Winterfall

At first, they hardly notice. The mountains between Archenland and Narnia are high and even the easiest passes can be blocked in a hard winter. When no word comes from Narnia after the first snows, everyone simply assumes the weather is to blame, and settles in to wait for spring.

A Hawk arrives at Christmas, carrying a formal wish of the season's joys to 'our royal cousins of Archenland' and an informal apology that there will be no invitation to the usual Christmas feast — the passes are too deep under snow for even the clearing teams (minotaurs, centaurs, and firebirds working together to break up or melt the snows) to handle. "Perhaps for Springmelt," King Van says politely, unconcerned. This is expected, when you rule a land locked inside mountains on all sides. Narnia at least can send Birds and Griffins; Calormen and Telmar are completely out of contact more often than not in winter. Some word comes by sea, but winter storms are no joke, and few captains will brave more than the short hop to Covarr, a day's sail off the coast. What Birds make their home in Archenland rather than Narnia (and are willing to be of service to the crown, because of course one would never force a Talking Animal to act as messenger) are kept busy checking in with their sources — official and otherwise — in other courts. It does no harm for other lands to think Archenland wholly ignorant through the winter; a little land surrounded by larger neighbors must think always of keeping its advantages.

Winter lingers in the north; Van has been exchanging the annual spring posturing with Calormen for nearly a month before the passes to Narnia clear. He sends a letter at once with greetings and an inquiry to their food stores; Narnia is a richer land than Archenland, but makes less provision for harsh winters, having them so rarely. Aside from the deep snows in the mountains, it hasn't been a bad year in Archenland, and they have enough to share, if Narnia needs.

The messenger returns with Narnia's polite thanks and assurances that all is well with their northern cousin — at least where supplies are concerned. Gravely, Van's man relates the ill tidings: the king and queen of Narnia are dead. A winter fever, he was told, swift and sudden. Prince Riel — King Riel, though it's not clear whether he's been formally crowned yet — is in the north, fighting. No doubt the giants taking advantage of Narnia's tragedy. The country is in mourning, of course (and Van reminds himself that he must order a black banner flown; the Narnian royals are kin by custom, no matter how long it's been since the lines last intermarried), but the Spring Festival will be held as usual, and Archenland will be invited.

The formal invitation arrives a fortnight later with all due ceremony; the Spruce dryad bearing it urges Van to accept and to bring as large a party as he wishes. "Narnia is in need of joy and revelry." Narnian festivals are not to be refused at the best of times; Van sends back Archenland's acceptance the same day.

It is a large and merry party that goes north the next month, though smaller by two than it might have been; his brother's wife is having a difficult time of her first pregnancy, and Vanin will neither risk her to travel nor be parted from her. They have an escort from the border, a local Wolf pack that has claimed the privilege of escorting Narnia's guests, and they gossip cheerfully all the way to the Dancing Lawn. There's not much talk of courts in it, but Van expects no less. He'll get his news from the human-type Narnians that care more for politics. For now he takes honest pleasure in the more practical bent of the Wolves' conversation; the hunting and the weather and how many cubs the Pack expects. He does try asking for word of King Riel's northern campaign, but the Wolves only seem to know that it is over and all is well in Narnia.

It's evening when they reach the Dancing Lawn, and the glow of lanterns calls them on through the trees. Toes are already tapping to the drums that carry and though they've been riding all day everyone feels energized, ready to dance until they drop. And if it follows most Narnian festivals, they will drop and rest and rise again to dance some more.

It's only when they get closer that Van notices something off. Where are the faun pipes? With the Lawn before them they should hear more than drumming; even a sword-dance calls for a tune. And while hypnotic, the drumming doesn't have that sort of intensity that betokens a spontaneous competition between drummers, for which the other musicians might fall silent. He reins in, just a little, listening hard. A man doesn't keep crown and kingdom long without learning to heed that inner alarm.

Where is the rest of the greeting party? The Wolves are still with them, but they should have been met. Perhaps not by a formal party; it wouldn't be the first time monarchs of Narnia forgot all but the pulse of their country's celebration. But there should have been revelers, or even just Trees, to welcome them and bring them into the dance. Van looks up at the trees; they sway only with the wind.

