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            Shortly before her birth, a dryad walked into her father’s court and announced she had a message from the local mountain god; when prompted to speak, she told them of a prophecy the god had foreseen, where their child, named Swanwhite, would bring about the doom of Narnia.

            “But that's easy to avoid!” her father, the king laughed. “We shall simply not name her Swanwhite. Problem solved.”

            There was a good bit of laughs and no one spoke much of it. Three months later, the queen gave birth to child almost as dark as she, but she did not live long enough to name her firstborn. The king, weeping, gave her a normal enough name for the time and promptly forgot the prophecy as he was certain it was averted.

            But while the prophecy couldn’t be fulfilled, the king was not at ease, for his daughter never quite recovered from the illness that had taken her mother and brought on her early birth. She was frail and tiny, growing worse every year. Her father refused to lose her like he had his queen, and so focused on saving her. He went to every doctor and healer in Narnia, spoke to every scholar, medicine man, and priest, tried every medicine prescribed and potion made. When human medicine and faith failed him, he turned to the centaurs and dryads, the dwarves and talking animals.

            It was a pegasus who reminded him of the tale of the creation of Narnia, as all flying horses liked that story and liked reminding people of their glorious ancestor. She reminded him that at the end of the world was a secret orchard, whose fruit could heal the infirm and revive those near death.

            Desperate, the king took his army and marched north until he could reach the end of the world. But, traveling far and wide, he could not find the sacred grove. They fought off vicious giants, they climbed every mountain, but still there was no sight of the garden.

            At last, the king laid upon the ground and wept and wept until at last he fell asleep. In his dreams, Aslan came to him, eyes stern as he reminded the king that he had a kingdom to run and his people needed him. But how, the king cried, could he return without a way to save his daughter?

            “Your people are also your children. Will you abandon them for the sake of a single child?”

            Still the king cried that he could not lose her. In his dream, Aslan shook his head, but the great lion was not so hateful that he would allow the child to die. Instead, he told the king to return home and to go to the Tree of Protection; if he picked a single fruit from its branches, his daughter would live. If he plucked two to feed her, she would grow strong enough to live for forty years. If he plucked three, she would thrive and live forever.

            At once, the king woke and hurried his forces back home; he went to the Tree of Protection which still grew beautiful and strong. Climbing up, he picked the first apple and the birds stopped singing. Reaching again, the birds flew to him, begging him to stop, but still he picked another silver apple. At last, he reached out one more time. The birds pulled at his clothes and batted at his hands, but still he picked the apple.

            The great tree groaned as if it was struck by an ax. Frightened by the noise, the king climbed down and hurried to his home with his prizes.

            He cut the apples into small pieces and held each one to his daughter's lips, begging her to eat. At first, she begged that she was not hungry, but after his piteous cries, she relented and ate. At the first bite, she felt suddenly awake; she ate another and felt as though she could sit up in bed. She ate piece after piece until she tossed off her bed covers and began to dance.

            Oh, how the king cried with joy to see his daughter healthy and whole, but his joy turned to shock as her dark coloring began to change before his eyes, her hair going white, her eyes to pink, and her skin hardly look like blood flowed through it at all.

            “Why,” a young nursemaid, very newly arrived to the palace from the countryside and ignorant of the prophecy, laughed, “our princess is as white as a swan! Swanwhite!”

            The king paled at the woman’s words, and suddenly, he understood what he’d done.

            And far to the north, Jadis smiled as she felt the tree weaken and knew her trick had worked. As she ordered her forces come to her, she sent a great storm down from the north, to knock the Tree of Protection down before her arrival.

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            There was a prophecy before her birth—a dryad walked into her father’s court and announced that a mountain god foretold that his daughter would bear the name Swanwhite and that she would cause their doom. Her parents had tried to avert their unhappy fate, but it was as if destiny was a living, writhing thing that twisted and contorted until the road to their end was clear.

            Ever since the Tree of Protection fell in the great windstorm, Swanwhite knew her fate was marching towards her, but she wondered if it came on soft feet as an assassin or the thundering echoes of thousands of soldiers. She had no heir—yet another cruel twist that no suitable man would dare tempt fate to marry such an ill omened woman—but she doubted it would matter. Would she even live long enough to see another spring?

            Winter was coming early that year and she wondered if her death marched with it.

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            “The queen is dead! Long live the queen!”

            Jadis hears the mourning cries for Swanwhite, the last Narnian queen, and makes her move, winter's first frost following in her wake as she moves to the castle.

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            Peter was nearly a year and a half when his parents brought home the new baby from wherever it was you go to get babies (he wasn’t exactly clear on this part); he was thrilled to escape the care of grumpy Aunt Alberta, but he drew up short when his mother appeared with a bundle in her arms.

            “Well, Pete,” his father asked him after he helped his wife get comfortable on the couch, “ready to meet your new little sister?”

            Eyes wide, Peter nodded; his father then picked up and put him on the sofa. Quickly, Peter wriggled over to his mother and craned his neck around to see into the bundle of blankets his mother was still carrying, making a questioning sound as he did so.

            “Peter,” his mother began, voice soft and warm, as she obliged and parted the blankets enough for him to peer in, “meet Susan.”

            Inside, a dark pink face, scrunched up and frowning, suddenly twitched and Peter’s jaw dropped as what he had assumed was a doll opened its eyes for a moment and smacked its lips. Like magic, the face seemed to focus on him before the eyelids shuttered close and the whole bundle shifted as his sister hunkered back down into sleep.

            Astonished, Peter sat back for a moment. For months, his parents had been cooing and teasing him about “the new baby” coming, but a concept as vague as a “sister” had eluded him until this very moment. Suddenly, he understood—his sister wasn’t some interesting new toy, but a thing that lived and breathed. His parents had promised intriguing things like “when she gets bigger, you’ll have a new playmate, won’t that be fun?” but he hadn’t really understood it. Now, he did; his parents must have used magic to make her appear. She was so small and quiet and beautiful, so it must have been some really good magic to make her too.

            He held out his hands to her. “Mine!” he half shouted, opening and shutting his hands to signal that he wanted to hold her.

            All the adults burst into laughter, but they did let him hold after they repositioned him on the sofa. After a lot of fussing, his mother finally laid the heavy bundle in his arms and he was suddenly face to face with the magical creature his parents had made, for sisters surely had to be magical. Dark wispy strands swept across her brow and he barely spotted the flash of blue eyes and her plump pink cheeks looked so soft; he pressed his cheek against hers to check and the grownups all cooed over him. Yes, surely his sister was magic, and it was the best kind at that.

            “Mine,” he murmured again, careful not to shout again. “My Su.”

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            It’s treated like an honor, as if he’s passed into manhood. Aslan takes Peter’s sword and knights him, and when it's done, he tries to figure out if he feels different now. More adult. As he rises, Lucy comes to fling her arms around him, but when he steps towards Susan (Are you alright-?), she steps back, eyes locked on his sword and the mound of meat and fur still lying in the grass behind him.

            Looking at her, he doesn’t feel more adult. He feels like he wants to vomit.

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            When Lucy had asked the gryphon what it was like to see Narnia from high in the sky, she hadn’t meant it as a sneaky way to ask for a ride, but Rhodes had been all too happy to offer her a chance to see for herself. It took a lot of restraint not to squeal in delight, but she managed to keep her composure right until she climbed onto his back and then he launched into the air.

            Despite the wind whipping ferociously around her face, she couldn’t resist an awed gasp as she looked down not just at Aslan's camp or the river or forest, but at what felt like the whole world. Up here, she felt as though the horizon was just something to grasp, that the country below was just something she could sweep into her arms to protect, a treasure worth giving her all for.

            Rhodes laughed at her glee and told her to hold on as he folded his wings and spiraled into a barrel roll; with a whoop of joy, she gripped his feathers and mused what wonder he'd show her next.

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            For a long time, Peter just didn’t get Edmund; now, part of that was because Edmund was, in fact, a little shit, but he hadn’t really understood why he’d been that way either as the war and the rationing and the bombing was just as hard on him as it was any of them. They all missed their father just as badly. And yet, you didn’t see him or Susan or Lucy running off to go join a Witch at the drop of the hat, now did you?

            However, time has a way of peeling back the masks and secrets and lies to reveal one sad, lonely boy to another. They were the same and yet infinitely different and all the better for it. Edmund was another perspective, a voice for a differing opinion, another insight who could derail Peter’s stubborn, misguided plans with a few well timed words. Another king that Peter knew he could entrust the safety of Narnia and their sisters to.

            Peter would die for Edmund all because of the accident of their shared blood.

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            Susan is terrified of her new guards, Lucy can see that in a heartbeat, so she makes it her mission to prove to her sister that she should trust Aslan and her new guards, whether they are wolves or not. She can’t really blame her sister for her fear anyway, but she has faith in Aslan, so she always keep her chin up and meet the wolf guards face on, something that she would force herself to do even when she met the other wolf packs of Narnia. She would screw her courage to its sticking place and greet her lupine subjects just as she would anyone else—politely and with the offer of friendship.

            It was a surprise how many wolves would demurely bow to her, allow her to walk into their dens, and play with their pups with nary a snarl or growl.

            “I would understand if they did,” she admitted once to the head of Susan’s guard, the great dark wolf Frigga. “I know I can get a little carried away, but everyone’s always so patient with me.”

            “Of course they are, your majesty,” Frigga replies as she finishes smoothing down a stubborn lock of fur, and Lucy expects for her to say that it’s because she is their queen or that the wolves are still trying to prove their worth after the years of traitors who served the White Witch. Instead, Frigga turns back with a knowing look and says “No wolf would dare harm you. We wolves have no business hunting lionesses.”

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            “Whatever you do,” Hylonome the centaur and former spymaster of Narnia says right before the meeting starts, “don’t try to pet them without their permission.”

            Edmund gives his predecessor a look, but she’s already calling the spy in to the room and Edmund’s eyebrows drift up at the small creature that scurries into the room—he’s never seen a chinchilla before and the best he can describe it is a sort of crossbreed between a mouse, rabbit, and squirrel and while she does look fairly fluffy, he doesn’t think much of her coat at first.

