A/N: Wow. So, this is extremely angst-filled. Which, actually, is a good thing, because I tend to write angst when I'm in a very good mood.

If the above statement didn't scare you off, hello! This is my first bit of Narnia fiction that I'm posting. I say "posting" because I've started and deleted I don't know how many fics on account of they're being lame. I finally decided that this was not as lame as the others. Of course, my judgment could be impaired; after all, it is nearly two in the morning. But it's worth a shot, at least. I must admit that I'm rather nervous about the reception this might get; I certainly hope that no one would be rude on a fandom based around a Christian book series, but you never can tell (after all, there are flamers over on the Bible section).

This is, if you could not tell already, a Lucy/Tumnus oneshot. Why? Because I have seen a spark there ever since I was very little and I read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, and let me tell you, I didn't pick up on this stuff very easily as a child. If you don't like the pairing, turn away now, because I'm almost positive every single sentence contains some element of Lucy/Tumnus. I'm sorry if you don't like my Tumnus here; this is how I thought he would feel after the Pevensies returned to England. My main inspiration for Mr. Tumnus here was depressed!Tom in Becoming Jane.

In any case, I do hope you enjoy, and if not, that's all right too; it warms my heart knowing that anyone even bothers to read my stories. Thank you for bearing with me through that long author's note, and I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to one Clive Stapes Lewis. If I owned any part of Narnia, I would be there right now instead of writing about it.

He misses her.

He misses her silky hair running between his fingers. He misses the way her fluttering eyelashes would tickle him when she rested on his chest and tried her hardest not to fall asleep. He misses her delicate little hand in his, pulling him off to a new adventure. He misses making her lightly boiled brown eggs and sardines on toast and buttered toast and toast with honey and sugar-topped cakes and, of course, tea. He misses her tinkling little laugh that always sets him at ease. He misses the way her voice rises when she gets excited and the way she giggles when he tickles her neck (for that is where she is most ticklish) and he misses the way she asks him for a story or a tune on his pipes and almost immediately falls asleep, but somehow, she always remembers the endings.

He misses her button nose and her little ears. He misses her freckles and her twinkling eyes. He misses her smile and her laugh and her sweet little mouth. He even misses the times when he would be unable to find her and would start to worry, and then she would pop out from nowhere and laugh gaily and throw her arms around his neck and say, "Poor Mr. Tumnus, it was only a game! You know I would never leave you!"

But she has left him.

She has left Narnia, along with Peter and Susan and Edmund. He had hoped, for awhile, that it was just a game, that the four of them (but mostly Lucy) would reappear like magic and come galloping up to Cair Paravel, laughing and exclaiming over what jolly good fun they were having. He would pace the floor well into the night and leap out of bed in the morning and watch, always watch for his Lucy to come home to him.

And then Aslan came and told everyone that the Kings and Queens had been returned to the world that they came from. Tumnus knows Aslan did not say, "Their world" or "the world they belong in" because Narnia is their world and Narnia is the world that they belong in; especially Lucy. It seems that Narnia was made for her, sometimes. As if she had imagined the whole place and it had become real for her.

After that, Tumnus stopped pacing at night and stopped jumping out of bed in the morning. He returned to his little cozy cave, for the palace at Cair Paravel had lost all of its warmth. But mostly, it reminded him of her. It reminded him of their picnics and their adventures and the stories he would tell her and the tunes he would play her and the stories she would tell him of Spare Oom and the tunes that she would hum from this land. It reminded him of the long walks they would take in the gardens and the secrets she would whisper to him when she felt that her siblings wouldn't listen and the good cries she would have on his shoulder.

The memories would change then, from innocent to…less innocent. Memories of shy hand-holding (on his part). Memories of stolen glances and blushing cheeks. Memories of a silky head falling against his chest or his shoulder. Memories of fingers stroking soft skin and sweet kisses planted on fingers and hands and arms and necks and cheeks and eyelids and lips. Memories of breathless kisses and arms wrapping around one another. Memories of dancing in the woods at the fires, twirling and whirling and swirling with the nymphs and the fauns and the satyrs. Memories of the few stolen nights they had shared under the gleaming moon and the glittering stars.