Something's wrong.

He reins up hard, reaching for the sword at his knee, meant for protection against border-bandits and forgotten in Narnia until this moment. His people don't notice immediately, caught in the spell of a Narnian festival; they ride on eagerly. Only his personal guard reins up beside him. "Sire?"

"I—" Van feels foolish. What does he fear? A lack of music? He laughs a little, and shakes his head, forcing his fingers to uncurl from around the sword hilt. "Just a fancy," he says. "I must remember we're in Narnia; the beasts of the forests here are... far more friendly." He grins at the Wolves who've drawn close, inviting them to share the joke. The leader lets his tongue loll out, amused. "You're expected," he reminds them. "Shall we go?"

"By all means," Van invites. They dismount with the others, and some vestige of caution makes him attach the sword to his belt, as his guards are doing but he would not ordinarily. Then it's forward, to join the revelry and feasting. He can see the gathered crowd through the trees, and his steps quicken. It looks to be a large one, a good year. Perhaps Bacchus himself will visit; Van hasn't yet had the pleasure, but he hopes for it.

The confusion of bodies begins to resolve into individual forms, and Van slows. No one is dancing. They are all intent on something at the center of the gather, which he cannot see from this vantage. Nerves reawakened, he edges forward carefully.

This isn't the sort of gathering he's used to. Narnians are all so different, any crowd of them can be dizzying at first, but Van has been here often enough to be somewhat accustomed. He sees hags, boggles, ogres, sprites — any number of beings generally not invited to such gatherings, for their notions of merriment often have a sharp edge and their personalities (to say nothing of their forms!) are unpleasant. They're somewhat vulgar, and best left alone. Yet here they are, along with creatures that must be even worse, for Van has never seen them before and cannot identify them.

In the center of these creatures is King Riel, older than Van had last seen him but recognizable enough, with his arms bound cruelly behind his back. He's clearly the focus of their foul celebration: the creatures jeer and taunt him, poking him with spears or knifes and scratching him with tooth and claw. Through it all he stands still, refusing to give them the satisfaction of flinching, and Van thinks fleetingly that his father would be proud.

Then his own folk are prodded forward, deeper among the fell gathering, and Van's attention is taken by the woman who steps forth to meet them. She is tall and regal, dressed in a sweeping gown that only accentuates her height. Her hair and skin are both so fair that she seems to glow against the night, catching all the torchlight. She looks human, not exactly and uncommon thing in Narnia, but rare enough that Van should have heard of her — a woman like this would generate no small amount of comment in the courts. He racks his brain for any mention of such a woman and comes up blank.

She smiles, and his heart freeze. He's well accustomed to false smiles, but never before has he seen one so edged with cruelty. "So good of you to join us," she says, the mockery of a hostess. "No doubt Prince Riel is glad to see his kin once more." She runs a possessive hand over the young king's shoulders while her forces laugh. The sound echoes in Van's ears until his wants to clap his hands over them to shut it out, but he won't let go of his sword. He's amazed they haven't been disarmed yet, but supposes the creatures don't consider the small band much of a threat.

"It is well," the woman continues, "to have noble guests witness a coronation."

"Coronation?" someone echoes. Van can't tell who; they sound relieved and he grimaces; the shock of it all is getting to his folk.

"Yes. Oh, not our young prince's," she adds, trailing her fingers over his throat. Van thinks he sees the lad shudder slightly, but the light may be playing tricks with his eyes. "Narnia needs a stronger guardian, and one who won't unduly favor certain Narnians." That raises a fierce cheer from the crowd and Van begins to see the shape of this. "But our dear Riel does have an important part to play tonight. After all, Narnia demands the blood of a king." She smiles again, cold and cruel. Gasps and cries of protest or outrage ripple through the Archenlanders. Van might have been one of them, but he is struck dumb with horror, understanding what this — his mind fumbles for an insult, finally latching onto one from the tales he'd been told as a child — this witch proposes to do. His hand tightens on his sword-hilt, but there are so many creatures between him and the prince...

