Disclaimer: I don't think Mr. Tumnus would take very well to one of the beings whose existence he was questioning claiming to own his story, do you?

Beta'd by trustingHim17! All remaining mistakes are decidedly my fault.

OOOOO

"Of all examples of the classical tragic irony in fact or fiction, this is the greatest—the classic of classics [...] For the Christian affirmation is that a number of quite commonplace human beings, in an obscure province of the Roman Empire, killed and murdered God Almighty—quite casually, almost as a matter of religious and political routine, and certainly with no notion that they were doing anything out of the way. Their motives, on the whole, were defensible, and in some respects praiseworthy. There was some malice, some weakness, and no doubt some wresting of the law—but no more than we are accustomed to find in the conduct of human affairs. [...] We, the audience, know what they were doing; the whole point and poignancy of the tragedy is lost unless we realise that they did not. […] God was executed by people painfully like us, in a society very similar to our own–in the over-ripeness of the most splendid and sophisticated Empire the world has ever seen. In a nation famous for its religious genius and under a government renowned for its efficiency, He was executed by a corrupt church, a timid politician, and a fickle proletariat led by professional agitators. His executioners made vulgar jokes about Him, called Him filthy names, taunted Him, smacked Him in the face, flogged Him with the cat, and hanged Him on the common gibbet—a bloody, dusty, sweaty, and sordid business."
-The Man Born to be King, Introduction, Dorothy Sayers

"Can you see yourself in another's sin?"

OOOOO

Dear Reader, it all started with Mr. Tumnus's book.

No, that's not right, son, Tumnus could hear his father say. It began with the stories I told you, the ones that led to that book on your shelves.

And so it had. It began when Mr. Tumnus (a little Faun then) sat as close to the fire as he possibly could, looking up at his seated father, and listening as Mr. Tumnus Sr. told story after story to distract his son from the darkest and coldest of winter nights. The very air seemed to warm as the old Mr. Tumnus told of dragonfire, of a heroic king facing it in golden armor, feet planted firmly in the rocking boat, and spear raised to throw—but waiting, waiting, waiting till the dragon swooped nearer, huge teeth snapping, and then the King thrusting the spear.

Those were the stories old Mr. Tumnus loved to tell, the myths and legends of Narnia. Stories of kings building castles or rescuing islands,* of Owl ambassadors bringing peace, of Bacchus and old Silenus on his donkey bringing feasts in times of famine (Mr. Tumnus the boy barely remembered meeting them once),** of queens surprising Narnians at their dinner or joining them for a cup of tea, of Badgers pushing a giant out of a forest, or of a White Stag and the wishes he granted. He told of the sound of flutes, the rhythm of dancing hooves, the swaying of Dryads on star-lit nights. He told story after story, the stern old face burning with its own fire as he told of heroic deeds and gentle kindness.

And story after story featured Sons of Adam or Daughters of Eve, strange creatures one didn't see in Narnia anymore.

But are they all just stories, Father? the quivering young Faun would ask, and his father's stern face would frown.

Find that out for yourself, son. No other person can make up your beliefs for you. He paused. I went and found out the truth of the stories for myself. You go do the same.

And Mr. Tumnus had. He went to their nearest neighbors (shivering in the cold the first time, when he forgot his scarf), politely bringing sardines for tea, and asking those with the longest, oldest memories if they had ever glimpsed a Son of Adam or Daughter of Eve. He talked with all his neighbors. He tried to find the smartest Narnians, the deepest thinkers, and he asked them if they believed.

There were varying answers, of course. If one asked the Badgers, the response was of course, the Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve existed. One did not have to see a thing to believe it; one held on. Most Nymphs laughed the question away, though some said they remembered a reflection, so glorious and beautiful and perfect it shone for a year and a day regardless of what was above it, and they thought it might have been a Daughter of Eve. Dwarves often grunted and told him to talk sense, though a few, after a good dinner or tea, were willing to talk over the matter with hearty voices.

Then there were the Beavers. They weren't exactly his neighbours—being too far away—but he went to ask them because he'd heard they believed wholeheartedly. So Mr. Tumnus came carefully trotting across a frozen river, ducked into their shipshape dam, and smiled at the delicious scent of cooking fish.

