The Dancing Lawn.
1011.
Christmastime.
The Eleventh Year of the Golden Age.
Lucy.
Dark clouds, silvers and blacks and a multitude of metal-hues adorned the sky as if they longed to kiss the land. But the snow did not fall, not upon the Narnians who congregated upon the Dancing Lawn for their annual Christmas Feast. The morning sun would bring Christmas presents and more merry-making, but for that night the Kings and Queens of Narnia would celebrate with their friends and allies.
The elm trees that ringed the clearing danced in the soft wind, branches swaying to the light music. Multitudes of torches lit the night, kept alight by the magic of the cynder, and filled the celebration with a warmth that matched the glow within their hearts and matched the warm smiles upon their faces. The clearing was perfect for such times – it was far more than double the size of the ballroom in the Car, as if Narnia itself wanted them to celebrate.
It was a riot of colour – dressed for Christmas with garlands of holly and ivy twined around makeshift tents where the courtiers could rest, and the air was fragrant with pine and spiced wine.
The air was alight was laughter and magic, and Lucy could do naught but grin unfettered as she danced around and around to the merry tune of the flute and drums. The fiddle would join again shortly she was sure – but at that moment its player had been caught beneath the mistletoe with an ever so lovely dryad.
They had extended the hand of peace and invited their tentative allies from Calormene and Archenland, as well as the tribes of the Far North.
Brightly coloured silk mixed amongst heavy velvet brocade and pristine white furs; dresses made of leaves and petals; dresses made of the fairest cotton. Talking animals sat upon the cushion-covered logs, beside centaur and faun and human. Gryphons nestled amongst the trees and bushes, dozing in the snow, their keen goldens eyes watching the unfolding revelries.
Would Father Christmas visit that eve?
Lucy could not imagine anything better – for even in Narnia Christmastime was her favourite time of year. She loved stockings by the hearth, and spiced cookies. She loved indulgent hot cocoa drinks and gift giving. She loved that the snowfall almost placed politics on hold, for no one wanted to wage war during the winter-time. But most of all, it meant that all her siblings were residing in Cair Paravel instead of traipsing the length and breadth of Narnia ensuring their people and lands were well.
And though her siblings would sometimes call her fanciful, even childish, she knew they all relished to be home.
The northmen had arrived some time ago, but she could not see Faelar anywhere amongst the crowds. She thanked the faun she had been dancing with – kin to her dear friend Mr. Tumnus – and made her way back to where she had told Faelar she would be.
Months had passed since she'd last seen him—her northmen, the man whose very presence had etched itself into her heart. She could still picture him with painful clarity: the silver-blonde hair that caught the light like frost at dawn, the sharp planes of his face that softened only when he looked at her. And his eyes—those storm-cloud eyes that seemed to hold a thousand secrets and darkened in a way that told her she was the only one who truly saw him.
She missed him in ways that words could not capture. The way his laughter, rare and low, felt like a gift meant for her alone. The way his hands, rough and strong from years of battle, could hold hers with a gentleness that made her feel like she might break apart under its weight. She even missed his silences, the way he could stand beside her, saying nothing, and yet make her feel as if they were sharing the most intimate of conversations.
Her heart clenched as she scanned the snowy clearing again, her breath fogging before her. She knew he would come, that his journey had begun weeks ago, but the roads from the north were treacherous this time of year. A part of her feared for him, though she knew he was no stranger to danger.
The sound of revelry swelled around her—a burst of laughter, the clinking of goblets—but it all felt distant, muted.
She would sit and wait no longer.
She had to find him.
…
The Dancing Lawn.
Faelar.
It was a clearing bigger than perhaps his entire village that they stepped into, greeted by dryads in green and Narnian-red. They had followed the path made by the unwavering torches through the trees, they had followed the sound of laughter and voices and music. The wagons that had brought them would return in the very early hours of the morn to take them to Cair Paravel where they would stay.
His warriors greeted their old comrades with vigour – with enveloping hugs and warm greetings that were at odd with their stern, weathered faces. The Royal Guard and the Narnian Knights returned their welcome with the same warmth – those who had fought and bled with them side by side in the Battle of the Western Woods.
It was a true celebration of their peacetime, with so many allies who had once been at odds standing shoulder-to-shoulder. He would not let the trouble in the Ettins shadow that eve.
But Faelar, the Protector of the Ice Queen of the North, searched for only one face.
The clearing was alive with light and sound, a celebration fit for the season. Lanterns hung from tree branches, casting warm, golden glows over the revellers who danced and laughed beneath the winter sky. Snow blanketed the ground in pristine white, and the air was filled with the mingled scents of pine, and mulled wine. Music filled the clearing, lively and bright, as couples spun and swayed to the tune of flutes and drums.
But the northman saw none of it.
His storm-cloud eyes scanned the crowd with restless urgency, seeking the one face he had travelled so far to see. His fur-lined cloak was heavy with the snow that had clung to him during his journey, and his boots left deep prints in the frost as he moved through the throng. The laughter, the music, the clinking of goblets—all of it blurred into the background as his focus narrowed on his search.
Where was she?
He had thought of her every day since he had left, carrying her image with him through the long, cold nights and the treacherous northern roads, as they reestablished their villages are famine and fire. He missed her in ways that gnawed at him: her deep auburn hair that shimmered in the firelight, her sunny smile that could melt even the iciest of his moods. He missed her voice, soft but certain, and the way she looked at him, as though she saw the man beneath the warrior's armour.
But as he stood beneath the dancing bowers, she was no where to be found.
He moved through the clearing, his sharp gaze sweeping over the dancers and the gathered nobles, their finery glinting like jewels against the snowy backdrop. His heart clenched with each passing moment, his longing growing heavier. Had she stepped away? Was she avoiding him? Was she dancing with another?
The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
As he reached the edge of the crowd, he paused, running a gloved hand through his silver-blonde hair, tied at the nape in a way that felt far too unfamiliar to be comfortable.
A burst of laughter from a nearby group drew his attention, and his eyes flicked toward the sound.
She was standing beneath the boughs of a towering pine, half-hidden by its shadowed branches, by the table of sweets. The lantern light caught her hair, turning it to burnished gold, and her smile—oh, her smile—was as radiant as he remembered, though tinged with something wistful as she watched the merriment from afar.
For a moment, he simply stood there, his breath caught in his chest. The months of separation, the miles he had crossed, the dangers he had faced—all of it fell away as he looked at her.
"Faelar, we're going to settle the horses," one of his men murmured to him.
A swift nod and Faelar's eyes darted back towards the table of food.
She was gone.
He had to find her.