bedlamsbard | Narnia (movieverse) fic: "In Constellated Wars: In Constellated Wars" (5/5)

Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the Sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.
– T.S. Eliot, “Four Quartets: East Coker”

Wineskins, Peter thinks, not for the first time – although, he’s aware, the first time in a while – are not nearly as satisfying as bottles. Bottles smash, for one, when you’re done with them; all skins leave you with is something that gets rather annoyingly in the way. New Narnia – Old Narnia – whichever it is – doesn’t appear to have decent potters, though, so what Peter’s left with are wineskins which don’t even hold the quality of wine he’s used to. He’s had wine in England that’s better than this, and this is faun wine – Narnia’s standards have lapsed despicably.

He supposes they’re owed the lapse, all things considered.

The second skin emptied, he tosses it aside and works the stopper out of the third one, tipping it back and swallowing without really tasting any more. It’s a decent vintage, but not what faun wine used to be. He’s gotten good and drunk on faun wine more than once, and it shouldn’t be taking three skins, especially considering that these probably hold more than the bottles he’s used to. Lapsed standards. Telmar’s fault. Like everything else that’s wrong in Narnia.

No. Not Telmar’s fault. My fault.

He drinks more.

Shouldn’t have lashed out at Caspian like that, not in public. A childish thing to do. A stupid thing to do. Edmund hadn’t yelled at him for it, but he hadn’t needed to. Peter had known as soon as he’d drawn his sword that he’d gone too far. Damn Aslan anyway. He doesn’t even know who he is any more. Peter Pevensie of Finchley – or High King Peter the Magnificent of Narnia?

He can’t tell. Or rather, he can, and the answer isn’t adding up to anything near satisfactory. He can’t let there be any doubt, not when the hesitation will lead to the deaths of more of his people. His people. Not Caspian’s.

You’re better than this, King of Summer.

Narnia feels wrong. Wrong, diseased, like there’s something sick and corrupt at her heart. Peter means to cut it out with fire and steel and bring his country back to her old flowering. This time he means to save Narnia with his own two hands.

The wineskin’s half-gone already, and Peter doesn’t yet think he’s had enough to drink. No matter; he has one more before he’ll have to leave the confines of his room to fetch a fifth round.

The thought makes him look up, automatically checking the torches burning in the corners of the room. There are no windows, so he burns much-needed torches for light. He thought he’d gotten over this a long time ago, but he’s always had windows before, or at least the breath of the wind outside his campaign tent. This time he has a room – just say it, Pevensie, you’ve got a cave – without windows, and the unadulterated black terrifies him like he’s sixteen again ¬– funny that, isn’t it? Seeing as you are – and trapped in the caves of Angrisla, waiting for the things in the dark to come and slaughter him and his folk.

Had to think of that, didn’t you? Just another time you cocked it all up.

A third of the army dead in the caves. His fault. Half the army dead in Miraz’s castle. His fault.

Say it, Pete. If you hadn’t given the order, they wouldn’t be dead. Doesn’t matter what that idiot did inside the walls – you gave the order. King of the country is father of the country, and takes all its sins upon himself. High King is father of it all, and all the sins of all the kings are his and his alone.

Aslan had said that to him once, a long time ago. And what are you responsible for, fool of a lion?

The torches flicker.

Peter raises his mostly empty wineskin in a messy salute – damn you for my dead – and then tips it back, drinking the last drops of bad faun wine. He tosses that wineskin aside too and reaches for the fourth and last, pulling the stopper out with his teeth and letting it dangle down the side, bumping against his chin when he drinks.

He knows Narnia, knows her inside and out, and he doesn’t have to be able to see the sky to know that it’s after midnight now. Except for the guards and those creatures better suited for the night than the day, the How will be asleep. The Telmarines, more conventional, will be sleeping as well. Narnia herself is sleeping, silent in his mind, almost – though not quite – as if he’s still in England. If Aslan sleeps, then he’ll be sleeping as well. Doubtless he’s seen enough dead to be able to sleep at night, no matter whether they’re his or not.

Traitor, Peter thinks, and drinks some more. The stone wall is hard against his back; he’ll be sore tomorrow. He’s had worse wounds – he’s barely scratched. Should have spilled more blood. He should have painted the damn castle in Telmarine blood, starting with Caspian’s.

Now that’s ungenerous, as Susan would say.

Peter isn’t feeling inclined to generosity. He’s feeling inclined to getting drunk enough he can sleep without seeing his dead trapped behind bars that twist and turn into the polished, carved wood of a wardrobe door.