The small sound is drowned in the hooting laughter and cheers of the fell crowd, so the first sign of archers in the trees is when their arrows spout from throats and eyes. "Narnia!" the roar goes up, seemingly from everywhere at once. Van doesn't think, simply rips his sword from its sheath, slicing a harpy down in the same motion. His men do the same, and even one or two ladies produce knives from somewhere about their persons, setting themselves to defend their unarmed sisters. He has no time to notice more than that, as the clearing descends into utter chaos.

It isn't like other battle, isn't like melees at tournaments. There are no patterns or organization to it at all. There's only the dance of blades and keeping yourself alive. Van's focus narrows to a tight circle of threat around himself. Anything that enters it, he strikes at; everything else he ignores. He has no concentration to space for looking around at the rest of the battle until, more or less by accident, he fights his way into a knot of his own people. By unspoken agreement they form a ring, pushing the fell creatures away and claiming a small stretch of ground. With someone at his back, it's easier to spare attention for the battle at large.

Their approach seems to be the common one; everywhere he looks small bands of Narnians fight back-to-back. In some places, the creatures of the witch are on the defensive; in others, the ones who must be loyal to the prince are hard-pressed. Van sees mostly centaurs and fauns among the prince's supporters, and guesses they're the army — what's left of it. Battles in the northlands indeed.

"To the king!" someone shouts, over the clash. Van dispatches the boggle in front of him and risks another glance around. Riel is still caught in the witch's grip, the pair surrounded by minotaurs and things that look a little like harpies but are featherless like bats, for which Van has no name.

"Enough of this farce," he hears the witch say, her words falling into one of those odd silences you sometimes get in battle, when both sides pause for a collective breath. Alarm zips through him, but a dwarf and a tiger come at him and he has to pay attention to his swordwork. He gets the dwarf down — the battleaxe he's carrying isn't meant for such close quarters and he can't swing it properly so he's an easy target — and lifts his eyes from the tiger just in time to see the woman plunge a strange knife into Riel's chest. The young king's eyes widen and he stiffens, then Van's view is blocked by a mass of fur and claws as the tiger leaps for his throat. He barely gets his sword up in time, managing to score a thin wound down the beast's flank, but it's nothing more than a scratch and only makes the tiger angry. He presses the attack with a backswing meant to take its head off. Then a sudden heaviness comes upon him, stealing his breath, and he falters, his swordpoint dropping. It feels like the times he's sat worrying for his kingdom and his people until he thinks he will crack under the strain and run mad, only doubled and redoubled, a physical weight bowing his shoulders.

The tiger takes advantage of his weakness, darting forward with claws and teeth bared. Van feels a line of fire run up and down his leg, the pain clearing a little space in his fogged brain, and he sees the tiger's claws stained a vivid crimson, the witch standing tall above the crowd with the knife in her hand dripping scarlet, the torchlight ruddy on faces and blades.

He drowns in red, and knows no more.

Red is the first thing he sees when he wakes, but it's the sun through closed eyelids. Then whatever he's laying on shifts, and he sees any number of interesting shades as his leg makes its protest known in no uncertain terms. He nearly bites his tongue off to contain a scream; he has no hope of stopping the moan that slips from his throat.

Motion stops at once, reducing the sensation in his leg to merely excruciating. "Sire!"

Van forces one eye open, wincing against the light, and makes out Sar, one of his guards, bending over him with concern. "What—" he croaks. His voice is gone and even his tongue feels heavy.

"You were badly wounded, sire," Sar tells him, as if the throbbing that's replaced his lower limbs hasn't already informed him. "I'm sorry, your majesty, but we can't stop to let you rest. I know it hurts," he adds. "We have some brandy, if you wish."

"No," Van murmurs. He'd probably choke, or vomit, and feel just as bed after. Memory of the night — last night? He hopes so; the notion that he's been unconscious longer is not a comfortable one — filters back in, and he manages, "Riel?"

"Dead, sire. That woman — her name is Jadis, apparently — has declared herself queen of Narnia. " Sar's voice is gentle, his speech careful as though it were Van's heart that was weak and not his leg.