            The meeting goes fast—Zazil is cheerful and direct with her reports and by the end of it, Edmund gets the feeling that Hylonome was entirely correct to designate her as the coordinator to the far north. As the meeting closes, Zazil hopped over to him and wiggled her whiskers at him. “I believe we shall make excellent partners, your majesty. Now, by your leave, I will return to my post, but if you should like before I leave, you may pet me.”

            Edmund blinks, genuinely not sure what to make of that—when he glances up at Hylonome, she looks truly envious though, so he decides that he just has to see what all this fuss is about.

            When his fingers touch her fur, he is shocked as his fingertips keep sinking in and are enveloped in the softest fur he’s ever touched in his life, which is saying something as he has been exposed to more animal species than he thinks a zoo worker would handle in a lifetime, but nothing has prepared him for this. Lucy and Susan are going to kill him for this if they find out what they've been missing all this time.

            “Zazil,” he begins, sitting back. “You might have the most amazing coat of fur I’ve ever had the privilege to touch.”

            She beams at him. “Any chinchilla worth their salt knows how to keep their coat soft and healthy, but I thank you all the same. A pleasure, your majesty.”

            “The pleasure was mine,” he insists but waves his goodbye as he dismisses her. As she vanishes out the door and turns to look up at Hylonome who is still sighing. “Don’t let my sisters know how soft their fur is,” he announces with a grin, “or I'm afraid that any chinchilla they meet might be swept up in their arms and never be allowed to escape again.”

            “Could they be blamed though?” the centaur mused, making Edmund laugh.

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            Edmund is the first to find the salamanders and it’s entirely on accident; he is training under Hylonome, the soon to be retired spymaster, and he is going to toss some documents into the fireplace—paper trails can be a dangerous thing—when he looks away from the centaur towards the fire as he goes to pitch in the papers and yelps in horror. There, laying on the sizzling, popping logs, are three large salamanders; black with large yellow splotches, he almost missed them at first, but then he looks around for the fire poker or something else he could use to get them out of the flames.

            The centaur groans as she leverages herself off the ground—her bad leg would never recover and it pained her to move fast, hence her impending retirement—and steps over to see what his fussing is about. “Oh, them. I beg your pardon, your majesty, I forgot to introduce you. These are some of our recruits. Nissi, Troli, Dimil, pay your respects.”

            The three salamanders look up and something interesting happens—their bodies flicker, the colors shifting from black and yellow to reds and oranges and browns and once again back to blacks and yellows. They were effectively invisible against the burning logs and Edmund understands instantly just how handy a trio of camouflaging creatures might be for a spy network. “Greetings, your majesty,” the largest squeaks and then quickly sets about introducing both itself (Nissi) and the other two (the smallest was Troli and the last was Dimil). “We don’t usually stay in this room, but you can position us wherever you think best.”

            “In a dwarven forge would be nice,” Dimil mutters, prompting a scolding from Troli.

            Edmund grins, ideas already blooming in his mind. “Well, if we happen to run into some questionable dwarven families we want spied on, I’ll know exactly who to turn to.”

            Dimil beams while the other two roll their bulbous eyes.

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            The sylphs, who were insistent in the idea that they were not wind nymphs and admittedly did look a lot like human sized winged fairies and not so nymph-like, were the trickiest species of Narnians to spot. They rode into Narnia on the summer storms, like dolphins surfing on a bow wave, and rarely deigned to drop low enough to be seen by land dwellers.

            The first time Lucy saw a pod of them outside one of the balconies, she nearly accepted their open hands as they called to her to come dance with them. And yet, when Odette swept forward and tossed her arms around Lucy with a pointed statement of “Her majesty can’t fly. You’ll have to find another playmate,” they only grinned at Lucy with jagged teeth that would give sharks pause as they shouted “a shame!” and vanished into the breeze.

            It was a stark reminder that even the prettiest, daintiest citizen of Narnia was in no way human and was not always the most innocent of figures.

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            Susan saw Freya tense up before she saw what set her guard off; there, standing under in the doorway of a moss covered building, was a massive black dog. Nearly as tall as a Talking dog, he watched them from his position but didn’t respond after Freya ordered him to identify himself. He was still and as silent as the many stones, really small boulders, that were strewn randomly around them. Worried that they’d offended what could be a Talking creature, Susan lifted her skirts and began to walk forward to defuse the situation, but when she put her foot on one of the rocks to step over it, the dog suddenly let a shockingly deep and echoing growl, hackles up and dark eyes nearly glowing in intensity.

            Freya was quick to snarl back, crouching as she prepared to run at her new foe and Susan froze as suddenly the rest of her guard surged up around her. Susan opened her mouth to command them to stop, but her head guard’s voice cut through before she could speak.

            “Halt!" The three other wolves paused as their mother wound past Susan and her children to step up to the front of the group; next to the dark fur of Freya, the dog was black as pitch and his eyes truly seemed to burn as he continued his warning growl. Frigga glanced between him, her daughters, and finally back to Susan before she finally called out. “Your majesty, please take a step back.”

            Susan nearly jumped from the tension, but instead she carefully obeyed. The moment her foot left the stone, the growling stopped.

            Ah, she thought, I see. Bending down, she reached out and swept the damp leaf litter—even in the height of summer, this forgotten gorge was still cool with the chill of one hundred years of winter trapped in the stones—and found dwarven runes carved into the stone.

            Clearing her throat, she turned to Luna, the wolf closest to her. “Luna, go fetch the other group and let them know we’ve found the graveyard. And its Church Grim at that.”

            While her one guard hurried off to find Lucy and the dwarves who’d been searching for their ancestral chapel and burial grounds, Susan walked forward with a far more careful step until she could reach the Church Grim. “My deepest apologies for carelessly disrespecting any of your charges. You see, we have traveled here with dwarves of the Crescentblade family and we were looking for their ancestors.”

            The Grim, who had been watching her silently, huffed and turned, walking back to the building—the chapel. He paused at the doorway and Susan quickly followed him.

            There were few standing structures that’d fared as well as Cair Paravel through the reign of the White Witch, but dwarven architecture held firm no matter the level of neglect, so she found the inside dusty, but solid as though the building had been shut up for a few months rather than a century. The Grim, however, left her no time to gawk and she had to hurry after him as he slipped out of the sanctuary to a side room. Inside were walls lined with shelves and cubby holes—scrolls and books, the ledgers of the chapel and of the dead that lay outside and within the walls. In here lay all the information that the Crescentblade dwarves would need to find their ancestors.

            Turning, she faced the Grim and offered him a curtsy. “You have our gratitude, both the dwarves’ and ours, the rulers of Narnia.”

            The Grim twitched one ear and nodded before stepping directly into a shadow, returning to his perpetual duty of guarding the chapel and its dead. It would be another decade before she would see him again, traveling in a funeral procession for a dwarven courtier to their ancestral burial grounds. She would stay with the rest of the non-dwarven mourners as the dwarves continued into the building to conduct their private rituals, but as she watched the priests step out to welcome the procession, one old priest, perched on a chair at the door as guard, would turn and reach out to give a scratch to the wary Grim, who tracked every moment of the group, silent and protective and faithful as ever.

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            She knows she's being Silly and a coward—even though the wolf pack had been appointed Susan's royal guards by Aslan himself, that they've been nothing but loyal and kind and courteous since the final battle against the Witch, she still flinches as Frigga noses her bare fingers.

            “Please return to the cave for now, your majesty,” she murmurs softly and for once Susan remembers that Frigga is a mother. “The blizzard will pass soon and then we shall escort you home. The cave may not be much, but your limbs will not freeze and rot inside.”

            She means it earnestly, but like everything else her Captain of the Guard does, she's still unsettling; Susan forces herself to take a breath and nod. “Yes, of course, you’re right.”

            At least the pile of sleeping wolves are warm and her guards good natured as Susan beds down for the night and tries to remember that despite winter coming early this far north, that it is only a freak blizzard and not all wolves mean to bloody their teeth with her flesh.

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            Lucy is, by nature, lively, cheerful, honest, and forgiving, among many other things; these qualities are commendable in even small quantities, but in Lucy they are bountiful. It is nigh impossible not to love her when she turns to you, smile full of warm kindness and genuine interest, and makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world she wants to see in that moment.

            But those qualities are not necessarily helpful to a queen—mercy is a virtue, but can become foolishness when doled out to the wrong people. High spirits can grate on those you can’t afford to offend. And honesty?

            Well, sometimes Lucy’s just grateful she’s not the only monarch sitting on a throne in Cair Paravel.

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            If asked, Father Christmas might admit to a special feeling of vindictiveness as his reindeer easily sailed into Narnia, the sleigh humming smoothly along—hard to imagine that only last winter was the first time he’d been able to enter the country in one hundred years. That vengeful harpy of a witch was truly gone and he knew no other nation’s people would be half so happy as Narnians to see him this year.

            In Narnia, his delivery took much longer than a single night—after all, Narnians were still slowly creeping out of the woodwork, and they always needed a moment to stop weeping from joy when they saw him. It was, after all, a very rough century. He owed it to them, and he did have a solid twelve days to make his rounds. No worry.

            The twelfth day, he finally arrived in Cair Paravel. It was tradition to give the royal citadel its presents last, and when his sleigh pulled in, it seemed as though the stone walls were about to fly apart at the seams from the press of human and creatures alike pressing against every window, trying to spot him. He raised a hand in a wave to greet the two kings and two queens and then lifted his sack to the roar of approval of those inside.

            The winter had been long and hard for one hundred years, but Christmas was here once more; they would endure yet again, for spring to return, as it would always come. For now, however, was feasting and presents—he let the monarchs lead him into their home and joined the warmth and merrymaking inside.

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            The trees in the north always hibernate deeper in the winter than the ones in the other regions of Narnia, so after the battle with the Witch and the many skirmishes of the remaining forces, a new tradition starts up. Lucy, the only monarch that could be reasonably spared, makes the trip up there to join the locals. She climbs up on top of a stage so that everyone can see her and performs the first cheerful shout of "Spring! Spring is here! Awake and join our dance!" before the many fauns begin to play their instruments and the nymphs begin to sway and the merry romp begins.