Even well on his way to dead-drunk, he can’t ignore the sound of footsteps in the hallway. If it’s Caspian, I’ll kill him, although he can’t think of any reason why the Telmarine prince would come to his door. Peter’s gaze falls on his sword and shield next to his bedroll on the far side of the room. Sloppy of him – they’re not within reach. Very well, he’ll kill Caspian with his own two hands, like he should have done back in the woods. It will be more satisfying anyway.

He’s not drunk enough to really expect Caspian to come in, so when the door opens he’s still sitting down, wineskin in his hand. The three arrows that cluster neatly in the center of his bedroll send him to his feet.

“Fool, he’s not there!” someone snaps.

The door opens inside and towards him, so he’s unseen when the two dwarfs and the faun crowd inside, slinging back bows in favor of swords and axes.

You have got to be kidding me, Peter thinks. Not again. His sword isn’t in reach, but he has a knife on his belt. He draws it and throws it in one smooth motion, the dwarf in the lead dying with a gurgle as blood blossoms around the knife in his throat. The other two leap towards Peter, but he’s already moving. He tosses the wineskin into the faun’s face and slams the second dwarf into the wall, then does it again, hearing the characteristic sound of a skull cracking – like a melon hitting stone – even as he moves to avoid the faun’s sword. A moment’s miscalculation makes him take the blade in the muscle of his upper arm. The pain shocks him back to sobriety and he grabs the faun’s sword-arm, twisting until the faun’s hand spasms and he drops the sword. Viciously, Peter twists until bone cracks, swearing when the faun kicks him in the legs – hooves hurt. He’s forgotten this. But hooves on stone are also slippery and Peter drags the faun forward, throwing him over his hip. He drops down with all his weight on the faun’s back and puts his forearm across the front of the would-be assassin’s throat, keeping it there until the faun goes limp.

“PETER!”

Edmund’s voice. Peter snatches up his sword, letting the scabbard slide off in a practiced flick that sends it flying to the other side of the room, and bangs out into the hallway, where Edmund’s just come out of the room he shares with Caspian with blood pouring down his face and his bloody sword in his hand, Caspian behind him, seemingly unhurt.

“Ed –” Peter begins.

“Little bastard hit me in the face, I’m all right,” Edmund says hurriedly. “Your arm –”

A girl – Lucy, not Susan – screams a battle-cry that’s pure rage and no words at all. Lucy never screams, and all three of them swing towards the far end of the hallway, towards the girls’ room. A centaur staggers backwards out of their bedroom with two of Susan’s arrows in him, and another breaks past, hooves sending the packed dirt flying as he vaults his fallen comrade, barely ducking the ceiling.

“Go to the girls,” Peter orders sharply and breaks into a run, avoiding the wounded centaur’s sword easily as the traitor swings at him. “Keep them alive if you can!”

Down on the next level, out of nowhere, a leopard leaps at him, and Peter swings, grunting a little at the effort of cutting through flesh and bone. He doesn’t have enough momentum to cut all the way through and has to yank his sword free, swearing at the momentary delay. By the time he breaks out of the How and outside, the centaur has been joined by a dwarf, whose shorter legs are slowing him down. The rest of the How is starting to wake up.

He weighs Rhindon in his hand, but it doesn’t have the range. The bastards are running for the treeline.

“Someone give me an axe!” he shouts, switching his sword to his left hand. This he still has the range for.

A minotaur puts one in his hand and Peter draws back his arm and throws, not bothering to wait and see if his muscles remember this as well. They have to; he doesn’t have the time for hesitation. The metal shines in the moonlight as it turns over and over, taking the dwarf in the back. He goes down on his face and doesn’t get back up.

“Another!” Peter orders, but too late, the centaur’s already out of the range of a throwing axe. Bitterly, he wishes for Narain and Sidonie, all his old royal guard; they’d already be in pursuit and pulling the would-be assassin down, but these new Narnians are too shocked to do more than stare. Where in Aslan’s name are the packs? Great cats and wolves can outrun centaurs, but not one of them has appeared since he came outside.

Bare feet patter on worn stone behind him. Peter doesn’t turn his head.

“I have him, Pete,” Susan says calmly, an arrow already whistling past Peter’s ear. Two more follow in short succession; it’s the third that sends the centaur tumbling forward, falling gracelessly to the ground. Peter can see him struggling to regain his feet even as Susan puts a fourth arrow in him. She pauses, then lowers her bow. He won’t be getting up again.

