In which Edmund has an unusual meal, Lucy gives and recieves apologies, and Peter finds solace and understanding.


Lucy bolted down the halls as fast as her feet would take her, unaware of the noise her heavily shod feet made on the wooden floors. She flung the door open and skidded to a halt inside the bedroom, suddenly terrified that it would be empty.

The fire had died down in the hearth, but there was still light enough to see by, and what Lucy saw both warmed her heart and made her start to cry in relief: Tumnus, fast asleep in bed, a few books strewn across the blankets. She clambered into bed with him and pillowed her head on his chest.

Sleepily, he put an arm around her, and when this made her cry harder, it pulled him, somewhat, to wakefulness.

"Heard what they found there," he said, drowsy. "Sorry you had to see it."

"It could have been you," she said, and kept saying – and as Tumnus edged to fully awake he realized she'd been saying that for some time. "Could've been you there. Could've been—"

"But it wasn't. I'm right here, see?"

"But it could have been. And your horns—" which set her to crying more. "You never said – you never told me – all those people in there—"

"Shh," the Faun soothed, "shh. It wasn't me." He sat up, then, and pulled her closer to him – wincing just slightly when her heavy boots knocked into his leg – and idly wondered how, between the two of them, they could own a hundred handkerchiefs and not have one to hand. He settled for dabbing at her eyes with a corner of the coverlet (which had been knitted by Mrs. Beaver as a Christmas present) and when she finally quieted, he waited for her to speak.

"Why didn't you ever tell me what she did to you?" she asked.

"I didn't want to get you – like this – I thought it would upset you. And it has. I'm sorry, Lucy."

"Don't be," she sniffed. "It's just – there were so many of them there. So many! And every one I saw, all I could think was that it could have been you. Why would – why did she only turn you to stone?"

"I've wondered about that myself," he said thoughtfully, "and I never could figure it out. Edmund had an idea, though."

"What'd he think?"

"Did you know that when he was in her prison I saw him there?"

"He told me that – said he was sorry – and he is, you know, he—"

"Shh, shh. I know. We've talked about it, he and I; we're neither of us angry about that. But he thinks he's the reason I lived. That when she took me from her prison, instead of killing me, she turned me to stone so he would see it. He says that's when he realized just how horrible she was." Another slight laugh. "Convenient for both of us, you know."

Lucy looked up at him, then, and touched her fingers to a horn. "Did that hurt?"

"Yes," he said. "As though my head was splitting open."

"And they will never grow back?"

"No."

A few more tears fell at that. "If it hadn't been you who met me—"

"Then I never may have – or if I had, it might have only been as a soldier in your army." Lucy snorted at this; she knew Tumnus was about as effective as Mrs. Beaver in single combat. "You're my dearest friend, Lucy," he said gently. "If it was a choice between meeting you or keeping my horns, well – she could have filed them down to my skull for all I care."

"But then there wouldn't be anything to put the gold on," she argued, absurdly.

"And then I'd be a Faun without horns. So what? It wouldn't matter. It doesn't bother me, and I don't want it to bother you. It was a long time ago, and everything that happened – finding you, Aslan coming back – it was all worth it, do you understand?"

"Yes," she said eventually. "But it still bothers me."

"Then think of it this way: remember how, when we first met, I was going to turn you in?"

"Don't you dare tell me you deserved it," she said vehemently. "You didn't."

"No, no. It's a reminder."

"Of what?"

"To do the right thing, no matter what. My father tried to teach me that, but after he died, I didn't believe it – not until I met you."

"Do you – oh, this is so horrible – do you think your father's there?"

"He might be," Tumnus said calmly. "I know he died. He didn't come back when Aslan brought us all back from being stone. But I think – no. I knew before then."

They both were quiet for a long time; long enough that Tumnus thought Lucy had fallen asleep. She hadn't.

"Do you think you might want to find your father?" she asked.

"I hadn't decided yet. Why?"

"I want to go with you."

"No," he said firmly. "I don't want you to have to see that again."

"I don't want you to do it alone."

Knowing he was beat, Tumnus shook his head. "It may not be for a while – there's this business with the Galmans to sort out first."

"But we'll go together, won't we?"

"Yes."

"Good," Lucy said. "You've done too much alone already." She quieted against his side, and for some time Tumnus listened to her steady breathing as she drifted off to sleep. "C'n I stay here?" Lucy asked fuzzily. "Don't wan' be alone."

"Of course you can." Tumnus covered her with a soft wool blanket. (The roughest Narnian wool is like the best wool in our world: warm and only pleasantly itchy.) He took a brand from the fire and lit the oil lamp next to the bed. His own sheets, he noticed as he climbed back in, were somewhat mussed and tear-dampened, but that didn't make them any less comfortable. Lucy snuggled close to his side, so he put his arm around her and watched with relief as she finally relaxed.

