Disclaimer: I'd actually intended to stop the story after that last chapter, when the idea first occurred; Tumnus' fall into temptation and his turning from it. But there were a few unanswered questions that occurred to me over a year ago, I think, as I read "Lucy, by Tumnus" by Laura Andrews (it is a very good story, and you would enjoy it if you enjoyed this one), and she gave me permission to write one of my own when I asked her back then, to answer the questions of why, if Tumnus was still known to be a spy for the White Witch, did the Beavers trust him enough he gave them his last message before being taken? What was in Tumnus's parcels? And there was one other scene that came to mind, one at the end of this chapter

Beta'd by trustingHim17, who, by the way, is a very good beta reader.

OOOOO

When Tumnus arrived home, the first thing he did was fold the handkerchief and put it on his mantlepiece, visible but unobtrusive. Then he went around his home and put everything in order.

There was a very large likelihood the Secret Police would be coming for him soon, and even if they wrecked the place, he'd like them to find it in good order first. It kept his hands busy, his mind, and kept him from dithering. He also drank lots of water, Dear Reader, because that is a necessary thing to do after crying a great deal.

And he found, to his great surprise, that he was not as afraid anymore. The Wolf teeth still might rip him apart, the White Witch might be cruel and terrifying—but every time the fear grew large, he would glance back at the handkerchief. He had met a Human, and she had been as kind and as brave as any of his father's stories. He believed now. And if he believed that, well, it grew easier to believe what the Beavers had believed from the beginning, the rhyme, the promise, the hope. The hope that cruelty's power would end, that summer would spread from War Drobe to Narnia, and all evil things would be undone.

That afternoon the hours passed swiftly, when he dwelled on hope; but the minutes dragged into eternity when he forgot hope and feared.

And yet the afternoon came and went, and no Wolves came. No Ogres, no Hags, no Minotaurs, no Afreets or evil Dryads.

He stayed up, all that night, and if courage was a bit harder to keep, dear Reader, I think it was actually quite good for him, for it taught him about courage.

And the next morning came, and with it light, and he, pulling out the things for breakfast, realized that perhaps, perhaps, no one saw him after all. Perhaps he had done a good thing, and gotten away with it.

Which is not the right way to think about doing what is right, of course. But it was better than thinking it did not have to be done.

But it did get him thinking on courage, and he realized he needed courage for one thing more. Courage, to face his friends, and tell them what had happened. He had this marvelous hope, and it wouldn't be right to keep it to himself.

So he gathered all the courage he'd learned overnight (for facing one's friends is a very hard thing to do), and taking his scarf, his umbrella, and taking the handkerchief from the mantle and putting it in his pocket, he set out for the Beavers' dam.

He went very carefully, you know. He made sure he wasn't followed, for it wouldn't do to bring enemies to their doorstep. He went carefully, and quietly, crunching through the snow, and didn't stop until he saw the river.

And then I'm afraid he did stop. You see, courage was still very new to him, and it had taken quite a bit to come this far. He didn't have much left. And he stood there in the trees and wondered if he should keep going, or wouldn't it be better—easier, and possibly better—to just turn around and go back home.

But the handkerchief rustled in his pocket when he began to turn. If Lucy had forgiven him, maybe others could as well.

And, and—they'd always believed, but it would be nice for them to know. He could be kind, like Lucy had been to him. So he turned back around and made his careful way across the ice, edging across it and towards the wooden door in the round igloo of logs and frozen mud.

He knocked.

He heard the hurried scritches and the rustling bustle of people hurriedly cleaning, and then Mr. Beaver swung open the door, saying, "We thought you'd never co-"

"Wait, wait, please wait," implored Tumnus of the frozen Beaver. "I—I have something, something I should tell you. It's not about her, I swear on, on Aslan's Mane." Mr. Beaver's growing scowl grew fiercer, and Tumnus started stammering, "I met, met, I met one, I met Lucy, and I didn't—oh, I didn't take her to—to her."

"Hush, now, and get inside," said Mrs. Beaver's kind voice behind them, and Mr. Beaver reluctantly moved aside, his scowl not even twitching when Tumnus accidently bumped his head on the low door frame. Tumnus spilled inside, ignoring his aching head, and turned to face the suspicious animal.

"I am sorry. I am, so sorry, and you were right all along. I—I met a Daughter of Eve yesterday, in the woods. And I—I took her home, and put her to sleep, and I was going to do all the dreadful things I should never, ever have agreed to do, but I—I couldn't." He looked down, away from the black eyes in the brown-haired face. "And then—then I told her everything, what I'd meant to do, and took her back where she could go home. And she—she became my friend. And then I waited, I did, I'm not asking you to shelter me, but I waited and no one came to get me, and I—I thought you should know. That they exist. Here, smell this!" and he held out the handkerchief, just close enough that Mr. Beaver could take a deep breath. Tumnus watched him inhale and his eyes widen.* "I wanted you to know. That I've seen one, she came here. And—and I can go now," and he blinked, and blinked again, not wanting tears to freeze on his cheeks, "but I wanted to tell you."

