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Edmund strained, stretching his fingers as far as they would go to tap a knock at the little door that someone had put over the tree's hollow. "Look, I know you're quite taken with it, but you must give me that ring back."

"No," the little squirrel shrieked back, safely tucked behind the door, "I shan't!"

"Bloody squirrels," he muttered, trying to restrain himself from just pounding on the tree with his fist. "How's anyone supposed to get married around here when the squirrels steal the engagement ring from the Best Man?"

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She doesn't care to think of the past--she knows exactly what she needs to, to avoid past mistakes, the short cuts to success, but it's better to toss away the rest--but when her little princeling rises each morning singing her praises, she feels nostalgic. Others once bowed to her, followed her, feared and worshiped her; she was a god among men.

She thinks of that daft old king, ripe for the harvesting, and his son, soft and tender as mutton, and smirks; kissing Rillian tastes like victory.

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"I don't get it," Caspian admits after a moment and Lucy and Edmund both start laughing; he's worried, momentarily, that they're really laughing at him, but the way Edmund nearly falls into his side and how Lucy has to brace her hands against his knees to keep sitting up, it feels more companion-like than mockery. He even manages a smile while Edmund hiccups a few chuckles and Lucy wipes away a tear.

He waits until they're mostly put together to say "but, no, really, I don't get it," and Edmund nearly keels over into his lap, and Lucy's on the ground, laughing; he still doesn't get it, but he'll happily keep missing the joke as long as they stay close to him like this.

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He would move mountains, pebble by pebble, if his Lady asked; he'd pluck every songbird out of heaven if she wanted to use their blood to paint her toe nails.

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After the war, the wolves do not have the best of reputations in Narnia, and Lucy is the first to shout how it just isn't right. Susan is the one to suggest a sort of rebranding campaign to raise their reputations.

Admittedly, contests on who has the softest coat or who makes the best pillow isn't exactly what the wolves were hoping for, but better to be known as cuddly than murderous. Lucy, as the head judge, is pretty satisfied either way as she curls up against a she-wolf's side and cuddles with a pup as it falls asleep in her arms.

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In Caspian's school books, the Pevensies weren't human--they were made into fairytales, discredited as bedtime stories, to the point that even as a child Caspian recognized propaganda even if he didn't know that was the word for it. He discarded the teachings entirely by the time he actually meets the legendary monarchs, and yet, meeting them, talking with them, touching them, he discovers what those stories had been talking about.

Lucy dances and the trees wake from their slumber like returning spring, flowers blooming on her brow like a crown; Edmund claps his shoulder and he feels blistering summer heat and hears flute pipes when he speaks, like ancient bacchanalias. Susan moves like rustling leaves in the wind and her comforting hand on his cheek feels like the kiss of the first frost. But it's in Peter's eyes and Peter's sword that Caspian sees the cold finality of winter, the unstoppable will of an avalanche and the end of cruel years when he duels. Caspian knows then that even fairytales contain truths in them.

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"It's not like they were taking care of them!" the shorter penguin shouts between sobs as he clings to his husband's side.

The taller of the pair silently pleads with Edmund, his wounded heart in his gaze and it's all Edmund can do not pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh.

"Gentlemen," he begins as solemnly as he can because otherwise he might snap, "once again I have to remind you that those eggs are a result from this lady couple's nest and, once again mind you, they probably aren't going to hatch anyway."

That only causes tears from both sets of penguin spouses and Edmund resolves to see if maybe Susan can't help set up some sort of penguin mentoring program where the married couples can work out their parental urges by helping some needy chicks. If not, he's not sure what's going to break first--his sanity or his heart for the foolish, but sweet birds.

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Peter is the golden eldest born, the one their parents trust most, the one the Narnians speak of first. Susan is the lovely elder daughter, the sensible one, the one who mediates and strives to put out the best example. Lucy is the faithful one, the darling friend of everyone, the baby of the group.

What does that leave Edmund? The traitor, the reformed bastard, the unnecessary?

(The answer is this--the respected, the honest, the intelligent, The Just. One day, his siblings hope that he might see all that they see as well.)

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He is a bad faun, a terrible faun, but he still can't do this--he has to escort this Daughter of Eve, Lucy, back to where he found her. They have to fast and quiet and oh, Aslan, forgive him, what has he done? How will they do this without being seen? How-?

Why is Lucy laughing at him?

"Oh, Mister Tumnus, it will be alright!"

And before he can ask how she could possibly be sure, she takes his hand and with her free limb, she makes this twisting gesture and suddenly they are both completely invisible. Or, to be frank, mostly invisible--there is a vague blur each time they move, but if they are still, then it's like they're not there at all.

"I know I'm not perfect at it yet," she giggles, "Not like Susan, but as long as we go slow, I'm sure no one will notice us. And! I happen to be the best in my whole family at covering my tracks, so I'll hide us as we go! It'll work out, Mister Tumnus, just you wait!"

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Tumnus barely remembers summer before Winter came--his parents had brought him along to only two of the great summer dances before the White Witch invaded, but sometimes if he strains, he can remember juicy grapes and the laughter half drowned out by the sound of pipes. Then came Winter and the Witch, and those memories seem almost as impossible as the Prophecy foretelling the Four Human Children coming to save them all.

And yet, he can't help his eyes widening when Lucy touches his sad little pot of wilting petunias and the wan leaves brighten, the stem stretching upward, and buds grow and blossom in only a moment. He looks at her, the words "we shall have spring again" echoing in his ears.

Lucy, for her part, looks at the plant and then her fingers before murmuring "I... don't believe I was able to do that before coming here."

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Peter is the first to discover the unique abilities of their presents from Father Christmas when he plunges his sword into the wolf only for the body to burst into a ball of flames and then ash. When Susan draws her bowstring back, the wind swirls and builds, and when she releases a gale follows the arrow's path. Lucy's dagger is perhaps the strangest--it never cuts flesh, but when she drags the tip along a wound, the gash will stitch shut without scar or seam.

Edmund was pretty thoroughly disappointed by missing his chance to meet Saint Nicholas until Lucy presented him with the javelin Santa had sent to him; he wasn't quite sure what it did until he tossed it and lightning struck the target he speared with it.

"Hmm," Alsan muttered to himself, "this wasn't quite what I had in mind when I said they shall need useful tools, Nick, but I guess they'll work."

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Excerpts from The Northern Lands and Their Gods by Aurelius Glenrunner,

"The stories tell of other gods, not just Aslan, the True King, and his father who reigns from the end of the world. There's a debate if Aslan's father is the eldest god, or if it is the Dig-O'ry, the searcher of knowledge and his equal and opposite, the Plumeria, the one who seeks balance. [...] The debate about whether or not they were siblings or spouses or mortal enemies has frustrated theologians for years [...] but now researchers think that they are the counter balances of cosmos, keeping each other in check from stagnation and from hubris."

[...]

"Most popular [of the gods] are the Pevens, their legends so familiar that they appear in the common vernacular still. The High King who rules the borders, who protects Narnia from invaders and who leads all into the glorious afterlife. The Reformed King is the god of justice, the patron deity of judges and lawyers, who call upon him to uphold the law and to help wayward criminals return to the path of righteousness. The Gentle Lady is the hearth goddess, the deity of home, childbirth, and peace. The last and perhaps the most beloved is the Shining Lady, who whispers courage into the hearts of all and is said that she will incarnate to protect Narnia in its darkest hour."

[...]

"That is not to say that gods of Narnia are just old legends that have no place in our current age--even now their stories grow and new gods are added, such as Dragon Prince and Pole-Star. The Dragon Prince was once a greedy boy whose misdeeds transformed him into a terrible dragon. The Pole-Star took pity on him and descended to free him from his fate. These twin gods are the protectors of all travelers, who often appear in stories as fearless children who aid those who lose their way on dark roads and save any child who might be in danger."

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Jadis Speaks the world into existence, the magic ringing off her tongue like the tolling of a bell, before stopping to watch That Lion run off. Off to make trouble for her later, but she already has plans to stop that--the humans who have blundered into her lands will get their chance to fix their mistake. The Lion is like her back-biting sister, reaching to clutch and steal at her new world, but she will protect it with a climate of frost and blizzard--and a tree. Yes, that will do--and it is the perfect task for these humans' redemption.

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They are there, at the coronation, when General Oreius kneels and receives the crown from Aslan, and they remain in the castle as Oreius appoints them positions in his court.

