A/n: This story takes place during the Golden Age of Narnia. All canon material belongs to C.S. Lewis; the rest is mine.

The cheetah loped onto the porch. His golden-chained necklace bobbed up and down with each pawfall. His thick chest rose and fell with a sigh of delight; what better time of day could there be than now? The family was gone for the afternoon, his errands were over for the day, and the feline servant kept vigil on the porch, staring into the sandy road, twitching his white-tipped tail, and sitting in the shade while the city of Palár sweated all along the road below. It was the proper thing to do.

Faraji knelt down to the alabaster bowl—just enough to lap up the water and to watch all the passersby on the road—and he let out a joyful sigh and indulged his burning throat. The summers in Erizad were hot enough to make even the Calormenes complain; as long as the heat baked the land, those pointy-shoed, blood-loving torturers would stay away. Besides, Faraji loved the heat—not because it suited him, but because the joy of cooling off in the shade and smelling the baked sand never lost its wonder. (Nor did a good book, at any rate.)

Faraji had just felt the last sips of water slide into his stomach, and he started to lift his head from the alabaster bowl when a young man ascended the stairs. His skin, like that of any other Erizadi, was sun-baked. A thin beard lined his jaw and chin. He stood tall with no emotion on his face, but his eyes kept trailing back to the letter in his hands—a small card with a wax seal that looked to have melted in the sun. Faraji fidgeted a little at the sight of him. The man's eyes always seemed to be looking for a corner in which to hide. When Faraji cleared his throat, the man's head darted up to attention, and he composed himself and raised two fingers to his forehead in a salute.

"Good afternoon, Faraji. I have a letter of urgent business for the Mareshah."

"I can see that, Adan. I'm not blind."

The man stared aghast at him, but he gathered himself once more. His dark eyes flicked down at the letter, waiting for the cheetah to break his blank gaze. "Shall I open it for you?"

"Is my name on it?"

"…No, but—"

"Clip it to my necklace. I will deliver it to the Mareshah when he returns."

"But the seal belongs to—"

"I don't care whose seal it is, Adan." His voice lowered, a growl along the edge. "We have no excuse opening my master's mail, and I almost got caught opening it the last time."

The man knelt onto the step and clipped the sealed letter to the golden band hanging from the leather necklace. "Faraji, I know you hear things. Promise me you'll tell me if anything is wrong."

"I don't make promises." Faraji gazed out at the horizon, paying no further attention to the man. "Send my regards to your cheetah, if you would. Safa owes me that book he promised me. And I ask that you stop being so curious, lest my master and his wife render your services unnecessary. Good afternoon."

An eyebrow flicked upward on the man's face. "What book?"

His voice rose to a full growl. "Good afternoon."

With a sigh, the young man turned and walked down the stairs. As the man disappeared around one of the sandstone buildings, the cheetah lifted his head in stately pride and gazed into the road below. It was good to be in control: Not even a fly would loop over his head without his permission.

And then he thought about the letter. The seal was enough to make his heart beat faster. Etched in the clay was what looked like a spray of fire or a bush with ears and a face (what kind of bush would have a face, that was anyone's guess). Whenever a letter with this seal showed up, the Mareshah's face would fall, meaning trouble was bound to strike.

Calormene refugees settled the low desert five centuries ago—men, women and talking beasts who fled the Tisroc's army and slave trade (may he drop dead, and the sooner the better). The Calormenes vowed to level Erizad, including the city of Palár and the citadel of Andur to the northwest, to punish them for their treachery. Five centuries later, the sandstone buildings still stood over the dunes, mocking every pointy-shoed blood loving torturer who wandered that far south. Of course, the Calormenes had to be beaten back time and again, but Erizad was still a free and sovereign nation, continuing their founders' traditions of studying, reading, writing, philosophizing, and living without fear—

Until the North came to them.

Faraji felt the letter tug on his necklace as he let out a shaky breath. Any news from the North was trouble. If the Erizadi were ever curious about going that far, they were always rid of it. Strange and terrible things happened up there, and rumors were never far from the truth.

And so as Faraji sat and waited for his master to return, the cheetah fidgeted and his gaze wandered. The necklace felt like a rock tied around his neck, and what relief it would be to loose it.

I refuse to open my master's mail, Faraji said to himself. But the longer he's gone, the more I'm tempted.