"You've seen a Daughter of Eve?" Tumnus turned, startled at the awed tone, and realised Mrs. Beaver had come up just behind him. "You've spoken to her? You had tea with her?" She paused a moment. "What did she like with her tea?"

"Just the one?" Mr. Beaver cut in from behind them. Tumnus blinked. How much more of a miracle was Mr. Beaver expecting? "Well, the prophecy said the four thrones had to be filled!" Mr. Beaver snapped in response to the blank look on the Faun's face.

"Well, she did say—mind you, I wasn't listening too hard just then—that there were others she had to get back to," Tumnus said slowly.

"So there could be four," Mr. Beaver pondered, moving back to his chair.

"The prophecy could come true soon, dear. She could be gone!" Mrs. Beaver clapped her paws, moving back towards the table too.

"We should send the word out. Robin's coming to visit, he can take it to the Leopards, and from there to Oreius." Mr. Beaver looked back at Tumnus, who was awkwardly standing a few paces inside the door and watching them. "What are you doing?"

"I was wondering—that is to say, I didn't know—would you prefer me to leave?" he asked, rushing the last few words out.

"Are you on her side?"

Tumnus shook his head vehemently.

"Then sit down!"

Tumnus sat, a bit gingerly. He still half-expected the Beavers to send him back to shivering in the cold.

"We couldn't be your friends and take care of Aslan's people when you were serving the White Witch, my dear," Mrs. Beaver explained. "But sit and be comfortable. You've cut your allegiance with her, and that's enough. You're welcome here."

"And you proved it," Mr. Beaver added gruffly. "Like she said, that's enough. Now sit, and we'll get to making plans!"

So, dear Reader, Tumnus continued to sit at his friends' table, a mug in his hand, telling them where he'd met Lucy ("And you'd better keep going there, you know, often, to keep them off the idea you've found something. If no one saw you, we don't want them thinking something changed"), what she was like, in that radiant forgiveness and wonder, and who should keep an eye out for her return ("Well, the birds!" "Yes, but I don't think just them, dear. Not all of them have a great deal of sense").

Her return was not something Tumnus had been considering, between the fear and the hope restored. But he found himself quite ready to protect his new little friend, perhaps even to fight for her, if she came back and was in danger again.

But the sensible thing, they all agreed, would be for him to get her (and possibly any others) to the Beavers, if he could get there quietly. Then they could be moved safely from house to house of loyal Narnians, until Aslan guided their footsteps further.

Mr. Tumnus stayed till dark, and left with more joy than he'd felt since sitting before the fire with his father. He came back, though only when he was certain he was not being followed, in between his visits to the lamp-post. He went there daily, more faithful in visits spurred by hope than he ever had been in ones spent in loneliness.

And then, of course—well, you know what happens next. My dear Reader, I'm sure you've already heard that Lucy came back again, told in the story by a much better teller than I am. Go read it from the Professor's pen, if you'd like a refresher. Tumnus much enjoyed their second tea, and marveled at the courage of a girl who would risk the land of Narnia again, for the sake of a friend.

And she left again, because she did have others to go back to, and Mr. Tumnus went about his business with the happiest heart he had ever known. That evening, he put the last of the dishes away, touched the two teacups fondly, and thanked Aslan for a life with good friends, and a heart beginning to experience courage.

Then the morning came.

Robin, the Beavers' friend, landed on his door handle, furiously beating the wood with his wings. Tumnus came trotting to open it.

"The Wolves!" the Robin chirruped, voice high in fear. "The Secret Police! Coming! Coming here!"

Tumnus' hand clenched around the doorknob. He'd forgotten—they hadn't found out—how—had Lucy been seen?

Had they taken Lucy?!

It was not until long after that he realised how his courage had grown, that his thoughts went to her and not his own fate.

They could not have her. They would not have her. That he resolved. "Go warn the Dryads and the Badger nearby," he told the Robin. He ducked inside. She had to have friends. She had braved coming back once; she would again. She would need friends. But how would she know friend from foe? His eyes ran frantically over the room, catching on the white square back on the mantle. Of course! He could take it—take it to the Beavers! He grabbed it, turning to run out the door without even bothering to shut the door. He ran, panting, hooves barely touching the snow, through the forest, down to the river, his side aching, breath coming in gasps. He ran across the ice, falling on his face, and picking himself up on one bleeding hand and scooting forward. He flung upon the door and ducked inside, holding the handkerchief out to the startled Mr. Beaver. "They're coming for me," he panted. "Coming—I'm headed back so they don't come here—but someone has to meet Lucy! Take this, take it!" He stuffed the white fabric into Mr. Beaver's paw. "Go and meet her, if she comes!" He turned to go back out the door, but felt a grip on his paw. "The Wolves—my scent—I can't let them come here!"

