In which histories are told, duels are fought, and a storm gathers.

Ordilan, hands clasped behind his back, turned on a heel and followed an invisible line across the cold fireplace. "I do not quite know where to begin," he said.

"I feel rather as though we've put you on the spot," Susan said gently, trying to add levity to her voice.

"Nay, Queen – I said that I would do this for you, and I do it gladly, but – one thing of necessity follows another. I do not know where to start my tale."

Behind Ordilan's pacing sat Susan; behind her stood Cloudstrike; beside him stood Edmund; behind them sat a trio of Narnian scribes, ink and pen at the ready to copy down Ordilan's words.

"I am no storyteller," Ordilan said, with an apologetic glance at his audience, "least of all not in the grand Calormene tradition – some of us remember enough of how they told tales for pale renditions of our own stories around a fire. So – very well. The King. His name was Edward, of a direct paternal line from Frank the First."

"Frank the whom?" Edmund interrupted. "Was he the one who—"

"If you'd read my notes!" Susan snapped, motherlike, shushing him and waving a sheaf of paper.

"Please," said Cloudstrike, "continue. I am familiar with that tale."

"Very well. Edward was a good man, by all accounts; he dealt fairly with foreign nations, he raised his heirs with an error to over-indulgence; he bestowed upon his Queen Nora all manner of solicitous attention."

"He had children?" Susan asked.

"Two daughters and a son," Ordilan replied. "Born in that order."

"Did they—" Susan's face grew pale as she realized the implications of that knowledge. She did not press her question. After a pause, Ordilan continued.

"The trouble came in the spring of his twelfth year of reign, which began after the death of his father Frank the Eighth. There had been rumors of a threat in the west. A Calormene trader's caravan was attacked, and when the survivors were found in Archenland they blamed Narnia. There was much work to ensure the Tisroc that Narnia was not at fault. It did not help, I suppose, that the survivors spoke of a woman styling herself Queen of Narnia, before whom they had been brought and bade to bargain for their lives."

"As they would for silk or spice," Edmund muttered. "It would have amused her."

Ordilan waited for the flurry of nibs on paper to desist before continuing. "At any rate – some survived, enough to tell the tale – and diplomatic negotiations between Narnia and Calormen were strained. The countries were never on good terms at the best of times. When attacks came from the Western Wild, a delegation was sent to Calormen to request aid."

"Calormen always kept a large standing army," Cloudstrike offered.

"Indeed," Ordilan said. "This was their hope. Those Narnians who survived the trip back could only tell King Edward that the Tisroc had implied this was the deserved fate of a people who foreswore Tash in favor of their barbaric ways."

-----

A cold gust ruffled the trees and raised goose pimples on Lucy's skin. Lucy shifted uncomfortably, pressing closer to Tumnus' side. The little Faun and his favorite friend had spent the later part of the afternoon in the garden; once Lucy's energy had been worn down with tree-climbing and dancing lessons, a book had been brought out (one of Lucy's favorites, Is Man A Myth?, which she considered a "silly story" and Tumnus, chagrined, had tried to explain that it was a compendium of stories that, until recent and currently giggling proof had appeared, were more-or-less considered to be true) and Lucy drifted, half-asleep, relaxed and comforted by her friend's voice.

Something had pulled her to wakefulness, and not in a comfortable way; she rubbed her eyes and looked around the garden. The late-afternoon sun threw blurred shadows across the grass. The air seemed strangely still – usually at this time a breeze blew in from the sea – but its stillness was punctuated by short, swift, cold gusts.

"Tumnus," she said, interrupting her friend midsentence, "does anything seem different?"

He looked around. "It does, rather, but I'm not sure how. The light is—"

"Wrong," Lucy said. "It looks wrong." And it did – the clean Narnian sunlight had gone yellow and hazy, turning the cool green garden into a drab caricature of itself. If Lucy had been just a little older, she would have realized how closely the light resembled city smog: the late-afternoon incendiary glow of London reeling from a night's heavy bombing.

"I don't like it," she said, awash in a near-instinctive fear.

Tumnus closed the book and set it aside; he stood, brushing grass from his furry legs. "I can't see over the walls, but it almost looks as though a storm is coming in."

