AN: Howdy, folks! Sorry for the wait, holidays with the family and all that (NBA SEASON, BABY!) . I wanted to get back to this for a while, but I was busy with having fun with my cousins from California. We had a great time, and the first thing I did after they left was get back on the story. Not as great as I wanted it to be, what with all my mediocre writing skills. Its short, a filler chapter at the least. Just some insight on the past and a surprise in the present. Enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: I own nada.

OF THE LANDS NORTH OF MIDDLE-EARTH

"Through long ages the Valar dwelt in bliss in the light of the Trees beyond the Mountains of Aman, but all Middle-Earth lay in a twilight under the stars…"- The Silmarillion

So it had come when the lands of the north were come upon by the Valar, it being heavily shrouded by a dark mist. Manwë came, along with his spouse, the fair Varda, who knew all the regions of Eä. They treaded atop the barren land, the blizzards raging fierce and strong.

"Alas!" Manwë cried. "This storm proves too strong! It is as if Eru Himself, Blessed may He be, denies us our passage!"

At this they were deeply troubled, and they turned to depart from the forsaken snow. As they turned, a mighty roar was heard from the depths of the blizzard, and the two Valar faced the source with awe.

"Honored Ainur! You near trespass upon my sacred ground! Is it at the beckon of your master you come, or is it at your own will?"

"Stranger," Varda replied, her voice as soft as spring. "We do not know you. Come; show yourself so that we may be familiar!"

At her words a great lion appeared from the snow. He shone like the sun, his mane voluminous and countenance proud. His eyes gleamed eerily in the hail, and he pierced the souls of the Valar with a glance.

"Nay!" he exclaimed. "Eru Ilúvatar has no part in this. You have come by your own curiosity. Yea, though you bear no ill intention, return south to your lands at once! Turn your backs to me, and make it certain I never see your faces again! For the wrath of Aslan, son of the Emperor, is terrible. Begone!"

The Valar fled the north, terror at their wake. When they returned to Arda, they lifted a great wall of mountains in the north, and increased the amount of blizzards. The Ainur took counsel, and they swore never to speak of this Aslan again, and they took care to bar any visitors to the far north for millennia to come…

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Post-Creation Days, Narnia

"What…" King Frank I said, his eyes wide and mouth open. "What is it?"

A great wall stretched from east to west, taller than the tallest mountain and wider than anything the First King of Narnia had ever seen. It was translucent; he could catch a glimpse of white from the other side, but that was all.

"It is the Borderline," Aslan said, his amber eyes also fixed onto the towering substance. "I erected it many ages ago."

Frank, whose plump face was shiny with sweat, turned to the Great Lion. "Why would you build this? To keep us in?"

"Yes," answered the lion. Aslan faced the human king. "And to keep things out."

Frank's eyes widened, but Aslan gave him a comforting smile. "Do not be afraid, dear one. No danger shall cross unless you cross before it. I brought you here to tell you that I made this barrier for a reason, Frank. What lies on the other side was not meant for Narnia, or any country for that matter. Make sure no one goes through this Borderline, or grave things will come to pass. Understood?"

"Understood…" Frank whispered, his eyes still wide. "Aslan, is that snow I see?"

"Come, Frank…" Aslan remarked, ignoring the man's question. "You and Helen have much planning to do."

In a flash of bright light, they were gone.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

As the centuries passed, and Frank and his first sons gone to the grave, the memory of the Borderline became a distant rumor. The guard was sent back, and the warning signs faded and aged considerably over the years. No one even bothered to travel south; as far as they were concerned, all that was there was more desert. Time passed by, and the Borderline was left alone, until an intrepid traveler from Calormen, having traveled hundreds of miles to seek out a legendary wall from the distant past, found his quarry at last…

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Burak Al-Barahi was tired.