"Wait!" Mr. Beaver's urgent voice stopped him for just a moment. "Keep up hope." His voice was low. "They say Aslan is on the move!"

That name—just for a moment, Tumnus' heart stilled in peace, and his eyes filled with the same wonder that Lucy's held. Then he whispered a low, "Bring Lucy to meet Him," and ran.

Out of sight of the Beavers' dam he slowed down. He could run, but if he knew the Secret Police, they were already on his trail, and Narnia had no safe places.

But he could try. He—he had done his best for Lucy, and now his own fear was returning. The White Witch, with her strength, her wand, her cruel smile under those bright eyes. He gulped. He was almost home. He'd get his scarf, some food, and see if he could vanish, through the forest and into the North.

And then he heard the growls. Low and angry, accompanied by smashes, the pounding of nails and breaking wood—and coming from his home.

He slowed, spinning—but the Secret Police appeared in the doorway, and he froze.

"Tumnus the Faun, you are under arrest, for treason against her imperial Majesty, Jadis, Queen of Narnia, and for consorting with humans!" Fenris Ulf snarled, eyes fixed on his prey as he took one slow step forward. "I'd prefer it if you ran."

"I—I don't think—you'd kill me!"

The Wolf smiled, stretching his lips back and revealing all his teeth. "Then I'll just have to make due with the arrest." He lunged forward, and Tumnus flinched. The Wolf laughed, hot breath puffing on the Faun's trembling hand, and began circling him. Tumnus held still, barely breathing, waiting. Slow, slow circles, the Wolf's paws creating a path in the snow. The sounds of destruction echoed in Tumnus' home, and he ached, inside, for all that he'd loved that the Wolves were destroying. But standing there, listening, Tumnus realised that this was, in the end, what he deserved. He had joined the White Witch's side, and now they had turned on him. This was only just.

The crashes gradually ceased, and Fenris Ulf stopped circling. The Wolves came out, one of them throwing himself against the door and breaking it on his way out. Then once again Tumnus was being herded towards the White Witch's castle.

This trip was different, though. The fear still twisted in his stomach, but his heart held on to two words. Friends. Aslan. Friends. Aslan. He recited them in time to his footsteps, over and over. Closer and closer to the river, to the two hills. They were in sight of the Witch's castle, and this time—this time it looked different. Tumnus realised he wasn't crying this time.

The Wolves led him through the courtyard, through the statues who had not made Tumnus' mistakes. But ones who had not been granted a sight of a Daughter of Eve, and Tumnus' heart suddenly twisted at the realisation that, out of all of the faithful left in Narnia, Aslan had picked a traitor to meet His Queen. Oh, Aslan, he thought in pain, why?

They did not make him wait on the steps this time, pushing him roughly into the dark hall. He stumbled, flailing his arms to regain his balance, and caught his breath just in time to have his face seized in a ruthless, familiar grip. She jerked his chin up, bending down till their faces were inches apart.

"I found my own human," she hissed, fingers digging into his skin. "And he told me his sister Lucy had met a Faun, a Faun who gave her tea and cake. A Faun she met at a lamp-post. And who do you think that could be?" Tumnus gasped in pain when she lifted him, nearly cracking his jaw. Her forehead and eyes were all he could see, her hand all he could feel, and his mind suddenly brought to mind another girl, another Queen. Lucy's bright eyes and gentle handing of the handkerchief, her forgiveness and bravery—there could be no stronger contrast to the White Witch in front of him. Tumnus had chosen his Queen.

His joy and understanding changed his face, for the White Witch dropped him. From within her robes she drew her wand, pointing it at him. "Know this, Faun," she raged, "the Son of Adam is already mine, and he will lead his entire family here."

Tumnus froze. No. Aslan, no.

"They will be mine, defeated before they begin, and your silence, Faun, will have been for nothing. In that knowledge, traitor, perish!"

Aslan, save her, was his last thought.

And Lucy's laughing, joy-filled face was the first thing he saw, when he could breathe again. And behind her—behind her, when they stopped spinning in joyful celebration, he saw the One who had saved him. Twice, first from his own fearful slavery, and then from the stone that encased him. And Tumnus feared no more.

OOOOO

*Apparently beavers have an excellent sense of smell.