The Mareshah brushed a hand through his black hair and let out a sigh. Every word in the letter filled his heart with pain, and the wrinkles in his shaven face deepened with a growing frown. Three months ago, he took back Andur from the Calormenes. He had lost 700 men in the many-moon campaign. And now a letter had come from the North, giving him an order—another sorrow to add to his list.

His wife pushed her black hair behind her back and read each handwritten line. As soon as she reached the end of the letter, her whisper rose into a startled murmur. "Do you understand what this means?"

A grim smile tugged on the Mareshah's face. "Besides the fact that Faraji has earned a whipping? He knows better than to open my letters."

"You know what I mean. How can you send him on this mission? Faraji might die if he goes that far north. And even if he came back alive, Rafik might already be dead."

"Their king is immovable. No one can negotiate with this man—assuming he is a man." He clenched a fist and threatened to bring it down, but a sigh came from his chest, and his hand relaxed. "We have no choice, Nazira. If we don't send Faraji to retrieve the medicine, Rafik will surely die."

"Reza, you cannot let them order you about. You are a Mareshah. You are a master of soldiers."

He nodded. "I am also a father. I must do something to help my son."

The sound of pawfalls echoed in the hall. The Mareshah sat upright in his chair, squaring his shoulders and interlacing his fingers, as Faraji rounded the corner. "Is there anything I can do for you, mehan?"

"One thing at a time," the Mareshah said. "The first matter of importance: Did the boys enjoy their story?"

A smile lifted the cheetah's whiskers. "Navid fell asleep in the middle of it. I suppose I should take it as a compliment." After a pause, his smile and whiskers fell. "I don't know that my tale helped Rafik. He was still in a lot of pain."

"His own body is at war," the Mareshah said. "All you can do is comfort him. But if all goes well, you might never need to comfort him again."

Faraji cocked his head. "Then you have found the medicine he needs."

"We have. Unfortunately, we have been given an order. The man who owns the medicine is willing to part with it—only if you go north to bring it back here."

The cat's smile drooped a little, not sure whether to lift higher or to sag into a frown. "And what sense is there in that? Could they not have delivered it in the letter they sent?"

"Of course, but they refused. Faraji, we have no choice in the matter. My son will not respond to any of our medicines, and the letter asked for you specifically."

"Then I will go, mehan. But what should trouble my master and his wife? As Archenland is an ally to us, I have no reason to fear."

A smile flicked onto the man's shaven face, but it fell just as quickly as it appeared. "The medicine is not in Archenland," he said. "It is in Narnia."

Faraji's head darted up, his ears standing upright. His eyes widened in the dim light, and his jaw lowered in horror, lips quivering. The sound of his heart slamming against his chest pulsed in his ears. "...Narnia?"

"High King Peter sent the letter. It seems he wants to give you medicine in return for your services."

Faraji gave a low shudder. "Upon my honor, I would rather die than go there."

"Do you mean you would disobey my orders and face your punishment?"

"No, mehan! Poor thanks that would be to the man who saved my life. But if I may be so candid, there are greater things to fear than your indignation."

The Mareshah sighed and lowered his head. "I know," he said. "Anyone wanting to visit Narnia would be a fool." When he lifted his head again, his eyes were lined with creases. "As it is, you are not the one who's dying. Rafik needs you. I need you to complete this task...knowing full well what will happen to you if you do not succeed."

Faraji trembled at him, but a sigh fell from his chest. "Very well, mehan," he said. "I will go. It...it is the proper thing to do."

Faraji turned to his left and let out a grunt. He gnawed at the leather straps along his side, but the itch didn't go away—it just moved elsewhere. The bags strapped to his sides carried all he needed—a map, the letter, the book, canteens of water to sustain him until he got to River Lune—and the leather bags kept tickling his fur and making him growl in frustration. He had worn them all night to get used to them; better to start earlier than now, since they wouldn't fall from his sides for weeks.

Faraji lay atop the stairs, watching the dome of stars turn over his head. He was too restless to sleep, with the itching along his sides and his heart thundering against his chest. He hoped the Mareshah and the family were all awake and afraid for him. They all said they would worry for him and await his safe return, but he was just a servant—less than a servant, just a beast with duties. He would be replaced soon enough.

Stop it, Faraji. Self-pity is not becoming. You are a Mareshah's jamira. Act like one and stop being so improper.

Just as the thought settled in his mind and gave him a measure of peace, a muffled clop-clop-clop echoed down the barren street. The silhouette of a horse emerged down the road, and Faraji's heart began to race. He trotted down the stairs, leather bags stretching and relaxing against his muscled sides, and turned alongside the stair to show the horse his noble stature.