"Aslan named you well," he said with no small amount of wonder, brushing her hair back from her peaceful face.

He took a book from the stack on his nightstand and, after some experimentation, found the best place to put it was against Lucy's shoulder. His father had always said that reading was the best cure against too many thoughts before bedtime, and sleep, Tumnus knew, would be a long time in coming – if it did at all.

----------

Edmund – bereft of crown, dressed simply in a tunic and leggings, feet covered in comfortable soft shoes – carried the tray into the captive's room and nudged the door shut with a shoulder.

He studied the man carefully. It was, as he had anticipated, strange to see another Son of Adam. The man's face and body – more like his own than most of the Narnians whose company he kept – seemed oddly exaggerated and bizarre, even slightly grotesque, and he wondered: is that the way our subjects see us?

The man had seated himself on the floor, his back braced in a corner of the room. He was far from the fire, pressed up against the stones, but if he was cold he did not show it. Edmund could not tell from his pallor whether he was feeling the chill of the stone – Edmund knew that he would, especially on a cold rainy night like this.

The man's hair was darkened from dirt, but seemed to be dark brown scattershot with a steely grey. His dark eyes, expressionless and devoid of warmth, were sunk deep in shadowed sockets. His face, strangest of all, was marked here and there – almost at random – by strange scars, thin and horizontal. They seemed deliberate. His clothes were dark and simple, patched and stitched in many places, and as dirty as the rest of him. He did not smell; it seemed more a clean dirt, a deep-underground earthy dirt.

Edmund cleared his throat softly, and the man's eyes flickered to the tray in his hands before landing on his face. He remembered brief mentions of a "thousand-yard stare" from Spare Oom; Oreius would call this a warfield gaze. Edmund suppressed a shudder and crossed the room, approaching the man slowly. The man did not change his posture or tense any muscles, but Edmund, with the benefit of four years in combat training, could clearly see that this man had braced himself against wall and floor in such a way as to attack an assailant with no warning.

Edmund knelt and placed the tray on the floor, within the man's reach. He settled himself on the ground an equal distance behind it. There were many good things arranged on the tray: rashers of cold ham, thick crusty bread, bunches of grapes, cooked pavenders, and some slices of savory vegetables that had been roasted until they were slightly burnt and juicy. There was a goblet of wine and a small pitcher of water, and a pair of linen napkins folded to the side.

The man glanced at the tray, then again to Edmund.

Keeping his face carefully neutral, Edmund reached for the tray. He took a piece of bread, tore an end off, and ate it. Then he returned it to the tray. He did this next with a piece of ham, and after that removed one grape from the bunch. The man watched him, and then slowly – but of course it would be, thought Edmund – reached for the bread Edmund had tasted. Edmund nodded almost imperceptibly as the man ate it. The scarred stranger took some grapes next, and then ham from the slice Edmund had tried. When Edmund took up the goblet for a sip of wine, the man watched, and as Edmund moved to place it back down, the man held his hand out for it.

In this manner they cleaned the tray: Edmund tasting and the man eating only the things Edmund had already tried.

Edmund then poured water from the pitcher into a small finger bowl. He dipped his fingers in it, then cleaned them with a napkin. He offered the bowl and other napkin to the man, who hesitantly repeated the motions.

"Will they kill me?" the man asked, his voice rough – from disuse or trauma, Edmund did not know which.

"They will not," Edmund said gently.

"You can stop the King?"

"Good sir, I am one of them."

The man shrunk back into himself.

"And I give you my word," said Edmund, "that you will come to no harm, if you give me yours that you will make no further attempts to cause it."

"Even after what I tried to do?"

"You would be surprised," Edmund said, sipping from the wine cup, "at the things forgiven here."

"I would hear that story," said the man, "if it is yours to tell."

"It is, and I will tell it to you if you tell me yours in return." Edmund smiled. "My name is Edmund." By reflex he held out his hand – it still took a moment to remember that this was foreign to Narnians – but before he could put it down the scarred man took it.

"Mine is Ordilan," he said, shaking Edmund's hand, "and I swear I will not bring anyone else to harm."

-------

They faced each other for a lifetime of moments: the young King, bruised and bone-weary, and the ageless Lion with tears heavy in his eyes.

"Edmund asked me," Peter said in a shaking voice, "why he was more important to you than they were. He didn't understand. I didn't know what to tell him."

"He has grown," Aslan said approvingly. "But his fear and worry is not what keeps you from sleep tonight. Nor is it that of your sisters."

"But they—"

"It has always been your way to place others before you," Aslan said. "You do not need to do that here. Tell me your troubles."

"I don't think you'll like it."

"That doesn't matter."

Peter ran a hand through his unruly hair, shifted his weight on his feet. Something about the presence of Aslan encouraged stillness, but something deep in the fiber of his own body demanded action. "I'm angry," he said, finally. "And I know I shouldn't be, I know you have your reasons – you'd have to, but—"

The Lion watched, silent and motionless.