Peter has already been knighted by Aslan and by the time he is twenty he is Captain of the Royal Guard and a trusted, if very young, general. Susan becomes an ornament of the court, stepping neatly into the role of a diplomat, her shining grace and beauty and, well, humanity helping to win over Narnia's neighbors. Edmund, touched by the forgiveness of Narnians and the clemency of their king, steps in to study law but also falls backwards into politics as he seeks to write laws to protect the people who have given him so much.

Lucy, on the other hand, while she is made a lady of the court as well, she's not to be tied down, too interested in seeing new sights and making new friends. She ventures farther and farther from the castle until she takes a boat so far east that she comes back with tales of a sea of lilies and a wife she claims was a fish shepherdess. Whatever that means.

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Sometimes Susan just stops marching, sometimes she just spills out of her saddle, and just goes to sit, watching Aslan's troops walking past her. Her siblings used to worry about her, try to command or beg or taunt her into rising, but now they just keep going, knowing in the end she'll eventually stand and follow the end of the procession, an arrow notched on the string, ready to let it fly because it's all she can do now.

How long has this been going on? That first winter after The Winter was hard on morale; they'd lost more troops to desertion than battle that winter, but spring had brought new swells into the ranks. It seemed to happen every winter, but never as bad as the first. It's still summer now, but already the autumn colors are touching the leaves. She hopes this winter will be kinder.

A few soldiers, new ones who've joined late this year, glance at her and murmur "The Merciful"--she's not sure what she thinks of the moniker, but it's not wrong when her arrows always fly true, always kills rather than maims. Maybe if it was peacetime they'd sing of her beauty or some other useless quality; poor Lucy, no one will sing of her glorious face with the nasty scar she'd gotten last spring from that minotaur's horn. Better than Edmund--god, her poor baby brother, it still hurts to think of the arm Peter had to cut off him to save him from the Witch's petrification spell.

She looks at the troops--their subjects, their charges, their burden--and wonders when it will all end.

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The Narnia they entered was all ice and snow, but now they feel the world awaken with each unfurling leaf and each flower exploding into bloom, the trees so thick in places they have to climb up through the massive, entangled branches like bridges.

The camp is up here, in the boughs--high up, the squirrel husband and wife tell them, because The Hunter does not need the steady earth to wage his war.

"Who is he?" they ask, but the squirrels only call him "The Hunter, The Horned One, The Green Man, but you Sons and Daughters may call him Cernunnos" and when they ask "is he good?" they are quiet a long time before saying "He is Everything--he is beyond such things."

And the Pevensies know now what they meant when they see him at last--they see nothing at first, but then a face emerges from the leaves, made of them until his face is brown as tree bark, and he steps out as tall as a giant. He walks out looking like a man, but they will later see him with the hind end of a centaur or sometimes a satyr. He is crowned with antlers as numerous as branches and in the shadowy depths of his sockets, stars twinkle out while he wears this man face, but later he will have the head of a bull, a stag, even sometimes a ram.

"The Witch seeks to smother my land in a blanket of snow," he tells them, placing one hand against a dead tree. Beneath his palm, the tree cracks and splits and a new tree shot up from the rich corpse, rising up and spreading into a sky. A moment later, The Green Man reaches into the cracks of the tree and pulls out a dryad who falls to her knees and swears fealty. "She thinks that she can choke my land like a farmer throttles a chicken. But she will learn; she will learn that to plunder and encroach on my lands has consequences and I will not suffer a poacher in my woods. And you shall help me in this--yes, even your brother. You, Susan, let me see your stance with your bow. Yes, good--you two, bring your sword and dagger. Tonight, we hunt the Witch. Tonight, we rescue your brother."

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Susan only followed Lucy into the wardrobe because she was worried her sister was setting herself up for heartache, even though she was still smarting herself from the row from earlier. Peter and Edmund had ganged up on her, upbraiding her for being uppity, of all things, while Lucy only sulked because she was still mad about no one believing her about the wardrobe. Well, someone had to keep this family together and it surely wasn't going to be any of her siblings.

When the pale woman in the sleigh stopped to speak to Susan, she seemed chilly as the snow around them, but after a moment she thawed and spoke to Susan politely, calmly, and Susan beamed at being treated like an adult. Surely this was all a very strange dream, but the woman, this Queen, was so reasonable and charming that Susan agreed to anything she asked. It's just a dream, some fancy, after all, no matter what Lucy tried to insist to their brothers.

When the beaver came and tried to coerce them into following, Susan put her foot down. Maybe this place wasn't some dream, but she was not following some strange animal deeper into the woods who seemed to be in league with some criminal faun Lucy met. She shook off her siblings and that strange creature and headed back to the lantern and the wardrobe. But when she reached the lantern, she paused and looked to where the Queen had told her to look, to the mountains--they didn't seem too far actually.

She decided in an instant--she would seek out someone wise for a change. Maybe the Queen could talk some sense into her siblings and get them away from these strange criminals.

Susan took the first step on a journey she'd never forget, no matter how she tried.

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They found her, still locked tight in the tallest tower of Jadis's castle. "It used to be our castle," the once sleeping princess murmured around a spoonful of Mrs. Beaver's warm soup. "My father, the king, sent me here for my protection when she first invaded--poor father. He must have been so worried when he heard the news that she took this place. How does he fare now? How is the war effort going?"

The four Pevensies looked between themselves and began the awkward explanation that the White Witch's conquest of Narnia took place a lot longer ago than she feared.

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There is a candle lit in the front window--Susan knows she's being ridiculous, but it reminds her of a story she only vaguely remembers someone telling her. Leave a candle burning in a window facing a path most likely to be tread and it'll lead the ones you most wish to come home back to you.

It's a silly story--and a waste of a good candle--and it must have come from a dream because for some reason she can only picture the story teller being a beaver. But still, the candle is lit and Susan sits next to it, wrapped up in a blanket with a cup of tea, watching the street.

It's silly and she knows it--no one came back from the train accident, not even five years ago when it happened--and yet.

The candle still burns in the window, waiting.

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There's lots of things Edmund didn't get a good look at the first time he met the Witch. She wore a deep hood to hide from the chill air, but he could have sworn he saw pale hair twisted into thick locks. What horror he felt the moment she pushed her hood back and saw each lock rise and writhe, hissing.

He wished he could have told Peter that it wasn't the wand that petrified those unfortunate souls she met, but his tongue is heavy behind unmoving lips, yet another new statue in her frozen garden.

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They found her in the White Witch's castle, locked away in the highest tower, when Aslan first started awakening the statues. "Interesting," Alsan had said before breathing her awake and leaving her with Susan, one firm look telling her to watch over the trembling girl.

Susan pulled her--Aurora, the princess whispered with chattering teeth as the tower was always cold--close and rubbed warmth into her hands. She was barely older than Susan herself, and even more alone than she. She clung to Susan, for warmth, for comfort.

"I've got you," Susan murmured, lifting Aurora's fingers to her mouth to breathe on them; when that failed, she pressed kisses to her knuckles to apply the warmth directly. "I won't leave you."

"Promise?" Aurora's voice was so small, but her eyes were so wide and dark as the sea and oh, when the bards would sing of her beauty, Susan would understand them entirely.

"I do."

Finally, the other girl smiled and Susan knew she was willing to spend the rest of her life doing whatever she would need to protect that smile.

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It was always there; Peter had just never known how to look for it before they'd gone to Narnia. English magic was rarely flashy, but he found it when he hopped on a certain set of stones in the street, in a certain pattern, that a certain wall became a door to a strange shop. He found it when their elderly neighbor accidentally left her shears to do the trimming of her back hedge before she realized he was watching and ran over, insisting he saw nothing.

He certainly hadn't expected to find it when the swan who'd been about to beat him around the head for stepping too close to her nest suddenly transformed into a woman, shedding a cloak of feathers. "Oh! So, you're a king then? Fancy that. Stay away from my eggs then, majesty, or you'll be short an arm."

Sometimes, he thought as he scrambled away from the grouchy swan-woman, he really wished English magic was more like Narnian magic. No swan in Narnia ever threatened to maim him, after all.

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They had no chance--Aurora's ladies-in-waiting only had time to lead her to the tower to hide when the first howls of the wolves pierced the castle's defenses. Did her father know she was going to die, or would the raven never make it to the army in time to send word?

Petrification is a uniquely horrifying way to be cursed--if the Witch's magic was any slower, it would have killed the princess outright, but not dying didn't spare her the terror of feeling your limbs betray you, of feeling your lungs refuse to fill, or feeling cold creeping in worse than if you've fallen into a frozen river.