“Go get them. If they’re alive, keep them that way,” Peter says. He doesn’t look around to see who’ll take the order; after another moment of silent shock, Glenstorm and his troop gallop forward. He turns to Susan.

She’s still in her nightclothes and there’s blood all over them, an ugly red line cutting down the side of her face, forehead to chin, like a new scar. The blow must have cracked her skull open; the slight curve to it says axe to Peter as clearly as if it was written in shining letters. Dwarves favor axes; it’s how he got his own preference.

“You all right, Su?” he asks, tilting her chin up with his free hand to get a better look. She’s all right, and he lets go.

“Very glad for that cordial of Lucy’s,” Susan tells him, her gaze equally critical. “You might want to see her yourself; you’re bleeding.”

Peter glances down at his left arm. Clean wound, straight through, missed anything vital; the blood has stained his entire sleeve red. Carefully, he switches his sword back to his right hand, wincing as the adrenaline of battle fades and the pain starts to register. “It’s not that bad,” he says, because it’s not. He’s had worse, easily. Much worse. “Come with me.”

They go back inside and Peter’s aware of the stares. Most of the army’s awake now, and those on the ground level have gathered in the big caverns near the entrance – all the better to see the results of this night’s work, he supposes. Oh, yes, he thinks ironically. Sleeping in the midst of an army and no one even notices the assassins.

It’s not the first time it’s happened. He supposes he should be surprised it took so long this time.

“Majesty, how dare they!” Reepicheep begins, bullying his way out of the crowd along with Trumpkin and a small entourage of mice.

“You,” Peter says, because Reepicheep’s one of the closest things to a captain this new Narnian army has, “I want the prisoners secured and kept alive for questioning.” And if they can’t even manage that, then he’ll wash his hands of the entire damn lot of them, because some things even amateurs should be able to handle.

Back in the upper levels of the How, past another few levels of curious Narnians, none of whom have asked what’s happened, Caspian is staring around in vast confusion while Edmund holds the remains of his ruined shirt to his nose and Lucy administers a single drop of precious cordial to the wounded centaur, who’s being sat on by a griffin whose crest is raised in anger, fur and feathers both fluffed straight out.

“Good,” Peter says, seeing this. “Trumpkin and Reepicheep are securing the prisoners,” he tells the griffin. “Make sure he joins them.”

“Yes, but why do you want them alive?” the griffin asks, fixing one red eye on him.

“So I can kill them later,” Peter says. He glances briefly at Edmund to make sure he’s all right; he is, of course. “Lu, are you all right?”

“Not my blood,” she says, as absurdly cheerful as she always is on battlefields, showing off her hands, which look like they’ve been dipped in scarlet paint. “You’re bleeding. Come here.”

He submits to the cordial willingly enough – though he doesn’t really need it; he’s not in the mood to protest – working his shoulder as the wound heals, and watches as Edmund waves her off. “Look, it’s already stopped bleeding,” he says, taking the fabric away from his face. “That’s the worst of it. Pete, you get them?”

“With Su’s help,” he says. “There are another three in my room,” he adds as Trufflehunter and a pair of minotaurs came up the roughhewn stairs. “One of them might still be alive.”

“Three just for you?” Edmund says. “Now that hurts.”

“Get the body out of my room first, please,” Susan tells Trufflehunter briskly. “I’d like to change.”

“There were two for both of us,” Edmund finishes. “I think I’m insulted. I need to go change too. I don’t particularly care about the bodies, I just want a new shirt.” He goes up the hall, doing an odd little shuffle around a body that lay half in the hall and half in his room.

“I don’t understand,” Caspian says, hesitating in the hall and looking at Peter hopefully, so much like a kicked puppy that it would be funny if it wasn’t so annoying. Why the Narnians had trusted their safety to this inexperienced child –

Peter rubs a hand over his newly-healed wound and says, not bothering to hide his annoyance, “Those were assassins. They came here to kill us. Including, for Aslan knows what reason, you, so I suppose you should be flattered. I need to go change.”

He stomps off, leaving Caspian staring behind him, and moves aside as the minotaurs haul the dead dwarves and the barely-conscious faun out of his room. One of them hands him his knife and Peter takes it with an absent nod of thanks. He dresses quickly and cleans the blood off his sword before sheathing it. The adrenaline has burned all the alcohol out of his system, but he pours the water pitcher over his head in the hope that it will stave off the upcoming and inevitable headache. This done, he steps out into the hall, where Edmund is waiting for him, looking reasonably refreshed. Caspian is with him, and Peter barely glances at him before turning his attention to his brother.