"Not a storm," Lucy said, her face pale. "It's something else – something bad. Like something Back There."

"There can't be anything too wrong," the Faun said, forcing cheerfulness in his voice, "or else we'd have heard something from someone." It was a flat lie: Lucy's sense of foreboding was infectious, or perhaps the eerie light was – whatever was wrong, Tumnus sensed it too. He instinctively drew near Lucy, who mimicked his movement: two wild things turning to each other for protection.

"I can't see," Lucy said, looking at the walls. "There's something out there, but I can't see it. If I could get somewhere higher—"

"We can," Tumnus said, kneeling to pack away the books and untouched food in his leather bag. "Put your boots on." The hair pickled on the back of his neck; his long ears shifted this way and that as cold gusts shot through the oddly still air. He packed his bag quickly but carefully, slung it over a shoulder, and took Lucy's hand. He checked her to be sure she had not forgotten anything: the silver crown sat askew on her head and ridiculously bright red boots protected her feet. "Come with me. We can see better from one of the watch towers."

"Are you scared?" she asked, as they crossed the garden.

"Yes. Are you?"

"Yes."

-----

"Archenland sent what help she could, but it was not enough. Come summer, Calormen was threatening war. King Edward sent a message back requesting them to wait, as he was far too busy trying to maintain order in his own country."

"I like his style," Edmund snorted.

Ordilan turned his back to his listeners and spent a moment to gather his thoughts. "Things in Narnia had, at that point, become grim indeed. There were tales of Ettins rampaging wild on the Northern borders; there were monsters emerging from the deep sea; there were creatures long thought dead emerging from the Western Wild. And there was a rumor of the one behind it all – she who styled herself Queen of Narnia. She could not be killed, it was said. It was death to look upon her; it was madness to hear her voice. She called herself the White Queen."

-----

The sea-king, with a swish of his ragged tail, approached Peter, pausing to give his sword to one of the circled mermaids. The sea-king took Peter by the chin, tilting his head to examine his face. He nodded, finally, and released Peter, turning away as though the young king was not worthy of further examination. The mermaids sang out to their leader, although Peter did not know what was said.

Under the water, the mermaids' speech sounded entirely different: full of echoes, the strange trills shifting like deep-sea currents. Peter realized, after a moment of awed listening, that this was the first Narnian thing he'd encountered that seemed truly alien.

The sea-king's voice, when he responded, reminded Peter of immovable nature: the groaning of a tree under heavy winter snow, or perhaps the shifting of rock deep within a Dwarven mine. One of the mermaids took the sword from the sea-king and brought it into the cavern, returning with another curious knife, which she pressed into Peter's hand.

He turned it over, examining it. The pommel, handle, and hilt were made of salt-scarred stone, rough under his fingers. It had no decoration, nor did it need any: the milky-white blade gleamed in the blue deep-sea light. Peter wondered what it would look like above the water.

The mermaid who clung to Peter and gave him breath shifted under his arm, lifting herself up so that she floated at a near right-angle from the column of Peter's body. She wound his arm about her neck and stayed there, the small fins down her back fluttering so that she would not drift. Posed thus, Peter was free to move and could still breathe as necessary. He smiled at the mermaid in thanks, and when she next bent her head to give him breath, it more closely resembled a lingering kiss.

The sea-king spoke again, his voice the groan of an ancient mountain, and as the distorted sounds hit Peter's ears they resolved themselves into a form of Old Language. Peter was not sure what was said, but it was a short phrase – something to do with the shattering of a knife? Peter glanced down at the blade in his hand.

The sea-king, having issued his orders and his challenge, struck a basic knife-fighting pose. Peter stared in disbelief, but even as his mind tried to catch up, his body responded. Oreius would be pleased, Peter noted absently to himself, that his emphasis on instinct had taken root. Slowly – for he was still learning how to compensate for the difference in motion underwater – Peter adopted a defensive posture which, his bones and muscles knew, was perfectly matched to the sea-king's attack.

The sea-king paused and nodded, as though Peter had passed some form of test. He then tried another posture, slightly more advanced, slightly more formal. Peter again responded instinctively, and he noticed the sea-king's impassive expression gave way to a glimmer of approval.

