A/N: Postscript dedicated to Lickitysplit for asking the right question at the right time! What you have read was started as a prequel to my story "Magic: A Chronicle of Mimasu" (If you choose to read it, please know that as of this date, that story remains unbetaed and unedited). Many thanks to my loyal beta reader Straitjackit who has put up with so much from me during this process! A comprehensive thank you to everyone appears at the bottom of this chapter.

Postscript

November 23rd, 1963

1

Gray clouds scudded across the sky, casting a variable, watery light through the high, arched windows of the professor's office. Bathed in the yellow glow of his desk lamp, the young Doctor of English Literature stared silently at the papers spread before him. His shoulders hung heavily as he scribbled the occasional comment in the margins of each page with his red ink pen.

On the wall behind him, among the photographs of his wife, young son and diplomas from the Oxford College he'd attended on an international scholarship, hung a signed photo from his mentor. In a sprawling hand the note read: "Al – Best of luck with your American university students. - Jack".

The light shifted as the clouds got thicker, then thinned out again. Looking up at the play of shadows across the office, the professor felt as if he were at the bottom of a deep pool as the thick water and waves above dimmed and darkened the happy sunlight into something mournful. On the back corner of the cheap wood desk sat the room's one modern convenience, a transistor radio. Its molded silver plastic garish against the dark wood tones of the academic's office.

The broadcast briefly dissolved into static, recovering as thunder rumbled outside the building. Catching in the metal frame of the windows and rattling the glass, it boomed hollowly off the near empty rooms within. Briefly drowning out the sad music the station had chosen for a lead-in for the day's newscasts, the deep crash's echo slowly faded to silence.

"The British Monarch, Queen Elizabeth, extended her condolences to the American people on the death yesterday of President Kennedy. In other news out of Britain..."

Professor Temple sat up slowly, reaching across the papers, he switched off the radio. He'd been a child during the war and his memories briefly went back to 1945 and the way his mother and father had sat at the kitchen table in their clapboard farmhouse and cried when news of President Roosevelt's death had been announced. Now another President had died while in office, one far too young and with far too much promise. He glanced out the window, even the sun and moon were hiding their faces in grief today.

"Depressing," he muttered.

The school was officially closed today. He sighed deeply, grading papers had seemed like a far better way to spend his day than sitting in his living room staring at the walls while the radio played dirges. His mind just wouldn't stay focused. He'd felt like this once before, back in 1940, after his accident. The sense of loss he thought he'd finally managed to put behind him when he'd gotten married reared its head again.

Out his window, across the campus umbrellas began to appear among the different gatherings of mourners. Some were just small knots of friends, others were more organized, the Greek organizations and clubs coming and going en mass. The chancellor had a memorial service scheduled for tomorrow, but there was already a line of students filing in and out of the campus chapel. Even washed out by the gray light, the bright fall colorings stood in stark contrast to the dark clothing everyone seemed to have chosen to wear today. As the wind ahead of the storm picked up, leaves began to tear free from the trees, drifting into eddies behind the buildings and falling to the ground like tears.

He turned back to grading the papers from his Composition and Criticism class. Select book from the below list... Identify it's primary plot. Identify at least two secondary themes. Defend your selections. Minimum length two pages for plot, one page each for secondary themes.

The pop and splatter of raindrops tattooed against the large windows. As the watery drumbeat slowly built the shadows became darker until the professor was left with only the small circle of yellow light centered on his desk. About halfway through the stack of papers his head drifted downward, alighting on his left arm. He dozed off. As he slept, he revisited a dream that had haunted him for years after the severe accident he'd had as a boy.

Once more he was a young teen, running alongside a brook in the woods...

2

He came around a copse of rhododendron and saw her sitting by the brook, right where Ari had said she would be. Her back was to him as she sat starring at the tall ash tree he had planted long ago beside that stream. Reaching out with his mind he let her know that he was there for her. Her body stiffened at the contact then slumped again, her head nodding him forward.

She was the most beautiful creature in all of Narnia. Her creamy skin could blush the most beautiful shade of green. He looked down at the golden flush in his own arms from the running. As he approached, he noticed that her face was marred by the tracks of tears, and great sobs were wracking her body.

He sat down beside her and gathered her head to his shoulders.

"There, there. Your family has returned. Why do you weep, My Little Willow?" Sunlight flickered through the leaves of the ash tree, landing around them in dancing pools. He kissed her forehead gently as he cradled her in his arms.

"Rahd, hold me," she placed her hand on his heart, "hold me here. Promise, no matter what, that you won't let me go."