            There is no special steps to the dance, no specific songs or shouts, but everyone takes off into the forest, dancing and laughing and singing and smacking the trees to wake them up. Sometimes the dance will go on long into the night, but no one will willingly stop until every tree shifts and yawns itself awake.

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            Susan looked up from her teacup as Rattlerun tumbled through the open window and straight into the side of Lord Jackatooth, who luckily was a very laidback sort of flat coat retriever and so only huffed and went back to his teacup, all while the squirrel was shouting “I’ve done it, I'm all done!”

            Lucy giggled behind her cup while Susan arched a brow and helped untangle the flailing squirrel from the dog's longhaired fur before offering him a chair and a biscuit. “While it’s good to see you too, Rattlerun, perhaps next time you should try the door instead.”

            “Ah, yes, awfully sorry about that, missed the landing, but, but! I have much more important news than that,” he shouted and before any of them could politely ask, he tossed his paws up in the air and shouted “I’ve finally finished storing all my nuts for winter!”

            There was a long pause where Lucy blew a few accidental bubbles into her tea, the dog tried to disguise his laugh as a huff, and Susan bit her lip to keep from smiling. “Oh? Just now?”

            “Just now! Ah, but I meant to tell King Peter first as I promised to report to him the moment I was done, so, please, excuse me, your majesties,” and like that he was gone, running out the door.

            Lucy grinned after him and turned to Susan, opening her mouth to ask “when do you think we shall tell him it’s April?”

            “Absolutely never,” Susan answered and went back to her tea.

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            Lucy is truly fond of the guards that Aslan has chosen for her—Odette and Odile, the two Swan Maidens that share the same face but not the same blood, are not chatty but are deeply amusing with their playful, mischievous ways. Whenever Susan or someone else tries to stop Lucy from climbing trees, jumping in rivers fully clothed, and running off into the night, it’s her two guards that are boosting her up the trees, jumping in with her, or carrying the torches.

            Tonight however, when Lucy sees something moving among the trees, far from the flickering bonfire, her guards block her path when she turns to go investigate.

            “Not tonight, my lady,” Odile murmurs, rooted as a tree but voice soothing as a cool drink. “We stick to the bonfires tonight. May-ing is for tomorrow.”

            She furrows her brow. “Oh, but it’s just that I thought I saw-”

            Odette doesn’t allow her to finish—instead, she surprises Lucy by pulling her down with her as she sits by the fire, letting the young queen fall into her lap. “No adventures tonight,” she echoes her fellow Maiden. “There are more witches than just Jadis in these lands and tonight is their night to frolic.”

            Lucy frowns and looks back to the woods; for a moment, she spots two pricks of light that she can track before they turn and vanish behind a tree. She bites back her gasp and grips Odette's arm. “We should tell the others—get my brothers and Susan—we could call the knights to-!”

            “No,” Odile interrupts as she kneels down and encircles her arms around Lucy and Odette at once—it feels as though Lucy is being wrapped in a cloak and she swears she could hear feathers rustling. She imagines this is what a cygnet feels when cuddled up between its parents for the night. “This is their night, their right. Tonight is the Witch’s Sabbath, as is their due. But we will be safe, as will any who stays near the fires.”

            “So, no running off,” Odette repeats.

            Out in the darkness, Lucy hears a sound that might have been an owl’s call. Maybe.

            Turning her head back to the fire, Lucy remembers that discretion is the better part of bravery and decides to stay near the fire instead.

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            The bonfires from the night before are allowed to gutter into ash as the sun goes up; Lucy wakes up from where Odette, her Swan Maiden guard, had tucked her into her arms the night before, next to the smoldering ashes. Mister Tumnus smiles as he offers her first a wrap to fight off the chill in the spring air before also offering her a basket and then his hand as they head into the hills.

            It takes them most of the morning to gather up enough supplies, constantly exchanging baskets full of flowers and green boughs for empty ones from hares who rush those baskets to carts that will take the baskets back to Cair Paravel. Once the final basket is filled, Lucy falls, half exhausted, into a cart and rides with a pile of sleeping hares and Tumnus while her guards fly on wing above the cart.

            Back at Cair Paravel, Peter lifts Lucy out of back of the cart and hands her off to her guards who will carry her up to bed to sleep for a few precious hours. Meanwhile, Susan braids the flowers into garlands with a small army of rabbits, badgers, and clever fingered squirrels who work on the garlands and wreathes that are quickly taken by a fleet of every sort of bird available, either placing them whether possible in the castle or flitting out to drop them in baskets of locals who will take them to dress up their own homes for the day. Outside, Edmund is helping local farmers round up their cattle for the ceremonial cleansing smoke to waft over them as they are herded past the newly lit bonfires while Peter rushes forward to help raise the May Pole.

            It’s late in the afternoon by the time the cattle are blessed, the castle freshened by the many bouquets and wreathes and garlands, and Lucy wakes from her nap. As quick as she can, she runs down to help in the final preparations for the feast and joins her siblings in presiding over the great meal before they at last head outside to complete the final festivities.

            The dance around the May Pole and all the plays are done, but at last the four monarchs take their place before the bonfire. The boys shed their capes and the girls bunch up their skirts; Peter goes first, leaping over the fire in a big jump, Susan following, then Edmund, and then Lucy although there is a moment of trepidation that she won’t clear it. She lands safely across and the crowd roars their approval. Now that they have jumped the flames to earn the blessing for Narnia’s crops, others rush forward to take their own leaps.

            With this last challenge, the four monarchs take their time to enjoy the great bonfires and singing as the stars appear high above the smoke, winking their blessings down upon the land below.

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            Susan smiles beatifically at Jewel while Lucy winces next to her. This is Jewel’s first batch of kittens and she is immensely proud of her four little ones, each one bright eyed and downy coated. “They’re beautiful,” Susan says completely straight faced as one little calico nearly rips her thumb open with his needle claws.

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            “You might be fluffier, but we are obviously much more handsome,” the lead debater from the river otters declared, but before Lucy could scold him for saying something so mean, the sea otter leader held up one—admittedly super adorable—paw.

            “That may or may not be true, but-” there was a startled gasp from the others as she suddenly produced a rock from the folds in her fur, “can you do this?”

            Lucy sat back, impressed, and whispered “sea otters have pockets-!”

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            Midsummer in Narnia begins well before dawn, with kitchen fires roaring to life not to cook food, but to warm great cauldrons of water—Midsummer begins with the purification rituals. For the monarchs, the day starts with Susan rousing a groggy Lucy while Peter all but pulls Edmund out of bed so they can steer their siblings down to the public baths. There, they help each other wash, scrubbing their skin pink with fragrant soaps while helpful servants massage oils into their hair. Only once they are clean can they join in their official duties for the celebrations. A favorite of most of their subjects is watching their monarchs roll up their sleeves and accept scrub brushes and buckets of water so that they themselves can scrub their thrones just as any scullery maid would work the laundry.

            The thrones purified, time turns for their subjects to feast and play, but the four monarchs are not done with their duties for the day—each go outside and would welcome a string of guests—the eldest of their subjects, people usually too frail to look after themselves properly, will stand before their monarchs as each king or queen would select a number of guests equal to their ages, and they would help their subjects to purify themselves with a bath, carefully trimming overgrown claws, combing knots out of fur, soothing stray feathers, and washing any grime until their subjects gleamed under the radiant summer sun.

            Only once all their guests were purified and bathed did they join in the long day of celebrating with food, music, and games, cheerfully honoring the might of the sun until they saluted it with raised glasses as it dipped below the horizon.

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            Susan knit her eyes shut and tried not to sigh, while next to her, Lucy giggled helplessly from mortification into her hands. Finally, Susan managed to clear her throat. “No, Lord Jackatooth, we and our brothers will not be separating this spring—humans do not go into heat. There's no need to worry about… in-breeding.”

            “Oh!” the retriever nodded, “what a relief that will be for the builders—I’ll cancel the proposal for the new rooms at once.”

            “See to it,” Susan managed as Lucy slid right out of her chair and hid under the table. She wished very much to join her and pretend that conversation had never happened in the first place.

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            The scream that tore through the western wing of Cair Paravel shook Lucy from her nap in time to nearly collide with Peter and half a dozen guards when they met outside Edmund’s door.

            Inside, a shaking maid gasped and choked on her fear, the plate of food she’d been carrying in splattered across the floor where she'd dropped it.

            Edmund, meanwhile, scowled at her from the other side of the room, covered almost entirely by a writhing, anxious carpet of bats, who’d been terrified at the screaming. “Madam, please,” Edmund managed with the last trace of patience he had while his siblings tried not to laugh at him, “you’re interrupting a very important military report!”

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            “Yeah, well, my tail might not be as long, but it’s way fluffier than yours!”

            There is a shocked silence as soon as the one cheetah cub finishes his shout only for his sister to turn to look up at Peter with indignant eyes. “Did you hear that, your majesty? Oh, tell on him, sire, tell on him to momma!”

            “Snitch! Tattletale!”

            Peter hid a smile behind his hand and tried to still his shaking shoulders, quaking with his repressed laughter. His secretary needed to get back, quickly, and claim her cubs or he was going to lose any ounce of credibility as a serious authority figure when he gave into the urge to just snuggle the two adorable cubs.

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            Peridan is fresh from Archenland and still halfway to the royal capital when they stop to spend the night in one of the royal residences that the crown(s) had told him to rest in should he need it on his trip. The manor is apparently a favorite of King Edmund, not that Peridan expects to see him there—surely he’s more caught up in some party or tourney going on in Cair Paravel.

            When he finds the young man in the practice hall with a fencing blade in hand, Peridan just assumes it’s some squire trying to get in some practice before his knight master calls him to service. The young man is friendly enough and Peridan finds himself grabbing a practice blade as well as they begin to spar.

            “Are you sure you have time for this? You won’t get in trouble for dawdling, will you?” he asks as he falls into a crouch.

