HEAVY HEARTS

I felt like putting together another story with Tumnus and Oreius. Again, I feel Oreius deserves more love than he's been getting, and I love writing about his relationship with Tumnus, which, in my case, is about as touching as the relationship Tumnus shares with Edmund. While brainstorming for story ideas, I watched "Prince Caspian" with some of my friends, and after that, as well as listening to "You Are Not Alone" by the late Michael Jackson several times over (I can never get enough of that song, it's just so beautiful and moving), suddenly I had it!

Read and review (it's not a have-to, but it's always nice to get feedback), and save your flames for your campfires and barbecue grills, all right?

Story © unicorn-skydancer08

All rights reserved.

An uncanny silence rested over Castle Cair Paravel. It was a dark, bitterly cold night. The only source of light was the moon, which was a blazing white saber in the jet-black sky. Most of the occupants of the castle were shut up in their own cozy rooms, tucked away in their own snug beds, dead to the rest of the world.

However, one solitary figure could be seen patrolling the lonely halls. The great centaur Oreius, otherwise known as General Oreius, was taking part in the watch for that night, making sure the castle remained safe for its inhabitants, that no unwelcome intruders lurked about. He would not have been able to sleep, otherwise. Despite the lateness of the hour, the centaur was fully alert, in mind as well as body. At least a thousand thoughts were swirling through his head, some more troublesome than others.

As the centaur walked, listening to the hollow clack of his own hooves, he passed by one of the arched windows that presented a fine view of one of the inner courtyards.

There, something made him stop in his tracks.

Edging a little closer to the window and peering outside, Oreius could barely make out a lone figure down in the courtyard, under one of the fig trees, huddled forlornly in the shadows.

Unless Oreius's keen ears were deceiving him, he could have sworn he heard…sobbing?

He couldn't see the figure's face, but the centaur had a fairly good hunch of just who it was down there. Who else in their right mind would be sitting out at this time of night, in these conditions? Feeling a tug of compassion, Oreius didn't hesitate to make his way down. By the time he finally reached the courtyard, his suspicions were confirmed.

There was the faun Tumnus, sitting all alone on the frost-encrusted ground, with his head down and his hands covering his face. He was shaking visibly from horn to hoof, but Oreius knew it wasn't just from the cold. The heartfelt sobs that sounded from the young faun pierced the centaur's own heart, like the stab of an arrow.

Moving swiftly but silently, Oreius made a beeline to him. Tumnus, having his face hidden, was never aware of the centaur, not until Oreius spoke his name out loud.

The poor faun gave quite a jump, drawing in a harsh, ragged breath. When he looked up, revealing his wet, sparkling face, and saw it was only Oreius standing over him, his taut posture immediately went slack. "Oreius," he sighed tremulously, one hand over his heart, "don't sneak up on me like that. You scared me to death."

"Stay out here much longer, and you'll freeze to death, anyway," Oreius countered. "What are you doing here, Tumnus? Shouldn't you be in bed at this hour?"

Tumnus looked away. "I couldn't sleep," he murmured.

Sensing the young faun's distress, Oreius said softly, "Are you all right? What's wrong?"

Tumnus did not answer right away, but bent forward and wrapped his lean arms around his own bare chest, as if to keep his very heart inside, lest it fall and shatter. Slowly, Oreius settled onto the icy ground next to him, folding his powerful horse legs beneath his body. He waited patiently for Tumnus, for a good five minutes or so. At last, Tumnus spoke.

"Did you ever know your father, Oreius?" he asked, lifting his mournful blue eyes to the centaur's intent brown ones.

"For a time," Oreius answered quietly, "to some extent. He died when I was still a very young centaur, just barely past my second score and three years of age."

"How? How did he die?"

"He was a great soldier, as I am today. He ended up losing his life during a terrible battle. Among the many swords I use today in combat is the one my father used himself." Oreius patted his left flank briefly, where a particularly large sword was strapped into place. "This one here, to be exact," he whispered.

"Were you close to your father?" Tumnus queried.

"We maintained a fairly good relationship. He was not one to flaunt his emotions, but I never once doubted that he loved me. I loved him, too…well enough to miss him when he was gone."

When Tumnus would say nothing more after that, Oreius questioned, "Why do you ask about my father, anyway, Tumnus?"

He paused, as it dawned on him. "Does…does this have anything to do with your father?"

Tumnus closed his eyes, but still said nothing. Yet Oreius got his answer from the look of pure pain that twisted the faun's face. "Oh," the centaur said faintly, his shoulders sagging slightly.

The image of Anlon came to mind.

Of course, Oreius would know all about him. Anlon was once his very own leader, and personal trainer.

He was the best faun Oreius had ever known…and the absolute dearest friend he had ever had.