“Interrogation?” Edmund says.

“You have to ask?” Peter replies.

“Peepiceek – Reepicheep’s second-in-command – came up to tell us they’re holding the prisoners in the red cave.” He falls into step easily beside Peter; they’ve done this a hundred times before. This time, though, Caspian joins them.

“I want to hear this,” he says.

Peter is going to beat him to death with a shovel. He hopes it shows on his face. Apparently it does, because Caspian flinches but doesn’t back down.

“They tried to kill me too,” he points out.

Tried, unfortunately, being the key word.

“He does have a point, Pete,” Edmund says.

Peter makes a sharp motion with one hand that may or may not signify acceptance and doesn’t say anything.

A wolf, two minotaurs, and three mice are standing guard outside the red cave, two levels down and previously used to store weapons. It’s probably overkill, but Peter’s not in the mood to argue. “How many are still alive?” he asks Peepiceek.

“Three, your majesty,” the mouse replies, sketching a slight bow despite the fact they’re in the field, in war-time. Peter could tell him off for it, he supposes, though now’s not reallly the time. “Sileas the centaur, Deiree the faun, and Strongback the centaur. There are seven dead.”

“Ten is a lot for a conspiracy,” Edmund points out, brows drawing together. “No one knew about this?”

“We’ll see,” Peter says. “I want to interrogate them individually; I need another room.”

“Trumpkin has cleared the little cave for you,” Peepiceek adds.

“Good,” Peter says. “Send Sileas over.”

Once they’re in the little cave – even more claustrophobic than his bedroom – and Peter has lit every torch in the room, he turns on Caspian. “Don’t,” he says sharply, “say anything. Leave this to me and Edmund.”

“But –” Caspian begins.

A shovel. “It’s a very simple instruction,” Peter snaps at him. “Just don’t talk.”

Edmund murmurs something to Caspian that he doesn’t hear and doesn’t particularly care about. Peter crosses his arms over his chest and waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long. A pair of minotaurs – looking at it objectively, minotaurs are the only ones strong enough to handle a centaur against his wishes – haul in Sileas and throw him to the ground in front of Peter. “Wait outside,” Peter orders, and they nod and bow before backing out, closing the door behind them.

Sileas, he finds, is the centaur Susan wounded in the hallway, the one Lucy healed. He goes to one side in front of the centaur, Edmund to the other, and Caspian behind. This way, Sileas will only be able to look at one of them at a time; they have the advantage. Not being able to see everyone in a room discomfits people, he’s found – occasionally from experience.

After they’re in position, waiting a moment to make Sileas uncomfortable, Peter says, “Who hired you?”

“Hired?” Sileas says, face twisting at the insult. “I assure you, human, we acted only out of good will for all Narnia. We were not paid.”

“I’m sorry,” Edmund says with elaborate, exaggerated politeness, “killing your king is a sign of good will now? By the Lion, Pete, things have changed in Narnia. Clearly we should turn around and go back to England. I can try out for the football team.”

Sileas doesn’t even look at him. His attention is on Peter. That’s not unusual. Surprisingly, even among the Narnians of their time, most people didn’t hold all four of them in equal regard. The questions are always who do they fear and who do they underestimate. It says a lot about which one of the four of them it is, and this time, it’s Peter. He doesn’t think Ed’s even registering. Very well; he can use that.

“Miraz, then,” Peter says as if Edmund hasn’t spoken. “You want the Telmarines to have Narnia?”

“No,” the centaur says. “Telmarines, Lascar, Natarenes, Archenlanders – you’re all the same. What I want is for the damned humans to leave Narnia. Your lot have never done us any good.”

“Except for defeating the White Witch that one time,” Edmund says. “And – oh yes, defending Narnia from Archenland, and Calormene, and Lasci, and the giants, and pirates, and – am I forgetting anyone, Pete? Everyone on Narnia’s western border.”

“No better than the White Witch,” Sileas says dismissively, still not looking at him. “At least under the White Witch we weren’t dying for Men.”

“No, under the White Witch you were just dying,” Peter snaps. “Clearly the history books forgot to mention that part; I like to think I remember it better than you do. Were you around then?” There’s a hot burn of pure anger under the surface of his skin; he knows this. It’s familiar. It makes him irritable, like to twitch right out of his skin. He’ll be better off if he doesn’t put his hands anywhere near his weapons, or he can’t guarantee what will happen to Sileas.