            The other boy smiles as he bends his rapier, testing its flexibility. “Not likely. What of you? Aren’t you worried that someone might catch us?”

            It is Peridan's turn to scoff. “How would dare? The king? As if he’s even here.”

            That only seems to make the boy’s grin stretch wider. “You know, this is his favorite residence outside Cair Paravel.” He seemed pleased with his blade as he struck an unusual posture; Peridan had never seen such a style and nearly chuckled to realize he must be fencing an amateur. Well, he’d be nice—no need to insult a potential friend. “And I’ve heard he’s quite a fencer.”

            “I doubt it,” Peridan drawls. “Everyone says their king’s some legendary fighter or whatever and they always turn out to be party doting oafs at best from what I’ve seen.”

            “You’ve met many kings?”

            Well, no, but he didn’t need to know that. “Do you honestly think King Edmund is any different?”

            The boy’s smile turns into a smirk. “Only one way to find out.”

            Peridan has just a long enough moment to wonder why that answer sounded so teasing before the boy vanishes from his starting point and is already lunging at his head.

            The bout is abrupt and short and Peridan is feeling very, very silly as he lies sprawled on his back from where he fell over, but Edmund only laughs as he helps him up.

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            “This is the darkest of timelines, sister, mark my words.”

            Susan tries not to roll her eyes at Edmund's proclamation of ill tiding. “Let’s not be overdramatic, Ed.”

            Edmund, not to be spoken down to, lifts himself from the couch enough to shout. “I will not speak to him! Not until I have a written apology and a solemn oath to keep his dirty hands to himself and off of my things!”

            “Ed, it was some chocolate. I’ll order you a whole chocolate cake up from the kitchens if you want, but you have to let this go.”

            “Chocolate, Susan, it was MY chocolate! The one sweet that would never betray me,” he wails before turning to the door to shout at it. “Unlike my own brother!”

            Outside the door, Peter sighs while Lucy giggles at him.

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            “You’re really not good at this,” Edmund teases as holds his handkerchief to the shallow gash on Peridan's arm—it’s only bleeding sluggishly now and should be sealed up in just a moment, but for the sake of salvaging Peridan’s shirt before it gets blood on it, he’s trying to help.

            “You’re the one that did this to me!” Peridan insists as he laughs, and well, okay he has a point there. Still, he’s not going to be a bad sport about it and just sighs. “Forgive me for not a being a battle-tested knight.”

            Edmund snorts, checking the wound again—it’s definitely almost done bleeding, but he keeps pressing the handkerchief back down just to have an excuse to keep holding onto Peridan’s arm. “Relax. It all comes with practice.”

            “Practice,” Peridan echoes and Edmund finally can’t resist looking up into Peridan’s eyes and Aslan help him, their faces are so close together already. Wouldn’t it be okay just to lean a little closer? Just for a moment? Peridan licks his lips and Edmund feels shivers go down his spine, but then the lord is already speaking again and Edmund has to force his brain to pay attention. “I, um, I know plenty of other stuff that I already don’t need practice with.”

            Somehow, Edmund forces his gaze up to meet Peridan’s eyes and all he can do is mentally chant play it cool, don’t sound like an idiot, be casual! “And what, precisely, may those activities be?”

            Thank god, he got it first try.

            “Well. I could give you a demonstration.”

            Oh. Maybe Peridan also is good at this—Edmund would certainly have to admit that his kissing skills were up to snuff too. At least Edmund could still tease him about fencing skills instead.

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            “It’s wonderful!” Lucy gushes, and she truly means it; the colors are delicate and warm and inviting, and the painter has captured a beautiful, demure expression of her own face, although at the moment the cat looks far too pleased to be anything closed to demure. “You’ve done a great job. Tell me, do you do portraits of others or-“

            “Oh, no,” the painter interrupts before going on with a purr. “Only self portraits.”

            Lucy blinks, plan suddenly derailed; she glances at Mister Tumnus, who shrugs, as he’d honestly assumed the cat had brought her portfolio in to try and advertise herself for a position of court painter. Finally, Lucy manages a grin as she turns back. “Well, that’s lovely! Perhaps you’d allow us to show off your piece in our gallery. Lots of visitors come by-”

            “No, no,” she said. “My paintings will remain in my studio, so that I can enjoy them at my leisure.”

            Lucy pauses, pursing her lips before she finally manages to ask “so, did you bring this by just to show me the painting?”

            Content, the cat nodded, purring like a motor.

            “Oh! Well... how gracious of you.”

            The feline painter pressed one paw against Lucy’s knee with a satisfied smile. “I knew you’d understand me.”

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            Fencing, after you achieve a certain of level of competency, becomes a dance—one steps forward, the other retreats, like leading in a waltz—and if you’re careful, it’s hardly a struggle to hold a conversation.

            Well, in theory.

            “What is the matter, my king? No witty verbal riposte to go with your literal one?”

            “If your feet moved half as fast as your tongue,” Edmund began before lunging forward, forcing Peridan's epee up high as he locked it with his own sword. He leaned forward and pressed a peck to Peridan’s lips before smacking Peridan’s sword away and forcing him back. “I’d actually be in real trouble.”

            Peridan blinked, off guard in many ways. “I don’t believe that’s a legal tactic.”

            “Ah, well, all’s fair in love and war and all that. Care for another go?”

            Peridan slowly smiled. “Let’s.”

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            It was quite by accident that Edmund took up an affinity for birds—after he took over the position of spymaster from Hylonome when the centaur decided to retire to care for her wounds, he inherited her network of spies and informants. There was no animal too humble for him to turn to ask for information, but he had to admit that among his spies, the birds took the lead in usefulness.

            Owls were great for night missions and stealth, ravens and their sharp intelligence made for his best spies, and no one would usually notice the small but spunky hummingbirds that would flit around and pick up the gossip. Most foreigners didn't look twice at a parrot sitting on a perch in their rooms when those visitors would plot in their private quarters of the guest rooms of Cair Paravel. Gulls were all over the docks and pigeons flocked in every street; there was nowhere entirely free from his spies.

            And a hawk?

            Edmund could only grimly nod as he accepted the dead rabbit from his hawk informant in the predawn hours. “Traitor,” the hawk spat in fury, offering the bag of papers the rabbit had been hauling around, filled until the seams stretched with letters and reports that he'd been trying to secret into Archenland, no doubt heading south from there. “He had these with him when I caught him and then had the audacity to try and box me when he realized he wouldn’t get away.”

            Edmund looks through the papers, face tight, before he turns back to the bird. “You did commendably, Copper Wings. Narnia owes you its gratitude.”

            Well, when it comes to hawks, there are few better hunters than them in all his ranks.

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            Watching a selkie shed their pelt and take human shape for the first time is a great honor; Rhiannon, Peter’s secretary and scribe, had invited Lucy and her siblings only after she’d spent years with them, and even now Lucy knows that the invitation was one almost never granted to a human, Narnian royalty or not.

            So, now Lucy is crouched low—once the process started, she couldn’t resist crouching to see the transformation in detail—watching as Rhiannon’s eldest daughter grunts and writhes. And then, all at once, a hand above the left flipper pushes its way out of the fur and Lucy has to bite back a yelp of surprise even as Rhiannon and her family begin to laugh and cheer.

            Soon enough, the other arm pushes through and a moment later, half pulling herself free, Rhiannon’s daughter pushes her head out with a great gasp of air. She looks greatly like her mother—face wide and full and kind, if flushed with the effort. Lucy has to resist the urge to reach out and help pull the young girl free; Rhiannon had warned that it was forbidden to assist a pup’s first steps into shape shifting. To do so would curse the child with weakness, although Lucy wasn’t sure if that was just superstition or a real threat, so she didn’t dare even offer the girl a hand.

            Rhiannon’s daughter finally finishes pulling her way free, like a butterfly escaping its cocoon as her fur fell limp to the ground behind her. Now that she is out, Lucy couldn’t help springing forward and grabbing the pelt to cover the girl up. As she drapes the fur over her, the young selkie locks gazes with her for a moment before giving her a satisfied, toothy grin while the elders selkies laugh and clap Lucy on the back before reaching down to raise the newly humanoid girl into the air. There are cheers up and down the beach, both for her and for other selkie children who are crawling out of their own furs. The energy is electric, everyone laughing, cheering, and dancing in their joy, pulling Lucy along into the celebration of life. Tomorrow, she’ll have quite a report to give her siblings, but tonight is to be a party for the ages.

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            Edmund gets the unpleasant job of trying to gently break the news to Lord Dinnae that he's being removed as an advisor to the thrones, although he thankfully doesn’t have to explain that it’s due to the wolfhound's incompetence in the role. Lord Dinnae is the dopey sort of dog that is so genuinely pleased with the world around him as long as there’s food, soft beds, and good ear scratches, so when he hears the news, he only shrugs his boney shoulders.

            “That’s okay, your majesty—I’m told I make a better bed warmer than advisor anyway!”

            Peridan shifts in his seat next to Edmund and already the king is silently chanting Don’t say anything, don't say anything! at him on loop in his brain; unfortunately, neither he or Peridan have suddenly developed telepathy and his companion opens his mouth and inserts his foot directly. “Now, now, my lord, don’t go trying to take over my job.”

            Across the table, Susan chokes on her tea; Lucy claps a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter, not that it works well. Edmund pinches the bridge of his nose and thanks Aslan that at least Peter isn’t there to hear it, although he doesn't doubt his brother will be informed of this shortly. At least Peridan is already aware of what he just admitted and is quietly slumping in his chair so fast that he looks like he’s melting in an attempt to escape.

            Lord Dinnae only blinks. “Oh, I didn’t know that was a royal position already! Do you warm all the majesties’ beds for them?”

            Edmund wants to die, but Susan clears her throat. “Oh no, my lord. Just King Edmund’s.”

            Lucy has crawled under the table, stuffing her skirts into her mouth to smother her laughter, and Peridan is halfway under it as well. Edmund's tempted to join them, but then again, there is an open window—maybe if he throws himself out it, it’ll be a swift end to the humiliation. “Thank you for the clarification, sister.”

