The Dancing Lawn. The centre of the lawn, amongst the dancing and revelries.
1011.
Christmastime.
Lucy.
The world had fallen away.
He was so close, his expression unreadable but for the flicker of something she knew was just for her. Her breath caught, and she felt rooted to the spot, her longing and relief threatening to
His eyes locked on hers, darkened in that way she had missed so desperately. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the noise of the celebration around them a distant hum.
"You're late," she murmured, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound steady.
His lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "The roads were unforgiving," he said, his deep voice like a balm to her soul. "But I would not have missed this. Not for anything."
The air between them was heavy with words unspoken, with all the months of separation that had stretched like an eternity. And as his hand finally lifted to brush against hers, the faintest touch of warmth in the chill of the night, she felt the weight of her longing ease.
He was there.
Faelar's storm-cloud eyes softened as he looked down at her, the corners crinkling slightly in a way that made her heart ache. His lips curved into a small smile, one of those rare, unguarded expressions that felt like they were meant for her alone.
"I missed you so much, little one," he murmured, his voice low and intimate, the nickname carrying the warmth of their shared moments.
Lucy felt her cheeks flush, both at the endearment and the proximity. His hands, large and calloused, remained steady on her arms, holding her in place as if he couldn't quite bear to let her go yet. She could feel the strength in his grip, tempered by a gentleness that belied the warrior she knew him to be.
Her eyes traced his features, committing them to memory for what felt like the hundredth time. The sharp line of his jaw, the strong bridge of his nose, the faint scar that curved just above his left brow – each detail was achingly familiar. His silver-blonde hair caught the soft glow of the lanterns strung around the dancing lawn, a faint halo framing his face. She noticed, with a flicker of amusement, that a stubborn strand had already slipped loose from the clasp, brushing against his temple.
"Faelar," she said softly, reaching up to tuck the rogue strand behind his ear. Her fingers lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary, brushing against the cool metal of the clasp at his nape. "You shouldn't sneak up on me like that."
His smile widened, and a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, the sound vibrating through her where their bodies were still so close. "You didn't seem to mind," he teased, his voice a rich drawl.
Lucy shook her head, unable to stop the laugh that bubbled up from her chest. "You're impossible," she said, though the words lacked any real bite.
"And yet, you still put up with me," he countered, his smile softening into something more tender. His hands shifted, sliding down to her waist, and before she could protest – or agree – he began to sway them gently in time with the music that floated through the crisp winter air.
The world around them blurred, the laughter and chatter of the celebration fading to a distant hum. It was just the two of them now, moving together in an unspoken rhythm.
Lucy rested her hands lightly on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palms. "You don't like dancing," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Faelar's gaze held hers, his expression soft and open in a way that made her breath catch. "No," he agreed, his lips quirking into a small, self-deprecating smile. "But I like dancing with you."
Her heart gave a traitorous flutter, and she had to remind herself to breathe. This was Faelar, her Northman, her stubborn, sharp-tongued companion who had stood at her side through battles and banquets alike. And yet, here he was, swaying with her under the stars as if nothing else in the world mattered.
Lucy leaned into him, resting her cheek against his chest, and closed her eyes. For a moment, she let herself forget about the celebration, the politics, and the endless demands of court life. Here, in his arms, she felt safe, cherished, and completely, utterly at peace.
…
Susan.
The music swelled, rich and lively, filling the clearing with a rhythm that carried the dancers across the snow-covered grass. Torches glowed warmly overhead, casting golden light onto the swirling silks and velvets. Amidst the colourful flurry, Susan danced.
Dash, with his sharp jawline and easy grin, led with a confidence that bordered on audacious. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief, and the colourful silks he wore seemed tailored to accentuate his broad shoulders and easy grace. Yet his steps were precise, his movements fluid, as though he were born to dance.
Susan, ever poised, matched his movements with a precision that spoke of natural elegance. Her emerald gown flared around her as he spun her, catching the light like embers in a hearth. She moved with a practiced grace that could disarm even the most cynical of courtiers, though her smile held a note of playful restraint.
"Do you always lead like you're storming a battlefield?" she asked, her voice low enough to remain between them.
Dash tilted his head, his grin widening. "Only when I'm dancing with someone who could hold her own on one."
Susan rolled her eyes but didn't miss a step as he twirled her again. "I see modesty isn't part of your repertoire."
"It doesn't suit me," Dash replied with a wink. "But you, my queen – grace becomes you. Or is it archery that makes you so light on your feet?"
Her lips twitched into a smile despite herself. "You're insufferable."