“Narnia,” Sileas says, “should be ruled by Narnians. Last night only showed why! All of you are too free with our lives – you always have been. You are a cancer that needs to be cut from this land.”

“A cancer?” Edmund snaps. “I’m sorry, but your strategy needs improving, if your idea of taking Narnia back from the Telmarines and restoring it to true Narnians is to kill the most experienced general in the country. Not to mention the High King appointed by Aslan himself.”

“Aslan is a myth created by the kings and queens of old to legitimize their conquest,” the centaur says. His gaze flicks aside briefly from Peter, but not towards Edmund, just the cavern wall in front of him. After a moment, he turns his attention back to Peter.

“Who else was part of this conspiracy?” Peter says. Aslan is more of a traitor than he is, but he’ll hold his tongue. It’s not for him to say, and this isn’t the place to say it.

“The rest of your so-called army is too bewitched to see the truth behind your lies,” Sileas says; Peter mentally translates that to no one I want to talk about.

“Sure about that?” he asks.

“Even after your massacre they still believe you are who you claim to be. What do you think?”

My massacre, yes, but through no ill will of mine. “I think you’re an idiot,” Peter says matter-of-factly. “But you’re not the first of those I’ve talked to.”

“Deluded fools,” Sileas snaps.

“I have always served Narnia above all else,” Peter replies, hurt overwhelming his better judgment for a heartbeat. Anger pounds briefly behind his eyes, but it’s all his. Narnia is silent. By Aslan, what have I done? “If this vendetta of yours is about our leaving –”

“Your leaving was the best thing that could have happened to Narnia!” Sileas exclaims. “Save that you weakened us so that we could not even defend ourselves when Men came pouring over our borders. Too much trust placed in humans – we killed each other rather than join and force out the invaders. It was you who brought the Dying Times upon Narnia, and you must pay for it. Only when your blood has been spilled can we cleanse Narnia again.”

Some part of Peter’s brain is still working, clean and cold, without emotions. Fanatic, it tells him. Can’t reason with one of those. Only one solution for that. The rest of him – “What,” he says quietly, “are the Dying Times?”

“What do you think happened to Narnia after you left, human?” Sileas spits. “We died.”

“No,” Peter says, and Edmund’s at his side instantly.

“Pete –”

“No, damn you, what happened –”

“Peter!”

He shoves Edmund aside. Sileas is laughing. “Human blood for Narnian blood,” he says. “You, and then the Telmarines. It will only be a start at repayment for all the dead of the Dying Times.”

“I didn’t know –”

“Peter!” Edmund says again; he’s not paying any attention at all to Sileas.

Neither is Peter now. He throws open the door and strides into the hall, crossing quickly to the red cave, where Peepiceek takes one look at his face and orders the guards aside. He shuts the door in Edmund’s face.

“Something you wanted to say, High King?” the faun – Deiree – drawls, idly tracing patterns in the dirt with his bound hands.

The other centaur, Strongback, is lying on his side. They’ve taken the arrows out and bound his wounds, but no more than that. Peter is suddenly, viciously glad he’s still alive: it means he gets to kill him himself.

“Why?” he says, the harshness of his voice surprising him. He hasn’t lost himself like this for a long time now. He’d thought he was used to betrayal. “What did I do to you?”

Deiree cocks his head to the side. “Three hundred years of death and torture, High King. They weren’t content to stop with the adults – they killed our children. Plague. Famine. Massacre. They came from the south, the west, the ocean – and we could do nothing against them. And why was that, High King? Because you abandoned us to certain death. Once, Narnia was strong. Once, Narnia never needed a Son of Adam in Cair Paravel – we were strong enough without it. It was the King of Summer who weakened us, who made us dependent on humans for life and respect, and once those humans had left we were helpless. They slaughtered us like beasts! There is no one in Narnia untouched by those dark times, even a thousand years later. Some of us do not forget, and some of us do not forgive. Those who stole our land from us are long dead now, and gone from our reach, but here you stand – the ones who gave it to them practically gift-wrapped. Why shouldn’t you pay the price? Once the ghosts of you and our kin have been exorcised, High King, we can take back the land that has been lost to us for a thousand years. No longer will we have to fear humans, because we will have defeated the greatest murderers that ever set foot in Narnia –”

This is why Narnia has been very nearly silent, sullen and bitter in the back of his mind aside from that first surge of wild joy. Peter finds his voice. “That went well,” he says starkly. “Your defeat – couldn’t even take down one drunk, unarmed teenager –”

“Someone else will step forward to see you dead, even if we have not fulfilled our vengeance,” Deiree says matter-of-factly. There’s nothing but cold hate in his eyes.