            Susan has the audacity to smile at him. “Happy to be of assistance, my lord.”

            It’s Lucy who delivers the devastating blow, giving up covering her laughter. “But not as happy to assist as Lord Peridan!”

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            There is a marked lack of statues in Cair Paravel; dignitaries and visitors are always a little baffled by Narnia's aversion to sculptures, but the monarchs’ smiles thin at such questions and conversation always changes fast when they come up.

            To be fair, there were very few statues at all in Narnia after the Witch’s reign ended; sure, there were some old ones still, but Jadis had taken a sick glee in destroying monuments to the past just so she could put some poor petrified soul up in the statue’s place, as a warning to those who would disobey.

            For people like Mister Tumnus, the loss of three dimensional arts was more of a blessing than sorrow; after all, no one liked to be reminded of their limbs going stiff, the chill creeping through their chest, and finally their last breath before their lungs stopped working.

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            In an odd way, it’s a blessing that Susan wasn't at Cair Paravel—Cair Nallins isn’t as big or grand as her home, but its lonely spot on the cape makes it a tempting morsel for pirates and raiders who have fallen on hard times since the Narnian navy grew large enough to defend the coast. It’s lucky that one of them was at the castle, taking stock of the supplies after the long winter and starting to replenish them, and Susan’s glad that at least her siblings are not the ones in danger.

            Staring out at the raiding ships on the water, knowing that already many of the enemy has disembarked to circle around them and block escape routes, Susan listens to reports and knows what must be done. Cair Nallins is not a military stronghold—it’s barely more than a shrine for the local sea gods—and most of the warriors here were actually her guards and escort she brought with her. But the walls were tall and thick, and there didn’t seem to be catapults on the ships, let alone Greek Fire. She just hopes the messenger birds she’d sent would reach her siblings in time.

            And in the meantime, she has work to do. “Go over the numbers of barrels of flour we have and calculate how many we will need to hold out before one of my siblings arrive with reinforcements. Once you have figured that out, bring the surplus to the outer gates. Should they charge the hold, light the barrels on fire and roll them in the direction of the attackers—when you do light them, they must be pushed away quickly, or you’ll be caught in the explosion, do you understand? Good. Now, go.”

            She moves on from there, giving orders, and closely watching as the ships creep closer and closer. At last, she hears one of the gates open, a pause, and then an explosion farther off. Hopefully, that will make them think twice about getting close again.

            But if it did not...

            Susan’s grip tightens on her bow, one arrow waiting to be notched; well, if the attackers think that Susan the Gentle meant Susan the Coward then they were going to get a harsh lesson in underestimating the Narnian queen.

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            Narnia is the domain of Aslan, it’s true, but he is not the only otherworldly figure that walks the land; there is Bacchus and his bride that come every year for the bacchanal, there is the river gods in every stream, and even Father Christmas every winter.

            But there are still older gods yet—Edmund meets a one eyed old man playing chess with a man with the head of an ibis and has to politely turn down their offer of joining them. Peter meets an unnerving old woman in a hut that walks on chicken legs in the north, but she was too busy bludgeoning a giant stupid enough to run afoul of her to notice the king, and frankly Peter was glad for it. Susan meets a strange woman on the side of the road, washing bloodied clothes in a stream, who looks at her and grins, saying “oh, don’t worry, your majesty. These aren’t the clothes of anyone you know.”

            Lucy encounters a strange creature as well—in the woods, late one night, she finds herself before a man so tall she almost mistakes him for a giant at first. He has the hindquarters of a horse, but something tells her that he is not a real centaur any more than he is a normal man, and on his brow is a pair of massive antlers that almost look like a pair of branches. She gets the feeling that he is on the hunt and that she is in extreme danger, but then he nods to her and turns to go—whatever quarry he seeks, tonight it’s not her. She watches him vanish into the trees before she can safely breathe again.

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            There are plenty of swan maidens in Narnia and frankly it’s a little confusing to Peter—he’s more than once made a fool of himself trying to figure out if he's talking to a Dumb swan who is on the large side, a Talking swan who might be on the small size, or a swan maiden who tend to look identical to Dumb swans. Their human forms are a little more recognizable as they, on the whole, tend to be pale colored, tall, and beautiful; they also all tend to keep their feathered cloaks on their person at all times, either as actual cloaks or sashes.

            What makes them different from each other is if they try to look willowy and delicate—Lucy’s two guards look like waifish handmaidens right up until someone tries to hurt his sister, in which case they descend on the attacker with inhuman strength until Lucy would step in to stop them from literally tearing the attacker to shreds—or if they do not.

            And so, on that the other hand, you would get swan maidens like Lady Etain; Peter’s new general to the northern armies is taller than most minotaurs he’d met and more muscled too. She looks very pleased when he blurts out as much and says “Some of my fellow swans might try to look pretty and weak, but they have the same strength as I. I’m one of the ones that are just not going to hide it.”

            Peter nods, mainly on the account that he is too busy staring at one of her biceps that is bigger than his own head and coming to the uncomfortable realization that he prefers this brawnier beauty instead.

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            The first night Peridan slept in his bed with him, Edmund had a nightmare—he dreamt of feeling ice in his blood, the residual magic still left in the wand, as the Witch dug the shattered end deeper into his gut. He dreamt of gasping but no air of filling his lungs and when she shrugged him off the end of her wand he felt himself falling and falling and falling and why hadn’t he reached the ground yet? Where were his siblings? Why wasn’t anyone helping him?

            And then, abruptly, someone was; Peridan shook Edmund, calling his name. Startled, Edmund sat up, flailing for his sword before Peridan soothed him, gently telling him that all was well, that he was safe, that he was okay, and slowly Edmund’s breath slowed. He told Peridan that night of his nightmare, of his memories of nearly dying when he was definitely half still a child, and Peridan gripped his hand through it all.

            How warm his hand had been. How safe he felt as Peridan threw his arms about him and swore that it would all be okay—he was alive, Peridan was with him, and soon morning would come and show him that he had lived, that he was safe.

            Nearly a decade later, Edmund woke up from another nightmare, but this one was far more realistic. He dreamt of the night that he came to Peridan, engagement ring waiting to be presented, and he remembered a night of passion that set his soul on fire until Peridan crushed it with the news that he was engaged to another. In the dream, he presented the ring to his lover anyway, begged him to chose him instead; but Peridan only turned his head, face twisting in shame, and told him to put it away.

            Edmund gasped into the cold, dark shadows of the night, but this time there was no one there to comfort him.

            Dawn took its time in coming, and Edmund waited for it alone.

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            Much like many parties started at Cair Paravel, this one started small—just a private gathering between the royal family and friends—and quickly ballooned out past what was originally planned. This one was a wedding ceremony, so of course it got even bigger and lovelier than even normal parties at the castle with banners, streamers, wreathes and garlands of flowers, flowing ribbons, and enough candles that Cair Paravel was genuinely a fire hazard during the ceremony. The castle hadn’t looked this lovely and dreamlike since the coronation.

            Of course the wedding feast afterward was also spectacular with the most delicious food and many bottles of champagne, a small orchestra of musicians for exquisite music, and the liveliest dances to make even the clumsiest footed watlzers float across the floor.

            “A toast for the happy couple!” someone cried and all the glasses went up.

            “A toast for the beautiful bride!” someone laughed and again all the glasses went up.

            “A toast for our dear friend, the groom,” Lucy cheered—perhaps someone should have been keeping a closer eye on her and her cup—and again there was a merry shout.

            With all this merriment, it’d been something of a struggle to find a quiet, darker corner to hide away in, but Edmund had managed it. Tucked into an alcove, next to one of the balconies, Edmund nursed a cup of very strong mead—it’d been made a few months ago in the dead of winter and the water in the drink had formed chunks of ice, leaving some powerful liquor with very little to soften it. He’d hoped it would lend him some cheer, but so far it was only tempering his headache. At least he was not alone, otherwise one of his well meaning siblings would have dragged him back to the festivities. On the back of his couch, Mnemosyne the raven carded her beak through his hair while her sister, Metis, hopped onto the cushions next to him.

            “I could shit in his soup, if you’d like,” Metis offered.

            Mnemosyne clacked her beak rapidly to scold her sister, but Edmund managed a chuckle as he reached out to run one of his fingers down the back of Metis’s head. “That is quite alright, but thank you for the offer.”

            They sat quietly and Edmund was very grateful that neither of them tried to make small talk. Neither of them had said how handsome the groom looked, or happy the couple seemed, and for that he might have kissed them on their feathered heads. And when Peridan stood to take his first dance with his bride, Mnemosyne hopped onto his shoulder and said “I could say you received a message and need to step out if you like.”

            Edmund considered his cup of mead before glancing up to look at Peridan again from under his lashes. He really did make a handsome groom; his bride would be very lucky and happy.

            “Do it,” he said, standing and abandoning his cup of mead on the floor under the couch in the hopes no one would kick it over.

            Metis huffed as her sister flew off, taking her place on Edmund's opposite shoulder. “I still say you should let me ruin his meal.”

            “I believe he’s already eaten his fill,” Edmund replied before adding. “But, if you want to do a harmless prank and hide his wedding ring tonight after they go to bed, I shan’t tell a soul.”

            Metis cackled briefly, but fell quiet as they slipped through the crowd and out a servant's passage. As they walked, Metis spoke again. “He could have at least had the decency to insist on having the reception back in his holdings.” He could have the decency not to rub your face in this, went unsaid and Edmund fought a sigh.

            “Things change, my friend,” he said finally. “People change.”

            “Well, I think he’s done a little too much changing.”

            Edmund closed his eyes and reached up to stroke her feathers again. Maybe she was right, but he had the ugly feeling that maybe the one who didn’t change enough was him.

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            “Your majesties,” Jaa the sloth began, (except with syllables lengthened nearly to the point of comedy, as sloths were wont to do) “I have written a poem for your enjoyment.”

