Disclaimer: I do not own the Chronicles of Narnia.

A/N: Erm. So, I've been busy. This isn't exactly the most Christmasy of tales, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances. And let me assure you that I'll try to post something more...fitting when I have a chance.

Hang on. Let me start again.

This story takes place about thirty-two years into Caspian's reign (the year 2335, Narnia Time). That puts him at around 46. As he is about 66 in SC, and Rilian is about 30, that puts Rilian at about 10 here. And Ramandu's Daughter (who I call Miriel and REFUSE to refer by the Elvish Pickle name) has no definite age. Probably about the same as Caspian.

I have taken the liberty of naming two Narnian months (a pattern begun by Lewis in PC when Peter dictates a letter to Miraz under the month of "Greenroof"). Brownleaf is November. Frostriver is December. There may be other names for these months out there, but I thought it fun to give it my own twist.

As for my inspiration into this fic...well, it had to do with a certain fanfiction writer having paperwork/homework to do four days before Christmas and feeling quite grumpy about it. And having no coffee. And then another fanfiction writer gave the first a bit of inspiration (after all, Blond Caspian deserves a happy story every now and again), and a story resulted and that is all I have to say except for

MERRY CHRISTMAS.

For Eavis

The Snowball on the Desk

"Keller, take this down. To Lord Perian…er…Duke of…well, whatever it is he's duke of. You may inform Therallin Lightclaws that his hunting lands will be restored to him and his pack when he consents to…"

His words trailed off as the silence that should have been filled with the scratching of a pen yawned at him boredly. Tempting. He wanted to yawn too. He glanced up from the scrawl of paper he'd been reading from and saw that his scribe was not attending to him at all, but staring out the window instead. There was a wistful expression in those weary eyes, eyes that had been staring at paper for too many hours already. But then, it was Frostriver, and Frostriver always had lots of paperwork to go along with it.

"Keller."

The young man's head snapped around to look at the king, eyes wide with surprise.

"Sire?"

Although ordinarily, King Caspian the Tenth might have had to struggle to look stern in such a situation, he was, at the moment, too tired to be anything but irritated. With a sigh he flung the paper on the table and said, coldly, "Your pen is filled with dried up ink, boy. If you can't pay attention long enough to clean it when you're through using it then I must assume you'd rather be scrubbing pots in the kitchens."

He didn't mention that he'd dictated three missives already and not noticed the absence of a pen scratching until this one. Bother. That was a lot of ground to have to cover again. Especially the second one, which he had to word carefully because Lady Antonias was always trying to read between the lines. He rubbed at his eyes and wished he had some coffee.

"M'sorry, sire. My fault entirely. Been losing track of time. Forgetting. Should move seats so I'm not by the window. Get a new pen at once. Right away, sire."

And that blasted scribe was babbling again. He did have the rottenest tendencies of that sort—to go on and on in half-sentences that all meant the same thing more or less. He'd have to talk to Cornelius about replacing him with someone either more attentive or more experienced—but then, he'd only had Keller as a scribe since old Menelaus the Faun had been bothered by rheumatism earlier in the week. And just in time for the Frostriver sludge of paperwork, too. How very ironic.

"Never mind, Keller. I know you're trying your best. I need a letter for Lord Perian…Duke of…oh, blast it all."

Caspian crumpled the paper in his hand and threw it at the wall. He stood impulsively, walked over and stamped on the blasted missive once, and then paced away, toward the other wall. There was a mirror there. After taking a drink from a goblet (only water…why wasn't there coffee?), he looked into the mirror and glared at his reflection.

Gray. There was definitely a little gray among his golden hair, which had been bleached pale this summer from fighting in the North against the giants. Gray. How could there be gray? He was only…what? Forty-six? And he was going gray already? And those wrinkles around his eyes and the corners of his mouth…had they been there before? That scar had, on his chin, but surely he would have noticed wrinkles.

"Old," he muttered, fingering the gray hairs like they were snake-scales. "I'm getting old."

How long, before he saw his last Christmas? How if this was his last Christmas? It was not unheard of for kings to die before they reached the age of fifty—most did not even make it that far. He fingered the gray hairs again, and finally turned away from the mirror, gripping his goblet like it was his sword.

He glared down at the water. It did nothing for the ache in his back and the heaviness of his bones.

"Keller, why don't we have any coffee?"

The boy had returned to staring bleakly out the window. Caspian had to ask again before the boy turned and began stammering apologies.

"Never mind. Why don't we have any coffee?"

"Don't you remember, sire? Calormen trade regulation—unstable conditions—wary pact, but highly taxed imports. No coffee in Narnia or Archenland. Boycott of coffee to tell Tisroc what-for."