Naturally, as it was with all people, Anlon wasn't perfect. He had his share of flaws. For one thing, he'd always maintained a tongue that was as sharp as his sword, if not sharper. His words alone usually had more effect on others than any physical blow. For another thing, he had an extremely tenacious nature; he was more stubborn than a griffin, an ogre, and three centaurs combined. It was often said that no one went against Anlon's will, and lived to tell the tale—and no exaggeration about it, either. Yet the old faun was strong, loyal, and brave, with a true heart, and a spirit that could never be conquered. Oreius would never forget him, nor would he forget the pain and sorrow that engulfed him when Anlon died.

It was a tragic loss for all of Narnia.

Oreius couldn't begin to imagine how much more tragic it was for Tumnus, being Anlon's only son…and his only child, at that, as far as Oreius knew.

When Tumnus found his tongue again, he said hoarsely, "I'm sorry, Oreius. I know my father's gone, and all. He's been gone for years, and I know he's not coming back, that nothing can ever bring him back." He bowed his head, running his hands distractedly over his face, up through his tangled hair. "Still…I wish he were here…right now…this very moment."

Oreius felt his heart fill to overflowing with pity. He did not hesitate to lay a large brown hand against his companion's shoulder, which was ice-cold to the touch. But Oreius did not draw back.

Slowly, almost hypnotically, his strong, callused hand slid about all over Tumnus's shoulder, over the base of his neck where the faun's wavy hair started to make a trail down his back. Tumnus didn't move from that spot. He only stayed where he was, never shying away, allowing Oreius to touch him, but the gesture did very little to comfort him.

"I'm sorry," Oreius said quietly. It was pathetically inadequate, but it was all he could find to say.

"At home," Tumnus went on woefully, as if Oreius hadn't spoken, "I can almost hear Father coming in, or hear his voice calling for me. Sometimes, I even expect him to scold me for some little slip-up I'd made, such as forgetting to take the kettle off the fire, or leaving the toast on the burner too long, or even forgetting to shut the door gently when I return home myself."

Oreius heard him sniff and gulp, saw the youth's hands brush futilely at his still-flowing eyes.

"Oh, Oreius…I miss him so much!" the faun burst out in pure anguish. "What am I going to do? How can I go on living without him? What will I do?"

Oreius now reached out with his other hand, and very gently drew Tumnus closer to his side. Tumnus made no resistance to this. He even flung his arms about Oreius's middle, where the two halves of the centaur's body merged, and held on as if he would never let go. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead abjectly against the centaur's front, inhaling his pungent scent.

He felt Oreius's fingers fondle his unruly hair, heard his deep, gravelly voice whisper soothingly, "It's all right, Tumnus. It's all right…"

Tumnus was reminded painfully of the times Anlon failed to show him affection, at least in this sense.

Anlon had never been the hugging type; as a very young faun, Tumnus was always too intimidated by his father to even consider going to him when he was lonely, afraid, or distressed in any way. Instead, his mother had been his source of comfort. When she died, even that hadn't brought Tumnus and Anlon closer together. If anything, it'd done just the opposite. Tumnus recalled all too well the innumerable fights and quarrels he and his father waged with each other…and he was sorry to say Anlon hadn't been the only one at fault.

Now Anlon was gone, and Tumnus would never see him again—not in this lifetime.

"It's my fault, you know," the faun said weakly at one point, his face still buried in Oreius's chest.

"What?" Oreius, who had a superb sense of hearing, wondered whether his ears heard right. He gently thrust Tumnus back from him, just far enough to see his face. "What was that?"

The look in Tumnus's eyes was the essence of sorrow. "If it hadn't been for me, my father might still be alive," he said despondently.

Oreius knitted his brows in disbelief. "What?" he gasped. "By the Lion's Mane, Tumnus, how can you say such a thing? How can you even think it?"

Tumnus shook his head woefully, fresh tears threatening to spill forth. "It's true…I helped bring about his destruction."

Oreius couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What are you talking about?"

Tumnus put a hand over his eyes and drew in a long, shaky breath. "I'll never forget the last time I saw him," he said, hardly able to speak due to the trembling of his voice. "I had just pledged myself to the White Witch"—Oreius felt his blood curdle at the loathsome name—"and when Father found out what I'd done, his reaction was dreadful. We got into a terrible fight, said terrible things to each other. I can't bear to repeat the words I'd said myself, but I could kill myself for saying them. Then, when I went too far, Father ended up packing his bags and walking out."

"He what?"

His hand still shielding his face, Tumnus quavered, "He…he told me I was no longer his son, that he would not share the same roof with an ally of the Witch. And so he left me…and I never saw him again…ever." The faun could go no further after this. A new sob rose explosively in his throat, and he began to weep afresh, unashamed and unrestrained.