Of course, they talked about other things first. One must be polite. Mr. Beaver talked about fishing, and Mrs. Beaver about the Robin family in the nearby wood, and Mr. Tumnus about how difficult it was to find fitting food for tea time these days.

"Watch where you're looking," Mr. Beaver advised abruptly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Her soldiers were sniffing about your area. Word from the Crow is, a Dryad told her about that odd iron tree not far from your house.*** The White WItch grabbed the Dryad and ripped branches right off her." They all shivered; everyone heard tales where the White Witch's brutal strength was used as cruelly as the power of her wand. "No one said why she fears a tree like that, but it caught her attention, and that's never something any of us want."

Mr. Tumnus shuddered, quietly resolving to stay inside, or perhaps even go visiting for a good long while. He could stay with some of the Fauns of the Two Hills, if her attention was not on them at the moment.

"But enough gloomy talk," Mrs. Beaver chided. "There's hope at the end, Mr. Beaver, and the end's coming someday."

"That it is, Mrs. Beaver. That it is."

Mr. Tumnus set down his cup. "Do you know, I don't often hear hope mentioned. Just talk of winter. What hope are you holding on to?" he asked, the Badgers' word slipping into his sentence.

Mr. Beaver looked from one window to another, checking for listeners. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "The hope the Lion gave Narnians before she came." Staring at their guest with solemn eyes, he recited the old rhyme every Narnian knew, even though it was never taught: "When Adam's flesh and Adam's bone / sits at Cair Paravel in throne / the evil time will be over and done."****

Mr. Tumnus shivered again, though this time from something different. Mr. Beaver's faith—and Mrs. Beaver's too, he thought—stayed with him as he began his long walk home, wrapping his red scarf securely around his neck. That faith, and the courage it gave the Beavers—surely there was something in that. Surely it couldn't be given to just a myth.

But—humans! In Narnia! He trudged through the snow, his hooves hitting just a bit harder at the absurdity of the idea. The only one was the White Witch, though everyone knew she wasn't human, no more than a Dwarf was. No, his mind just couldn't quite accept the idea of humans in Narnia. There simply weren't any.

But the Beavers—

Fiddlebranches, Mr. Tumnus thought to himself. He was cold, and the fur near his hooves was getting wet. Why am I spending so much effort on this question? It's not like it has anything to do with present times, for there aren't any of them nearby! I think I shall stop. He ducked under a branch, and his father's face, alive with fire, flashed in front of him. Well, not stop. Just stop the visits, that is. All this trudging about in the midst of winter; really! I shall go and find some of those books the Lightword the Owl recommended, what was the first? Something like Is Man a Myth?,***** and I think he said the Raven by the third oak had an extra copy. I'll stay at home, and drink my tea, and avoid her soldiers, and think about it there. Yes, that sounds perfectly sensible. He began to climb up the hill towards his cave, rubbing his hands and blowing on them in anticipation of entering through the homey wooden door. He tried to ignore the conscience that whispered this might very well be quite important, and he shouldn't give it up so easily. I'm not giving it up, he told himself. And it's not like it has anything to do with me.

I think, Reader, you and I both know how very wrong he was.

But, dear Reader, he had made up his mind, and so he went and got the book from the Raven, trading the last of his sardines and even his cake away in the process, but he did it to pacify his conscience, which had been acting up recently. This at least would give him peace, even if it made tea much duller. The new book wasn't nearly as satisfying as cake was. After a few tries he put it back on the shelf, sitting back down and reaching glumly for his tea.

He dropped it, rattling in its saucer, when a threatening thump sounded on his front door, a brief sound as if a heavy paw were rudely knocking.

"What was that? Oh dear, oh dear, it didn't sound friendly. Maybe—maybe they'll go away-" The knock thudded again, and Mr. Tumnus stood, accidently pushing his tea to the floor in his nervous movement. He trotted forward—if it was someone unpleasant they were never happy to be waiting—and reached his front door, his heart thudding as loudly as the knocks and his hands shaking as they tried to pull it open. The thud sounded again and he jumped, his hooves leaving the floor. He pulled hurriedly at the door, muttering about the blasted thing, and nearly fell back in a faint when he discovered the Chief of the White Witch's Secret Police, standing with his Wolf's eyes narrowed to slits and his teeth bared. He slunk forward, and Mr. Tumnus backed quickly away from his own front door, hooves patting a shaky rhythm as he trembled.

