The king of Narnia was in the middle of listening to a very long and rambling complaint by one Telmarine man who claimed that several Talking Mice had gnawed away at the structure of his house until it collapsed, and was demanding reparation from the Crown, when one of the castle servants dashed in.

"What is wrong?" King Caspian demanded, straightening from the slouch into which he had unconsciously slid during the last twenty minutes of the Telmarine's whine.

The little hedgehog stopped abruptly and bobbed into an abashed curtsey. "Your pardon, Sire, for interrupting, Sire, while you are in audience, Sire, but, Sire …"

"Yes?" Caspian said encouragingly, hoping she would get to the point soon.

Her prickly face beamed all over with delight. "It's snowing, Sire."

Caspian sat back, somewhat at a loss. The maid's tone indicated that this was something special, but snow was nothing unusual in a Narnian winter. He had always enjoyed playing in it as a boy, but once his uncle had declared him a man, he had thought very little of it.

Yet the hedgehog seemed to think he should respond in a particular way, and he had no idea what that was. Perhaps there was an Old Narnian tradition regarding the first snow which Trumpkin and Trufflehunter had failed to mention?

He hesitated, torn between the Hedgehog maid's delighted expectation and the Telmarine's obvious impatience. To his relief, Trufflehunter chose that moment to shuffle in.

"I beg your pardon for interrupting, King Caspian," he began in his slow way, "but I thought I ought to inform you …"

"It's snowing, Trufflehunter!" squeaked the hedgehog in excitement.

The badger peered at her nearsightedly. "Ah, Celandine, I see you anticipated me."

Caspian made up his mind. This was obviously something important. "I am sorry, Rynjar," he told the Telmarine firmly. "I must attend to the snow. I'm afraid your complaint will have to wait for another day."

Rynjar scowled and slumped out of the throne room, leaving Caspian alone with the two Talking Animals.

"Now," he began, when he was interrupted yet again.

"Winds and whistles!" Trumpkin exclaimed, hurrying in. "Hasn't anyone noticed that it is snowing out?"

Celandine the hedgehog whirled around in a dance. "It's snowing, it's snowing, it's snowing!" she squeaked.

"I was just informing the king," Trufflehunter said.

"Well then, what are we all doing standing around here? Shouldn't we be getting to it? After all, there's to be a moon tonight!"

"Getting to what?" Caspian asked, but his voice was lost in the hubbub, as just then several more creatures hurried in, all exclaiming about the snow, and asking when they were going to get started. Meanwhile, the tiny hedgehog continued her madcap dance, prickling everyone unfortunate enough to get in her path. The ensuing chaos sounded something like this:

"Haven't you seen? Ouch!"

"The first snow!"

"Someone must tell the—ow!—king."

"We must get started at once."

"Celandine, will you—ow!"

"But what are we going to do?"

"The first snow!"

Caspian finally gave up on all attempts at dignity. "Look here!" he bellowed. Silence fell abruptly as all heads turned toward him. "Will someone please tell me what this is all about?"

"It's the first snow," Celandine piped, stopping her dance. "And there's a moon tonight."

"Yes, so I gathered," Caspian said, trying to hold his temper. "But why is that cause for you all to turn my throne room into a … a …" he tried to think of a less offensive word than menagerie, but Trumpkin leapt into the breach before he could do so.

"Bottles and brushes!" the volatile dwarf exploded. "We're all as foolish as giants today! Nobody thought to tell the king about the Great Snow Dance." He glared at the assembled company.

"The Great Snow Dance?" Caspian said. Maybe, if he was patient and calm, eventually this would make sense.

"It's an ancient tradition, Your Majesty," Trufflehunter said. The other Narnians settled down, anticipating a good story. "Nobody knows when it began originally—probably the Very First Winter—but it was the ancient kings and queens who established it as a recognized holiday during the Golden Age."

Caspian still felt that old quiver of excitement whenever he heard a tale about the kings and queens of old. Even meeting them and befriending them hadn't taken the glory from the image; rather, it had strengthened it, for in meeting them he realized that the tales had not exaggerated their nobility and honour one bit. "Yes?" he said eagerly, leaning forward.

"You see, many people in Narnia were still apprehensive about winter after the White Witch was defeated. They had suffered so long under the cold cruelty of her reign that the first snow filled many with dread. So the kings and queens did a bit of research and unearthed the tradition of the Great Snow Dance. Some say Queen Lucy concocted the plan originally, but all agree that King Edmund was chief in carrying it out."

"You see," Trumpkin broke in, twitching with impatience at Trufflehunter's slow manner of speaking, "the tradition is that every winter, the first moonlit night when there is snow on the ground, Narnia celebrates the Great Snow Dance. The fauns and dryads and other light-footed creatures dance, the dwarfs circle them and throw snowballs in time with the music, and others watch."