And then, it's over. The hot breath of the Lion wakes her and she is kindly tended to by a pair of girls, the elder who wraps her arms around her and rubs warmth into her fingers. The younger tells Aurora of the Witch's conquest, of the fall of her land, and now the great battle to reclaim it. She does not say what happened to Aurora's father, but does she need to?

She lays her head upon the older girl's knees and tries not to weep for all that was lost as the girls soothes her.

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It's only revealed in little ways. When Lucy dug her fingers into the earth, plants just grew; not instantly, and not always the same types of plants, but always something would grow. Peter never lost his way, even in new cities, even in new countries. Susan has never burned a single meal, scalded a cup of tea into bitterness, or failed to have a souffle rise perfectly.

For the longest time, Edmund wondered if maybe he'd been skipped over in these new abilities, maybe as a punishment for his past misdeeds, or maybe it had something to do with him not getting a present from Father Christmas. And then, one day, as he turned to scold some obnoxiously loud boys for squabbling over some food, he found only a flock of ravens fighting over some chips on the ground, understanding their squawks as perfectly clear as if it were English.

"...would have preferred the never getting lost thing," he muttered, watching with wide eyes as the birds flew away.

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Sometimes, Susan wakes up in the darkest hours of the night and finds Edmund already there, holding her hand--he always comes to her when she cries in her sleep.

"I wish you all hadn't hated me so much," she whispers and his brow furrows as he squeezes her hand.

"We did not. We needed you too much for that."

"No, you didn't."

"Course we did. Who else was going to make sure we ate our dinners or brushed our teeth? Who else nursed us from our colds or made the perfect cups of tea? Where would we be without our Susan?"

Susan tries to smile, but it's only really a grimace. "But where am I without my brothers and sister?" she asks, but a passing car throws a light across the room and when the shadow flickers over Edmund, he is gone.

This is how he always leaves; Susan buries a sob and tries to go back to sleep.

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"Did you use my sister's horn to call me?" Lucy asks, still sawing away at the ropes that tie the man to the tree. She'd only just come back from having tea with Mister Tumnus, so she only had her dagger on her--sharp, yes, but hacking the rope was dulling the blade. She could only hope she wouldn't need it to be at its usual precise sharpness. "Who tied you up like this? Why did you call me?"

"No, no, I didn't use any horn," the man murmured, looking half delirious. He gazed at her with such wide eyes. "But you came--oh, Aslan sent you, didn't he? The real one, not that--oh, praise to him, you're Queen Lucy!"

It was odd--as Queen, their subjects often treated her with deference, but no one had spoken of her with awe since the days of the prophecy, back before they defeated the Witch, over a decade ago. Even Narnia's greatest allies didn't look at them with such wonder, the four children who'd saved a country with the help of a god.

But this man had the look of a Narnian, despite the few numbers of humans in Narnia even years after their coronation, and as Queen she knew she needed to help him. As he fell, released from his bonds, she scooped him up, giving his hand a squeeze as well as smiling as warmly as she could. "Let's get you away from here and on the mend. Then, you must tell me everything."

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As much as Peter hates to admit it, he was never really friends with Susan. That's not to say he didn't respect or love her, that they were not partners, or even that he did not trust her wholeheartedly. But he loved her the same way he loved the moon. Consistent in her inconsistency, equally helpful and troublesome, and powerful in her own right. Susan never meant harm but trouble did seem to follow in her wake at the most inopportune time.

He sits with her now and unconsciously knows they'll never be close again. Aslan told them moments ago that they were never to return to Narnia and it is the most devastating blow he's felt in his life. Susan, however, looks strange--not like she wants to argue, or that she wants to cry, or even that she'd like to hit someone.

She looks dead; not frozen, not hurt. Like Aslan reached in and scooped out something precious. Logically, he knows that whatever Aslan says is law and he trusts the Lion enough to think that he's doing what is best, but looking at Susan fills him with a sort of pity, which she would hate and that hurts too.

Aslan has killed something in her and, as her elder brother, he has failed her, in protecting her. He reaches for her hand, to comfort her, but she only gently pulls away and he gets the terrible premonition that it will not be the last time she rejects him. But maybe the truth is really this--they were never friends, because he rejected her long before Aslan or Narnia ever did.

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Word comes to Cair Paravel of the White Stag being in the Western Woods, but the day of the hunt, it pours rain; they take it as an omen and go home. Life continues on, but not without its little interruptions, the first of which is a wedding. Most surprising was that it was for Edmund--he and his groom cut an handsome image, but everyone spends the entire day wondering how it wasn't Peter or Susan that got married first.

Which is not to say that Susan doesn't marry, although the foreign powers all weep when she chooses a Narnian noble to take as her husband. He's a good man, but not up to Peter's standards. Still, the two are united on their love for their children, and everyone else has to make due around them.

"That's fine though," Peter admits over a cup of strong morning tea, three months shy of the thirtieth anniversary of their coronation. "If anything should happen, we have a proper heir now."

"You're just saying that because you're too obsessed with work to pick out a bride--or groom," Susan adds after a nod to Edmund who shrugs in turn. "Although I'd thank you not to try and poach my children for an heir."

"Being High King is a lot of work," Peter scoffs. "If I don't chose a spouse, what does it matter? You and Ed found yourselves partners. Let me and Lucy go without. Right, Lu?"

Lucy is oddly quiet as she spreads marmalade on her piece of toast. At last, she takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, and says "Actually, I, um, have someone I'd like you'd all to meet. Soon, if that's alright?"

Peter falls back, jaw hanging. "Lucy!"

"Oh, Lu! You mean-" Susan begins, eyes glittering.

"You mean you've been holding out on us," Edmund laughs. "You've been hanging back and letting Peter tease me and Susan all this time when you were no better than us!"

"Hush, Edmund," Susan huffs, swatting at him before turning back to Lucy. "Who is this person? Someone we've met?"

"Well, no, not precisely. You remember that voyage that I took a year ago?"

They all scoff. "The historic one?"

"The one that took you so far east, I'd thought you'd come home from the west?" Edmund adds.

Lucy smiles. "That one. You--you remember the friends I made along the way? The sea people?"

"The ones that threatened me with fish until you told them off?" Peter asks dryly.

"Them. Although not that one in particular. No, ah, it was one of their number. Sao's much more polite than him."

"Is Sao the lad with the spear or the one with-?"

"Sao is the lady with the trained school of fish," Lucy answers primly. Edmund laughs and claps her shoulder and Susan is all aflutter, but Peter sighs.

Damn. Now, I really will have to find someone, or I shall never hear the end of it.

Not that he had to worry long; one week later, the four of them set off for a leisurely hike in the woods of Lantern Waste and do not return.

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Relations with Galma are always a delicate issue--while Galma is a duchy of Narnia, between various Narnian rulers and the White Witch, it often enjoyed the benign neglect of its colonizers. Every now and then, a duke came to power who tried to assert Galman independence, but it never won much favor with the population and usually Galma happily went back to what it was doing before without Narnia having to step in and muddy the waters.

Edmund and Susan were both very strict about this with Peter before he arrived for their first visit of state in Galma--do not overstep and upset the balance. He hadn't saw much need to at first; the Duke was cordial and deferential, not at all trouble making. His politics didn't tend towards independence and he was equally interested in maintaining the status quo as they were. It seemed like it had all been a lot of fuss over nothing to Peter.

And then he'd met the Duke's young bride--emphasis on young as she was Peter's own age, a good two decades younger than the duke, and while that perturbed Peter, he could have ignored it as a custom of this world that he would just never appreciate. The sadness in the girl's eyes, however, spoke another story, as did the desperation in her voice as she snuck into his guest room and threw herself at his feet, clasping his hands in supplication.

Peter had heard of selkies before--creatures like seals who could shed their pelts and look identical to humans. If you stole their pelt, you controlled them because they had no way to return to their true forms. He might have hesitated to believe her if she hadn't taken him to see the others, the literal children the duke had stolen, to be raised and traded away as brides and slaves.

Well, he thought, stalking towards the duke's chambers, his blood pumping like Aslan's roar in his ears and a hand on his sword hilt already, I guess I'm just not cut out to be a very good diplomat.

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Peter is not a fool and, despite nearly ruining relations with Galma that one time, he was not a bad diplomat. But he was certain he was going to offend someone tonight and all he could hope for was that it wouldn't be his fiancée at least.

"You'll be fine," she promised, pulling him to the big bonfire on the beach. They had to dodge the sweaty, gyrating bodies around them, which was not made easier for Peter because all he could do was point his eyes up to the stars to avoid accidentally gaping at the nude party-goers around him. Honestly, the autumn bacchanals were going to seem tame in comparison after this, what with some of the selkie couples not doing a great job of finding private places to canoodle.