Oreius was stunned beyond words. It was as if a shard of ice had pierced his very heart. He couldn't believe Anlon would do such a thing.

Regardless of Tumnus's allegiance to the Witch, the most abominable creature to have walked the face of the earth, Oreius couldn't imagine anyone deliberately abandoning their own child, even for that. From the way the centaur viewed it, there was nothing worse, no greater grief someone could inflict on another person than going away and leaving the other person in the cold.

Oreius knew it wasn't for him to judge—but as far as he was concerned, desertion was a crime.

At a loss for words, all the man-horse could do was pull Tumnus back into his arms and embrace him once more, trying to shelter him from the pain and the agony, as much as the cold.

Tumnus wept his heart and soul out for over twenty solid minutes, before he was able to recover his voice and speak again. "Even if I wasn't responsible outright for my father's death," he barely croaked, "I fear that my insolence, my rebellion against him, played a significant role in his demise. I drove him away from me, and after that, the Witch caught him and killed him." He shook his head again as he went on, "I've never forgotten it, Oreius…nor have I been able to get over it. How can I forgive myself, for this? How can I even live with myself?"

"You mustn't think that way, Tumnus," Oreius interjected. "What happened to your father is not your fault."

"Yes, it is," Tumnus miserably contradicted, "to a degree, if not entirely."

Taking Tumnus's chin in his hands and gently but resolutely forcing the faun to look him in the face, Oreius told him very seriously, "Anlon was not one to sit around, or to stand by idly, and watch the Witch persecute innocent people. He would have gone out to fight her anyway, regardless of what happened between you and him. He died for Narnia, in Aslan's name."

"But I—" Tumnus started, but Oreius placed a finger over his lips to silence him.

"You cannot determine what ultimately happens to someone else, Tumnus," Oreius said in a low voice. "You cannot control another person's fate…no more than you can control the sea, or the rising and setting of the sun." He wiped Tumnus's moist cheek with his thumb. "Sometimes terrible things just happen, and it is nobody's fault. It's all part of the cycle of life."

Tumnus understood what Oreius was getting at.

Even so, he said, "I wish I could go back and change some things. I wish I could change the way I'd treated my father. I wish I could undo the things I'd done, take back the words I'd said."

Of course, Oreius knew that was impossible. "You know you can't," he said mildly. "But you can learn from the past. You can learn from your mistakes, and forgive yourself."

Tumnus wasn't sure he could forgive himself. After what happened, after all these years, he wasn't sure he could bring himself to let everything go.

It all seemed too difficult, too complex.

"And it's not as though Anlon is gone for good," Oreius continued, as he brushed away a stray lock of Tumnus's hair. "One day, someday, in Aslan's time, you will see him again…you and I, both."

"But what about now?" Tumnus despaired. "How am I supposed to get along without him, today? I wanted Father to be there, in all the highlights of my life. I wanted to see him at the coronation, when I had the privilege of crowning our Kings and Queens. Beyond that, I wanted him present on my wedding day. I wanted to give him grandchildren. How can I do any of that, when he's not here?" His voice cracked noticeably as he added on, "Without him, what is there left for me?"

"You have your life," said Oreius emphatically, "the life that your father gave you; just as my father gave me mine. It is up to you to determine what you do with it."

"What can I do?"

"The same as all of us—take it one day at a time."

Tumnus hung his head once again, but said no more. He simply didn't have the heart to discuss the matter further. After a short time, Oreius put one hand on Tumnus's shoulder and reached for the faun's hand with the other, saying, "Come on…let's get you inside the castle. I think you have stayed out here in the cold long enough, more than enough."

Tumnus did not resist as Oreius helped him rise to his hooves. He let the centaur guide him into the Cair and through the dark, deserted corridors, all the way to his own chambers.

"Here we are," announced Oreius, once they were at the door.

"Thank you," was the only appropriate response Tumnus could think of.

"Get some sleep," Oreius encouraged, clapping him amiably on the back. "I'll see you in the morning."

But instead of heading straight into his room and retiring for the night, Tumnus merely peered up into the centaur's face, with eyes that shone with a new layer of tears. Then he surprised Oreius by throwing his arms about the man-horse's waist, clinging fervently to him one more time. Oreius remained stone-still for just a moment, before he slowly and willingly returned the faun's impassioned hug. "Don't leave me alone, Oreius," Tumnus besought him. "Stay with me. Please…I…I can't bear to be alone tonight."

"I won't leave you," Oreius promised solemnly. He kissed Tumnus on the crown of his head, before he finished, "I am always here, Tumnus…for as long as you need me."