The horse trotted up to him and came to a stop. "Wh-whinny-inny. Good evening, spotted one! My name is Philip, the proud steed of King Edmund the Just of Narnia."

Faraji scoffed. A smirk tugged at a spotted cheek. "Proud you are, Narnian. That's how you compensate for being an uneducated derelict in a nation of uneducated derelicts."

Philip stared slack-jawed at him, big ivory teeth glowing in the moonlight. "I say, spotted one, your arrogance is not becoming."

"I do not speak humbly to my enemies," said Faraji. "I am the jamira of Mareshah Reza Sharád. I am also a teacher of writing and numbers to children, a lauded and distinguished scholar of Narnian literature, and a recipient of the Red Diamond for excellence in battle. My master and friends call me Faraji; you, however may address me as mehan. It is a title of respect."

"I know what mehan means, and only Aslan himself is worthy of the title. Now, then, let us be off! Pip, pip!"

Faraji glowered at him but said nothing. He turned back to look at the house once more. Peace be upon you, mehan, he said to himself. If I come back alive, I will hold you accountable for your giving me up—be sure of it.

And he turned to look back down the road, trotting alongside Philip down the street. The cold sand stiffened his shanks and felt harder on his paws, deepening the frown on his muzzle.

"You've never been to Narnia, have you?" Philip said.

"What does that matter to you?"

"As long as you and I are traveling together, we might as well get to know each other."

"There are worse fates, I suppose," said Faraji under his breath. "No, Narnian, I've never been. Nor do I anticipate my arrival in your country."

"What? Of all the people in the world who would long for cooler breezes, surely it would be the people of this waterless beach! Why would you not look forward to Narnia?"

"That is none of your concern. Now may we talk about something that interests me?"

"Hrmmpff…" The horse shook his head, his mane reflecting the moonlight. "Very well, although I don't think books and sand would interest me."

"Don't worry. This is a question I'm sure you can answer: Why does Peter insist on summoning me north instead of sending the medicine to us?"

"You may be in Erizad, but you must still address the High King of Narnia by his title. His Majesty has not explained himself on the matter. I was asked only to take you with me to Narnia."

"Asked? Is King Peter nearby? I should like a word with that barbarian."

"I'm afraid he is still in Narnia. Verily, I was asked by someone greater than King Peter, even greater than I," the horse said. "We have been summoned by the great king of kings, Aslan himself."

Faraji sighed. "Delightful."

"How can you speak about Aslan with such cold indifference? Does not the name fill you with wonder? Do you not bow at the sound of his name?"

"Every day, I do. Five times a day, I do. As it is, Aslan is just a man—a silly and foolish man."

"A man? A—" The horse took in a gasping breath. "W-Wh-Wh-Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA! A man, he says!"

Faraji's spotted ears swiveled. "Are you choking, or do I amuse you?"

"Whinny-inny—! My apologies, spotted one, but how could you not know what Aslan is? He is not silly and foolish. Nor is he a man beast that he should fall and die. He is a lion—the Great Lion."

"'The Great' what?"

Philip threw back his head once more. "W-Wh-Wh-Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA!"

"Confound it, Narnian! Do you wish to wake up the whole of Erizad?"

"Oh—! I am sorry, my friend. I have never met someone who reveres the Great Lion but thinks so little of him."

"Then enlighten me with your wisdom. It shouldn't take you long. Why should I think grand thoughts of him? What does he look like?"

"What does he look like? He—oh! He is too wonderful to express in words. Every time I see him, it is better than the time before. He is beautiful and terrifying. I tremble, yet I am happy. I'm meat to be devoured and a prince to be served. I feel his fury at me and his love for me. And it all beams at me like the rays of the midday sun. Oh, forgive me for rambling, but you understand, surely?"

"Not at all."

"What? I say, O cheetah with many spots and titles, you know so much—and yet so little. But wait until you get to Narnia! When you meet him—"

"I have no interest in meeting him. All I want is the medicine—after I give him a piece of my mind to chew upon."

Philip stammered for a moment, gathering his words. "My friend, how can you say such things?"

"I was born with a mouth and a voice, so I can say what I please. My master's boy lies on the brink of death, and the only medicine is being held for ransom by the Lord of Narnia."

"How jolly, the way you talk of him."

"Life is not always 'jolly,' Narnian. We do as we're told, or we suffer the consequences."

"Verily, I have never met a creature more miserable than you. The Great Lion is the one who has sent you to Narnia, and you care nothing for him at all?"