"That," he grumbled, as he got elbowed in the kidneys by an overenthusiastic gent who then got chased away from a young lady by the beachmaster. "That is all well and good for you to say. I'm the only one who refused to take his trousers off."

She laughed and he almost forgot his discomfort--two years ago, she'd been too withdrawn and sad to smile, even after they had her marriage annulled and her husband jailed. The year and a half she'd been in Narnia had done much to help her heal, but tonight was the happiest he'd seen her since he asked her to marry him last month. The excitement on her face drove home how worth all the trouble it'd been to talk to the Narnian selkies into letting her join their celebrations--the Galmian selkies exiled her for the loss of her pelt, but Narnian selkies could never harden their hearts to a mistreated lady--or refuse such an earnest request from their high king.

"You will be fine," she repeated again as she finally deemed their proximity to the great bonfire good enough and rearranged his hands on her so they could dance. "And," she added, "if you are having second thoughts about the trousers then let me tell you, I certainly wouldn't mind if you took them off."

On the other side of the fire, the drummers started a new song and a cool ocean breeze blew through, reminding him that the best way to stay warm tonight would be to dance. Setting aside his embarrassment, he let her pull him into the wild dance and said "all I ask is that if I do mess something up tonight, don't tell Ed and the girls about it."

She laughed and he knew that it was all definitely worth this for that grin alone.

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Lucy couldn't help staring at the very strange--man?--before her. It was startling enough when he appeared through the trees, goat legs and arms full with flimsy white bags, holding a strange thing which she could only assume was a camera (albeit very flat and square, but there was a lens on it that he pointed out to her while he tried to explain what "live streaming" was, and she could actually see the video play as if he held a very small, full color television) out on a very long stick before him, but subsequent talks hadn't cleared much up. He kept going on about her "cool, vintage threads" while tugging at her jumper, and asking if she was "a real Man--or human, sorry I wasn't trying to assume anything".

She was so confused by the whole thing that when he offered to take her back to his place--"my studio might not have great natural lighting, but it sure is warmer than out here!"--she ended up agreeing because she wasn't sure how to refuse.

"But first, I gotta take a selfie with my first human bestie!" he laughed, getting the--camera?--back out and she felt like she understood only some of that sentence, but it wasn't like she had never taken a picture before. She managed a grin as he put up two fingers--the V sign was apparently a thing here?--but at least she had fun when he handed his device over and let her pick out a filter for the photo.

(She picked the one that gave them dog noses and ears. Tumnus nodded in appreciation and only belatedly remembered that someone might report his selfie with a human, or worse, repost it. He set the photo to private and considered the whole thing settled.)

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"...it won't open!" Peter finally shouts and his voice sounds strange. "Hurry and go backwards!" When they step back through the branches, the four monarchs look down at themselves, half expecting to see something strange about their bodies after the oddness of the tree boughs and the locked door, but they are the same as they have been for years. Even Peter's voice is returned to normal.

The whole thing is met with shrugs and confusion as they returned to their horses, and a good bit of teasing for Lucy, who can't explain why she HAD to go through the damn branches.

On the other side of the wardrobe, the professor laughs as the doors stops jiggling against the length of string he wound against the knobs to tie it shut. Break one of his expensive windows, eh? Well, one good trick deserved another--he'd untie it in a few minutes and they'd have a good laugh.

But back on this side, Aslan sits, watching the whole thing, and breaks out into a nervous sweat as he tries to figure out how much of his plans for Narnia are going to have to change now.

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Dig here, the soil whispers to Lucy until her fingers finds hidden seeds that have been choked by weeds. Plant here, the ground beckons until she frees the dirt of rocks and directs the gardeners where to plow. Burn these, says the old woods until Lucy sets the torch that will clear the leaf litter and let trees finally release their seeds so that can grow into strong forests of their own. Lucy listens to nature until flowers grow on her brow, trees dance to her rhythm, and the dryads all call her Kore, the Spring Maid.

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This is not how this is supposed to go, Lucy thinks she can hear all of Narnia screaming as she walks up to the lionskin they'd pulled off the poor, sweet donkey. Despite the horror in her hands, a part of her still sings as she touches the fur and feels how familiar it is beneath her fingers.

She stands in the stable, hears the calamity outside--they were supposed to save Narnia, weren't they? Was that not what she'd been called here for once more?

It had to be; Aslan might be gone, but he must have had a plan, a will for them to fulfill.

She lifted the pelt up to the flickering firelight that crept into the stable and really looked at it.

Aslan had called her a lionness once, long ago; maybe this time he meant for her to take it literally.

With a deep breath, Lucy swung the pelt around her shoulders and then stalked out of the stable on velvety paws.

With or without Aslan literally beside her, Lucy will save Narnia.

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"It's a pun!" Lucy points out helpfully as Peter turns the rock over in his hands again. It's... well, it's a very nice rock to be sure, but when he looks up to ask Father Christmas if he's pulling his leg, the old man is already riding off in his sleigh.

Still, it gets the job done when he lobs it at the White Witch and clocks her in the temple, knocking her (heh) stone dead with one blow.

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"Jadis," her sister whines, tugging on her arm like she's still a toddler, "we shouldn't be here! Say the Word to take us back before something else bad happens!"

Jadis shoves her sister onto the rough floor of the stable they'd appeared in. "You're still just a baby, Lazuli. Don't get in my way." She didn't bother to add Or else because she could already hear her sister sniffling. Instead, she creeps to the stable door and peeks out--there is fighting going on, two sides massacring each other in the sort of glorious combat her father's minstrels would write ballads about. Damn, if only her wand hadn't slipped from her fingers during the jolt of the spell's activation--then she could get out there and have some fun of her own.

She is still tempted to run out there anyway, but her sister's horrified gasp makes her roll her eyes and turn back to snap at her to keep quiet. But in the darkness of the stable, she sees something stir. There isn't a logical reason she missed the presence in the shadows, but even as it steps into the light, her mind reels.

The four reaching arms part the shadows like a curtain and Jadis can see the merciless curved beak and the knowing gaze of something Jadis can only reasonably call a god. No resident of Charn with a lick of sense in their head would believe in gods, but even Jadis knows down to the marrow of her bones that this is not some war shaman or elaborate hoax. The being is the sort of god she could believe was worshiped by her ancient ancestors and part of her thinks that if this being showed up in Charn right now, he might still inspire awe.

He clacks his beak together quickly and it sounds like mocking laughter. "You should listen to your sister, little girl," it sneers as it steps past them, heading for the door. "This world is dying and you'll be caught with us if you stay."

And then it is gone and Jadis can only stare after it while Lazuli weeps on the floor. Somehow, her sister picks herself up enough to grab Jadis's hand again. "Sister, please, take us home! We aren't safe here--we should-!"

But Jadis isn't listening. "It said this world is dying. It must be very weak," she murmurs and then her lips stretch into a smirk.

Weakness, after all, was the best way to exploit fools to gain power, and Jadis is very, very good at that.

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"Come," the goddess calls from besides the fire in the great hall of Cair Paravel, startling Lucy, although afterwards she felt rather silly to think she could have hidden from the Lady at all, "come and join me, Daughter of Pandora."

Lucy didn't try to pretend to be solemn, like her siblings sometimes tried before the Lady, and skipped over to plop down besides the hearth fire. She took a deep breath and smelled the crackle of firewood, but also the Lady's scent of spices and herbs. Lucy loved sitting besides the Lady like this; it was as cozy as sitting in a kitchen when someone made the best tasting food in your life, that would warm you all the way to your toes, and leave you with the sweetest feelings of love and care.

She hoped the Lady liked her just as much as she laid her head in the Lady's lap. Of course, if she had asked, the Lady would have laughed and said of course she did--she was, after all Hestia of the Hearth, the protector of the home and all who dwelt inside, and how could she not love all of her children?

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Peter feels nervous and at the same time pleased when he takes the sword in his hand; with this, maybe he will keep his sisters safe.

Susan feels startled and nauseous as she takes the bow and arrows, but at the same time she doesn't balk; she needs this to keep her siblings safe.

Lucy, on the other hand, is perhaps a little too excited when Father Christmas puts a pistol in her hand. Oh, she's definitely going to keep her siblings safe with this!