He lies in bed in the mornings and doesn't want to wake up. He flops into bed at night. Sometimes he goes to the fires, but he never dances anymore; he just sits and watches. He sees lusty fauns and satyrs chasing after and tangling their bodies with spry little nymphs who are more intoxicating than the deepest of wines. None of them appeal to Tumnus; none of them are his Lucy. Sometimes something like a smile might cross his face, but it vanishes within a moment. He wants her here with him; he wants her to pull him to the haphazard circle and to make him dance and to have her little body flush against his as they hop and spin and surrender to the wild beat around them as they dance.

He knows that Lucy would not want him to be upset, and that is the only reason he goes to the fires. He is miserable during the day; it is only at the fires that his agony is eased, if only a little. His thoughts often drift to her. He wonders where she is now, what she's doing. He wonders if she has found another man. But the rational part of him dispels this notion, because she is only a little girl in her world and he knows that she loves him and only him. She has said so, and Lucy would never, ever say something she didn't mean. But still, he thinks of her all the time and remembers their stolen moments and wishes she had not left him.

One day, some months after the Pevensies vanished from Narnia into Spare Oom, Tumnus begins to feel like his old self again. He can smile now, albeit for brief intervals. He visits the Beavers again, and of course they are always thrilled to have him. He writes letters to King Cor and Queen Aravis and Prince Corin again, something he has not done in quite some time. He picks up a long-forgotten book, Is Man a Myth?, and chuckles to himself because the book is utterly foolish now. He drinks wine at the fires, and he feels less contemptuous towards the dancers.

Not long after his return to feeling something other than numbness, he goes to one of the fires and catches the eye of a nymph. She catches his eye, too; she is lovely, that he cannot deny. Her dark, lustrous curls fall around her. Almond-shaped eyes glitter and wink at him. A dark head spins and falls back with the passion of the thrum of the night. Nymphs are always full of lust at the fires, and that alone is enough to stir a faun's own lust. Tumnus feels a vague emotion, but he's not quite sure what it is. It's been so long since he felt such things. She comes to him, kneels before him, almost lying in his lap. Her tenuous hands slide into the curls at his chest and atop his head. Just like Lucy.

"I've been watching you tonight," she whispers in his ear.

He quivers, but not for the reason she thinks.

"You are beautiful," she goes on, nuzzling him. "I want you. Take me now. Please."

And she means it, too; the nymphs are sincere in these revelries. Her hands creep and slide over him and her face is where he does not want it and her hands…oh, Aslan, her hands…they are foreign and invading him and he does not like it, not one bit.

"Get off me," he snarls, shoving her hands away.

She falls back and gasps a little. Then she glares as she gets to her feet. "I see. Well, Faun, do not expect a warm reception from any of my sisters tonight!"

But she does not make good on her threat to warn all of the other nymphs to stay away from him; within mere moments, she disappears into the woods with a burly satyr. Tumnus doesn't care; he didn't want her. She was pretty enough, he supposed, but he did not like it when she focused on him. He didn't like it when anyone focused on him, really; except for his Lucy, of course. Lucy could have slid her hands all over him and nuzzled him and he wouldn't have minded, because she went about it a different way than the nymph. She had done it, too.

And so Tumnus retreats home to his little cave. He picks up the lute he has not touched in so long; he has to blow the dust off of it. He wets his lips and puckers them around the lute, his mouth taking on a familiar position. He pushes forward some air and a single, clear note dances out from the lute. He pushes out more air and plays more notes. The fire begins to form shapes and dance; before he realizes what he's doing, he plays the tune he played for Lucy when she first stumbled into Narnia and joined him for tea and he tried to kidnap her. Oh, what Tumnus wouldn't do to kidnap her now!

Because he misses her, and that's all there is to it.