Peter turns around and leaves.

“Pete –” Edmund says, staring at him. “What –”

Caspian’s still down the hall, in front of the door to the little cave, talking to the minotaur. He has a name, Peter remembers – Melchior. In one smooth movement, Peter draws his hunting knife from his voice and throws it. Caspian and Melchior jump backwards, staring at the blade stuck quivering in the wood between them.

“Sorry,” Peter says. Hearing himself, he sounds – he doesn’t sound like himself at all. Neither one of his selves, the High King or the schoolboy. It hurts.

“What the hell?” Edmund demands. “What –”

“I want every member of the army in front of the How by sunrise,” Peter snaps. “Everyone. Even the wounded. No excuses. Including those three.” He storms off before Edmund can say anything else, barely stopping to pull his knife free of the old, solid wood.

“High King,” Caspian says tentatively.

Peter ignores him, sliding his knife into the sheath at the back of his belt. Between this and the dwarf he killed earlier, it’s doubtless dulled. He’ll have to sharpen it.

When he gets back to his rooms, it’s to find that it’s been cleaned up, the last traces of spilled blood and spilled wine removed. He kicks the door shut behind him.

It’s not more than an hour to dawn now. Sitting down on a bedroll that no longer bears the scars of being shredded by arrows – replaced, doubtless, though from where he doesn’t particularly care – Peter draws his sword. The torchlight flickers reflects off it, lighting up the runes engraved in the blade. He busies himself with getting out a whetstone and oil, a polishing cloth.

This, at least, is ritual. He’s done this a thousand times before. He smoothes out the tiny imperfections in the metal, bringing the edges to razor-sharpness. He polishes the blade until he can see his face in it – and then, of course, because one should never draw a sword without spilling blood (and he’s feeling particularly bloodthirsty today), he tests the blade on the inside of his forearm, watching the drops of blood well up briefly. He wipes that off the blade and pauses to staunch the bleeding – it’s not bad and not deep, just enough to wet Rhindon’s appetite. This ritual done, he turns his attention to the sheath.

Thirteen hundred years of sitting in Cair Paravel’s vaults hasn’t aged it a day – whatever magic remains in Narnia has kept it untouched by time. Beyond that, though, it’s no less aged by fifteen years of hard fighting than it was before Peter left, and he hasn’t given it proper care since he returned. He gives it a light coating of oil, inside and out – not too much, because that would be just as bad as too little.

Peter slides his sword home and sets it aside. He repeats the ritual with his knife, and then he stands up, carrying his sheathed sword in one hand rather than replace it on his belt. It’s time.

Susan and Lucy are waiting for him in the hallway.

“Peter,” Susan says carefully, looking at him like she’s not entirely certain he hasn’t gone mad, “you’re not – not on the Stone Table –”

He’d rather die himself. “I’m not the God damn White Witch,” Peter says, and hears the harshness in his voice too late.

Susan subsides, expression fraught with unhappiness. “I wish we didn’t have to do this again,” she murmurs.

Peter stops, touches her shoulder lightly with his free hand. Susan looks at him with huge eyes, and from this angle, he can see the fresh scar on her face easily. It will fade soon. “So do I,” he tells her. “But it has to be done.”

Do your duty, Peter of Narnia, Aslan had said to him once. He hands his sword to Lucy. She takes it. They’ve done this before. Together, the three of them go down to the ruins in front of the How, where the sun is just beginning to break over the horizon.

All eyes are on them as they leave the How. Peter doesn’t look anywhere except straight ahead, where Edmund is waiting with Caspian and the prisoners, but he’s still aware of the army, automatically counting and referencing them out of the corners of his eyes. It’s so much smaller than the court at Cair Paravel, where he carried out most of his executions, or the armies he took into the field. It’s very nearly not properly an army at all, but it will have to do. It’s Narnia.

As he approaches, Edmund says formally, “I turn these souls into your keeping, High King,” and steps back, surreptitiously nudging Caspian along with him. He joins Lucy and Susan behind Peter.

