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bantha_foddertitle: the mercy of the frozen ground
author: bantha_fodder
fandom: narnia
rated: m, for creepy.
i do not own anything here
11/12/2005
i still haven't seen this bloody movie, for it's not out for another two weeks. thanks to claira for the beta.
***
You see her first, little girl wandering in the woods, and in your hurry you think that she's a little dryad before you remember that all the good trees are asleep. You follow her aways and she is cautious; lost and slow and looking at everything. You look at her and you wonder; you look at the trees all grasping and vile, and you know what you must do. You circle around and, head down, you pretend you've not seen her, until her foot crunches in the snow.
"Goodness gracious me," you say, as you drop your packages in surprise.
You wonder when you became so devious.
You blame Her.
"Good evening," you say, and the vile trees watch you as you bow. You hope you're wrong as you ask, "Should I be right in thinking that you are a Daughter of Eve?" and when she misunderstands you her cheeks glow pink with embarrassment. How delightful, you think, and remember why you're talking to her in the first place when the trees lean in and you hear them whisper disapprovingly. You want to get away from their gaze, and you fear what they shall do to the girl, left alone in the dark.
"We shall both catch cold if we stand here talking in the snow," you say, and shiver so she notices.
"Thank you very much, Mr Tumnus," she says, ever polite though you deserve no honorific. "But I was wondering whether I ought to be getting back."
So polite, you think, and worry about her wandering through the Waste on her own. So far from Spare Oom; so far from anyone to hear her in the dark.
You offer her sweets and warmth and a seat to sit upon, and you wonder which of those makes her eyes light up and her pretty little mouth accept your offer.
You wonder at growing up in a world with no fear of strangers, and your heart longs for Narnia before you push the thought aside. She has ways of seeing what you are thinking, and that your thoughts would make her smile is not something you ever wish to have confirmed.
You hold your umbrella over the both of you and shield her from the trees although you know it is futile - the trees have seen enough, and you hear them whisper as you pass, Lucy's hand on your arm.
Up hill and over dale and through the dark places you take her, and the distance from the Waste to your little house has never been so far. She looks around in wonder, and the joy on her face is clear. She stumbles, and you rest your hand on hers to keep her in place.
You know she is lost, and the thought that she might have to rely on you to leave, that she trusts you to guide her back to Spare Oom, makes you feel sick. She seems surprised when you lead her to your home, and you think perhaps hers looks nothing like this, out in the sunshine, in a place where the trees are still awake and don't whisper menacingly behind your back; in a place where Christmas has been and gone and is on its way back; in a place where Aslan comes and goes as a wild lion does.
You push her inside and bolt the door.
The fire has not burned out, for which you are grateful; collecting wood is difficult when some of the trees are still alive. You light a lamp and cheerfully offer paltry words; the flames flicker around her face as she takes in her surroundings. It's nothing much, you know, but it's more than you deserve, and more than some others of Narnia have, and you can't complain.
Well, you can, but that will only get your hooves removed and your body turned to stone.
Her eyes follow you as you shuffle around, but they skim over you to your father on the wall, disapproving from his frame; to the books on your shelves; to the door to your bedroom. You move her away and serve her tea and toast; serve her sardines and the cake you were saving for a very special occasion.
She smiles at you, and you're a hundred and fifty years old - not even middle aged - but you're so lonely, and you wonder what it would be like to hold a warm body on this cold night.
You talk and talk and talk, and when your tongue is dry and your lips are cracked you sip from your tea and weave music around her until her head nods and her eyes fall shut.
You watch her as you play for her, and she smiles sleepily at you and you know she's close to sleep and then -
But you cannot, and you change your tune.
"I must go home," she says, and you shake your head and when you cry, when you weep remorse and fear and hate for the Queen of Narnia, she wraps her arms around you and lends you her handkerchief and you wish you hadn't seen the fear in her eyes.
You confess and she forgives you, and you think you've never met a nicer, more beautiful being before, and you probably never will again. You guide her back through the Wastes, hiding in the shadows and always ahead of the whispers, and when she shakes your hand you want to kiss her cheek but you know you'll never be worthy of her.
Later, Maugrim knocks the door down and lets the snow in, and you think, how fitting, but what you say is, "I've been expecting you." And you have.