He did not know how long he had ridden, nor how far. The desert was immeasurable, and the sky had not changed since the sun had risen from the east. Under his thick turban, his face and hair was matted with sweat. He had taken his tunic off in frustration earlier, and the sun beat at his broad back mercilessly and without restraint. He slowly shook the contents of his canister.

"Two more hours," he wheezed, licking his cracked lips. "That is how long I will last. When I am gone, Mirna, what will you do?"

His camel bleated in response.

Burak chuckled. "I know you are tired, too. I wish that we will die together, though. That would be a fitting death for you and me."

He rode in silence, feeling the strength ebb from his body and not having the power to do a thing about it. Mirna shook under him, dehydration finally taking a toll on his faithful friend and steed. They had been on many an adventure: traversing the mountains of the barren Ettinsmoor, along the beaches of the Eastern Coast, basically all over Calormen, near the borders of Telmar, deep into Narnia and Archenland, and now here. His friends had insulted him for taking a camel as a companion for every journey, but he ignored them. A man's best friend is a sturdy camel, his father had always said. Now, the traveler thought, we will succumb to the sun at last.

His camel howled, and Burak nearly fell off his saddle.

"What is it, Mirna?" he croaked. "What is…?"

He squinted into the horizon, and his eyes widened.

"HA!" he cried, new strength fueling every inch of his weak frame. "Forward, Mirna! We are here!"

The camel galloped down the dunes, encouraged by her master's excited voice. They stopped, and Burak got off his ride and stared in wonder at what stood before him.

It soared into the heavens, taller than anything the traveler had ever seen. The wall stretched from left to right, east to west, farther and farther until his weary eyes could see no more. It shimmered like a pool of crystalline water, catching the sunlight and winking at Burak like it held a secret no one would know about.

Until now.

He gripped Mirna's reins, took a deep breath, and took a step forward. There was a vague sensation of falling into a pond, and he opened his eyes.

"Ahh!" he yelped, his limbs flailing to cover his bare torso.

It was cold. No, it was freezing. Snow fell relentlessly on the harsh tundra landscape before him, and the wind was howling like demons. He took a hold of Mirna and walked forward, bewildered and not knowing what else to do. The camel bleated pitifully in the blizzard, but there was nothing Burak could do.

He was utterly confused. What in Tash's name happened? I was in the hottest desert I had ever crossed, and know I am in a blizzard? His mind reeled, and before he knew it, he couldn't feel his legs. Or any of his body parts, for that matter. Mirna pulled free from his grip, galloping and bleating into the snow. Burak tried to chase after, but he couldn't even take another step. Mirna disappeared into the distance.

He fell to the snow, despair strangling his soul. Mirna was gone. Suddenly, the snow was warm, like a luxurious blanket from the court of Tashbaan itself. He closed his eyes, all the pain and despair banished from his mind and body.

He fell asleep.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

"What are we going to do with him?"

"Leave him here, captain. He is beyond saving now."

"Cease that talk, Elbarad. Nothing is beyond salvation. We saved him from the cold, and he has a pulse, weak as it is. We wait."

There was a quiet snort, and the sound of footsteps on wood. A door slammed, and Burak opened his eyes.

He was on a blanket next to a blazing fire, his naked body covered by a linen sheet. Dark shapes were gathered around him, and he pictured devils from hell coming to consume his body. He rose in a panic, but steady hands pushed him down.

"Don't stand, stranger," a gruff voice said. "You'll only hurt yourself."

"Who are you?" Burak demanded! "What do you want with me?"

The hooded figures stared at him in silence, and the traveler realized he was speaking in his native tongue. They spoke the common tongue, it seemed. He oriented himself, and began to speak.

"My apologies. I just want to know how I arrived here amongst you."

One of them turned to another, a silent conversation playing out between them. The stranger removed his hood, revealing an old craggy face edged with oily black hair that fell in curls. His eyes glinted like stone, and he observed Burak carefully.

"Who are you?" the man asked.