Ah. That was right. The Trade boycott. He'd signed the thing, of course he should know why there was no coffee to be found. He'd grown to like the stuff…warm and spicy and bringing the same wonderful strength as the Sweet Water he'd tasted at the end of the world. Dr Cornelius hadn't approved of him drinking it anyway, especially when it came to four or five cups a day. Miriel hadn't approved either, but she had her quirks and he had his, so she let it slide.

And now it was gone. And he'd forgotten. Perhaps he really was getting old.

"What am I going to do, Keller?" he asked the boy who, for all he was listening, could have been located on an island far to the east and still as blissfully unaware. "Going gray…forgetting things…"

Menelaus would have known what to say. He was quiet, but when he spoke he spoke with wit. And he was older than Caspian, which helped. Especially at times like this.

Suddenly, he thought he heard voices in his head. Lovely. He really was losing it completely. All at once. Before you could say Jack Robinson. Just like that. He was worried, almost, until he noticed that the voices were coming from outside the door to his study. Thank the Lion. He strained to hear what was being said, and recognized both voices, one female and one young.

"But Mother, may I not just ask him to come? It is the first snow! Surely he will want to see it."

"Rilian, you must trust me in this. Your father is very busy this month and mustn't be disturbed, even for the first snow."

Caspian sunk down in his chair, rubbed his temples, and closed his eyes. Light, but he wanted to sleep. Or read. Or do something for pleasure instead of work.

"Supposing I helped him. Later. So he wasn't so busy."

Rilian's voice was piercing, even as his mother hushed him gently. The king gritted his teeth and drew in deep breaths. There were a few more whispers outside his door, and then nothing more. So. They would not even invite him out anymore. Just whisper behind closed doors and taunt him in his agony.

Very well, then. He would get back to work so as to get it over with as soon as possible. He knew that Miriel wanted him to be with her and Rilian during this time, but she also understood his duties as a king. If only she didn't make him feel so guilty about it all…even if it was not intentional.

He dragged his chair forward, making the legs squeak against the stone floor. Keller did not look up. Caspian wondered what was so interesting outside the window.

"Keller. Keller. Will you take this down for me?"

The boy gave no sign that he'd heard. Oh, for Menelaus. A pox on rheumatism. The boy would be no good to him now, not like this.

"Keller, if you take down this one missive you can have the rest of the day off."

That caught his ear. Keller turned and began rubbing his pen on his inky tunic, fingering a fresh scrap of parchment eagerly.

"Don't know if it's possible—lots of work to do…"

"Keller," Caspian said patiently, if a bit patronizingly, "I'm the king. If I say you can have an afternoon off, you can have the afternoon off, whether there's work to do or not."

"Really?" the boy's eyes blazed, and he glanced only once more at the window before curling over the desk, poised to write. "You will have my eternal gratitude for this, my lord."

"I do not doubt it," the king muttered, and then began to dictate. The message would not be in the neatest hand, of course, but it would be enough for Lord Perian. He was a decent chap, and understood what went on at Frostriver. Doubtless he was busy as well, preparing his lands for Christmas and all that. Well. As far as Caspian was concerned, he was quite happy to leave that sort of planning to Miriel. Lion knows he didn't need anything extra. Not at Frostriver.

As soon as Caspian finished with, "and Emperor of the Lone Islands", Keller threw down his pen and made for the door. Before he left, though, he glanced back hesitantly and said, "Sire…can stay, if I must…understand the weight of duty…"

Caspian shook his head as he dusted the missive with powder and then sneezed as some of it flew in his face.

"Begone with you. And wash that ink off your hands before you get it on something of value."

Stammering thanks again, Keller bowed and swept through the door, leaving Caspian behind with shelves full of paperwork and less than six until the New Year to deal with it all.

Bother.

He signed his name at the bottom of the letter to Perian, sealed it, and stacked it with the dozen others that were to be sent out on the morrow. He turned to the next set of papers, then, and began to draft a speech he would be asked to make at the Great Snow Dance, which would be happening tonight in honor of the first snow. Halfway through it, he wished he hadn't let Keller go so easily. His hand always did get cramped rather easily…or did it? Perhaps he was getting rheumatism, too. He'd been using his sword all summer, after all, and a change of weather did things to a man.

It was strange, Caspian reflected, that the snow should come so late this year. Only just before Christmas? A very peculiar thing to have happen. Snow came a good month before Frostriver, toward the end of Brownleaf, most often. Why…Caspian craned his neck to get a good look at his calendar, and realized that it was nearly a full month later than it should be. Perhaps it would last into the spring.