Looking at the three would-be assassins kneeling in front of him, Peter feels a hot burn of anger rise in his chest. This isn’t like battle – never has been. That’s easy to understand, and that’s cold. This is like drinking good brandy.

“These three souls, along with seven others,” he announces, forcing the anger aside for the cool formality of low court Narnian, “came in the night with death and violence in their hearts. It was their wish to kill those humans among you: our royal self, Peter of Narnia; our royal sister and queen, Susan of Narnia; our royal brother and fellow king, Edmund of Narnia; our royal sister and queen, Lucy of Narnia; and our royal cousin, Caspian of Telmar. They have told us this by their words and by their deeds. So we witness, and so we swear, on the mane of the great Lion, Aslan. Is there any other who would swear likewise?”

“So swear I, High King,” Susan says, voice calm and contained. “I, Susan of Narnia, Queen of this land and sometime Queen of Narnia under the High King Peter, swear by the name of Aslan that these souls came seeking nothing but death. I have seen them, and spilled my own blood in defense of myself and my sister Lucy.”

“So swear I, High King,” Edmund says, completely serious and without his usual sardonic note. “I, Edmund of Narnia, King of this land and sometime King of Narnia under the High King Peter, swear by the name of Aslan that these two centaurs and this faun were among those that attacked myself and my family in the night. One is dead by my hand. I have heard the centaur Sileas speak of his guilt.”

“So swear I, High King,” Lucy says, her high child’s voice carrying. “I, Lucy of Narnia, Queen of this land and sometime Queen of Narnia under the High King Peter, swear by Aslan that these three were among those who attacked like cowards in the night with nothing but murder in their hearts. I have seen them, and I have fought them.”

“So swear I, High King,” Caspian finishes. Edmund will have coached him, of course. “I, Caspian of Telmar and Narnia, Crown Prince of Telmarine Narnia and rightful King of Telmarine Narnia, swear on the gods of my ancestors and the grave of my father that these men –” he pauses briefly, and Peter grinds his teeth in irritation, “– came like ghosts in the dead of night with violence in their hearts and steel in their hands. I raised my own sword in defense of my body against them, and I have heard them freely admit their guilt.”

Peter waits a ritual minute for any other to speak, and then he says, “Sileas of Glasswater, Deiree of Lantern Waste, and Strongback of Coldwood: do you freely admit your guilt in the eyes of gods and all civilized creatures?”

“Do you mean that we came to kill you and all your kind?” Deiree asks, twisting around to look at Peter with cool, calm eyes. “Yes. I speak for us all: we came to kill you, and we failed.”

“Is there any other who would speak for these?”

The army stirs briefly, but no one steps forward. No one speaks.

“So be it,” Peter says. “Then, by the power granted to us as High King over all Kings in Narnia by the land of Narnia and by Aslan himself, we bid you take a moment to prepare yourselves: for the crime of high treason, to compass and imagine the deaths of our royal self, Sovereign of Narnia, and of our royal sisters and brother, who hold the offices of Queens and King of Narnia under us, and for the crime of attempted murder, to compass and imagine the death of our royal cousin Prince Caspian, we, High King Peter of Narnia, by the grace of Aslan, by the will and favor of Narnia, sentence you, Sileas of Glasswater, centaur; Deiree of Lantern Waste, faun, and Strongback of Coldwood, centaur, to death, to be executed immediately by our hand.”

He holds out his empty right hand; Lucy draws Rhindon and puts the hilt in his hand before stepping back into line. Peter closes his fingers around it and brings it forward, tip against the ground in front of him.

“By the laws of Narnia we ask if there is anything that can be done to ease your passage into Aslan’s country, or whatever afterlife your faith dictates.”

“There is not,” Sileas says. “We die now for Narnia, at the hands of the man who condemned Narnia to a thousand years of chaos. There is no comfort you could give us save to stop your hearts and drop dead at once, and even then we would be little pleased.”

He’s heard the same thing before – different words, same sentiment. He’s heard it a lot. “Then may your gods judge you fairly for your sins upon this earth, and may they forgive you, for Narnia will not.” Peter steps forward and raises his sword. Around him, Narnia stirs at last, grim with anger, and gives her strength to his sword-arm.

He swings: Sileas’s head rolls across the cracked white stone.

He swings: Strongback’s head rolls falls and rolls a few feet forward.

He swings: Deiree’s head rolls and stops at a half-toppled pillar, blankly staring eyes looking into the rising sun.