"And there's a big bonfire and lots of food!" Celandine added, and as if her words opened a floodgate, all the rest joined in.

"The finest musicians in Narnia play for the dance!"

"We haven't been able to celebrate since the Telmarines came."

"But now that you're here, Sire—!"

"Sausages and roast potatoes and lots of chocolate!"

"We all wear our finest winter clothes."

"The dryads are awake for the first time in years."

"We all remember the music and steps, Sire, truly."

Caspian looked at all those hopeful faces and felt a surge of joy swell in his chest. This—this was what made being king worth it. Not attending to stupid complaints about disputes between Talking Mice and Telmarines (though such matters were important in the long run; naturally he recognized that), but bringing back old Narnian traditions, weaving together Old and New into a harmonious whole.

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "And you say there's to be a moon tonight?"

Heads bobbed eagerly.

Caspian smiled. "Where is Pattertwig?"

The Red Squirrel, Caspian's Chief Messenger, bounded forward eagerly. "Here I am, Sire, what is Your Majesty's wish? Say the word and I shall be off! None faster in all the land!"

Caspian, from long experience, cut him off expertly. "Right you are, Pattertwig. I want you and all your messengers to take this proclamation to every corner of the land: Tonight, Narnia celebrates the Great Snow Dance!"

Those gathered set up a lusty cheer. Trumpkin spat on his hands and rubbed them together. "Right, now to get to work. We need food, branches for the bonfire—musicians must prepare their instruments—dwarfs must practice throwing—someone must pick out the best spot."

"Dancing Lawn!" Celandine squeaked, and all agreed that Dancing Lawn was really the only place fitting for the Great Snow Dance.

Pattertwig, however, hesitated, most unusually for him. "Er—you mean to every corner of the land that hosts Old Narnians, correct, Your Majesty?"

Caspian shook his head. "No, Pattertwig. I mean All Narnians. We must," in his most kingly manner, "stop thinking of the people of this land as Telmarines and Narnians, or Old Narnians and New Narnians. We are all here at Aslan's good pleasure, and we must start thinking of each other, not as Them and Us, but simply as Us. All Of Us."

Some of the joy dimmed from the Narnians' faces. "But," Celandine started to protest, when Trumpkin broke in.

"Eh! Well said, King Caspian! Crowns and Crumpets! How would we feel if the Tel—er, the Humans hosted some festival without us?"

"Queen Lucy always joined the dancers," Trufflehunter said, and Caspian could just see the golden-haired, light-footed girl dancing merrily with the fauns and dryads. "And they say that King Edmund played with the musicians. Sometimes even Queen Susan would dance, and her feet were so graceful that snowdrops would blossom wherever she stepped."

"And the High King?" Caspian asked eagerly, momentarily a young boy again, thirsting for stories of his heroes.

The badger scratched his headstripe. "He wasn't much of a dancer, King Peter, nor a musician like King Edmund. They do say that he would help with cooking the supper, burning his fingers and face at the bonfire, roasting nuts and potatoes with the best of them."

"Well then," Caspian said mildly, "If the kings and queen and other humans of old could join the Great Snow Dance, then so shall we today. Pattertwig, see to it that all—All—are invited!"

The Red Squirrel nodded once, then leaped away, eager to be off on his task.

"Now, Trumpkin," Caspian said, turning to the dwarf. "What can I do to help prepare?"

The snow, thankfully, continued to fall thickly all day, and by the time the sun went down, enough had built on the ground that the dwarfs had plenty of materiel for snowballs. Trumpkin's Red Dwarfs had been busy all day forming the frosty balls.

"Do we really need so much?" Caspian asked, a bit awed by the giant pile, which towered far over his head.

"Oh, aye," nodded an elderly dwarf, whose red whiskers had long since faded to white. "This is only for the first part of the night. Those dwarfs who are too old to participate—like myself, Sire—will continue to build snowballs throughout the night. As soon as we make them, the others toss them."

"And nobody ever gets a face full of snow?" Caspian asked, marvelling at the precision that went into this dance.

The elderly dwarf broke into a wheezing chuckle. "Of course! But never on purpose. That's part of the fun, when somebody puts a step wrong and gets one smack in the mouth! Of course, we're all a bit rusty, so I imagine there'll be more mishaps tonight than used to be usual. Still, we'll only get better each winter. I'd wager that ten years into your reign, King Caspian, we'll be able to go for hours without a misstep."

