Mirror Mirror

Edmund turned sixteen days ago. He cut his cake, received his presents and danced with dozens of pretty naiads and dryads, and Tumnus never came. Lucy gave him a present which she said was from Tumnus, and Edmund had saved it to open in the privacy of his own rooms, but it was only a cloak clasp. A lovely clasp, to be sure, but there was no note, nothing personal about it. Edmund wore the clasp every day for a week, nonetheless.

On the eighth day he took it off. Tumnus wasn't coming.

On the twelfth day he looked up from his desk in the library and Tumnus was there.

"Your majesty," the faun said, as coolly as if he had seen Edmund only hours ago, rather than weeks ago.

"Master Tumnus," Edmund replied on a like note. The faun's eyes widened. Edmund had not called him Master Tumnus in four years, except at formal occasions.

"Did you think I had forgot?" Edmund asked, but left no time for a reply before adding, "Thank you for your kind gift."

Tumnus caught his breath sharply. "My King. I... I apologise." His eyes dropped. "I did think that you had forgotten. I thought it best..."

"Did you not make me a promise?" Edmund asked.

Tumnus nodded, his curls bobbing nervously. "I did. May we retire to a more private location for this conversation, Your Majesty?"

Edmund's gaze was level. The silence drew out until he said softly, "I do not compel you, Tumnus. I have been waiting, but perhaps I am unjust. If you do not wish to tell me, perhaps I should trust your judgement."

Tumnus tensed, but answered swiftly, "I am sorry for being so cowardly, King Edmund. I promised, and if we can find a more private place I owe you the answers you sought from me when you were just a child."

At last Edmund's face relaxed into a more natural expression. "Come on then. We can go to my rooms."

* * *

Edmund pulled one armchair closer to the fire, gesturing to Tumnus to take the other. The faun settled uneasily into it, despite his long use of the chair whenever he spent time with Edmund.

"When I was a young baby," he said, staring into the flames, "Before I was weaned and taken to my father's house, my mother sought advice from a wisewoman. A rowan, she was - old and revered for her gift of divination. She told my mother that I would be prisoner to one who was royal, friend to three, and lover to one. I would make three pivotal choices she said, and I would hold the fate of a queen, a world and a king in my hands. At the last, she said, I would be alone with my memories until the end of the world.

"My mother was aghast at this prediction. 'Is there no other way?' she asked, but the wisewoman said that there was none. 'He will know happiness,' she said, 'for only the briefest of moments, for he will have to wait for his beloved for four years, and he will hold him in his arms for only thrice that time before they are rent asunder until the end of time.'"

The flames crackled. Edmund was gasping as if he had run a long race. He didn't think he had consciously moved but he found himself kneeling before Tumnus' chair. Cautiously he reached out and clasped the faun's hand. As his fingers touched the faun's cool palm Tumnus raised his head, meeting Edmund's eyes for the first time since taking his seat.

"I did not mean to shock you, Edmund. I know that this is presumptuous beyond all reason, but when I first saw you I knew. I knew that you were the king, the lover, the beloved of whom she spoke. And you were a child! Do you wonder that I shunned you? I was horrified to think such things of you. I hope you can forgive me."

Edmund smiled for the first time in four days. "There is no forgiveness needed between you and me, Tumnus. There never has been and there never will be." He twined his fingers into Tumnus' fingers, smiling up at him, but when he stood and pulled the faun to him their eyes were level. And when they kissed it was as if two rivers rushing side by side had merged into one tumbling, glorious flood.