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"It wasn't always this way," Mister Tumnus says softly as the snow and wind howled outside the door. "We Narnians knew winter, yes, but only when Her Majesty left us to return to her husband's home. But, oh, no nation in the world knew spring like Narnians. When Her Majesty would return, there would be flowers everywhere and the river Lethe would flood its banks to wash away harsh memories of her absence."

Later when they talked to Mister and Missus Beaver, they sighed--both of them were too young to have seen the spring, but they also had stories to tell, that had been passed down in their families. But, Mister Beaver did add a particularly startling detail when he said "there sure was a lot less blooming ghosts, I'll tell you that much!"

The children paused and Peter needed a moment to pluck up courage to ask "ghosts? Are there ghosts here in Narnia?"

The Beavers both nodded vigorously. "Oh, aye. Some real wraiths haunt these woods, which is why I was in such a hurry to try and find you lot."

"Oh, but there are some very nice ones," Missus Beaver added at the looks on their faces. "Many of the newest spirits are perfectly lovely and even some of the old ones remember us and try and keep us safe."

"The problem is when they stay here too long," Mister Beaver huffed. "They begin to forget everything except that they shouldn't still be here. They get angry and then they get mean. But, until the ice melts, they're trapped here." He pounded his little furry fist against the table. "That's why we need to get you to Cair Paravel! When we do, you lot will melt the ice blocking the path to the Underworld and call her, so that she can send the ghosts to where they belong!"

Each child had their own reaction to this: Susan nervously repeated "The Underworld?" while Peter asked "Melt the ice?" and Edmund said "Cair Paravel?", but Lucy was the one to focus in on "Call her?"

Mister Beaver nodded and did his best to explain everything, but Lucy still had to ask "but how do we call her?"

"Why, by calling her name of course! How else do you call someone?"

"But, what is her name?" Edmund asked, annoyed by all this nonsense and very much starving for a piece of that Turkish Delight again.

The Beavers, however, paused and nervously shared a look. After a moment, they nodded and scrambled around their home, locking windows and shutting doors, even putting out the fire so they could shut the flue (and in the process of all this, coincidentally stopping Edmund from running off entirely). Only once every entrance was barred and the lights dimmed did Mister Beaver lean across the table and whisper "Her name is Persephone."

The moment the word left his mouth, each child felt a swell of dread and awe wash over them for reasons none of the could explain--the effect was so powerful that Edmund forgot about his hunger for Turkish Delights for a moment. Maybe it was because the moment the name hit the air, every window and door rattled violently, or maybe it was the way a dried flower in one of Missus Beaver's picture frames briefly revived, its colors bright and vibrant before abruptly wilting.

It was only after all this did Mister Beaver speak again, although he looked just as rattled as them. "She's the Lady of Ghosts, the Spring Maiden, and Queen of the Underworld. The White Witch might have shut her into her husband's home for now, but when you call her back to us, there won't be any fighting or war. Her Majesty will fix that witch, right quick, and spring will return again."

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"And you say," Jadis pauses and really must resist the urge to rub her temples because that is beneath her, but damn if she doesn't have a headache. "You say that this--your version of the Lion sent you here to help me?"

"Well," the oldest girl speaks after a shared look between all the siblings. "It's more like he sent us because if we came, then it would trick your version of Aslan into think this world's version of us had come."

"And if we're here, then the evil versions of us won't be summoned to fight you!" the youngest girl adds succinctly.

Mm. Yes, still baffling, but maybe she could work with this--but still, how could she honestly trust these... interlopers? Her people stand at the brink of defeat and the Lion claws at her domain with his army of demons at his heels. Her powers and her winter are all that holds him at bay, but now she is to assume that four children will be enough to save her adopted realm? "I am to believe that your Lion is doing it out of the goodness of his heart? Why save another world's Narnia?"

Three of the children look nervous, but it is the youngest boy who looks at her, ice in his gaze as strong as her own magic. "It's not that we're here to save you. We are here to stop the False Aslan before he causes trouble in our Narnia."

"Edmund!" the oldest boy scolds, but Jadis sits back in her chair and thinks.

Ah, of course. It's not just charity or goodwill; this is a matter of pride and pragmatism. Now, that she could believe out of a supposedly good counterpart to the demon that prowls her land.

At last, she admits defeat. "Well then. I believe that working together is to our mutual benefit." Her smile is grim as she offers her hand to seal the deal. "Come then, children. Today, we hunt lions."

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Peter paces while Edmund sits quietly on the chair next to the table of maps; he's been very quiet since his rescue from the Witch's ship and while once Peter would have loved it if Ed would mind his tongue, right now he wishes his brother would speak and distract him from this horror.

At last, the skua lands besides them; the news is grim--mermaids sent word from their sisters. Aslan is dead and the Witch will be sailing to meet them shortly. Even Peter, who only has a few crash course lessons in war, knows that this news is going to devastate the morale of the fleet, but they have even worse things to worry about.

General Metis, the oceanid, turns to him, her even gaze unwavering; it feels like she views this only as a test for him. He dearly hopes he can pass it. "What will your orders be?"

Peter turns to the map of Narnia, the archipelago of over forty islands with the small colored flags and figures representing each side. He hadn't visited every island, but what he'd seen tells him what he needs to do--he doesn't want to see any more of the bleached bones of the talking whales the Witch has hunted only for their oil, or the great swaths of bleached coral. Narnia needs him--needs him and Edmund and Lucy and Susan. Whether the great Leopard Seal is with them or not, they can't abandon Narnia, even if all he wants to do is toss Ed and the girls onto a boat and order someone to row like mad back to the strange threshold they passed to get to Narnia.

He looks to Edmund, who nods without Peter needing to speak. Taking comfort in the solidarity, he turns to the general. "Tell everyone to return to their ships and positions. We weigh anchor at noon."

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Mister Tumnus sighs as he shepherds her into his home, happy to pull off his thawb and shake the sand out of it before neatly putting it on a peg. He tells her to look around as he prepares the tea, but she gets distracted watching him--it is not like the tea her mother makes with its aroma of mint and other tea leaves he adds to the pot. She watches him boil water, pour from one vessel to the next, filter, and add sugar (something she's seen rarely since rationing began) until at last he is satisfied and they sit down.

It's like nothing she's ever had before, but perhaps she should have expected that--stumbling out of the wardrobe and into the endless dunes of shifting sands wasn't exactly what she had expected to happen either.

Tumnus sighs again, but it's not of relief like it'd been when they ducked into his home--instead he is staring longingly at the door where sand is trying to blow in. "It wasn't always like this, you know," he says suddenly, changing the subject. "When the rainy season came, Narnia would change almost over night. Flowers bloom on the dunes, and the wind storms finally stop." He then spins her tales of Narnia as it once was before and she yearns to see the world he paints with his words.

Later, after she and her siblings stand at Alsan's side, she will look at the dunes, see the bold flowers unfurling everywhere, and know what Tumnus meant when he told her of the beauty of Narnia in spring.

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Lucy had claimed that in the wardrobe lead to a snowy wood, but Edmund hadn't really believed any of her nonsense. He certainly didn't believe it when he climbed in after her late one night when he spotted her sneaking around. And, to be fair, there was not a snowy forest on the other side—it was, however, definitely a forest. He had just about convinced himself that he didn't owe Lucy an apology for not believing her when the most startling vision walked out from being the trees. He'd never seen a white so pure, so vibrant that the creature almost looked flat, for no shadow dared to cling to it. It took him a long moment to realize it was a unicorn—it looked more like a deer than horse to him, even if it did have a mane—but he was pretty convinced when it charged across the clearing in an instant, making him fall to the ground in shock as it pointed its horn at his throat.

"You will speak, boy," its voice was stern and musical. "And you will speak truth, for I know the difference. Are you a Telmarine? A scout for their army, seeking out magical folk? Or do you serve the White Witch, if she has become so desperate as to turn to humans for help?"

Later on, he would claim the unicorn scared the wickedness out of him; the unicorn would flick her ear and only say that he had certainly had enough wickedness left in him after that to make himself a pain as she escorted him to Cair Paravel. It'd been a long journey, fraught with danger as they couldn't avoid the invading forces nor the scattered remains of the White Witch's army the farther they went. In the end, Edmund can't ignore the injustice he found from either side and fell in with the True Narnians. While the three sides fight their wars, he became the figurehead for the True Narnians the moment he sat upon his throne in Cair Paravel.

After the talk with the Professor, Susan still hadn't been quite sure what to make of Lucy's claims of the woods and the faun in the wardrobe—Lucy was so earnest. Then Edmund had started to act... different. Quieter, more thoughtful. When it came time to hide from the housekeeper, he was the one to convince them to jump into the wardrobe. Susan hadn't had time to think of a better plan before they all hopped in.