Peter steps around the collapsed bodies and raises his sword, running freely with blood now, to the east. “Narnia gives these souls into the keeping of Aslan,” he says, throat vibrating with more than just his voice. He’s not the only one speaking; this execution is sanctified by Narnia herself. “May he judge them fairly when they arrive in his country.”

The army is silent. Peter holds out his left hand without looking; Lucy puts a soft cleaning-cloth into it. He wipes his sword off and holds out the cloth; Lucy takes it and replaces it with his sword-sheath. Peter sheathes his sword, slips it into the loops on his belt, and turns to Edmund as the presence of Narnia fades from his mind, leaving him alone and empty.

“Burn the bodies,” he says. “All of them.” And then he turns and walks into the darkness of the How.

This time he goes straight for the table room. The torches are burning, and he perches himself cross-legged on the Stone Table, looking at the graven image of Aslan.

“Is this your message, then?” he murmurs. “Is this the sign you’re giving me?”

There is no answer. Peter rubs a hand over his face, suddenly very tired and aware that he’s had a lot of wine and no sleep at all.

Listen, O Man, Aslan had said to him once. This is the nature of a king: to do that which is unnatural. It is for ordinary men to be ordinary: it is for kings and heroes to be extraordinary. To others, what a king does may be called foolishness, may be called murder, may be called treason. It is for a king to do what is forbidden others, because he alone can face the consequences. To be king is to put one’s self aside and put all others before: to be king is to do what cannot be done. To be king is, sometimes, to do what must not be done. Such grace is not given to all men, or even to most: it goes against man’s nature to be willing to do such things. But it is the nature of a king to do the unnatural.

“My God,” Peter says out loud. “So this is it, then? This is the end?”

The lion’s eyes are flat and stone; even the torchlight does not bring them to life.

He hears his sister’s footsteps before he sees her; Lucy hops up onto the table beside him and puts her head against his shoulder. Peter puts his arm around her and rests his chin briefly on top of her head, breathing in her scent.

“What will you do?” she asks.

Peter closes his eyes. Opens them again. Sees nothing but torchlight and stone, misplaced dirt where ice melted, a cold fire where the White Witch’s wand lies, untouched by time.

“End it,” he says. “However I must.”

Introduction | On a Summer Midnight | Of Dead Secrets | Gone Under the Hill | In a Dark Wood | In Constellated Wars

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

tekalynn.livejournal.com

Wow.

Your structure works beautifully in the way each part mirrors and enhances the others. It all unfolds with beautiful naturalness. You evoke a very powerful world here and a believable one.

I had to struggle now and then because your interpretation of the characters in this universe is so different from my own view of them, but everyone is well thought out and entirely consistent within the framework.

Wonderful work.

From:

bedlamsbard.livejournal.com

Thank you very much!

From:

lyamainu.livejournal.com

That was amazing. I was a bit worried that reading the same story five times would lessen it's power, but the voice you gave each of the characters was enthralling.

From:

bedlamsbard.livejournal.com

Thank you very much!

From:

swift-tales.livejournal.com

I'll keep it brief since it appears that my reviews have been steadily growing in length as the story progesses.

Peter is crazy and angry and lost

This line: Aslan is more of a traitor than he is, but he’ll hold his tongue. It’s not for him to say, and this isn’t the place to say it. --> Brilliant!

And the Speech about the nature of a king to do the unnatural, it's brilliant!

This was awesome

From:

bedlamsbard.livejournal.com

I kind of have to admit I was checking my refreshing my e-mail every two minutes or so to see if your latest review had come in yet, and then squeeing like a maniac for another five minutes. (In other words: so not coherent; coherency coming later.)

From:

swift-tales.livejournal.com

I'm so looking forward to the coherency... I have to admit, I love your brain xD :p

From:

bedlamsbard.livejournal.com

Thank you! And yes, that's Peter exactly, right there: crazy and angry and above all else, lost, because this isn't his Narnia anymore, and no matter what he does, he can't turn back time and undo the wrongs that have happened since he's been gone. He's powerless, and he's lashing out.

From:

swift-tales.livejournal.com

Yes, you can really feel that in the story. Especially his reaction to the Dying Times. He didn't know what happened and he's so angry about that, but also sad and depressed. Because you know, if it had been up to him he never would have left Narnia (Aslan grrrr) and he'd made some contingency plans in case he died or something....

Do you think there weren't any contingency plans? Or maybe they just failed because of you know, the whole world invading Narnia after they left?

laissez les bons temps rouler

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