As twilight deepened over the land, more and more Narnians entered the Dancing Lawn. As much as Caspian longed to join the dance, he knew his own limitations well enough to follow in High King Peter's footsteps and devote himself to the bonfire. He stood by the mammoth pile of wood, greeting all his subjects as they arrived. Most he knew by name, and the few he didn't were awed and delighted to meet their king—the first king chosen by Aslan in generations.

Celandine the Hedgehog, resplendent in a new dark blue cloak, with a white furry hood on her prickly head, ducked her snout shyly when King Caspian stopped her and complimented her on how fetching she looked.

"It's the first snow," she whispered, as if in explanation.

Caspian smiled warmly. "Yes," he agreed. "It certainly is."

The moon was almost fully risen, and the musicians were busy putting their instruments in tune (and quarrelling slightly over flats and sharps, as musicians are known to do), when the first human set foot in the glade. Caspian held his breath, wanting to hug this bold soul, a young man only a few years older than himself, with dark hair and a fearless gaze.

The woodland creatures all stilled for a moment, but when Glenstorm the Centaur (who was head of the small orchestra), boomed out a deep, "Welcome!" they all started to breathe again.

The young man made his way to where Caspian stood by the unlit fire. "Welcome," the king echoed.

"When the squirrel told us about the dance, we knew we had to come," the young man said. "After all, this is why we stayed in Narnia, is it not? To see the old stories come to life?"

Caspian warmed to him immediately, but all he said was, "We?"

The young man waved a hand behind him. "My brothers."

Four more men entered the glade, with a tiny girl child tagging along at their heels.

"And my sister," the young man added as an afterthought. "She's supposed to be in bed, but," he shrugged helplessly. "She insisted."

As Caspian watched the little girl squealed in delight and ran right to the smaller Talking Animals, who were waiting for the dance to begin. In a trice, she and Celandine were chattering animatedly, and the Old Narnians unbent enough to even smile at the other Telmarines.

"I'm glad she did," the king said. "What is your name, my good man?"

"Drinian, Your Majesty," he responded. "Drinian of the Eastern Shore."

Caspian looked at him in surprise. "The Eastern Shore? I did not realize any humans lived there!"

Drinian straightened himself proudly. "My family has never been superstitious, Your Majesty, and we have held the last outpost by the sea for generations. They do say that when your uncle sent the Seven Lords on their ill-fated journey, my grandfather was their captain."

Caspian frowned—not in displeasure, but simply trying to remember what Dr. Cornelius had told him about that trip. "I thought they had to hire a ship and sailors from Galma for that trip?"

Drinian shrugged gracefully. "So they did, but the Galman captain was a drunken lout, barely able to hold himself steady, much less guide a ship on a proper course. So the lords dismissed him from service and hired my grandfather instead."

Caspian nodded. "I see." He eyed Drinian speculatively, recalling the oath he'd sworn on his coronation day regarding those seven lords. "I wonder …" he began, when he was distracted by a concerted shout.

"The moon!"

He looked to see that the moon was full risen. At that moment, the musicians struck up a tune, a wild, magical tune such as could only ever be heard in Narnia, and the Dance began. Caspian saw several young human women mingling with the dancers and realized that more humans must have arrived while he and Drinian were chatting. One of Drinian's brothers was sitting with the musicians, piping away at a silver flute, and more men were joining them at the woodpile. Drinian's little sister had joined the small Talking Animals and young dwarfs in their own, separate version of the Great Snow Dance (it was more of an awkward shuffle, but it kept them amused and happy, and really, that was far more important to everyone there than the precision of their steps).

"Your Majesty," Dr. Cornelius appeared at Caspian's elbow, holding a lit torch. "The honour of lighting the fire belongs to you."

Caspian half-bowed. "Thank you, Doctor," he said gravely. He took the torch and thrust it into the bottom of the pile. The wood started to flare, and in its reflected glare, Caspian could see the same joy on every face, human, animal, faun, and dryad. Here, in this Dancing Glade, the healing of Narnia had truly begun.

And the first Great Snow Dance in generations wound its way on, while the moon watched in solemn gladness.

Author's Note: This was inspired, obviously, by the description of the Great Snow Dance in The Silver Chair, and (not so obviously) by my speculations on the difficulties Caspian must have found in reconciling the two factions of Narnians. In three years, he had brought the kingdom together to the point where he could sail off and not worry about leaving a dwarf as regent, but in those three years, he must have had many struggles. I like to think of moments like this as going a long way toward bringing them all together. I also think the rebuilding of Cair Paravel must have helped, but that's a story for another day ...

It was a bit of a challenge writing a non-Eustace story, but I enjoyed working with Caspian for a change, and I rather fancy I might return to him shortly. Reviews, as always, are greatly appreciated.