AN: Hi all, this is a response to the Autumn Fic Challenge posted by Breeze on the Narnian Fanfiction Revolution forum. I don't know if it is strictly what she wanted, but well, inspiration is what it is, and I see challenges as more like guidelines or prompts anyway.

AN2: This is a freshly edited version of it, courtesy of Winged Flight, who has my complete thanks. No content has been changed, but some of the grammar issues have been ironed out.

AN3: Another thanks to Writeonkate for the further refinement.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Chronicles of Narnia, and I don't have a magical wardrobe.

He didn't turn as he heard the thud of hooves approach from behind, nor did he turn as he felt a familiar presence. He kept his silence and his vigil.

"I brought you some food," said Oreius, and dropped a package by his side.

Nothing. Not a sound, not a twitch of his ears to say that he had heard. Oreius would have sighed, were it within his nature. Instead, the centaur tried to reason with his long-time friend.

"This is not good for you, you know. He wouldn't want this."

Always the same: the same beginning, the same response.

"Mr. Tumnus is doing very well at the moment. He's just bought a new scarf. Ms. Emma has given birth to a fine litter of kittens. She hopes that you will come and visit her and them."

A pause. He always paused, just long enough to invite speech. Still nothing.

"I suppose she will just have to come along to visit herself then, when the kittens are old enough."

She wouldn't, of course. No one visited him anymore. No one except Oreius, who came every week without fail. He came with a supply of food and an increasingly heavy heart. The only consolation to the visits was that his friend ate the food provided, even if he did nothing else. Nothing but wait and watch.

Oreius looked at the sky. It was getting dark and he couldn't stay long. He had meant to come sooner, but emergencies at the Cair had prevented him. He looked at his friend, and wondered whether a hand or a touch would be welcome. Probably not. He was like a statue. He may as well have been a statue, for all he interacted with the world. But no, he still breathed and for that, Oreius had to try.

"Come home. Do you think that he would want you to wait forever? A week, I could understand, but it has been almost a year. Come back."

Nothing. Oreius did sigh this time, and with a small goodbye which had no response, he left.

A week later, he returned, with another bag of food to replace the now empty one.

"Good Morn, my friend," said Oreius, and indeed it was so early in the morning that the light of dawn could still be seen. Light chasing away a lingering darkness. It was symbolic, but Oreius knew that the symbolism was probably lost on his friend. He knew that time itself was lost on his friend.

"This is not good for you, you know. He wouldn't want this."

It had become a ritual for Oreius to start with that line. He hadn't meant for it to become that way, but Oreius hoped that just once, he would listen. Although even as he hoped, he knew it was feeble.

He talked for a bit on the goings on in the Cair. He talked of the rat thief, which had scared the poor cook almost to death. He talked of Mrs. Beaver's new iron. He always talked of happy things, never anything dangerous or worrying or bad at all.

After talking of that, he decided to try a new tack.

"I brought some of his favourite foods for us to share this week. I know that neither of us particularly like it, but I think it is something we could eat together."

Still nothing.

Oreius reached into his pack and brought out some bread, butter, and a jar of jam made especially by Mrs. Beaver.

Still nothing.

Oreius was unperturbed and started to butter and jam his own piece.

"Well, if you get hungry, just say."

He didn't of course, but Oreius ate his own food with hardly a grimace, and left soon after that.

The next week he came back. As usual, all of the food was gone. All the food except the jar of jam, which was left untouched.

"This is not good for you, you know. He wouldn't want this," started Oreius.

It was midday this time, and spring. Just out of view of this spot, the trees were dancing and spreading their pollen all around, but in this spot, no trees danced. There was no one to disturb his vigil.

"It is the anniversary of Beruna tonight. You should come. There will be a big bonfire and the fauns will be dancing. The Dwarves will be drinking and I have made a bet with the chief smithy of the Cair that I can out-drink him. I don't suppose you will want to miss that?"

But of course he did miss it, and despair was beginning to build its way into Oreius's heart. He shook his head, and continued on.

The leaves were falling and the ground was littered with bright colours in a haze, so that it looked like the ground was on fire with his friend in the middle.

He didn't notice as Oreius approached, or if he did notice he didn't respond. Oreius made his usual greeting and talked of the Cair. The harvest was doing well and soon there would be a huge festival to mark it. The squirrels would be hoarding their nuts in what they thought were secret places, and huge tapestries and rugs were beginning to be put up again to ward against the winter chill.

"You should come, my friend, and see the Cair. The stables in particular have been done up with such beautiful decorations made of straw and barley from the harvest. Or at least they were the last time I checked, but by now the horses will have already begun to eat them. Surely you do not want to miss out on the fun."

As expected, there was no response. Oreius would still come. He would come until the end of his life if he had to, but just once he wanted to know if it was worth the effort.

No! He wouldn't think like that. He couldn't abandon his friend. He wouldn't abandon his friend. He knew it was worth it, even if every time he came it was like he was stabbing his own heart. He had to try.

Oreius shook his head and touched his friend's back. There was still no response.

"Aslan be with you, my friend."

"Why do you despair, my son?" said a voice so full of warmth, but tinged with sadness.

Yet even for him there was no response.

"Do you not trust in me? Do you not know that what has happened must be? Will you waste your life?"

He gave not a blink of an eye, or a swish of a tail. Aslan let fall a tear of sadness and the heavens cried with him.

"Oh, my child. You have been turned to stone, and I cannot save you unless you wish to be saved. Come back as far as you can and I will meet you, but you must make the initial step."

Still nothing.

"Dear Heart, at the end of all things, you will meet him again in my country. Are you not content to wait that long?"

There was no reply but the answer was known to Aslan anyway.

"Then I will wait with you and give you what strength I can. When it seems too much, I will carry the burden for you. My dedicated, loyal son, I will not abandon you."

Not a toss of the head or a neigh. Still nothing.

And as the snow of winter fell around him, and as the clouds turned grey - as the sun turned round the world in long years of loneliness, he waited.

He waited by the Lamp Post.