"Our folk?"

The solder's grim look gives him an answer without and words, and he closes his eyes in pain. "Some are with us," Sar murmurs. "Others may have escaped as well." He hesitates. Van can hear someone else, but his ears find no sense in the rumble. "Sire? Are you fit enough to press on? We must get you across the border to safety."

Van tries to nod, finds he lacks the strength. "I — will live," he croaks. "Sar — the oth—"

"We must get you away, your majesty," the guard repeats. "This Jadis is bent on exterminating any of Frank's blood. Brace, now, my king —" He jolts into motion again, and realizes they have him strapped to some sort of litter or travois. Whoever's guiding it is taking pains to choose a smooth path, but they're clearly not on a road. Van grits his teeth against the pain, wondering if he might be better off strapped to his horse. If he thought he could hold himself upright he'd suggest it. As it is he wishes they'd be a little less carefully; a few good bumps might well knock him out again.

Van remembers little of the trip, save the sense of motion and pain. Despites Sar's care, and that of the Narnians helping them (he learns much later that his travois was drawn, against all custom, by a centaur named Cloudstrike), his wounds fester and he takes fever. They cannot stop for healing; the false queen has wolves on her side and they harry the little band, forcing it to hurry ever faster, ever southward. He has no memory at all of the crossing in Archenland; the pass was his undoing.

His next clear memories begin in his own chambers in Anvard, with his wife and brother and half a dozen healers crowding him anxiously. Vanin tells him, in simple, short words, the news from Narnia: most of the court dead, the army routed and scattered, the chaos caused by treachery everywhere one turns. No one knows who has turned their coat to Jadis; she has allies among nearly every race, it seems, though some are more common than others. Vanin has called up the army and is holding the passes, but they all know such a state of affairs can't last long; Archenland's armies are needed far more in the south, or Calormene will get ideas. Van has never prayed so hard for winter.

His leg heals but slowly. He walks with a limp, though he disdains the use of a cane as soon as it is strong enough to bear his weight. He can barely sit a horse, and he will never fight in earnest again, though as the summer wears on he forces himself through whatever exercises can be done effectively standing still. He turns over field command of the army to Vanin, hating it but admitting he would only be a liability.

Every day, it seems, brings worse news from Narnia. Jadis is indeed bent on eliminating Frank's descendants (and Van is certain it is only a matter of time before she turns her attention to Archenland in earnest) but she is also gathering other humans. Some she kills, others have been taken into her new palace in the middle of Sweetmere Lake, and no further word of their fate is known. Narnians too, go in and never come out again, but it's clear her focus is humans.

Two ships from Galma put in at Langcliff Bay, Anvard's nearest harbor. The merchants and sailors aboard either talk of nothing but Jadis or superstitiously refuse to speak of her at all. Someone else has remembered old stories; Van hears her called the White Witch for the first time. It's certainly better than Queen Jadis; he refuses to grant her the title, and orders his court recorders to refer to her as 'white witch' in the official documents. The Galmans bring whispers of a terrible new weapon, one capable of killing with just a touch. Many scoff - magic can kill, certainly, any child knows that, but it takes preparation and could never be used in a heated battle - but Van remembers her cold smile and thinks if anyone could find a way to kill efficiently with magic, it would be her.

Word finally comes from the beleaguered Narnian loyalists. She has a new weapon, and it is as fearsome as rumor made it. Not death, they say, not exactly — in fact all those with some knowledge of magic believe her spell might be undone — but no one can, though they've tried. She turns her victims to stone, and whether they're dead or just imprisoned, the effect is the same. Van prays that at the least they are unaware; to be frozen and know the passage of time strikes him as a recipe for swift and certain madness.

One of Narnia's surviving human lords brings his wife and small daughter to Anvard, begging sanctuary for them. Van grants it; he doesn't imagine anything will make Archenland a greater target than being the home of Frank's remaining line does. He's had his historians digging through the records, looking for any sign of this Jadis or her family, and the results are interesting, if difficult to believe. It would certainly explain her hatred for Frank. He can't persuade the lord himself to remain; the man is determined to fight for his country, and Van can't deny his right to do so. It's a tearful parting, and the whole court falls over itself to make his family feel welcomed. They never hear from or of him again.