Hang on. A month late? Then what was today?

His eyes focused on the date (it had to be a Friday…last night had been the Council Meeting and that always happened on Thursdays) and then closed as a wave of emotion followed by bleak emptiness swept over him. Christmas Eve. He was doing paperwork on Christmas Eve.

The king threw the pen down and put his head in his hands, letting the days and weeks roll through his mind. Could it really be Christmas, so soon after the Brownleaf Harvest Feast? Lion's mane, he could still taste the warm wine and nutty bread that was Pattertwig's favorite on his tongue, feel the cool wind of the last breath of fall running soothing fingers through his hair. The chill in the wind hadn't been around a whole month, had it? Was it possible?

He never got any further with that line of thinking. Something splattered on his desk, splashing icy coldness over his hands and face. Grunting in surprise, Caspian rolled left and half-drew his sword, scanning the room for an assassin or…a snowball. Which was now effectively turning the vellum he'd been using as scratch into a limp, soggy thing with black puddles of ink. Perfect.

There was a sudden squawk at his window, and Caspian turned his head to see a Hawk on the ledge, peering in curiously as it blinked its large brown eyes in dismay.

"Oh, my," the Bird said, as if to itself, "I didn't think he could do it. I really didn't."

King Caspian looked first at the Hawk, and then at the snowball in the middle of his desk. He touched the vellum, brought his hand away stained with ink that had once formed letters. The cold made something snap. Anger flashed through him like white heat and made his fingers tingle and his eyes begin to sting. He glared at the Hawk and said, "Rilian?"

The large brown eyes gazed at him intelligently and said, "Sire, twas at my goading. Please, sire—"

But the king was already half-way to the door, and then through, slamming it behind him as if the heavy wood weighed no more than a candle. He stalked down the corridor, past startled serving girls and gentlemen-in-waiting until he reached the courtyard door and shouted "RILIAN!" into the silence of a snowy Christmas Eve.

The boy was waiting for him, looking unusually pale in contrast with his dark scarf and cloak. His mittens were red. So were the spots on his cheeks that stood out amid the rest of the boy's pale face. Caspian crossed the distance between them in less time than it took to blink and stopped before his son, hands trembling and breath coming fast. Surely he wasn't so far out of shape? Not yet? He'd just returned from battle, for heaven's sake! Where he'd fought an army of giants all summer long.

"Do you know what you have done?" Caspian snapped. Rilian looked down. His father's fury flared again, and he clenched his hands into fists. "I have been working on letters and treatises for hours—days. And now, this to put me back—a snowball in the middle of my desk."

The boy would not look at him. Lion's mane, why wouldn't he look at him? Was he ashamed to look into the eyes of his father, the eyes of this weak old man who was going gray at the temples and could hardly walk down a corridor without running out of breath? The Hawk was circling them, muttering its apologies and excuses, but Caspian's ears were filled with rage.

"A snowball! Why? Lion's mane, why don't you answer me?"

Rilian looked up at last, a jerking motion that made the suddenness of his gaze all the more startling. His eyes were blazing too, angry and sullen and unafraid.

"It's the first snow! I thought you'd want to come—want to make snowbeasts with me like last year. I thought you would want to, because you were gone in the spring to Archenland and I was stuck home with mother and you were gone in the summer to fight the giants and I was still stuck home with mother and she wouldn't even let me visit you and since you got back you've hardly said six words to me!"

"I've been home all fall," the king barked.

"Home, yes," the prince retorted. "Present, no."

"I've said more than six words to you!"

"'Good morning', 'good night', and 'maybe tomorrow'. I've counted."

If they'd been in the midst of a roaring fire, their gazes could not have been hotter. But it was Caspian who looked away first. It hurt more than anything to remember when he had counted words given to him by someone he looked to as a father. It hurt even worse to realize that King Miraz had given him more than just six.

There came a sound of fluttering wings. When Caspian looked up, the Hawk was perched on Rilian's shoulder, looking most distressed indeed. Perhaps it was wearing off. Rilian's head was lowered again, and when he spoke, softly, there was an edge of unhappiness in his tone.

"I'm sorry, Father. It wasn't right of me to talk that way."

"No," the king said quietly, touching his graying temples again. "It was not."

He hesitated for a long moment, but then touched his boy's chin, gently, lifting the young face to meet his gaze again. There were unshed tears in Rilian's eyes, but there was a stubborn set to his jaw that said he would not be shedding them.

"I am sorry I have not been here for you this year," Caspian said at last, haltingly. "The war with the giants is like an old wound that refuses to heal. It wearies me, lies heavily on my soul. As do other things."

