Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia are the property of C. S. Lewis. No copyright infringement is intended.

MC4A Fill Number: Fem Power Challenge, Fill #2; Starry Strums, Fill #1; Therapeutic Theorems of Tessellations, Fill #2
Individual Challenges: Short Jog (N); New Fandom Smell (Y); Ethnic and Present (Y); Tiny Terror (N); Seeds (N)
Representations: Aravis; Aslan; Woman of Color; Cultural Differences; Racism and Prejudice; Choices; Determination; Gardening; Religious Allegory
Bonus Challenges: Not a Lamp, Persistence Still
Tertiary Bonus Challenges: Thimble, Tether, Terrarium, Toad
Spring Bingo Space Address: 3B (Sweet)
Word Count: 2191

Archenlandian gardens were not like Calormene gardens. In Calormen, making gardens was an art form, and those who practiced it with skill were revered. Every tree and shrub, every stream and fountain, every arch and statue was placed with care, like jewels strung upon a chain of gold, so that the beauty of the individual should contribute to the beauty of the whole. The gardens of the Tisroc were renowned throughout the Calormene Empire, and foreign guests from many nations counted themselves blessed to lay eyes on their perfection.

It was not so in Archenland. True, there were walled gardens surrounding the castle at Anvard, but they were so unlike the gardens Aravis had known in Calormen that she would scarcely have used the same word for them.

It was the day the Narnians left Anvard that Aravis discovered them. Until now, she had spent most of her time with Queen Lucy, getting settled into her new room or exploring the castle (which Lucy insisted she didn't mind, though of course she had been there many times herself and explored it all ages ago). A long, dreary rainstorm had prevented their taking their explorations out of doors, and indeed had delayed the Narnians' journey back over the mountains into their own land by three days, so when the sun dawned bright and clear on the fourth morning, King Edmund determined to brave the mud and set out for Narnia as soon as might be. Aravis and Lucy said a tearful goodbye, and after many promises to come and visit, "Just as soon as Peter gets back and we can throw a proper feast for you," the Narnian host left the city and turned northward.

Aravis now found herself quite alone. Bree and Hwin had left with the Narnians, and though even that morning Bree had worried what the other Talking Horses would think of his tail, still short and ragged from their disguise in Tashbaan, they had both seemed happy and eager to return to their homeland. Shasta—that was to say, Cor—was already back at his books; King Lune's threat that he would have to be educated now that he was a prince had not been an empty one. As long as Lucy was here, Aravis had not missed him so much as she might have, but now she found herself wishing for his company, and feeling lonely and neglected.

She began to wander aimlessly, and soon her feet took her out of the castle into the city beyond. At first there were red-brown stones under her feet, of much the same kind that made up the walls of the castle. The houses she passed were large and well-apportioned; in Tashbaan, they would have belonged to Tarkaans and Tarkheenas, and been filled with slaves and gold and fine food and drink. In Anvard, she supposed, these must be the homes of lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, and so on. What their houses were filled with, she did not know. At the least they seemed to have no slaves, for in the time she had been here she had seen no one cowering before an angry master or kicked for not following an order fast enough. The people who served the meals talked and laughed with each other and with those who sat at the tables, and the girl who came to Aravis's room in the mornings to bring a full pitcher of water and take away her linens talked freely with her and Lucy, who called the girl by name and asked after her family. If these were slaves, they were the strangest slaves Aravis had ever seen.

Soon the red-brown stones gave way to red-brown mud which at other times would have been dirt but which now sucked at her shoes and slowed her progress. The houses were smaller and closer together, and the streets became busier and more crowded. A few streets on, she began to notice a smell that was a confused mix of many different odors. She did not immediately recognize it as a marketplace, as the pungent aromas of cumin and turmeric were conspicuously missing, but the cries of sellers hawking their wares soon made it unmistakable. She drew up short at the entrance to a street teeming with people and stopped to drink in a sight that, at last, reminded her of home.

It was not the same, of course. Some of the wares for sale were familiar—fish in barrels, meat hanging in slabs, brightly colored fruits on large carts—but others she did not recognize. There were strangely shaped breads with a white paste spread over the top of them. There were bolts of heavy cloth with strange patterns. Images of the Lion were everywhere: on flags hanging from the vendors' stands; in tiny, colorful candies on silver trays; on clay bowls and plates; and in carved wooden toys, among similar figurines of fauns and satyrs and dwarves and other strange creatures she had seen among the Narnian folk.

"Quick, Sholin!" a child's voice cried from somewhere to her left. "A Calormene spy! We must hide!"

Aravis turned and caught sight of a boy, not more than six years old, darting behind a cart of fruits and vegetables. Another boy of the same age was standing only a couple of yards away, staring up at her with real fear in his wide blue eyes. A toy wooden sword was gripped tightly in his small hand.

The other boy's head appeared around the side of the produce cart, his face dirty and his sandy hair tousled. He burst into laughter as he saw his friend staring up at Aravis. "She's caught you, Sholin! Now she will take you back to Calormen and give you to Tash as a human sacrifice!"

His friend gave a shriek of terror and took off down the street, weaving in and out between the busy shoppers. Without another glance at her, the first boy ran after him, laughing and waving his own toy sword in the air.