This continued for some time, in the twilit blue of the ocean floor: without contact, and seemingly without effort, Peter and the sea-king met each other in a combat as slow as the procession of nature itself.

------

"You must understand, Majesties," clarified Cloudstrike, "that your entry to this world was not an unusual thing – though it was rather unexpected. There have been doorways opened from the world of Men since Aslan set the stars in the sky. There were Men in Archenland, and in Calormen – should those places remain today I expect they are there still."

"But none in Narnia?" Susan asked. "Aslan said that a Son of Adam should always rule Narnia."

"Not many," Cloudstrike said. "And none, at the end."

"What about Narnians elsewhere?" Edmund asked.

"As our tales tell it," answered Ordilan, "there are no Talking Beasts anywhere else, nor are there Talking Trees, nor the people of the forest."

"Narnia is Aslan's country," Cloudstrike said, "an echo of his true Country beyond the sleeping-place of the Sun. I could tell you those stories, if you wished."

"Another time," Edmund said. "Ordilan?"

"The Tisroc – long may he rot – decided that the best course of action was to wait. He had long wanted to take these free Northern countries under his rule, and he thought that should events in Narnia collapse further, he may see his chance."

"Bastard," muttered Edmund.

"Very," Ordilan said with a grin. "I should like to have words with his descendants, if there are any. For it was with his implicit permission that the White Queen's – I dare not call them people, Majesties – began selling slaves in Calormen."

"They what?" Susan gasped.

"Narnia was always a land of the forest-folk," Cloudstrike said, "but at one time they lived side by side with Humans. The false Queen had decided that the Narnian humans were the biggest threat. So she removed them. One group after another. There were not many." Cloudstrike paused, cleared his throat, and with a grateful bow of the head and shoulders accepted a cup of water from Edmund. "There was fighting everywhere – raids in the night – those places said to shelter Humans were often attacked, though their neighbors would not hear or see the attackers passing. Many Humans fled to Archenland. I helped some of them. That is how I got this," the Centaur said, lifting his thick beard to show a scar hidden on his man-chest.

Susan, pale-faced, stilled her trembling hands on her lap. "Do you think that our countrymen are still lost in Archenland and Calormen?"

"Their descendants, Majesty," Ordilan said. "And by now, I doubt that they would wish to return."

"But if they're slaves—" Edmund argued.

"One thing at a time, good King," Cloudstrike said, laying a quieting hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let this man finish his story."

-----

Peter's muscles ached, in a way Edmund would probably be able to explain; in a way that felt, to him, like the ache of a deep-sea current longing to break the surface. The stone knife handle felt strange and heavy in his hand. The sea-king was distant but relentless, and Peter's heart hammered heavy in his breast. The mermaid pressed her mouth to his more and more frequently, and as he dropped to his knees, arms tense, back arched, dagger-point flashing in defence, he wondered whether it was considered manly to die in a duel in which no blood was shed.

The sea-king nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. Peter's knee scraped over a rock, and he glanced down at a tiny curling blossom of blood diffusing in the water. The light seemed different, somehow; dark and sinister.

The sea-king gently cupped Peter's face in his hands, sliding one down to press two fingers against the throbbing pulse-point in his throat. Peter was aware of the fingers, as rough as salt-eaten limestone; he was aware of the dark searching eyes, ancient and intelligent.

The sea-king beckoned the circle of waiting mermaids forth. They swarmed Peter, sliding their hands along his body as if to reassure themselves by touch that he was unharmed. Peter let himself go limp, and let them behave as they would – his only concern, now, was getting more air. They pressed their mouths to his, one after another, and at another gesture from the sea-king they drew back.

Peter glanced from the sea-king to the ocean floor, sandy beneath his knees, and then to the surface water, far above, which glittered with a sickly light. Knife tightly clutched in his hands, King Peter saluted the sea-king. He kicked off from the ocean floor, all his thoughts up – up to light, up to air, up to Narnia.

-------

"There is not much left to tell," Ordilan continued. "Fall was coming on early, and nobody knew why. Archenland could offer no further help. Calormen did not wish to, and indeed was massing armies near the borders. Things within Narnia had grown desperate. King Edward rode to meet the Witch on a field of battle, three days north of this castle. He asked that his staff secure castle Cair Paravel and then leave for Galma, which by that time was nearly empty."