"And yet here we are," he countered, his voice rich with amusement. "One could almost say you're enjoying yourself."
Susan arched an elegant brow, meeting his gaze with a quiet challenge. "Perhaps I am. Though I've yet to decide if it's the dancing or the chance to keep you out of trouble for a few minutes."
Dash laughed, a low, genuine sound that drew the attention of a few nearby dancers. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping as he said, "Careful, my queen. If you flatter me too much, I might think you're growing fond of me."
Susan's smile softened, though her eyes retained their sharp, knowing glint. "If I ever grow fond of you, you'll be the first to know."
The music shifted, swelling into a faster tempo, and Dash seized the opportunity to sweep her into a more intricate series of steps. Susan followed without hesitation, her gown billowing as they moved in perfect harmony. Around them, the other dancers seemed to fade, their movements a blur as the queen and her partner commanded the floor with an ease that was both striking and undeniable.
For a moment, Susan allowed herself to forget the weight of her crown, the whispers of the court, and the unspoken expectations that came with her title. Here, in the glow of the lanterns, with Dash's hand steady at her waist and the music guiding their steps, she felt unburdened—alive in a way she hadn't felt in far too long.
…
Peter.
The celebration had reached that delightful tipping point where the wine flowed freely, and inhibitions began to wane. Laughter echoed through the Dancing Lawn, mingling with the merry strains of lutes and flutes. Somewhere in the distance, Lucy's bright laughter carried over the din, but Peter's attention was focused solely on keeping himself upright.
He wasn't drunk – at least not by his measure – but there was a pleasant haze settling over his mind, courtesy of the dryads' wine. He turned, and there she was – Asura, his stalwart guard and friend, standing just a step away, her cheeks flushed a deep rose that complemented the shimmering pigment dusted across her cheekbones.
Her hair was braided back, a single strand slipping free to frame her face. She was beautiful, in that quietly commanding way she had – a warrior's grace wrapped in an unyielding resolve.
"Asura," Peter greeted, his voice warm, though he had to focus to keep it steady. "Come to steal me away from the revelry?"
She arched a brow, her lips quirking into a wry smile. "Hardly, sire. You seem to be managing just fine on your own."
Peter stepped closer, his grin broadening. "Oh, so formal now that you've ceased berating me. Am I 'sire' now? What happened to just 'Peter'?"
Her eyes flicked away for a moment, and when she looked back, there was a softness there that he rarely saw. "You're still my king," she said simply, her voice quieter now, but laced with something he couldn't quite place.
Before he could respond, there was a sudden, sharp intake of breath from a nearby courtier. Peter glanced up instinctively and froze. Above them hung a delicate sprig of mistletoe, tied with a crimson ribbon, swaying gently in the draft from the open doors.
"Ah," he said, his voice faintly amused. "How…festive."
Asura's gaze snapped upward, her expression shifting from surprise to something far more guarded. Her hands, which had been resting loosely at her sides, curled into fists as she took a half-step back.
"Peter," she began, her tone carefully neutral, "we don't have to–"
"Rules are rules," he interrupted, though his tone was teasing, not serious. There was a warmth in his eyes, the kind that had always put her at ease, even in the most harrowing moments.
Asura hesitated, and he could see her mind racing.
But then Peter leaned down, slow enough that she could stop him if she wanted to, his expression more serious now, his movements tentative – as though he were giving her every opportunity to say no. His lips brushed her cheek, warm and fleeting, more a whisper of a kiss than anything else.
"There," he said softly, straightening and smiling down at her. "No scandal. Just tradition."
For a moment, she stared at him, her naiad-blue eyes wide and unguarded. And then, as though the moment had shattered something within her, she turned and bolted, slipping through the crowd with the ease of someone trained to move unnoticed.
Peter watched her go, the weight of her absence settling over him like a winter chill. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his mind already turning over a thousand questions.
"Peter!" Lucy's voice cut through the noise, and he turned to see his sister approaching, her brow furrowed in concern. "What just happened?"
"I think," he said slowly, his voice tinged with a bittersweet amusement, "I might've done something incredibly stupid."
…
Edmund.
The rich scent of spiced wine and pine filled the air, mingling with the laughter and song that swirled around them. Yet, for all the celebration, Edmund's focus was entirely on her.
Arianna moved with an effortless grace, her gown the colour of the sky just before dawn, adorned with tiny crystals that caught the light as if the stars themselves had kissed her. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her lips curved into a soft smile that she reserved only for him.
Edmund offered his hand, his fingers brushing hers, and she took it without hesitation. As they joined the dancing couples, the music slowed, a lilting melody that felt like a quiet snowfall. They moved in time with one another, their steps as natural as breathing.