Tears flowed freely from Susan's eyes, soaking the shoulder of Rahd's tunic. He reached up and grabbed the hand she had placed on his chest, pressing it there tightly.

"You have my solemn vow." He smiled at her. "Your friends sent me to tell you they are almost ready. Cheer up! In a little while, you will be who you were before."

"No dearest, I will never be who I was before. I've been a tree! I've felt the love of every creature that has come within the shade of my branches." She paused. "I... I need..."

He felt the bondlink open up as the dryad in his arms shared herself with him completely. Her mind pushed fully into his, sweeping him up and escorting him through the memories of her life. She showed him the little house in Finchley and her parents. The war and bombings and the country manor. Lucy finding the wardrobe. Susan flooded him with her hopes, her dreams and her gentle love for everyone she met. Her talk with Aslan was there and choices before her. And then, sudden as it had begun, it faded. He felt his own tears as in his mind his denial merged with hers.

Before he could react, she leaned over and gave him a long, lingering kiss, firmly on the lips.

"I've chosen to leave the best part of myself here." Rahd felt her body stiffen with determination. "My tree will live. I will help resurrect the poor dryad who was sacrificed in the potion that made me like this."

"Humans and dryads have been together before." He had to argue the point, he couldn't just surrender what they had together. "The sons of Frank and Helen married into our kind at the beginning of the world."

Now she was the one who had to comfort him. She pulled him tight as they cried together.

"Rahd, the part of me that I'm leaving here is the piece that loves you! I know I'll have fond memories of our time together, but... I don't want to give up this love!"

"My sweet sweet Willow..." He took a ragged breath, fighting down the urge to sob. He ground his jaw together, forcing himself back into control. "In that case, know now that I will never stop loving you. The whole you. What you leave behind, and what you take when you leave. I will help care for your tree so long as my own stands."

"Fisrahd Ashe, you are like no being I have ever met." The Willow Dryad smiled wistfully, then kissed him again. A far too short eternity later they separated and she returned to the clearing.

Sitting upon the rock by Arisumae's stream, silent tears coursed down his face as he watched Susan walk out of his life.

"Someday young Ashe, your opportunity will come." A deep voice purred beside him.

He turned to see the Great Lion standing there.

"Then why do I feel that I just let it leave?"

Standing he walked over to the tree that had held Lisi's memory, gently he lay his hand against the trunk, stretching his memories to feel the comfort his sister had once shared with him.

"In her world, a wise man once said that you must be willing to let go of that which you love. If she truly belongs by your side, then you will be together again. Somewhere."

Fisrahd looked up at Aslan. "Somewhere?"

"That is not for me to share." The Lion turned back toward the clearing, then glanced back at the distraught dryad. "You will know, however... ...when the time is right."

3

The professor awoke with a start. He could feel the crease running down his cheek where it had rested on the edge of the desk pad. Reaching into his bottom desk drawer, he pulled out a bound stack of papers. Carefully he traced his hand along the title, centered on the page. A scrawled note in the same hand as that on the photograph behind him drew his eye, as it always did when he pulled out this particular document.

Alexander,

I am honored that you have chosen to share this with me. I had thought that there were no other sources to which I could still turn for news such as this. I thank you deeply.

-Jack

Carefully straightening the pages, he wrapped them with a folder and put them in his briefcase. Nodding to the smaller stack of ungraded essays remaining on his desk, he crossed the room, locked his door and walked home. The damp smell of the fall rainstorm hung over the campus as he crossed the quad. Gently he dragged his hand along the trunk of the tall ash tree that stood sentinel over the grounds.

"Take care friend, I shall see you in a few days," he whispered quietly.

The walk home went quickly and he soon found himself standing before a small cottage. The white picket fence was edged around the inside by a flower garden that he and his wife tended with care equal to that they gave their young son. The neat, yellow house seemed sharper and somehow more real than the other houses on their street. It's colors more crisp, the grass just a bit richer. He shook his head, surely home was like that for everyone.

"Honey?" he called as he came through the door. Not hearing an answer he dropped his coat and briefcase in the study, but not before removing the stack of papers he'd taken from his desk.

He found her in the living room. The small applewood chest that had been a wedding gift from the man who'd introduced them sat open on the coffee table. Seven books and numerous letters were scattered on the table around the chest. As he approached, he noticed that her face was marred by the tracks of tears, and great sobs were wracking her body.

He sat down beside her and gathered her head to his shoulders.

"Darling?" He left the query hanging in the air.

She gestured to the books and letters on the table. "Jack is dead."

Grief driven pain lanced through his chest. Denial warred with the idea that he would never again speak with his mentor.