"All I care about is my master's son. I will render whatever services are needed so long as I can retrieve the medicine and bring it home. After that, I want nothing more to do with you or any of your kind, or any of the Kings and Queens of Cair Paravel, or Aslan himself. Now since we will be traveling together for an extended period of time, we might as well walk on—and quietly!"

"Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA! Well, I am glad we have had this conversation, spotted one."

"Oh?"

"I have heard tall tales of your people, but now that I have met you in person, your people are not so formidable, after all."

Faraji glowered at him. Don't test me, Narnian.

The two walked on in silence, down the winding sand road that was too cold to bake their hooves and paws, and the city gates appeared around a corner. Two tall men with blue uniforms and white turbans that glowed in the moonlight stood on either side of the gate, spears pointing skyward in their hands.

They walked on without a word as the gates creaked open, and Faraji thanked the guards with a nod of his head. A few miles down the road, as open sands stretched into the starry sky, Faraji said, "Do you need a map?"

"No, for I am guided by the Great Lion," Philip said. "We will follow this road past Lake Lune, along the Calormen border, and across the hills into Archenland. It is a long road, but we will be sped along by the Lion; we must strive to enjoy it—and hope we find some good companions with whom we can share our adventures, eh? Ah, but I do long for the fields of Narnia. Have you ever been blessed enough to roll in the grass? I should fancy a good long roll, after spending so many weeks walking through this waterless beach..."

Faraji said nothing as Philip rambled. The horse's words faded into the background as Faraji retreated into the sanctuary of his thoughts, and the cheetah turned his head to the northwest. The lake is the only water for miles around. Once I arrive, I can take shelter in the caves.

A half-hour passed, and the horse was still rambling. "…and so I will make sure to let you in on my errands. If we share the burdens of our work, we can share each other's glories and offer up our tribute to the Great Lion."

Faraji swung his head over his shoulder, staring back at Palár. The city wall was a black blot on the dawn-lit horizon. They won't hear it...not from that distance.

With an arrogant smile he returned to the horse. His voice lowered to a growl, and his muscular shoulders flexed. "By all means, offer up your own tribute. Until then, you have a new mission."

Philip let out a timid whinny. "What are you talking about?"

"You will take me to Lake Lune."

The horse scoffed. "I will not. Your mission is to go to Narnia. My mission is to take you there. By the Lion's mane, I will not let anything deter us from that mission—not even you."

Faraji's jaw lowered slightly, baring his fangs. "Yes, you will."

The cheetah roared and leapt into the air.

Faraji's fangs gleamed like crescent moons in the blue dawn. Philip flinched and slipped in the sand; he scrambled to his hooves—right into two paws full of claws. Faraji's claws sank into the horse's neck muscles, drawing blood at every tip.

The horse screeched and reared up on his hind legs, flailing side to side. Faraji flung through the air like a tattered flag. Tendons and joints popped as the cheetah wriggled and thrashed his hind legs, trying to sink his claws into the horse's side. When he got his grip, Philip screamed and toppled backward. The sandy road shook with a thunderous crash as he landed on his side. He kicked and screamed until his voice cracked, and Faraji roared again and clamped his fanged jaws around the horse's neck.

"WHINNY-INNY-INNY! OH, HELP, ASLAN! HELP!"

"He can't help you, Narnian!" roared Faraji. "Take me to Lake Lune!"

"WHINNY-INNY-INNY-EE-EE-OW-OW-OW!"

"Take me there NOW!"

"INNY-INNY-EE-OW-OW—ALL RIGHT! ALL RIGHT! ALL RIGHT!" Faraji pulled out his claws and loosed his grip on Philip's neck, spitting a wad of blood and hair. Beads of fresh blood glistened in the morning blue light, and a cloud of foam lined the horse's mouth. Faraji's chest heaved up and down as he gathered his breath and wriggled into the saddle. He kept his claws unsheathed, pressing the tips against the horse's shoulders.

"Take me there…and I will let you go…or I will give you something to be afraid of, and that's a promise."

Philip forced his wobbly legs to stand, his voice trembling in unison with his legs. "You-You-You haven't heard the end of this!"

"No," Faraji said. "But Narnia is the last place I want to be. So if you turn me in, or persuade me to go with you to Narnia, remember this: A dead horse will not talk—he will just fill my stomach. Now go! Yah! YAH!"

The horse whinnied and broke off the path, rushing to a gallop over the dunes.