            At that, every one of her siblings excused themselves from the breakfast table, even Lucy which really said something about the sloth’s poetry. But Susan had been in the middle of spreading marmalade on her toast and by the time she could have stood, her siblings were bolting for the door and Susan couldn’t bear to leave poor Jaa completely without an audience. Smiling tightly, Susan graciously nodded to Jaa. “How kind of you, my friend, but I’m afraid that my morning is rather busy. Perhaps I could-”

            “Oh, it’s very short,” he promised. “I’m still working on it and was hoping to get feedback.”

            Susan tried not to wilt. “Ah. Well… proceed then.”

            To Jaa's defense, he didn’t end up taking up too much time with his poem, although that had rather less to do with the volume he’d written and instead had everything to do with Susan standing up five lines in and resisting the urge to wrestle the damn paper from him. Getting it from him, she promised to review it later as she just realized something very urgent had come up. Despite his disappointment, he agreed and let himself be shoved out the door by one of her guards while she turned to another one of them.

            “You see this?” she began, holding the paper in front of the wolf’s face.

            “Yes, my queen?”

            “Destroy it.”

            The wolf considered it a moment before promptly eating it. Efficient, Susan thought and sat back down in relief. She took a moment to rub her face and willed her blush to go away while her two wolf guards waited for her. Once she felt in control again, she looked back up to find her two guards looking very prim and serious.

            “I want both of you two to forget anything you might have heard,” she said.

            “Yes, your majesty,” they answered promptly.

            She managed a nod, knowing down to her core that she could trust them both to keep silent, thank Aslan for that—and thank him twice over, that all her siblings had missed the poem entirely. She didn’t think she could have looked any of them in the eye if they’d also heard Jaa’s enthusiastic description of her “shapely rump” and Aslan only knew what else he had in store.

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            “That one’s you.”

            Edmund turned away from the blocky shapes of color and sketch lines that were directly on the wall, which he could already see turning into a fantastic likeness of himself to stare at the painter, Kadir, as he abandoned cleaning his workspace to join him. He glanced back at the wall, trying to take in more of the scene—yes, there were the vague sketched lines of his siblings, Susan sitting next to one of her wolves doing something vague with her hands (maybe Kadir hadn’t gotten that far yet), while his brother sat, blade in his lap as if sharpening it, and Lucy spun in a dance with presumably Tumnus.

            His own likeness seemed to be raising his arm up so that one of a pair of ravens could land on his wrist while the other flew above (funny that he could tell Metis was the one aiming for his arm while Mnemosyne looked like she would alight on his shoulder within a few seconds—Kadir got their personalities perfectly, but who else would know that?). While the others were only sketchy lines, he was by far the farthest along. “With my secretaries too. I look forward to see how it comes out, but I do have to wonder why you started with me first.”

            Kadir smiled, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “I like to start with the hardest subjects first. Get the tough part done early, you see.”

            Edmund can’t help but arch an eyebrow at him. “I’m the tough one? I know you jest, but the punchline’s meaning eludes me, sir.”

            “Oh, but it’s very simple. Your siblings, you know, they’re already taking on a very mythic quality. Even the Lone Islands whisper of Susan’s beauty and grace. Your brother’s battle prowess has earned him the respect of many. And Queen Lucy, well, people speak of her courage and kindness as if she were an angel sent to look after every Narnian.”

            Now he wasn’t sure if he should have felt insulted; honestly, the obvious absence of praise for him was almost enough to make him chuckle on its own. The murkier parts of his past weren’t often repeated even in Narnia, but if Kadir was making a slight him for them, he’d be torn between insult or pure amusement at the audacity. “In that case, I’d rather think my lack of regard should make me the easiest to do.”

            “Oh, you certainly don’t lack regard. Many praise your restructuring of the Narnian legal system and your championship of cases that grant more protection to vulnerable people is nothing to sneeze at.”

            Edmund would blush to hear his accomplishments listed so bluntly if he wasn’t sure there was some “but...” at the end of the statement.

            With a grin, Kadir continued. “It’s just that that your siblings are so beloved, if I get a detail wrong, all I have to do is beautify or idealize them in such a way that future audiences will go ‘oh, that must have been how the really looked, they were just too good to be anything less than this’.”

            Now he couldn’t help but laugh. “So, your audience will forgive you for going broad with my siblings but expect a more realistic likeness for me?”

            Abruptly, Kadir turned so that he faced away from the mural, as if he meant to head back towards his workplace, but instead of turning completely, he did pause to lean over to Edmund, smiling directly at him. “I meant that my own regard for you would never let me settle for anything less than perfect.”

            And with that, he walked away, leaving Edmund gawking after him.

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            “I will never know how you do it,” Peter sighs and slouches into his chair in exhaustion. “You convinced Galma and the other islands to stop squabbling, the Carolmene delegation agreed to reopen trade with Archenland only after a month, and you somehow talked the satyrs into stop antagonizing the fauns with a musical competition. How do you do it?”

            “And all before lunch,” Edmund adds, raising his glass to her in a toast that Lucy is quick to join.

            Susan, for her part, only demurely smoothes the creases out of her skirts. “People can surprise you when you’re working for the benefit of all,” she answers before reaching over to flick Peter’s knuckles, a silent reprimand to sit up straight.

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            The air in the Temple of Tash is thick with perfume and incense, supposedly to appease and soothe the Tash so their worship of him won't awaken any bloodlust when they interrupt him. It’s an odd, unsettling gesture to Susan—to be so afraid of your own god that you have to sedate him with calming smells so he won’t be mad at you for worshiping him.

            It’s just one more reason why she’s really begun to wish they’d stayed in Narnia and never come to Tashbaan.

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            “Have you looked at the portfolio I sent you?” Edmund asked as he spread jam over his toast and tried not to grin at the Principal Painter in Ordinary before him. “I thought it was very promising.”

            “Ah, yes,” drawled the portraitist, adding enough sugar to his lassi that Edmund’s teeth hurt when he watched him sip it. “Very colorful and bold. How old is the child who made it? I would encourage them to keep the bold palettes, but maybe check to make sure the paint is dry before smashing projects together like that. Unless that is the point, but I’m afraid that's a little too experimental for my tastes.”

            “The artist is four so you don’t have to worry about her taking your position just yet,” Edmund answered before adding “but then, she’s a raccoon and pretty much an adult. Watch out, my friend, or you'll be out of a job.”

            The head royal painter nodded in appreciation and then savagely kicked him under the table.

            “I’ll get you back for that later,” the king promised, even as he tried not to laugh.

            Peter, walking by with his own strongly brewed cup of tea, grumbled at the both of them. “Save it for the bedroom, lads. It’s too early for flirting.”

            The younger king and royal painter managed a whole minute of peace before the kicking started up again.

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            The paint on the portrait is still drying when Kadir gets the news; when Mister Tumnus, all kindness and sorrow, tells him that Edmund and his siblings have vanished, he is still washing the brush he’d been using to put the highlights into Edmund’s eyes. He looks at the faun, mouth agape, water dripping from his brush as he splutters, trying to ask how the hell you lose four monarchs in a single afternoon.

            It’s a question that’s still haunting him two months later as he tucks the last of his supplies into a crate that a helpful dwarf nails shut. With that, the last of his things are packed; he looks around the room to find it as plain but serviceable as he found it when the Pevensies had hired him, ready for the next painter the newly appointed King Peridan will choose, even if he has graciously extended an invitation to stay on as his Principal Painter in Ordinary.

            “Are you sure you will not stay?” Tumnus asks one last time, although the bittersweet look in his eyes tells Kadir that if the council didn’t need him so much that Tumnus would probably be the one packing up instead.

            “I’m sure. Thank you for all of your kindness to me.”

            Tumnus sighs, looking wistful as he also glances around. His eyes alight on the portrait that Kadir has left out—his final portrait of Edmund, still unfinished from the day of the disappearance, although all that’s left to do is to finish the tunic Edmund is wearing in it. Peridan had asked if it could be hung in the gallery, but Kadir had refused, although that might be because he remembers how petty Edmund could be about Peridan. “Have you decided to leave this portrait behind then? It’s really very good, even if it’s not quite done.”

            Protectively, Kadir sweeps across the room before gently picking up the portrait—he admires it one last time, watches the way Edmund’s eyes still seem to be looking at him from it, and can imagine that at any moment the lips will part with a witty quip about the way he’s staring again—and then tucks it carefully under his arm. “This one’s coming with me. Something of his to remember him by.” His smile is tight as he continues. “Not that I could forget him if I wished.”

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            The dagger is supposed to go into the vault with all the other royal treasures, a lasting memorial to their beloved kings and queens, but Tumnus keeps it instead. He knows it is selfish—the entire nation is in mourning and he's on the council for Aslan's sake—but he keeps it anyway. It's not like the cordial, too powerful and important not to go into the vault—it's just a dagger that Lucy eventually outgrew long before they disappeared, that'd she gave to him one day to help him in the harvest and he forgot to give back.

            It's selfish, but he hopes she'd understand—it's one of the few tokens he has left of his best friend.

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            Excerpt from Aurelius Glenrunner's historical record of Narnia: A History of the Lion's Realm:

            "The Pevensies were gone; the Golden Age over after fifteen short years. And yet, life had to go on—the high council quickly came together to discuss who would be our king. Oreius, the retired general of the armies and former royal heir, quickly refused to take up the throne as he reminded the council he had quit his service nearly half a decade before, although he agreed to step in as regent for a time as the council figured out what course of action to take next.

            After some time, the council picked Lord Peridan to take over as king as he was, after all, an old friend to all the monarchs and a general himself. He was not, perhaps the most able of choices, but he was a body to keep the throne warm as the country was still on course with the direction of the council. He, however, failed to have a male heir of his own. Instead, his eldest living daughter would take the throne and whomever she would marry would become king, which would have made her a tempting bachelorette if she hadn’t already been betrothed.

            When Lady Isolde came of age and married Ram of Archenland, Narnia finally breathed a sigh of relief as it entered a prolonged period of calm. The line of Ram the Great would stretch on until the Telmarine invasion would squash out the royal house in the year of the Lion, 1998."