"Three days north," Edmund repeated, glancing at Cloudstrike.

"Why was Galma abandoned?" asked Susan.

"Galma was attacked by – I do not know the names of these things. They came from the deep sea and they came from the air, and we knew that the Witch had called them forth. Many men died, and many more escaped – they thought that they would fare better on the mainland. What fate befell those in Narnia, I can only guess. Some, however, had to have escaped to Archenland, or to Calormen. The Lone Islands, perhaps, fared better. I do not know their fate. Those who remain in Galma, to this day – some are Galmans, and some are descended from those who used to live and work in this very castle."

"And King Edward?" Edmund asked.

"This is where my story ends, Sire. I can only assume he failed."

------

Cair Paravel sported several watch-towers, but the tower Tumnus and Lucy climbed – both the tallest and oldest – was not one in regular use. "A new coat of paint," Peter had laughed, "bit of carpentry, and all will be right with it again." But the tower's restoration had fallen along the wayside, ignored in favor of more important matters.

Lucy wrapped her thin summer cloak around her and wondered if Tumnus felt the cold. Probably not, she thought, recalling that he wore nothing in winter but a thick scarf. Tumnus ignored the wind and the eerie light. He kept one of Lucy's hands clasped in his own; he watched his hooves as they climbed the stone stairs; he tried not to be aware of the motion of the tower as it swayed in the stiff wind. When they reached the top, he shrugged back to the comforting wall. Lucy broke free of his hands and darted to the edge, leaning over the wooden railings. Reluctantly, Tumnus followed.

"Bit cold up here," Lucy gasped.

"Are you all right?" he asked, rubbing her shoulders briskly with his hands.

"I can see everything!"

"Have you not been in a tower before?"

"Not this one. Look – there's our garden!" Lucy smiled to herself, darting from one side of the tower to the other to see which familiar spots she could find.

A plume of dust caught Tumnus' attention. "Look, Lucy – that must be the army returning from the Witch's castle. They seem to be moving quickly."

"Must be, with all that dust. Something is wrong, Tumnus."

"I know," he said, gathering her near and turning her away from the army. "Look – look out there. Do you remember the last time we saw Aslan, on the beach?"

"After the coronation," she smiled. "Do you remember what we did the next day?"

Tumnus laughed. "Cast a Lion's footprint in the sand. I had quite a time getting the plaster from the Dwarves."

Lucy tilted her head, thinking. She let the stiff wind blow her hair back. "Do you remember, I used to have nightmares?"

"Yes."

"I took that footprint from my drawer and put it under my pillow." A small smile. "They went away."

The pair stood there for a while, in tense silence. Lucy's body shook slightly with the cold, though she ignored it; both were too busy watching dark clouds scudding across the sickly yellow-grey sky.

"Wind's picking up," Tumnus said, eventually.

"The waves are stronger, too."

"We should go back, soon. I expect you'd like to be waiting to greet Aelf."

"The silly," she smiled. "What is that, there, in the water?"

"Where?"

"That. The dark thing in the waves."

"It almost looks like a person," said Tumnus. "Why? What is the matter?"

For Lucy had gone still at his side. "Peter," she whispered.

On delays:
I know, I suck, I'm sorry. I've been crazy busy lately -- couple that with a wicked case of writer's block and, well, radio-silence ensues. But, see, I came back. I'm here now. It's okay. Why don't you sit down and I'll fix you a cuppa.

On calms before storms:
Have you ever seen a hurricane come in? It looks like that.

On lengthy histories:
I hope I didn't bore you, dumping the whole thing out in one go like this. Ordilan's storytelling owes a few things to the Bene Gesserit of Dune, and Teal'c from Stargate.

On breathing underwater:
Almyra's got sharper eyes (or a sharper brain) than me: without even realizing it, I grabbed the mermaid-assisted buddy breathing from the Hook movie. But my mermaids are a bit wilder. More.. fishy.

On soundtracks:
This chapter was -heavily- inspired by the song 'Hun Jord' by Sigur Rós. Creepy, foreboding, cool as hell.