Later, she looked back on that moment and wondered if maybe it would have been better to be caught.

Susan came tumbling out into a wood, as Lucy said was there, but it wasn't snowy—it was still autumn, with the forest being a beautiful riot of colors. The majesty of the surroundings couldn't soothe her anxiety for long, however. It took a trio of kindly dwarf brothers finding her and taking back to their home before she could really calm down. They fed her and gave her some time as they tried to decide what to do with her—neither she nor they could find the way back to the wardrobe, so in the end they decided to take her to the king.

When they arrived, they found the royal court in disarray—four thrones had appeared by Aslan's order in Cair Paravel, the summer castle by the sea, and there was a prophecy. This coupled with Susan's arrival and the news she had the exact amount of siblings needed to fulfill the prophecy made her an instant sensation. Bards invented poems and songs on the spot, everyone looked at her in awe, but kindly old King James was courteous when he greeted her. He reminded her a lot of the Professor—old, but thoughtful, and without a family of his own. Her heart hurt when she heard the story of how he lost his own daughter when she was very small and his wife thereafter.

He brought her to Cair Paravel and had her sit on one of the thrones—"there is no Witch that I know if in Narnia at this time, but if Aslan is making plans for the future, who are we to ignore them?" he told her. It's a nice throne and a beautiful castle, but she was more relieved when he promised that he would look after her. After all, he had no heir and if she was destined to be a queen, then why not keep it simple and adopt her?

Susan grew up elegant and lovely—ruling Narnia alone was a daunting task, but she had time to be taught and trained so that when James died of old age, she was as prepared as she could be. The bards still sing of her beauty; the songs remain long after history forgot her true name. Swanwhite they call her, crooning of her beauty until she was barely a fairytale. Good queen Swanwhite, gentle as dawn, the first to sit upon one of the four thrones.

Peter's footsteps echo loudly in the hall—Cair Paravel was a tumbling down ruin, damaged by both time and the Witch's attempt to destroy the thrones. It was a ghostly place, full of rubble that he had to help Tirian climb over—his leg was still not quite right, even though Peter freed him from his binds years ago. And yet, in spite of the destruction, one throne still stood completely untouched, in sharp contrast to the other thrones—the one on the far end was shattered so long ago that the time had worn off the sharp edges of the cracks into round nubs. The two in the middle were still half there, even if one was only the back portion and the other was mostly the seat itself.

But one was still waiting for them and Peter knew that it had to be his. He pulled Tirian's arm over his shoulder as the king has started to wheeze again, but his warmth was reassuring against Peter's side, reminding him that there was at least one other living thing in this tomb.

They paused before the throne after they climbed up the dais. It has a been a long, bloody journey to get this far; Peter was well aware that Tirian's heart was still broken from the loss of Jewel, who fell to save his best friend from an arrow that would have torn through the king's neck. Peter had worried that their destination would seem anticlimactic after everything they've gone through, but the oddly pristine throne filled Peter with hope. Carefully, he disentangled himself from Tirian although he didn't let go of him until he sure was the other man was steady on his feet.

Peter didn't hesitate, mainly out of concern for forcing Tirian to stay standing for too long unsupported. He sat for as long as he dared before Tirian began to wobble from favoring one leg too much. He jumped up to steady Tirian, pulling him back to his side.

"Did you feel anything?" Tirian asked as he caught his breath.

"Not really," Peter admitted.

They both look to the throne—it didn't look any different either. No wave of magic issued forth and caused Narnia to rebuild itself or drive the enemies of Narnia out of it. It was just a nice chair.

The lights in Tirian's eyes dimmed. "Was it enough?"

"It was."

Peter and Tirian both stiffened at the new voice; slow and carefully, they turned to see a great lion now stood at the balcony, between the doors that lay blasted off their hinges in the distant past. Looking at him, Peter felt Tirian's breath hitch while his heart started to race. He asked "are you Aslan?" at the same time Tirian whispered "oh, it's you!"

The great lion nodded before he walked forward to sit before the two humans. "I thank you, Peter, son of Adam. I have been waiting a long time for you to finally arrive and claim your throne."

The concept of being a king now was still too alien for Peter to really consider, so he asked another question, one that had been burning in his heart since he first fell into a war torn nation. "Why did I and my siblings not all arrive at the same time? I know we all got into the wardrobe together, but why can I not find them outside of legends saying that they were here long ago?"

Aslan, despite his majestic serenity, sighed. "It had been my original intention. But then the Witch twisted fate by brokering a deal with the Tash to cast her spell through all of time. After that, plans had to change. I am sorry, son of Adam. You've been forced to bear a great burden."

"So has Narnia," Peter said bluntly, ignoring the smack Tirian gives his shoulder.

"Yes, it has," Aslan answered before he stood once more. "And now, it is time that I give her back her peace. Sit, King Peter, King Tirian. Your trials were long and the road difficult. It is time for you to rest."

Lucy stumbles out of the wardrobe and laughs in delight—it is all back. The wood and the snow and she can even see the glow of the lamp in the distance. She turned to cheer at her siblings, but when she did, she was alone. She stared in confusion—they were definitely right behind her!—but she remembered Mister Tumnus's warning about spies in the wood. She reached back to grab a warm coat and then trotted off to find Mister Tumnus.

He was safe at home and happy to greet her, pulling her into the safety of his cave, but after she explained what happened, he had to sit and think. At last, he sighed and told her that it really must be the prophecy coming true.

"What prophecy?" she asked.

"Fates are twisted but all will be mended," he began. The prophecy was a short thing and the rhyming meter was tortured to fit, but its message is clear—four thrones waited for four siblings to take their places, not all at once but one after the other, after which "Narnia will know its final peace."

"But what has happened to Susan, Ed, and Peter?" she asked.

He considered it. "One of the thrones was filled long ago, before the White Witch brought winter at all. It's said that an old king adopted a daughter of Eve from another world and she became queen after him. I have a book that talks about it, but that period of time got lost when the Witch came to power. Maybe that queen was your Susan."

It's a wild idea, almost too fantastical to really imagine but she WAS in a world of eternal winter that she got to through a wardrobe, talking to a faun. Was it really that more unlikely? "Well, if we really have ended up in different times, what do we do now? If Narnia needs us all to get to this Cair Paravel, should I go there and at least take my seat?"

Mister Tumnus was quiet for a long time before he nodded. "I don't like the idea of putting you in even more danger, but if the prophecy is coming true than you're already in too deep for me to shuffle you back home. Yes, alright—I'll take you there myself. Mister Beaver mentioned there's a rumor that there's a resistance forming in the east. If I can get you to them, maybe they can safely get you to Cair Paravel. I hope you brought comfortable walking shoes, Lucy, because we'll have a long walk tonight, once we the sun goes down."

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Someone, not a member of their court but a genuine well wisher, has given them a suncatcher. Susan watches as Lucy holds it up so the sun can light up the delicate glass panels of a water lily while Lucy looks back at her with a grin and taps one of the large crystals hanging from the bottom of the frame. “Do you know what color you get when all the colors come together?”

Susan considers what she remembers of her art lessons back at Saint Finbar's. “They become black, I believe.”

Lucy laughs. “Wrong!” She flicks the crystal and suddenly the room is awash with specks of rainbows as the light dances across the room and her sister's dimpled cheeks. “It becomes white light.”

Chuckling at her sister's delight, Susan watches the rainbows dance and sway and wonders when her little sister got so smart.

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Their brothers saved Lucy—when the debris went flying, when people were screaming, when the world seemed to rip itself apart around her, Peter and Edmund lunged for her at the last minute, tossing their arms around her. For a moment, as she was flung to the ground, she almost felt safe in their arms. And then there was only the CRUNCH followed by silence as shock turned down the volume on the world.

She lay, battered, bleeding, broken, but alive, in a cot on the floor as the hospital was full to capacity with survivors and those that almost made it. Susan found her somehow and it was that moment that sounds seemed to rush back in. Her elder sister fell on her knees next to her, reached for her swollen face, and delicately pressed kisses and tears anywhere she can.

Lucy let her; she closed her eye (the other one is sealed shut beneath bandages) and tried not to feel guilty as she wondered what it all meant. Was she unworthy of being let into Narnia? Had Aslan decided he had no need for her? Was there not a place for her in his grand plan?

Lucy lay quietly in her sister's loving arms and wondered why she'd been left behind as well.