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            There is something off about the children after they come home from their stay in the countryside, but Helen can’t place her finger on what it is. Perhaps it’s when she brings them home from the station and they see the shelled out remains of their neighbor’s home; Lucy is the only one to make a sound—a sudden intake of breath—but once they find out old Miss Mary is fine, they abandon putting away their luggage and are rolling up their sleeves to help clear out debris. Perhaps it’s in the way Edmund never complains about the ration on sugar, or the way Peter talks to returning veterans like he knows, or that Lucy and Susan suddenly know how to change a wound’s dressing without flinching.

            Something is changed, but Helen is afraid to know what.

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            Lucy almost stumbles when the raven looks her in the eye and it barks “I know, I know!”

            “Know what?” she asks, desperately; it’s not even what she really wants to ask (how and why and do you know the way back all seem much more important, but Lucy isn’t a rude girl and she doesn’t know how to delicately change topics like Susan can), but it’s all she can manage in her surprise.

            Her heart breaks as the bird flaps away, crying “I know, I know!” while she falls in the dirt behind it.

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            Their legacies remain not just as some trinkets—a sword, a horn, a misplaced chess piece—or as legends, but as things they never really would have considered. Susan’s favorite courtly hairstyle is still called The Queen’s Knot and one of the Telmarine ladies tried to get haughty about her wearing such an “old fashioned” hairstyle before she realized she was talking to its inventor and quickly shut her gob. There is a flower still called Lucy’s Laugh that the royal gardener cultivated in her honor for her sixteenth birthday.

            The greatest of their legacies, however, is the Pevensie’s House, now called the Peven’s Way House, the oldest orphanage in Narnia that Edmund founded one year before they vanished.

            Sometimes, you may never get to see the seeds you planted grow, but sometimes, you just might.

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            Legend says that the haunting began as soon as Caspian the First took the throne; the terrible moans and howls began precisely three weeks after his coronation and three days before his aunt died suddenly. The blame was pointedly shifted from the woman’s excessive drinking habits to the curse of the banshee, yet another awful, unclean figure of Old Narnia, just one more reason why the Telmarine rule was just and good. But Caspian's family did not know the old ways, so there was no way for them to banish the foul spirit and they were forced to endure the horrible cries that would doom yet another family member to death.

            When Caspian (the Tenth) took the throne, he’d made a point to go up to the southern tower and found her waiting for him at the top.

            “Your ancestors drove my people out,” she announced before he could introduce himself. “So I have been here to remind them that they could not rid themselves of all old Narnia, nor can they escape their own ends. So, then, what now? Will you try to drive me out as well, as your ancestors tried before you?”

            He squared his shoulders and bowed his head graciously. “Ma’am, it would be an honor if you were to remain, to warn me and my children so that we might have time to brace ourselves for pain.”

            The banshee paused before smiling. “Well said,” she replied and then bowed, “my king.”

            Caspian smiled to himself in that moment, proud that he’d passed some unknown test, but it would not be until decades in the future when he would reap the reward when the banshee granted him hope by promising she howled only for the death of his wife and not their son. As the years rolled on, her silence was the only thing keeping him going, and for that he was grateful.

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            Edmund curses as he knocks the lamp over, half falling into the room. He looks up from where he's landed in a heap to see a dark shape leap from the shadows, weapon arching through the low light and it's only his excellent reflexes that save him as he flicks the lamp on in time. The weapon had come to a stop scarcely an inch from his face and he has to whistle, impressed. “I say, Pete, nice to know you haven’t lost your touch, but maybe next time check to see who’s coming in through the window before you clobber them, yeah?”

            “Yeah,” Peter mumbles sheepishly as he casts his wooden weapon aside and helps his brother up. “What were you thinking making such a racket anyway? Looks like you’re the one who lost his touch.”

            “Maybe,” he answers amiably. “On the other hand, maybe you should try grabbing a cricket bat instead of a back scratcher the next time you want to put the fear of god in someone. Now, come here, I got something interesting you’ll want to hear.”

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            Edmund asked once who was the shipwright that designed the Dawn Treader—her beauty and her make sang an echo of old Narnia, even if seafaring had become a lost art. He was told that shipwright was a young man who had remained in Narnia to care for his newborn child. “He said he based it on a painting he saw in the palace once,” Caspian said, “but the funny thing is that we could never find the painting afterward!”

            When they got back to their aunt and uncle’s home, the two siblings and Eustace crowded in the backroom, watching as Edmund quietly pulled the painting down. “You don’t suppose it's really the same picture?” Lucy asked, but hope made her voice hungry. “Could Aslan have seen to it that it got here in time for your parents to receive it?”

            Eustace wondered about how a painting could travel through time and worlds, but any argument was stillborn when Edmund muttered “Aslan’s crafted greater miracles than getting one painting to England.”

            There was no painter’s mark on the front, but Edmund flipped it around—on the back, there was an extremely out of place, yellowed piece of paper glued to the middle. Lucy hushed Eustace’s protests as Edmund used a fingernail to gently pry the paper away. Underneath, a large, looping signature left Edmund ashy and Lucy gasping.

            Eustace only grimaced. “Who’s Kadir?”

            Lucy bit her lip and could only murmur “an old friend” as she watched Edmund sit heavily upon the guest bed, fingers trembling as he touched a painting crafted with the hands of a man he planned to marry once.

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            “Oh, Ed, I wish you wouldn’t,” Susan sighed as he struck a match to light his cigarette.

            He closes his eyes as he inhales; it catches light and smoke flows into his mouth. He holds it there even if he's annoyed it doesn't taste right. Exhaling, he offers it to her. “It’s already smoky out here. Will one cigarette make it that much worse?”

            “That’s not what I meant,” she shakes her head and grabs it from him. She takes a puff, but doesn't try to savor any flavor of it, her face already pinched. “It’s just such a waste of money.”

            He knows what she meant; not even the smokes tastes as good as they had in Narnia.

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            Richard knows that there is trouble afoot in his family, but he’s not sure the source—he knows for sure that it’s not coming from Edmund, which is a bit of a surprise because his youngest son might not be the scamp he’d been as a child, but he’s still got a smart mouth that gets him in trouble. Lord knows he’d never assume the root was Lucy either; his younger daughter hardly seems to have a single foe in the world. So, that leaves either Peter or Susan, and as bizarre as it might seem, he’s not sure which is the true source. They are not on speaking terms with each other; Richard would have maybe thought Peter might be grumbling about some suitor Susan’s picked up, but his eldest is far too sensible to think he can police his sister’s choices without her standing up for herself. And yet, Susan and Lucy also seem to be on the outs too, although neither seems to want and fight about it, just acting like a pair of cats with their dander up.

            Helen frets constantly, despite his protests that they’re just being cranky, hormonal teenagers, but he can’t blame her either. Something is up with their normally excellently behaved children and neither can figure out what it is.

            All they know is this: it starts one day, late in the summer, about a year or so since they took that summer to visit America with Susan while Peter stayed with Richard’s old professor, Digory Kirke, and their youngest stayed with Helen’s sister and her family. It happened so long after the trip that they don’t think jealousy was the cause, at least not over the trip, but then they don’t know what the actual fight is about either; the kids refuse to fess up or out one another.

            Whatever the reason, Richard believes it’ll pass in time. His children have been thick as thieves since that time they spent with Digory, so surely they’ll set aside their differences eventually.

            The alternative is just too depressing to think of.

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            Susan looks at her younger sister and wonders, not for the first time, what her sister is made of, because surely it's something strong. More unbreakable than stone or steel, Susan watches Lucy hold her head up and turn the other cheek from those who would try and pull her from her path. She knows for sure that everyone is also in awe of her sister; no one ever dares to taunt her for dancing or liking to wear a nice dress or to kiss any boy she likes (and her sister might have thought people fawned over Susan, but Lucy’s the one who has got people following after her with their hearts in their eyes). And in truth, that part doesn't bother Susan—it’s hard to fault Lucy for the reactions of that other people have to her.

            It’s the part about turning the other cheek, about finding the will to pick herself back up after getting knocked down. It’s about being able to forgive the person who tossed them all away for the sin of being too old.

            Susan can’t do that and for that she knows the others will never understand her; and yet, even then, Lucy only waits for a day when her sister will return to her side.

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            They’re both on dishes duty tonight, Lucy scrubbing and Susan drying for a change of pace, and somehow they are back in dangerous territory. Neither of them has exactly said “Narnia” yet (well, not that Susan would say it, but her hackles go up so fast now that Lucy’s tried to learn how to better mind her tongue), but theology isn’t Susan's favorite topic either. Somehow, however, they’re drifting around the subject when Susan just flatly states “Miracles only happen to those who believe in them.”

            Lucy glances up sharply, not sure if that was a provocation or not. After a moment, however, she can’t help but to try and laugh it off. She forces her voice to stay light as she retorts “I don’t think that at all. I think miracles happen all the time to everyone, it’s just we don’t recognize them as miracles because they’re so common.”

            Now it’s Susan’s turn to give her a pointed look. “Care to explain?”

            Lucy pauses and knows now that she does stand on the precipice of no man’s land and if she’s not careful she’ll go skittering past it straight into danger and there will be yet another blowup. Honestly, that's the last thing she wants to deal with tonight after such a nice day of calm. She’ll have to avoid what she once thought was the most obvious answer and instead slide back to safety. “Well,” she finally manages, “every person is a miracle on their own. We all come from long lines of people meeting, falling in love, and having children going all the way back to Adam and Eve. If even one of those couples hadn’t had a specific child, our family trees could be entirely different. We may not even exist!” She pauses to smile at her sister, pleased with her words so far. “So, we’re surrounded by loads of miracles. We just don’t see them if we don’t look at it the right way.”

            Susan is openly staring and Lucy begins to fret that maybe she has somehow managed to bungle this up again, but then Susan glances away, thoughtfully humming something. For a long minute, both sisters focus on their chore, not speaking. When Susan breaks the silence, Lucy looks up in time to catch a faint smile on her lips. “In that sense,” she murmurs, setting a plate back into the cupboard, “having you for a sister really is a miracle.”