"You're quiet tonight," she said softly, her voice barely audible above the hum of conversation around them.
He smiled, his lips twitching in that way that made her raise an amused brow. "I'm saving my words for when they matter most."
Her laugh was quiet, but it warmed him more than the roaring fire in the hearth. "And when will that be, Your Majesty?"
He leaned in, his breath grazing her ear as they turned. "Perhaps now," he murmured.
Her gaze lifted to his, a flicker of curiosity and something deeper shining in her eyes. In that moment, the noise of the hall faded, and it was only the two of them.
The court watched, of course – they always watched. A king and queen of Narnia were always under their subjects' gaze. But here, in this moment, as they glided in perfect harmony, they were not rulers or warriors. They were simply Edmund and Arianna, dancing in the fleeting glow of a respite they knew would not last.
"That sounds dangerous." Her eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was an edge to her words, a shared understanding of what weighed heavily on them both.
They had always done what the others could not. Narnia's light shone brightest in Lucy, its courage in Peter, and its wisdom in Susan. But Edmund and Arianna worked in the shadows, navigating the delicate threads of deception and truth. They carried out what needed to be done.
"We leave tomorrow," she said, her voice quieter now.
"We do," he replied, his tone steady.
She tilted her head, studying him. "Do you regret it?"
He spun her lightly, their movements seamless, before pulling her closer again. His voice was low when he spoke. "Never. I'll do whatever Narnia needs, Arianna. But shielding Lucy..." He exhaled, the faintest tremor betraying his composure. "I hate that she has to be spared from the truth, that we have to carry it instead. I hate that it's necessary."
"She doesn't belong in the shadows, Edmund," Arianna said softly. "Lucy is the light. She needs to stay in the light, or we'll lose everything we're fighting for."
He nodded, his expression heavy with resolve. "I know. And I'd rather the weight of the truth crush me than see it dim her innocence."
Arianna's hand slipped up to his shoulder, her touch grounding him as it always did. "You're not alone in this. You never have been."
For a moment, they stopped moving, the music fading into the background as they stood in the center of the floor, the only still figures in a world of motion. She gazed up at him, her eyes steady and certain.
"I know," he said softly.
She had seen the very worst parts of him, the darkness he tried to hide from everyone else. And he had seen those parts of her – her rage, her darkness.
The moment stretched, filled with unspoken words.
"I wish..." He hesitated, his voice faltering.
She tilted her head, searching his face. "Wish what?"
He shook his head, a small, rueful smile playing on his lips. "That we could stay here. Just for a little while longer. That we could forget, even if it's only for tonight."
Arianna's expression softened, and she reached up to brush her fingers lightly against his cheek. "We don't forget, Edmund. Not what we are, or what we've done. But that doesn't mean we can't have this moment."
Her words were a balm to his soul, and in that instant, the world around them faded. The music, the laughter, the crowd – all of it blurred until there was only her.
Without thinking, without hesitation, Edmund stopped moving. His hand slid from hers to gently cup her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek. Arianna's breath caught, her wide eyes locking with his, and then he leaned down and kissed her.
It was not the kiss of a king to his queen, nor one meant for an audience.
It was tender and slow, a quiet declaration meant only for her. A promise that, no matter what shadows they faced, they would face them together.
The Dancing Lawn seemed to still around them, the music fading into a soft hum. For a moment, they were not rulers or warriors or spies. They were simply a husband and wife, stealing a fleeting moment of peace in a life that rarely allowed it.
When Edmund pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against hers, and a small, breathless laugh escaped her lips. "You know they're all staring," she murmured.
"Let them," he said with a rare, mischievous grin. "It's Christmas, after all."
Her laughter joined his, and for a brief, shining moment, the burdens they carried were forgotten. Tomorrow would always come, and with it, the shadows they must step into. But for that night, for that Christmas, they danced—and in the warmth of each other's arms, it was enough.
…
Dancing Lawn. Eastern Entrance.
Lucy.
It was quite by the Eastern Entrance, where the soft glow of lanterns illuminated the frosty air, and faint strains of music spilled out from the great hall. Nearly everyone was among the dancers now, the celebrations reaching their height. The Eastern Entrance had become a forgotten corner, a quiet pocket of stillness in the midst of the revelry.
The air felt different—calmer, heavier with the crisp scent of winter pine and the faintest trace of snow on the breeze. It was where a few lingering guests might wander to catch their breath or to steal a private moment away from the festivities.