"We all mourn the loss of Trufflehunter, Father," Rilian said after a moment, correctly guessing the thing of which Caspian spoke. "His death was not your fault."

"No," agreed the king tiredly, "but that does not make his absence any easier to bear."

The Hawk apparently felt it was intruding, and so took off again, leaving a few jagged holes in the shoulder of Rilian's cloak. The king and his son stood for a few more moments in silence, listening to the snow as it fell, and drinking in the brisk coolness of the evening.

"Now," said King Caspian presently, brushing snowflakes from his tunic and stifling a shiver (after all, this was nothing compared to the Northern Frontier), "to business."

Rilian quirked an eyebrow at him curiously. "Business, Father?"

"For that snowball you left to melt my papers into sludge." Caspian flexed his fingers, squeezing them together to keep them warm. "I demand reparation."

"Reparation?"

Rilian's confusion vanished when his father bent over, grabbed a handful of fresh snow from the ground, and managed to wedge it between Rilian's scarf and his skin. The boy howled and rolled away, grabbing a ready-made snowball and flinging it back at the king.

Needless to say, a full-fledged fight broke loose. At first it was just Rilian and Caspian, but then one of the serving girls looked out the window and let out a gasp, and then a few trickled out and began joining one side or the other. The Hawk reappeared with several Ravens which began to assault everyone from above regardless of sides, and the whole thing ended in a sort of frostbitten romp.

About half-way through, Caspian was bending over to pound another snowball into existence when he saw Keller, his youthful scribe, staggering through the snow, clinging to the hand of a young girl who often hung about the armory and cleaned the swords.

"Beg pardon, sir—no wish to interrupt—I mean, that is to say-,"

Caspian interrupted him, speaking cheerfully for perhaps the first time that day, and said, "Oh stow it, man, and lend me a hand!" at the same time thrusting a snowball into Keller's free hand. The boy looked surprised, then delighted.

"Right away, sir—good aim—can count on me."

Glancing at the red-cheeked girl to whom Keller handed the snowball before stooping to make a new one, the king grinned and muttered, "So that's why he couldn't keep his head inside."

Eventually a truce was called and they all began heading back inside. Caspian was shivering now, despite the fact that it really wasn't very cold, compared to up north. Rilian's paleness had gone away completely, and the sulkiness too. He was bright-cheeked and happy, eyes glowing and letting wild laughter shake the snowflakes free of his cloak. Caspian smiled back at his son and shoved his hands under his arms…only to feel the blessed warmth of a cloak fall across his shoulders and over his arms. He whirled and came face to face with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen before.

"Miri," he breathed, clutching the cloak to him. Lion's mane, his knees still went weak when she gave him that smile!

"Even were you not a king, my lord," she began in mock seriousness, "you might have had the sense to come out in something more than a mere tunic. Meant you to catch your death of cold?"

He muttered something about it not being as cold as the Northern Frontier, and then flushed when she laughed. Lion's mane. Her laugh was like that of life itself.

"Mother," Rilian exclaimed, scratching at his scarf and wrinkling his nose as he tried to pull little chunks of ice from its strands. "Mother, if only you could have seen! It was a snow battl!e A full out snow battle."

Caspian grabbed the scarf clumsily with his stiffening fingers and tried to extricate the ice that his snowball had left. He bumped Rilian's shoulder chummily and said, "Sorry about this one. It was the quickest punishment I could devise."

"Did you practice throwing snowballs on the Northern Frontier?" his son asked, grinning up at him when the king shook his head in bemusement. "Lion's mane, but can you throw!"

The boy scampered off to talk to his Hawk friend, now, and Caspian's queen drew closer to him, smiling as he clenched his fingers into fists and hid them beneath the cloak to keep them warm.

"This white in your hair fits you," she told him wryly. His eyes opened in shock—Not going white already!—but then she brushed something light from his dampened hair and said, "I think it becomes you—hair peppered with snow. But I fear I must go ten years yet before such a thing might happen in earnest."

Remembering the gray streaks he'd been inspecting earlier, Caspian wasn't so sure. But, as he noticed the look on her face, that knowing smile, he realized that she knew exactly what he had been thinking. And the idea that she didn't mind so much made it quite bearable indeed.

"I have something for you," she whispered, leaning into him and kissing his cheek once, as lightly as a snowflake.

"My thanks, my lady," said he, putting an arm around her. "First a cloak, and then a kiss. What more could any man wish for?"

His heart stopped as she lifted a mug of something steamy, something light brown that smelt of Aslan's country itself, a tantalizing aroma that made his muscles turn to jelly.

Coffee. Maybe this Christmas was going to work out after all.

Finis.