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There was a prophecy once, of four human children, and how they would come from one world to save another. Throughout history, Tirian tells Peter during the times they are resting from their constant travels from one safe harbor to active war zone, a Son of Adam or a Daughter of Eve would appear to fight back the fear and darkness, to claim one of their thrones that still stand in Cair Paravel. Three times, a child has appeared, spurring Narnia to fight on, to stay strong for just a little longer. Despite the embellishments Jewel had given to his stories, Peter could pick through the details enough to know that Edmund, Susan, and Lucy had all made it to Narnia long before him, but he has no idea if they stayed for long, either because they returned home or because they died and the Narnians had carefully edited those details out so they could keep hope alive.

Looking around them, Peter wonders if that hope was worth it. There seems to be so little of Narnia left that’s worth saving—no one remembers who poisoned the earth anymore, or which side started this round of fighting, but there are countless bodies strewn about like a child tossed a box of toys across the ground in a fit.

Lying next to him, Tirian is weeping—they lost Jewel today, who fell to an arrow to save his best friend. Peter gets the sense that if he wasn’t there in that exact moment, Tirian might have willingly allowed the archers to take him too, but now a part of him wonders if he should feel guilty that he was. Closing his eyes, he reaches over to pull Tirian into his arms, to offer him what little comfort he can.

Was the hope worth all this misery? Peter prayed they would reach Cair Paravel soon—the path was finally open to them and they waited only until dawn to begin the long walk—and that he might finally know at last.

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Despite the fact, that he meets her literally at the end of all things, during his first steps into the True Narnia, whose glory was only now apparent to him, Tirian is still struck by Lucy the Valiant. It is not because of her beauty—and she is lovely, but her beauty is not like those of maidens in ballads or poems, but the beauty of kindness and warmth—or her wit or stately presence. When he first notices her, she’s hardly paying attention to anything going on around her, not out of disinterest of her family and friends, but because she is enraptured by an experience that leaves him wanting to know what she is feeling—could he feel even a tenth of the joy and awe she showed on her face in his soul, or was she an elevated being that he could only admire from afar.

And yet, she wasn’t some ethereal creature, too far above him to deign to speak to him; she was kind and generous and she only proved it to him every time he spoke to her thereafter. Every new day in paradise, he sought her presence and renewed his wonder of her every time. She turned out to be intelligent, sensible, brave, gracious, and so many other things. She was a true wonder to him.

But perhaps the most wonderful thing of all was the day that he said as much to her that she laughed, that warm, ringing sound, not cruel at all, and said, “Your words are kind, but I hope you realize I think all those things of you as well.”

He faltered, stumbling over his words to try and clarify exactly what he meant, but she only reached out and took his hand in hers.

“I know what you meant,” she said, smile wry but tone firm. “And I want to you to understand that I meant exactly the same sentiment too.”

Slowly, recovering from his shock, a smile crept over his face; half to hide his own smile, he lifted her hand to his lips.

She smiled back. Truly, it was a wondrous sight.

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They'd made a promise to each other, not even three months ago, and there was still a ring on Peridan's finger to prove it. He'd felt like his heart might tear itself apart from sheer joy when Edmund had slipped it onto his finger and the crowd had cheered.

It was supposed to be the start of an age of happiness for them. It was supposed to show that for as long as they lived, there'd always be someone by his side.

Now all around him are people still searching the woods, looking for a trace of his love or the other royals, and all the while people are looking to him as they closest thing they have to a king.

The ring on his finger had been a promise; now it felt like a curse.

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It’s not easy or fun, shrugging off the agony of rejection and bitterness that came with Aslan’s words. She puts on a good face for her siblings, mostly the younger pair, but everything tastes like ashes after he talked to her and Peter. As they walk through the archway and find themselves back on the train platform, a bleeding wound in her soul howls in an incandescent agony she hasn’t experienced since that night that she and Lucy watched the Lion walk to the Table with all their enemies hooting and hollering at what was to come.

Susan manages a smile at Edmund’s annoyed announcement of losing his new torch, finds a place to sit, and silently begins to sew up her own despair with stitches woven with the phrase “that didn’t happen, that didn’t happen, that didn’t happen” into her heart.

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“Oh, but, Ed, Father Christmas didn’t leave you out! Here, he sent this along for you,” Lucy shouts, a little overeager, too excited to be reunited with him and trying her best to ignore the strained tension between the four of them since he arrived in Aslan’s camp after his rescue.

She hands over a lumpy package wrapped in butcher paper—apparently, Mrs. Beaver wrapped it for them, to protect it during the journey—and it really does feel like Christmas as he tears the paper off. Inside, to his confusion, is a lantern although he doesn’t recognize it as such first. It’s perfect round and crisscrossed with rope that becomes a braided handle to carry it up at the top; there’s no opening or latch to put a candle in, but when he touches the rope, blue light shines like a beacon inside, making him jump.

His siblings look just as perplexed at him. “We’re not sure how you’re supposed to light it, but I’m sure we’ll figure out something,” Susan offers him kindly.

He blinks at her. “You don’t see the light?” Their confusion doubles and he realizes the lantern’s light is only for him to see. It’s an odd present; thoughtful, but not exactly a weapon for battle.

Still, years later, it makes for excellent use when one night, as he crept back to bed from a midnight snack, he’d use it to sneak up on an assassin outside Peter’s bedchambers. He finds out in that moment that it was also indestructible the whole time when he uses it to crack the assassin over the head.

Useful, indeed.

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            Edmund only meant to give Lucy a little scare, to just tease her a little when he saw her climbing back into the wardrobe, but when the fur coats and wood paneling give way to open air and stone floors, he was struck dumb. He was not in the wardrobe anymore, but he's also not in a snowy wood—there was snow at the windows, but he stood in a great castle. Not like the ruins of a castle his father once took him and his siblings to or even like the palaces he saw in magazines, but just as real. He wandered from room to room, looking for someone, but the place seemed empty. It was just about the time he was worried he was lost when he stumbled into the great throne room where four thrones stood.

            He walked up to them, touched them, sat on them until he found the one that felt the most right to him. He looked around the room and for a moment he let himself imagine an adoring crowd, cheering his name.

            "Quite like that spot do you?"

            Edmund jumped, startled out of his reverie as he scrambled off the throne.

            "Ah, you needn't have done that. We wouldn't have snitched!"

            Edmund looked around, trying to find the source of the voice, but the hall around him was still empty.

            "It's true. We've sat there a couple times ourselves. They're surprisingly comfy chairs, huh?"

            Slowly, he turned himself around, looking at the thrones; again, there was no people around. Instead, a pair of massive black birds, big as eagles, were staring down at him from the top of the throne he'd been sitting on. He let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Oh. Just a pair of big crows!"

            He almost started to say something nasty, to help himself get over his fright, but then one of the birds drew back as if he shook a stick at it. "A crow! Hardly! We're ravens, boy, ravens!"

            "You can tell," started the other one, shocking Edmund all over again, "because of our size. Ravens are bigger than crows."

            "Oh," Edmund said because he was honestly too surprised to even be snide.

            "There are other differences," the fussy one added with a huff, "but that will do for now."

            He wasn't really sure what to say to that; he'd heard that ravens and crows could mimic human speech, but this conversation went far past mimicry. Maybe this place wasn't Lucy's snowy wood, but it certainly wasn't England either. "Is this... am I really in Narnia?"

            "Where else would you be? Ettinsmoor?"

            "Hush, Huginn!" the gentler raven snapped before hopping off the top of the throne to land on the arm instead. "You're in Cair Paravel specifically. Boy, have you come from Anvard? Red Haven perhaps?"

            Edmund considered his words carefully before saying "England, actually."

            The two birds paused. "Can't say I've heard of that one," Huginn says. "Is it near Calormen?"

            "No, it's part of Britain. You know, Britain? The Emerald Isles?"

            "An island of emeralds! Fancy that. Is it a rich place?"

            Edmund, who was thoroughly getting sick of feeling like he was the odd one here, puffed his chest out and put his hands on his hips to feel more important. "Well, we ARE an empire that rules the seas."

            "I see," the gentler raven said, hopping closer. "Well then, boy of the Emerald Isle, of the empire that spans the sea, here's a question for you—do you have any siblings? Sisters and a brother perhaps?"

            "I... I do, actually," he admitted reluctantly, not sure where this topic was going. "Two sisters and a brother. But they aren't half as good as me, I'll tell you that one now!"

            Huginn seemed so startled that he forgot how to speak, instead clacking his beak together rapidly, like a child who was so happy to receive an unexpected gift that all they can do was fail their arms in happiness, while the other raven fluffed up her feathers before abruptly flattening them. "What's your name, boy?" the calmer raven asked.

