingly white. Never was there such a twitter heard in all the woods as that of Robin as he looped and twirled ecstatically in the sunrise, singing with all his might.