"What—what do you want?"

"Search the house," Fenris Ulf growled. Two other Wolves pushed past him, going right for where he'd been having tea. They overturned the pot, sending it crashing to the floor, nosed his seat, and then spread out. Mr. Tumnus turned back to Fenris.

"I've done nothing!" he pleaded. "Nothing at all! Please, it's just teatime, I haven't-"

"Here," came the sharp yelp, and Fenris ignored the Faun as he pushed past, pushing Mr. Tumnus back against the wall as he passed while stepping on his foot, claws pushing in just enough to hurt. Mr. Tumnus considered the door, panting from fear—but a Wolf could catch a Faun within minutes, and those claws—and, and teeth—he shrank back against the wall, cowering.

"Done nothing?" came a growl, and Fenris appeared again, carrying a book in his mouth. He dropped the book on the Faun, and picked it up with shaking fingers, staring at the title emblazoned in black script and reading Is Man a Myth? "Her Majesty the Queen demands you," the Wolf ordered. The two Wolves behind him growled an unneeded warning, for Mr. Tumnus was staring blankly at the book. A Wolf grabbed his arm with a rough mouth, though the teeth didn't sink in, and pulled the Faun to his feet.

"All right, all right, please let go, I'm, I'm coming, I'm coming, really I am," he stammered.

The Wolf let him go but glared from that fingernail's length away. "Out the door," snarled their Chief, and without umbrella, scarf, or jacket, Mr. Tumnus was taken from his home, and in the long, cold march towards the White Witch's castle.

He had a lot of time to think on that journey. His companions said nothing, not beyond their growls of warning if they thought he lagged behind or slowed. He had far too much time to think, to imagine, to fear. And to regret.

They passed the river with the Beavers' dam, and he thought he saw a brown face staring sadly from the window; but the lights were out inside, and he couldn't be sure.

It was all their fault! he thought suddenly. If they hadn't been so sure, I wouldn't have kept looking into this…this…myth! And now look! I traded my cake for it, and now I'm a prisoner, with these unpleasant Wolves, for something I don't even believe in. It's not my fault. But she won't believe me. She ripped the Dryad's branches off; what will she do to me? Why does she want me? Who told her I had the book? A Bird, or Dryad, after my walk to bring it home? I wish I'd never read it. I wish I'd never heard the legends, or talked about it, or done any of the things to look into it. I wish-

He broke off when the Wolves threw their heads back and howled; he glanced ahead. There, between two hills, was a building, a cruel, fantastical building made mainly of spires, rising from the ground. Made of menacing stone, and surrounded by a wall. And he was being led towards it. He gulped, and the Wolf next to him huffed a laugh.

"Come and gain Her Majesty's welcome, then!" Fenris and the third Wolf laughed as well, and they herded the faint-feeling Faun towards the giant, cold doorway.

OOOOO

*Referenced in The Last Battle when Jewel tells stories of Narnia's past.
**The characters are from Prince Caspian; and I'm a bit foggy on Mr. Tumnus' age, for it says he told Lucy about the forest in summer, and it sounded like he told them as if he lived them, and missed them. But is he then 100 years old
***I am aware the Witch threw the iron bar that planted the lamppost, and may have glimpsed the lantern growing, but I'm not sure she'd remember it. My theory is it reminded her where she and the others entered Narnia, and of her first meeting with the Lion where she was forced to run.
****From The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Not that you all don't know that, but it's still a direct quote. :)
*****SouthwestExpat reminded me, when we talked about the idea for this story several months ago, that Mr. Tumnus had this book on his bookshelf, and it fit perfectly in line with the reasoning I was putting inside his head, so my thanks for that!

A/N: This real-life situation hasn't gotten any better, though three of us may perhaps be learning to live with it. I would ask again your pardon if I do not respond to reviews. I can't tell you how much the ones on the last story/chapter made me smile, and encouraged me, and I'm sorry things haven't stopped enough for me to respond individually; but thank you, so very, very much.