            "Edmund," he answered, turning up his chin.

            "I am Muninn," the raven said and then suddenly took flight—she landed on Edmund's shoulder and turned with a hop so fast that he hardly had time to realize what she was doing. "And I have good news for you, Edmund."

            The bird wasn't heavy, but there was something in her words that made Edmund unsure; he was half tempted to tell her to get off him, but she was so large and her beak was so near his face he finds he was afraid to offend her. "And what's that?"

            "Edmund, son of Adam, if what you say is true, then you may sit upon that throne as much as you like, for the truth is that it's already yours."

            "I—how?"

            "It's true," Huginn added from his perch. "These thrones have been waiting for four siblings—two sons of Adam and two daughters of Eve—and if you're being honest, then they are without a doubt yours. They've been waiting for you lot since the White Witch started this winter."

            Edmund frowned—had Lucy said anything about a witch? She'd certainly mentioned winter, but he hadn't been paying close enough attention to know that maybe it hadn't be a natural winter. As much as he hated to admit, it sounded like he owed her an apology. But he quickly pushed that thought out of his mind and decided to instead focus on the idea that he was to be a king. "Do I have to share my power with my siblings?"

            The two ravens began to clatter their beaks, just as Huginn did before—Edmund got the sense that this appeared to be how they laughed. He wondered if this was something all Talking Ravens did, or if it was just these two in particular. "Ah, you can tell you've been forced to share the nest too long!"

            "Worry not, my future king," Muninn managed after a moment, "you will find that Narnia will make more than a big enough territory to share the skies with your siblings." She paused for a moment, shaking her wings to resettle her feathers. "I suppose we should go tell the owls about you, let them know that the prophecy is coming true."

            Huginn squawked. "Oh, stuff those overblown windbags!" He abandoned his perch on the throne to land on Edmund's other shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance, not that Huginn seemed to mind, even though Muninn snapped her beak at him. "Care for some treacle tart, your majesty? We just bargained for a new pot of clotted cream and the tart just got out of the oven."

            "Should be ready to eat now," Muninn added thoughtfully. "Alright, yes, let's forget the Parliament. We should more than suffice to explain what's going on."

            "How about it, future king? Care for a snack and a chat?"

            Edmund considered the offer—there was a lot to absorb already, but he hadn't had a proper desert since rationing had started and he did like the sound of being king. And, in spite of their loud, talkative natures, he didn't think the ravens meant him any harm. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt. Lead they way!"

            With some more clattering of their beaks, the two birds leapt from his shoulders and sailed out of the room, almost too fast for him to keep up.

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            When the door opened, Susan had jumped to her feet reflexively; her groaning stomach had hoped that someone was bringing her something to eat, but she froze when she saw that is was no servant bearing food, but Jadis the queen stepping into her room. Terror froze her blood, but she forced herself to curtsy. "Greetings, your majesty," she says, despite the way her teeth chattered, and forced herself to utter as many niceties as necessary until Jadis finally bid her to silence.

            Jadis sat in the one chair in the room so Susan was forced to stay standing; Jadis mentioned something about it being "so unfortunate" that she'd been busy with some matter or another to come look after Susan, as if she was a pet Jadis had bought on a whim but really had no time for. Susan kept her mouth clamped shut and tried to listen to what was said between the lines. Something was keeping the queen busy, something too important for her to personally make sure that Susan was still secure. Had Jadis discovered Susan's brothers and sister? Was the war truly started? Was the figure, who featured in so many whispered conversations outside of Susan's door, called Aslan really "on the move", whatever that meant?

            She was so busy trying to guess what was happening outside her prison, Susan entirely missed when Jadis drew out her wand. The only thing that caught her attention was when Jadis actually said the name Aslan out loud. "My reports say that supporters of the usurper, Aslan, are trying to unite together to form a proper army against me," she sneered, startling Susan with the sheer amount of revulsion she put into the name of her enemy. "They think that if they join forces that they might have call him to their side. So much faith they put in him! But they will sorely be mistaken, even if he does show up. You know, he's not a tame lion," she said with a smirk, a vile, awful turn of her lips that made Susan shudder. "He's not some sweet, doting kitten that forgives them their every trespass. He looks upon people and judges them in an instant whether they are worthy of his aid or not—they do not even get the chance to argue their case."

            Susan felt her stomach sink and wondered what the hell the Witch was getting at. "I'm afraid I don't follow your meaning, your majesty."

            Jadis's lips parted in the most sinister grin. "That is hardly a surprise, so I tell you what! I shall give you an example—no! A demonstration."

            Her stomach sunk before, but now Susan could feel her stomach smacking to the ground in her terror. Unconsciously, she took a step back, but Jadis was on her feet in an instant. Jadis had her arm in a vice tight grip as she lifted Susan off the ground. There are at least three response to fear—the most commonly known ones are Fight or Flight, but Susan's body, knowing damn well that Jadis could snap her arm in an instant if she so chose, chose Freeze instead. She hung, limp dead weight, staring helplessly up at Jadis.

            And then Jadis lifted her wand and pointed it at Susan's arm. In her memory, Susan could clearly recall the horror of seeing a Talking Beast turned to stone, and it seemed obvious what was coming next. Paralysis gave way instantly to panicked thrashing as Susan's brain began to scream contradictory orders so fast that her body had no idea what to do first. She tried, at the very least, to pry Jadis's fingers off her wrist, but that didn't stop Jadis as she drove her wand so forcefully into Susan's arm, Susan was sure the Witch meant to skewer her arm all the way through.

            Susan waited in horror for the feeling of frigid petrification to creep up her body, but she was surprised when all she felt was the pain of being stabbed in the arm with a dull wand. That initial pain, however, gave way to searing agony, a burning ache that raced up her arm and throughout her body.

            Distantly, she felt Jadis drop her to the cold floor, but ice did nothing to conflict with the raging inferno in Susan's blood. Was she screaming? God, she wanted to! Maybe if she could pry her mouth open and howl, maybe some of her agony would escape through her voice and spare her. Instead, she twisted and writhed, lost to the pain.

            Finally, she came back to herself in time for Jadis to grab Susan by the scruff of her neck and lift her up like a misbehaving kitten. She turned and forced Susan to look at the mirror on one side of the room. It was funny—she hadn't thought much of the mirror at the time, but in retrospect, if she remembered her history lessons correctly, having a mirror that large must have cost Jadis an obscene amount of money. And even more hilarious, it didn't even seem to work properly! There was Jadis in the reflection, but Susan couldn't see herself at all—just Jadis and the twisted, misshapen creature in her grasp.

            And then Susan abruptly returned to lucidity; the creature in the mirror also widened its eyes and began to shake.

            Jadis smirked as she gripped Susan's chin while in the mirror her reflection clutched at the lupine snout. "Let's see if Aslan will dote on you now when you're no longer his precious little human girl. I'd like to see him fulfill his little prophecy short one human brat."

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            Narnia is dying; Aslan had said as much after he arrived, all but saying he’d appeared to only put Narnia to bed at last. Peter looks out at the decimated land that he was now technically king of (co-king?) and doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or cry. All those years he’s wandered this land with only Tirian and their comrades by his side, trying to save this land that his siblings worked so hard to safeguard in the past, and all he has left is a surprisingly pristine throne and Tirian. It was funny, but part of himself had really thought that him finally getting to sit on the throne would have done something to actually aid Narnia. Maybe not heal the land itself, but just... something.

            Tirian sits, just as Aslan told them both to do, so Peter joins him in looking at their dying world in silence for a moment before Tirian at last speaks. “We succeeded, didn’t we?” His voice is so small, sounding as young as it did the first night Peter met him. “We won, right?”

            Peter looked at him and tried to imagine what would of his siblings might have said—would they say that they had, if you would looked at it a certain way? Would they be honest and admit that it certainly didn’t feel like it?

            Peter didn't know—it’d been so long since he’d seen any of them—and he had no idea what to say in this moment. “We did what we could,” he managed at last. “The rest is up to Aslan.”

            He wasn’t sure what effect he’d hoped his words would have on Tirian, but he could see something guttering out behind the king's eyes. “Was it worth it?”

            God, what could he say to that?

            Words failing him, Peter did the only thing he could to offer Tirian even the smallest comfort and leaned forward to press his mouth against Tirian’s. Far off, the heard the roar of the Lion (“TIME!”) and all the light seemed to be vanishing from the world, but if only for a moment, at least they got to taste something soft and free of pain.