            Lucy blushes, not sure if Susan exactly means it as a compliment, but hoping it is. “I’m grateful you’re my sister too,” she offers.

            Susan’s smile might not linger long, but Lucy is sure it was real for sure this time. As they go back to their respective duties, Lucy thanks Aslan for yet another miracle in her life.

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            “Why are you like this?!”

            It’s Peter that screams it, startling everyone—for a moment, Edmund thinks that he might have even shocked himself. As High King, he’d been so hard on himself, so diligent at keeping his temper and appearances up, but they all knew that even he had a breaking point; they just hadn’t expected it during what had been a mostly calm (for them, lately) spat. It had been Susan who started the escalation (rolling her eyes at Lucy’s recollecting), but it’d been Lucy who started it accidentally because Aslan knew that Lucy didn’t have a mean enough bone in her body to go around starting fights on purpose (bringing up fond memories of Narnia despite sitting right across from Susan, despite all the arguments they've been having).

            And yet, now it’s all of them gawking at Peter, and for a moment Edmund hopes that he’ll just take a moment to take a breath and settle himself before acting a little more like he should—rationally and certainly not so accusatory—but then Edmund nearly yelps in horror as he can see Peter start to double down. Whatever comes out of Peter’s mouth next is going to not just destroy their peaceful little afternoon, but might genuinely shatter their bond like a hammer.

            So, rather than let Peter make the mistake, Edmund decides to make a calculated one of his own.

            Fast as he can manage—and he is damn fast because he’s never truly let his love of fencing go—he is half out of his chair, reaching across the table, and slapping Peter before any of his siblings can blink.

            Now everyone’s gawking at him; maybe once upon a time Peter would have honestly let him have at least one good smack for that one, but he is Peter’s lieutenant, Lucy’s confidante, and Susan’s one-time-partner in diplomacy (although he dearly wishes she’d brush up on her own skills for once) so he knows he has just enough goodwill built up that whatever damage he’s going to do to their bond, it won’t be half as bad as what Peter was going to do.

            And to his credit, it works.

            “Edmund!” Susan gasps in horror, any fury she might have been building gone in a moment. She stares at him as he straightens, and for a moment he really hopes she’ll keep scolding him and start to sound like her old self again, but then he sees her blink and knows she’s seen through him. Her lips clamp shut and maybe her eyes get a little glassy, but she at least she just stands and walks away, rather than try to turn back to Peter and try to restart the argument.

            Well, at least he knows that she understands what’s going on. Looking back at Lucy and Peter, he knows he really owes them both an explanation. He says a silent prayer for patience and points first to Lucy. “You, I expect better of,” he says and her flinch makes his stomach turn because she does not deserve that, that bluntness, but he doesn’t know a better way to warn her. “And you,” he says quickly, knowing that Peter may very well punch him not for the slap but for his words to Lucy, so he turns back to Peter to point at him. “Mind your damn temper. You two are a King and a Queen of Narnia. Diplomacy may not have exactly been your forte, but you both and her are all a bunch of god damn disgraces. Do you think Aslan would be proud of any of us?”

            That stalls out any protests; the rest of the day is spent in very awkward, tense silences, although he felt extremely awful as he and Lucy talked it out (he longs to apologize, but his point was fair, so he just resigns himself to feeling like an ass as Lucy promises to do better about not bringing up Narnia around Susan) and he and Peter do patch things up before either of them go to bed.

            He is brushing his teeth, however, when Susan appears at the bathroom door; for a second, he starts to say that he’ll be done in a moment, but then he looks in her eyes and knows she’s not here to ask him to hurry up.

            “I made a few phone calls,” she begins. “Some friends and I, we’ve been talking about getting a flat together for ages.” She smiles wanly. “I’ve decided to take them up on the offer.”

            He knows then, that she doesn’t actually want to go, which is why he doesn’t immediately shout his dismay. Looking at her, however, he can see that all she needs is one word and she’ll change her plans in an instant.

            He also knows that distance for her, from them all, is probably a fantastic idea. She won’t have to have her wounds picked at consistently, Lucy won’t have to walk around on eggshells, and Peter’s blood pressure would love the reprieve. Aslan knows his own could use the break. It’s just, on the other hand, this is going to break all their hearts.

            Reluctantly, Edmund spits out his tooth paste, rinses as fast as he can, and finally turns to her with a nod. “If you need help packing, I can lend a hand whenever.”

            She really does look like she might cry for a second, but then she nods before turning to leave.

            And because his own heart is screaming, he reaches out to catch her hand before she vanishes into the shadows. “If you ever need my help, whenever, I swear I’ll come running.”

            After a heartbeat, she squeezes his hand. And then she’s gone.

            Looking back at his reflection in the mirror, Edmund pauses. God, he feels tired after this day. “Why are you like this?” he asks it.

            He doesn't get an answer, but Aslan knows he really wants one.

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            Peter can’t bring himself to forgive Susan for what she said about Narnia—the blatant betrayal of their people, their lands, their god—but time has a way of dulling wounds. While at first every conversation wanted to end in a fight, the explosive power went out of them until they were just trading barbs or dirty looks. Civility crept back into their discussions, but there was a gulf of anger and hurt feelings that seemed impossible to bridge.

            Two days before they plan to go seeking the rings, to try and brute force their way back into Narnia to do what they could to help, Peter holds the phone to his ear and nearly stutters when Susan picks up. “It’s me,” he manages and all he wants to do is spill every secret (“We’re going on another adventure.” “We’re going to find the Professor’s old rings.” “We’re going to go Home. Please, come with us.”), but he catches himself and instead says, “everyone’s going to be going out of town in two days and we need a house sitter for a few days. Mum wants to know if you wouldn’t mind looking after things for us.”

            For a moment, he wants her to say no, no I’ll come with you, but all she says is “For a day or two? Yes, I should be able to manage that. Is that all?”

            He swallows down his disappointment and thanks her instead.

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            Lucy hated sulking—after growing up the first time, she realized how much she hated that childish urge because all it did was make her feel both mad and powerless—and yet, here she was, sulking. It was such a relief when Edmund sat down beside her, that she, unprompted, turned to his and asked “you don't agree with what Peter said, do you?”

            “Oh, so you are still mad about it,” he said and almost looked convincingly surprised about it.

            She was not going to let him sidetrack her though. “Well, you don’t, right?”

            “About Susan? Not in the least.”

            She could have sighed in relief—her shoulders did relax on their own and she quickly leaned against his shoulder. “I knew you wouldn’t, but I’m happy you'd say so. Well, I would expect you out of anyone to not agree with what he said, but...”

            “I know,” he replied, tossing an arm around her shoulders to give her a squeeze. “He can be such a twat about things when he’s thinks he knows best. It’s not a bad thing for kings to be decisive, but when his intuition is off, he’s more stubborn than a bull.”

            Oh, she knew she should have swatted him for calling their brother a twat, but it felt so good to hear someone else say it. She loved Peter dearly, but when he got like this, it was enough to drive her to tears of frustration. “You don’t think Susan’s lost to Narnia, right? I know he said she wasn't a friend to it anymore, but you don’t think she’s truly forgotten, right?”

            Edmund paused and that made her nervous. “I don’t think she forgot Narnia,” he began, but then abruptly stopped.

            She pulled away to stare at his face directly. “But you don’t think she’s really betrayed us, do you? Oh, Edmund!”

            He held up his hands defensively. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

            “Well, what are you saying?”

            He considered his words carefully. “I think... well, I think she probably thinks the exact opposite of that, to be honest.”

            Her eyes widened. “She... thinks Narnia betrayed us?” She paused, trying desperately to remember those arguments she and Susan had gotten into—how stubbornly she'd tried to make Susan to see reason! She wished she hadn't, that she hadn’t wasted so much time fighting, all time that neither knew was terribly limited. But, if she strained, she thought she might have remembered a familiar strain of logic in those fights. “...or does she think Aslan betrayed us?”

            Edmund sighed. “It’s... complicated. But, when it comes down to it, whether she does or does not want to believe in Narnia anymore, I think she may not want to come back.”

            Lucy could feel herself deflating and let herself fall back against his shoulder again as her thoughts raced. While he patted her arm, she frowned as she mulled the conversation over in her head. Finally, after a long silence, she set her jaw and looked up into the distance. “I think she would.”

            He shifted. “Do you?”

            “Yes,” she answered before turning to him with a small smile. “Maybe she won’t stay, but she’ll want to check up on us at least once.”

            Slowly, he returned a smile. “I think so too.”

            Nodding, as much to him as it was to herself, she turned to look back into the endlessly blue sky. Yes, she was certain of it—one day, Susan would come to see them at least one more time. Even if it was only to say goodbye, Lucy was willing to wait to hold her sister one last time.

            It was only a matter of time.

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            Lucy notices the wolves’ reaction first; one moment, the bulk of the Moon Caller wolf pack is asleep around her (they’re a respected, if not the most popular, group here in Cair Paravel among some of the other kings and queens, but no one would ever think to turn them away) when suddenly Frigga, Susan’s oldest guard, shoots awake. Quickly, many of her children (and grandchildren and great grandchildren and so on—the Moon Caller clan was prolific) look up as well and without thinking, Lucy joins them in jumping up and racing out the door. There’s shouts of confusions and calls, but Lucy heeds none of them but the sudden howling of the wolves—the howl of the pack crying “where are you? where are you?”

            And the faint “I’m here, I’m here!” that came from without.

            Lucy and the wolves—and later, she realizes that Edmund drags Peter along while disbelieving Eustace and Jill follow out to join the race—are outside within an instant because here in True Narnia, distance means little and it’s only your own will that matters. Distance means so little, in fact, that their feet eat up the distance to the shore in no time; or rather, just in time to see Aslan standing next to another figure clad in a long lovely dress that no Narnian would wear but maybe a British bride would.

            A figure with long dark hair and a familiar smile.

            Lucy races down and tosses her arms around her sister with a howl all her own.

            (“You came! You came!”

            “I am here. I am home.”)