END.
author: bantha_fodder
fandom: narnia
rated: m, for creepy.
i do not own anything here
11/12/2005
i still haven't seen this bloody movie, for it's not out for another two weeks. thanks to claira for the beta.
***
You see her first, little girl wandering in the woods, and in your hurry you think that she's a little dryad before you remember that all the good trees are asleep. You follow her aways and she is cautious; lost and slow and looking at everything. You look at her and you wonder; you look at the trees all grasping and vile, and you know what you must do. You circle around and, head down, you pretend you've not seen her, until her foot crunches in the snow.
"Goodness gracious me," you say, as you drop your packages in surprise.
You wonder when you became so devious.
You blame Her.
"Good evening," you say, and the vile trees watch you as you bow. You hope you're wrong as you ask, "Should I be right in thinking that you are a Daughter of Eve?" and when she misunderstands you her cheeks glow pink with embarrassment. How delightful, you think, and remember why you're talking to her in the first place when the trees lean in and you hear them whisper disapprovingly. You want to get away from their gaze, and you fear what they shall do to the girl, left alone in the dark.
"We shall both catch cold if we stand here talking in the snow," you say, and shiver so she notices.
"Thank you very much, Mr Tumnus," she says, ever polite though you deserve no honorific. "But I was wondering whether I ought to be getting back."
So polite, you think, and worry about her wandering through the Waste on her own. So far from Spare Oom; so far from anyone to hear her in the dark.
You offer her sweets and warmth and a seat to sit upon, and you wonder which of those makes her eyes light up and her pretty little mouth accept your offer.
You wonder at growing up in a world with no fear of strangers, and your heart longs for Narnia before you push the thought aside. She has ways of seeing what you are thinking, and that your thoughts would make her smile is not something you ever wish to have confirmed.
You hold your umbrella over the both of you and shield her from the trees although you know it is futile - the trees have seen enough, and you hear them whisper as you pass, Lucy's hand on your arm.
Up hill and over dale and through the dark places you take her, and the distance from the Waste to your little house has never been so far. She looks around in wonder, and the joy on her face is clear. She stumbles, and you rest your hand on hers to keep her in place.
You know she is lost, and the thought that she might have to rely on you to leave, that she trusts you to guide her back to Spare Oom, makes you feel sick. She seems surprised when you lead her to your home, and you think perhaps hers looks nothing like this, out in the sunshine, in a place where the trees are still awake and don't whisper menacingly behind your back; in a place where Christmas has been and gone and is on its way back; in a place where Aslan comes and goes as a wild lion does.
You push her inside and bolt the door.
The fire has not burned out, for which you are grateful; collecting wood is difficult when some of the trees are still alive. You light a lamp and cheerfully offer paltry words; the flames flicker around her face as she takes in her surroundings. It's nothing much, you know, but it's more than you deserve, and more than some others of Narnia have, and you can't complain.
Well, you can, but that will only get your hooves removed and your body turned to stone.
Her eyes follow you as you shuffle around, but they skim over you to your father on the wall, disapproving from his frame; to the books on your shelves; to the door to your bedroom. You move her away and serve her tea and toast; serve her sardines and the cake you were saving for a very special occasion.
She smiles at you, and you're a hundred and fifty years old - not even middle aged - but you're so lonely, and you wonder what it would be like to hold a warm body on this cold night.
You talk and talk and talk, and when your tongue is dry and your lips are cracked you sip from your tea and weave music around her until her head nods and her eyes fall shut.
You watch her as you play for her, and she smiles sleepily at you and you know she's close to sleep and then -
But you cannot, and you change your tune.
"I must go home," she says, and you shake your head and when you cry, when you weep remorse and fear and hate for the Queen of Narnia, she wraps her arms around you and lends you her handkerchief and you wish you hadn't seen the fear in her eyes.
You confess and she forgives you, and you think you've never met a nicer, more beautiful being before, and you probably never will again. You guide her back through the Wastes, hiding in the shadows and always ahead of the whispers, and when she shakes your hand you want to kiss her cheek but you know you'll never be worthy of her.
Later, Maugrim knocks the door down and lets the snow in, and you think, how fitting, but what you say is, "I've been expecting you." And you have.
END.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-26 05:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-28 01:06 am (UTC)