Faint echoes of laughter and song drifted outward, mingling with the rustle of the nearby trees. A few torches flickered in their sconces, their golden light reflecting off the frost-laden branches.
For those who ventured here, it was a space of quiet contemplation, of unspoken thoughts and lingering feelings. It was here that the moments unnoticed by the throng unfolded—subtle glances exchanged, unspoken words lingering in the air, or a solitary figure lost in thought.
"Are you cold?" his voice was soft – it always was with her. Before she could answer he'd unpinned his rough-hewn cloak and thrown it over her shoulders – the dark colour contrasting with her bright woollen gown of cerulean, trimmed with white fur. And he gave her that lopsided smile that sent her stomach aflutter and warmed her more than any cloak or wine could. "Your nose is already red."
She groaned, raising her hands to her face in mortification. "I'm not built for this cold and snow," she muttered, her words muffled by her palms. "Not like you."
He chuckled, a low sound that rumbled in his chest. With a patience she both loved and cursed him for, he pried her hands away, cradling them in his own. His touch was warm despite the chill, his calloused fingers gentle as they held hers.
She felt her heart quicken as he reached out, brushing a stray curl from her face. His fingers were warm against her skin, sending a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the winter air.
"Don't hide your face from me," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that sent a shiver down her spine. He pressed a feather-light kiss to her fingertips, his lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary. "It's been far too long since I've gotten to see it."
Her breath hitched, and she found herself unable to look away from him. The world around them—the music, the laughter, the celebration—faded into nothing. There was only him, his warmth, his presence, the way he looked at her as though she were the only thing that mattered.
His gaze flicked to her mouth, and before she could say another word, Faelar leaned down and kissed her.
The world seemed to tilt as his lips met hers, warm and insistent, as though he had been waiting an eternity for this moment. Lucy's breath hitched, her hands instinctively reaching for him, fingers curling against his leather doublet. The kiss was sweet, yet there was a hunger beneath it, a yearning that matched the way her heart pounded against her ribs.
When he finally pulled back, her lips parted as she drew in a shaky breath.
He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes searching hers, as if waiting for her to speak—or perhaps for permission to do it again.
"You taste of marzipan," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of surprise and delight.
A soft chuckle escaped him, though his expression remained serious, reverent, as though she were something precious. "And you," he murmured, brushing his thumb over her bottom lip, "taste of winter berries and magic."
Before she could reply, he kissed her again. And again. Each kiss was deeper, more fervent than the last, as if he could never get enough of her. Lucy felt her knees weaken, her body leaning into his, anchored by the strength of his arms around her.
It was as though the world beyond them ceased to exist—no wars, no shadows, no courtly responsibilities. There was only Faelar, his lips tracing hers with an unspoken promise, and the soft snowfall around them, cloaking the moment in quiet perfection.
When he finally stopped, he pulled her close, his arms wrapping securely around her as he rested his chin atop her head. Lucy closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.
"I'll never stop wanting you," he murmured, his voice a quiet vow.
Lucy smiled against his chest, her fingers tightening against the fabric of his cloak. "And I'll never stop letting you."
Above them, the stars seemed to shine just a little brighter, as if blessing the union of two hearts that had waited far too long to find one another.
Lucy's lips curved into a shy smile, one that felt almost out of place given how many stolen moments and whispered confessions they had shared. Still, something about this—about him—always left her feeling as though they were standing on the edge of something new. She tucked her hair behind her ears, a nervous habit, though no strands had come loose.
"I missed you so much," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant hum of the celebration.
"I always miss you, Lucy," he said, his voice warm and steady, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile that deepened the dimples in his cheeks. "I miss you the moment I'm not touching you."
His words made her heart ache in the best way, and she couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up, soft and filled with adoration. He took her hands in his, threading their fingers together and holding them close, a gesture so simple yet so intimate it made her breath catch.
Nothing ever felt more right than their moments together – than him.
In his presence, with his touch grounding her and his love surrounding her, she knew with a certainty as unshakable as the stones beneath their feet that this was all she would ever need.
She glanced up at him, her auburn hair catching the soft glow of the lantern light, and her smile widened. "I don't need Father Christmas to visit us again," she said, her voice steady with conviction. "Because in this moment, I have everything I could ever want."
Faelar's expression softened further, and he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. His arms circled her, pulling her close, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, letting herself be enveloped in his warmth.
In that moment, Lucy Pevensie's life was perfect.
...
Authors Note:
Just a little Christmastime fluff. Lucy and Faelar's story begins in Dagger's of Ice (Arianna and Edmunds story).
And as always, I crave reviews.