Aravis stood for a moment, staring after them in shock. Then, seemingly without her direction, her feet began to move, carrying her at a run back in the direction of the palace. The muddy road snatched off her shoes within a few steps, and she left them behind, not caring about the mud coating her feet and kicking up to stain her dress. She reached the palace gate and sprinted across the courtyard, thinking of nothing but reaching the safety of her own rooms. Before she had made it halfway across, however, she spotted Shasta—Cor—coming from another direction with his brother Corin and the lords Dar and Darrin, the lot of them bearing swords and looking warm and sweaty. She couldn't let them see her. She veered off to the left and ran, not knowing where she was going.

And so she ended up in King Lune's gardens, which were wild and overgrown with flowers and trees of every color and variety, allowed to grow however and wherever they pleased with only so much tending as was needed to keep them healthy. King Lune found the gardens charming and pleasant in their explosion of life and color, and perhaps, under other circumstances, Aravis might have been able to appreciate them, too. Now, however, it was only one more piece of evidence of how strange and foreign this country was, and how utterly out of place she was in it.

Aravis burst into tears.

Distressed as she was, she was aware of how easily one might meet anybody on the middle of a path through a royal garden, and so through her tears, she sought for a place where she might cry without being disturbed. She spotted a place near the outer wall where a great golden statue of a lion would easily hide her from anyone coming down the path, and there she cast herself down upon the ground and sobbed until she was spent. It was too much. The tight, low-cut dresses; the bland, under-seasoned food; the loud laughing and singing at all hours of the day or night; the careless disregard for differences in rank; the fair faces and golden hair, among which she stood out like a black stone on white sand; the careless little boy who saw her dark skin and decided to make her the villain in his game; his friend who had stared at her in real fear.

"I can't stay here," she sobbed aloud. "I can't stay here another day."

"Why cannot you stay, dear heart?"

With a gasp, Aravis sat up and looked frantically around. The voice that had spoken to her was rich, deep, and soft. She knew that voice, if only she could remember…

There was no one. She was alone.

But she didn't feel alone. There was a sense as of a large, comforting presence beside her, and a warm breeze was blowing through her hair like a gentle, sweet-smelling breath. And had the lion statue behind which she had hidden always been so large and bright?

"Tell me your troubles, dear heart," said the Lion's voice, and then it lay down next to her and nuzzled her with its enormous golden head. It was Aslan.

"Aslan!" Aravis flung herself to the ground before him, prostrate and humble, as she had been taught one must do in the presence of a god. She had not known him for one the first time she had met him, though she ought to have guessed, for only a god could be so wonderful and so terrible.

But she felt his warm breath on her neck again, and then he said, "Get up, daughter, and lean against me. Tell me what is troubling you."

Trembling, Aravis sat up. He moved nearer, and slowly, oh, so slowly, she leaned into his warm side. All at once her fear vanished, and she rested herself completely against him and laid her face against the coarse hair of his mane. She could feel his body moving next to her as he breathed, and the anxious beating of her heart slowed in time to the gentle rhythm of his breath.

"Tell me," his gentle voice said again.

And she told him. She told him everything: every moment of discomfort, every embarrassment over her ignorance of northern customs, every suspicious look, every whispered word overheard after she'd passed, and, most of all, what had happened with the children in the marketplace. All the while, Aslan listened, silent and compassionate. She did not know how long she spoke, but when she was through, she felt as weary as though she had run a great distance.

When she had finished, Aslan sat quietly for a moment. Then he asked her a question:

"So what do you intend to do about it?"

Aravis pulled away from him, shocked and a little angry. "What do I intend to do? I haven't done anything wrong, Aslan. It's them. They're the ones who are prejudiced against me just because of the color of my skin."

"I know, dear heart," Aslan answered, his voice low and gentle. "Through no fault of your own, you have been made to suffer hate and fear that have existed since long before you were born. But what is done is done; it cannot be undone. What you have to choose is what you will do now."

"I don't see what I can do, Aslan. I can't change the color of my skin."

"Nor would I want you to if you could, daughter. Nor do I ask you to change the way you dress, or the way you speak, or your preference for ornate, orderly gardens over wild, overgrown ones."

He chuckled softly, and she smiled.

"But you can choose whether to go back to your old life in Calormen, live in your old ways and worship your old gods, or whether to stay here, however hard or painful it may be, and keep trying to live this new life. You can choose to be patient and forgiving when slighted, and to be kind to everyone, no matter how they treat you in return. You can choose to focus on the love of those who know you for who you are—Cor, King Lune, Lucy, and of course, myself—rather than the hate of those who do not."

Slowly, Aravis nodded. He was right, she knew that. Still, she could not help asking, "But aren't they wrong, Aslan? Shouldn't they be punished, or at least, I don't know, made to change?"

"That is their story, daughter. I am telling you—"

"My story," she finished for him. "No one is told any story but their own."

"Yes."

She felt him stirring and sat up. Aslan got to his feet, walked a short distance away from the wall, and turned, his muscles tensing in preparation to leap.

"Aslan?" said Aravis suddenly. "Will it ever get any better?"

He looked at her, his golden eyes filled with compassion. "That, dear heart, you must find out for yourself." And with that, he sprang over the garden wall and was gone.