Vanin comes to him just before harvest, pull of plans. His brother has been chafing under the strain of waiting; Van knows the feeling, but what can they do? Vanin lays out his strategies and Van catches some of his enthusiasm, though he tries to temper it. They cannot attack Jadis - at best they might contribute troops to a loyalist offensive, but the Narnians are still scrambling to recover from the double blow of treachery and conquest; they won't be ready to lead an assault for some time — if ever again, he admits, because a king needs to be realistic about these things. But Vanin has taken his cue from his king, and his plans are not for battle but for rescue. He proposes to smuggle Narnians out of the Witch's reach, beginning with what humans remain. He's already mapped three routes, one direct, one by sea, and one through Telmar, of all things. It's risky, but so is living.

"Narnia won't give up," Vanin says. "If we can help them... if we can save even a little of what Narnia should be..." And then Van knows that neither of them expects to see Jadis overthrown within their lifetimes.

"Do it," he says.

He thinks he should apologize to his sister-in-law: Vanin is rarely at home after that, running hither and yon to arrange escapes and secure hiding places. His new daughter cuts her first tooth and learns to crawl while her father is away. But his efforts are working. A slow but steady trickle of Narnians makes it across the border, mostly women and children but also men and women sufficiently important to have drawn Jadis's personal attention. Most of them join the court at Anvard; a few travel to Galma or the Lone Islands, wanting to stay in Narnian territory. It's a risk, but so far the Witch hasn't shown any interest in the islands. Van suspects his brother is doing more than just arranging escapes, but he doesn't ask. There are some things a prince can do that a king cannot.

Winter comes on early, making Van wonder if Aslan had heard his prayers. Then a frost nearly ruins the harvest before they can get it all in, and he wonders if a deity more perverse than the Lion heard him. The snow closes in, and he can finally stand down his armies, allowing them long-overdue visits home. He dreads having to call them up again in the spring; Calormen won't sit idle much longer. They should have acted already, but they've been fortuitously distracted by a rebellion brewing in the southern Empire which is much more damaging to their interests than 'little barbarian kingdoms.'

The snow makes Vanin's work more difficult, but he's determined to do as much as he can before it becomes impossible. Van agrees with this in principle, but after watching his sister-in-law keep a brave face for months, he orders Vanin home for Christmas and the midwinter celebrations.

The longer the winter continues, the more Van relaxes. A pressure he didn't know he was under eases, and it's only when he finds himself waking one morning without the pain in his leg that he notices. He rubs a thoughtful hand over the scars. It's still stiff, and probably always will be, but the bone-deep ache is gone — contrary to everything he knows about old wounds and weather. He remembers the weight that staggered him during the battle, and the beating sense of urgency he's felt to help Narnia, and he looks north. "What did you do to me?" he murmurs, but he knows. It's in the stories. Archenland is not Narnia, but they are kings of Frank's line and keep the histories. A land needs a king — or queen — and Narnia more so, because she's so magical. Without a sovereign bound to her, she doesn't have the same power, or the same awareness, and what thinking creature would become a dumb animal if they had the choice?

To be chosen by Narnia, the family stories say, is a deep honor, and there have been two occasions when someone was skipped in the line of succession because Narnia preferred the younger child. Van doesn't think for a moment he's Narnia's true choice; there are hints that she's jealous of her kings and Archenland will always have first claim on him. She grabbed him in panic, he suspects, when Riel died and there was no clear heir. He's kin and already bound to the land; it would have been enough. What disturbs him is the lessening of the tie. There are ceremonies to bind a king to his land, but he doesn't know Narnia's, and anyway it would have to be done on Narnian soil. He hopes it just means she's found a proper king, but were that the case it should be gone, not weakened. In the spring, he decides, he'll make a trip to the border. A few steps over it should be enough for ritual, and little enough danger. "Hold on till then, lady," he whispers to the northern sky.