"Jack!?" He staggered against the back of the sofa and leaned there heavily for a moment.

"I heard it on the radio earlier. They were talking about the Queen sending her condolences, and then they said '...the author, Clive Staples Lewis, died yesterday'." Another great sob racked her body. "He was the last connection to my family, and now he's gone too."

Her words rattled around in his mind, 'last connection to her family'. No, that wasn't true. His wife's denials had always kept him from sharing this one secret with her. But now, perhaps that was why he'd had the dream again. It had been so many years since he'd last dreamed that particular dream.

He sat on the couch and held her while she cried. Tears ran from his own eyes as he thought of the kind professor he'd worked for as a graduate student in medieval literatures. He looked at the titles of the books on the table. 'You will know, however... ...when the time is right.'

"My love, I'm going to ask you something and it might hurt, but answer honestly, okay?"

His wife looked up puzzled.

He gestured to the books. "I've read the notes Jack wrote to you in each of these. I know your family shared these stories with him. Where did they come from?"

"We... we ma... it was mak... Oh! I can't do this anymore!" She sobbed again.

Susan's voice rose as a low wail. "It was real! Narnia was real! I can't deny it any longer."

He hugged his wife gently, carefully dried the tears from her eyes with a handkerchief from his pocket then placed the folder in her lap.

"I know it was real Susan," he whispered gently into her hair. "I have waited longer than a lifetime for you to want to remember."

She looked down, lifting the top of the manila folder to find a story title sheet.

"The Life of Fisrahd Ashe - Tree Spirit of Narnia. by Alexander Temple," she read out loud.

She looked at him. Her eyes traced the lines of his face. She suddenly saw what it was about him that had really connected with her eight years before. Comprehension dawned.

"Alex... Rahd?"

He placed his hand over her heart.

"Seven hundred and sixty-four years as a dryad, my sweet little Willow. You were, and are my only true love." Alex answered.

"I remember your siblings Su." He placed his other hand against his own chest. "They and Jack live here now. We shall not forget them, my Queen."

Outside the window, sunlight reflected golden off the fall foliage while the purr of little Peter's snoring drifted in from the next room.

Credits:

I want to take this moment to say thank you to the following people for their love and support during the twenty-five months that this story has been in progress.

My family: Mom, Dad, Angela and Lee

My wonderful beta readers during this endeavor: Straitjackit, Petraverd, Squeaklebeep, and Simetra

All of my friends at www. thelionscall. com and in particular the participants in the eInklings: Online Writing Group that meets in the chatroom there on monday nights.

Those who have placed my story on your alerts list:

Am Moonstone, Cass Perenelle, E.C.Peters, Elora Potter

Faithfulpurelight, Holy Wolf, Jill G. Lowrey, JediMasterMiraxHorn

Katako-Chan, Kira88, Lightblinde, Manwatheil Stormbuddy

Narnian Princess, Pesterfield, audreypod94 ,fantomdranzerx

floppyearsthebunny, het2468, katyclismic, imakeladrygirl

lickitysplit, magicole of fire, narniafriend, phoenixsoaring

rmiller92, straitjackit

Those who have placed my story on your favorites list:

Am Moonstone, Arael Lassie, Clouded Horizon, E.C.Peters

Eilwyn, Elavie, Faithfulpurelight, Holy Wolf

Katako-Chan, Kitten Black, Lady Lost-A-Lot, Magister Archive

Narnian Princesss, Petraverd, Star Future, Manwathiel Stormbuddy

Swanwhite2, aquarel, dares to dream, fantomdranzerx

floppyearsthebunny, ngrey651, straitjackit

The following C2 communities for including this story:

Most Noble Order of the Loyal Friends of Narnia

My Narnian Stories

Treasure of the Blind Swordsman

Those who have been so kind as to review – In order of appearance:

Katyclismic, ??, straitjackit, lickitysplit

fantomdranzerx, elecktrum, imakeladrygirl, Kelsey Estel the TolkieNarnian

Eilwyn, Lightblinde, Cass Perenelle, Encrypted Pseudonym

Aslan13, vefa, Smoltenica, audreypod94

Treefrog, Petraverd, Clouded Horizon, Blondie- It wasn't me

floppyearsthebunny, Katako-Chan, E.C.Peters, Permanent Rose

Swanwhite2, Niffum, Faithfulpurelight, Val Evenstar

Jill G. Lowrey, Monkwy, Lirenel, Manwathiel Stormbuddy

Elavie, Miniver, Dearheart, dares to dream

Thank you all for giving me the confidence, the desire and the inspiration to continue writing.

Before today, I was a writer but today...

Today I hold my head high and call myself

an Author.