"It was full of bones," Peter said with anguish. "I couldn't even count them. Where were you? How could that happen? Why didn't you stop her?" He ground the heel of a hand into an eye, turned away from Aslan, and began to pace. "Oreius said it was a hundred years' worth of skeletons. Dead bodies. Dead Narnians, because she killed them all, and – no, no—" With an effort he calmed himself. Kings did not fly to pieces, no matter how much they wanted to.

"You are angry with me," Aslan said.

"Do you have any idea?" Peter asked rhetorically, unaware of the Lion's remark, and somewhere deep inside of him the dam broke. "Do you know what she did to them? Some looked like they'd been cut apart with hacksaws. Some of the skulls were smashed. We had to sift through the dirt with our fingers to make sure we got all the pieces. Sometimes we couldn't even find all the parts. Some of them were mixed together." He was crying, now, the way a person does when they are so full of emotion they cannot hold it in anymore. "Aslan, I've seen things – I'll never be able to forget what I saw there. I can't. I keep seeing them when I close my eyes. I thought we beat her. I thought we won, and – and that meant these things were done. I didn't know. I never knew." His breath came erratically, mixed with ragged sobs. "She tortured them. I could see it – I could feel it. I knew how they felt, every one of them. All I had to do was look at them and I knew how they died. It hurt. It hurt so much." He turned back to Aslan. The look on his own face would have frightened him, had he been able to see it. "How could you let her do this? Why didn't you stop her?"

"There was nothing I could do," the Lion said, his voice soft with infinite sorrow.

"What do you mean?" Peter asked, clearly uncomprehending. "You – all you had to do to break her curse was be here! You came back and the winter ended."

"No, child. That was you."

"I – what?"

"Or, perhaps, your sister Lucy. Do you remember the prophecy?"

"Yes."

"When your sister first set foot in Narnia, the way was no longer closed to me. I will not explain all of the Deep Magic to you; some of it you should not know, and some of it cannot be known. But you should know some of it. Enough to understand."

"Then tell me," Peter said. "Because I don't – I'm not sure that I can."

"The Witch's strength came from fear," Aslan said. "She gained power with every death and every hour of torture. This made her strong enough to keep even me out. The only thing I could do was what I did do – ensure that at least one door between this world and yours stayed open."

"A wardrobe in a spare room in a country house?" Peter thundered, turning to face Aslan. "How helpful was that?"

"You are here now, are you not? I know things, son of Adam. I knew that you would come eventually."

"Eventually? How many people died waiting for me?"

"What else should I have done?"

"Anything!" Peter said wildly. "Everything. I would – I'd never – throw myself naked at the walls, if I had to. I'd die before giving up on Narnia."

"So did I," the Lion said neutrally, and Peter's glare finally dropped to the floor. "But you please me, Peter. Your feelings are only due to your love of Narnia, and I can find no fault in such a love." Aslan came closer and breathed on Peter, who felt the last bruises fade from his face. "This is why you are my king."

The compliment – said with such love – in the face of his anger undid Peter completely. Aslan allowed Peter to collapse against his mane, and together they grieved. When Peter finally stilled, both his shirt and Aslan's mane were damp, and he knew not all of the tears had been his own.

"What about the others?" Peter asked. "Susan and Ed? Lucy?"

"You needed me the most, this night. They are dealing in their own ways. Your family is as strong as you are."

"I don't feel strong at all, right now," he said, passing a hand over his face. "Ugh. Lucy always has a handkerchief," he said, pulling his sleeve over the heel of his hand to wipe his eyes. "And I never do."

"Do you feel better now?"

"Yes," Peter said. "I understand." He shook his head. "I thought it was only in – Back There – that bad things happened for no reason."

"Sometimes it can happen here, child."

"How can I keep Narnia safe? I have to. It's the most important thing in my life, and – I don't even know if I can."

"You have, and you are, and you will," the Lion said. "I believe in you." Aslan drew closer, and pressed a kiss upon Peter's brow; then, in a wash of golden light, he was gone.

Peter passed a hand across his brow and, pulling together what strength he had left, set off to ensure his family was well before seeking his own bed. It was not that he didn't believe Aslan; seeing his sisters and brothers safe would bring much-needed peace to his own heart.


Time for notes.

On gratitude:

Before anything else, I've got to give a shout-out to Elecktrum for being a sounding board and a source of hilarity in the midst of writer's block. This one never would've gotten written without you. Thanks, also, to my meimei for putting up with me pasting paragraphs into IM and incessantly asking, does this work?

On delays:

I honestly had no idea how hard it was going to be for me to write the third act, so to speak, of this chapter. I wrote and rewrote pages and pages of dialogue and none of them felt right. Took a while to figure out what was going on in Peter's head, and once I was there the rest was easy. Sorry about that. I really hope it works for you.