Father Christmas makes an unexpected public visit to Anvard. He's usually hard to see in Archenland, preferring to make his deliveries without anyone noticing. Van welcomes him to the feast heartily, pressing a glass of mulled wine on him, but he senses the spirit is perturbed. "Walk me to my sleigh," Christmas invites, when the gifts are distributed and the wine is drunk. Van goes, though walking anywhere is a more difficult proposition than it used to be. Father Christmas matches his limping pace without making a production of it, as if it simply happened to be the speed he wished to walk. They amble out into the snowy night, the silence companionable.

"I cannot get to Narnia," Christmas confides softly. "The borderlands are open to me still, but the heart of the country is gone."

"Gone?" Van echoes sharply.

The spirit spreads his hands. "To my senses. The land is still there; your sort can travel it as ever. But for those of us who walk there by magic…" He shakes his head. "It is locked away behind walls of glass so thick I can barely see through them, and they creep ever outwards. Bacchus will make no visits this summer, and by this time next year I think even the borders will be closed to me."

"The Witch's doing?" He knows the answer, but can't help asking.

"I believe so." His eyes are hazy and unfocused, seeing something far distant.

"How could she keep you out?"

"Alone, she could not. She has tapped the Deep Magic; it is the only way she could command the land so."

The Deep Magic. Van shivers. Even in Narnia they rarely speak of it; it isn't the everyday matter of illusion and cantrip, nor even the more complex workings that are the province of scholars. A man might live his whole life knowing nothing of the Deep Magic; a king knows it only because it binds him to his land. "How?" he whispers, not certain he wants to know.

"That I cannot say. She has some true tie to Narnia, or it could not be done at all, but how she has forged such chains on the land, I do not know."

Van thinks of torchlight and blood, of a knife and a claw. He fingers the ridge of scar on his leg. "Can anything be done?"

Father Christmas steps into his sleigh, settling himself on the driver's bench heavily. "Only Aslan can stop this now."

Archenland loves the Lion as Narnia does, but they are somewhat less certain of his parousia. "Will he come?"

"When the time is right," Father Christmas answers, and Van knows when to stop asking questions.

"Merry Christmas, sir," he says instead.

"And to you, your majesty."

Van doesn't return to the celebrations. He stands and watches the sleigh out of sight, then goes quietly up to the dark and empty library. Sometime near dawn he nods off over a tome chronicling the founding of Archenland.

He doesn't remember his dreams, but he wakes chilled through.

Spring comes in due course. The passes to Calormen open and the first raiding parties appear with all the certainty of the cuckoo. They are bolder this year, as if to make up for the previous year's quiet, and Van soon has his hands full dealing with border patrols and refugees and aid to raided villages. He thinks about pointing out to Calormen that it would be more profitable to raid Archenland if they'd let them finish the planting first, but that would probably only encourage them. It isn't until after the crops are, finally, safely planted that Van notices how quiet the north has been. No one has mentioned the passes opening, though it is long past time. He seeks out his brother for a briefing on Narnia's condition.

Vanin, appealed to, looks grim. He gives the news brought by Birds and Griffins: Narnia is still caught in winter. To be sure, in some places the snows have melted enough for things to grow, but the air has not lost its bite and everyone fears a late frost will spoil the crops. "I took the liberty," Vanin adds quietly, "of allotting some of our supplies as aid should Narnia's crops fail."

Van doesn't reproach him for it; of course they would not let their cousins starve. But he remembers the early frosts last year, and fears they will not have enough to share — this year, perhaps, but how long can they go on?

"The dryads will help," Vanin points out. "And Narnia won't let her people starve, surely."

Remembering, Van touches a hand to his heart. He's only faintly aware of Narnia now, far less aware than he is of Archenland. Which is wrong, from what he's read of the bonds; Narnia should be the more active. "Where is it safest to cross the border?" he asks.

Vanin tries to talk him out of it. So do their wives. At Van's insistence, no one else knows he plans more than an inspection of the northern passes. Van seeks out some of the Narnians residing in Anvard and discreetly questions them on kingship rituals, under the guise of learning what the Witch might have done to gain such power. Unfortunately it seems the details are known only to Frank's line and the land-bound Narnians: the Trees, dryads, naiads, and so forth. The humans in his court know only that it involves shedding blood for Narnia. It'll have to do.

On a cold, clear day in what should be early summer, Van stands a few feet over the border, slices his palm and lets his blood drop onto a patch of ground scraped bare of snow. "This I give freely," he whispers, "until your own kings come again."

Life settles into a pattern. Fewer and fewer Narnians take refuge with them, and no more humans at all. Jadis has destroyed every trace of human blood in Narnia. Vanin becomes more secretive, though at least he is home more often. Van doesn't ask. Nor does he ask about the supplies that ever so quietly vanish, so long as there's some sort of paper trail he can point to. He has his hands full with Calormen, which has noticed Archenland has no close allies to call on and is eyeing it up like a tasty snack. Telmar wouldn't be opposed to a land grab either; Archenland may be surrounded by mountains but Telmar is in them, and is perpetually hungry for cropland. Van spends most of his time trying to prevent the two from allying against him.

The third year of the Witch's reign, Archenland loses the island of Bwedoln to Calormen. It's a painful blow, but they don't have the forces to properly defend the island, especially since Calormen's newest hobby is blockading their ports. Van has been wondering what he'll have to give up to ensure Archenland's safety; it's terrible, but he hopes they'll be satisfied with Bwedoln for a while.

There is happier news that year: Vanin's second child is born in the spring — a son, with lungs to rouse the entire castle. Van holds his nephew and murmurs apologies the child will never understand. He knows by now that it is unlikely he will have any children of his own; this squalling scrap is Archenland's next king, if Van can hold Archenland together long enough for him to grow up.

Kingship ages a man; his father used to tell him that a crown started leeching color from the hair the moment it was placed on the brow. Still, Van doesn't expect to find himself white at the temples before he's half through his thirties. His queen, Aslan bless her, tells him it makes him look distinguished. What he sees in the mirror is old. The Witch has been in power for five years, five years of struggling to hold a tiny kingdom against enemies on all sides. Van looks eastward often, because at least their coast is only threatened half of the time, and prays that Aslan will aid them all soon.

The Lion must be confused by his prayers of late. He wishes for winter and spring in equal measure: winter in the south and spring in the north. He fights for every scrap of advantage, swallows down his pride and makes bargains he detests, anything to keep Archenland free and whole one more year.

Vanin dies in the tenth year. Anvard has flown a black banner for murdered kin every day since they returned from that ill-omened Spring Festival. Now all the castle's banners turn black, flying morosely at half-staff, limp in the still and heavy air of summer. Desperate to understand, Van goes himself to Naverholm, to question his brother's contacts in person. A beast, they tell him. An unclean perversion, a monster. Teeth and claws and fur of a wolf, shape and stance of a man. It sounds fantastical, and Van curses them all for cowards, to see an overlarge Wolf and turn it into a creature of nightmare. But they swear it is truth, holding to their story no matter how he rages at them, and at last Van must accept them at their word.

Now he wishes he had asked more questions of his brother. He tries to pick up the pieces, the threads of plans Vanin has left behind, but his brother was cautious and trusted little to writing. There is no way to know how much is lost in this one brutal blow. The only thing Van can do is try to be a father to his brother's children, to comfort his sister's tears, and to keep on going.

He names his nephew heir officially; Vanin's son will inherit Archenland. His niece is promised to a Calormene prince — not the heir, but in Calormen that can change daily. Van isn't certain which of them he's been crueler to. The things they do to their children in the name of politics.

Narnia's line will die with him. The bond has burned steadily, a tight knot in his chest, but it is only an ember, and even the borders are too dangerous now. There will be no more rituals, no more surrogate kings. Anyone who wishes to aid Narnia now will have to find another way in.

Van is glad not to pass on that burden as well. One country is more than enough for any king to live with; the suffering of two could break him. And there is enough suffering in Archenland. It, like Narnia, is waiting for the Winter's end.

-Fin-

Author's Note: For those wondering how this intersects with canon, Van's nephew is Lune's grandfather.