"I am Burak Al-Barahi, a traveler from the nation of Calormen. I came here to seek a Borderline, and I found it. My camel was lost, presumably dead. Who are you?"

The stony man stared at him for a minute. He nodded to himself.

"You have a strange name, and I've never heard of a nation called Calormen in all my life. We found your…camel…half-buried in the snow, like you. We coaxed it back to good health, although we didn't have the faintest clue of what is was. I feel you have much explaining to do. Deremir!"

The door opened, and a man walked into the small room. He was tall, over six feet, with crimson hair atop his head and covering his chin. Blue eyes peered curiously at Burak, but moved over to the other man.

"Yes, captain." he said, standing at attention.

"Acquire the man's things from the bags. Tell Elbarad to help you, also. The man owes it to 'Burak' considering he offered to dump him out the snow once more. The man's getting too old, and pretty soon we'll have to wipe his own arse for him."

Deremir's lips twitched, but otherwise he remained still.

"What are you waiting for," the captain barked. "Go…"

The tall man turned heel and exited the room.

"He's a good boy," the captain murmured to the others. "The best I've ever seen, better than his father. He has true Dùnedain blood running through his veins, that one. He will do great things in the future."

The other men grunted in assent. Burak tried to get up, but the man pushed him down. "Rest, friend. There is no rush. We'll get out of this forsaken cold soon, so lay back."

"Where are we going?" the traveler whispered, sleep overcoming him.

"Why, to Minas Tirith," the man answered. His voice was muffled, barely audible through Burak's ears. What's a Minas Tirith? "You are going to have an audience with the king and queen themselves…"

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Burak Al-Barahi traveled along with the rangers across Middle-Earth, awe-struck at the new land he had discovered. He mapped their route from the Forodwaith to Gondor, meeting elves and dwarves and other men that were a part of a culture so foreign to him. When he arrived in Minas Tirith, he told King Aragorn and Queen Arwen of everything he knew about Narnia and the surrounding lands. The traveler knew King Edmund personally, and he was willing to introduce them if they wished. So began the meeting of Narnia and Middle-Earth, two nations that were separated for countless eons.

The ranger captain, Cartan, escorted Burak back to the Borderline, having become good friends with the traveler. He later died of a fever that had killed hundreds in Arnor during that time, and Burak was greatly distressed. Deremir became the Third Captain of the company, succeeding Cartan.

Burak Al-Barahi still lives in the palace at Tashbaan, rich and credited for the discovery of the nation of Middle-Earth. He named his son Cartan, in honor of his friend. They were the first people from the different continents to have formed a friendship.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Narnian Camp

Present Day

The whole camp was in an uproar. Crowds of anxious soldiers herded around the Royal Tent, held at bay by stoic centaurs. Soldiers rushed to and fro in a panic, spreading the fact that a monarch was near death. Nearly every tent was empty; they had all come to visit the gravely wounded king. The cries of the masses were apparent: Was King Edmund going to survive?

Mesinthus stuck his head out of the tent, eyes squinting into the glaring sun. Immediately, the soldiers cheered at his arrival; the ground itself seemed to quake at the sound. The Royal Captain gave a shaky smile and approached Oreius. The centaur had a cloth tied around his head, a marker of his battle injury. He had experienced worse, but the deaths of his sons were the real wound. The proud, vibrant centaur warrior was now diminished to a somber old soldier with too many scars to feel good about them.

"What's happened?" Mesinthus asked quietly, waving to the soldiers half-heartedly.

"Nothing much," Oreius grunted. "The occasional fool who tries to break through, but otherwise, nothing major. How goes the king?"

"Not good," Mesinthus sighed. "The healers are working overtime, but five arrows…and he's a Son of Adam."

"He's strong for a human," the centaur general countered. "He'll come through it. Not unscathed, for sure, but through all the same. I've seen men worse off get up walking."

"Don't lie."

"All right, I haven't. All I'm saying is that the strength of man is not by physicality alone, but by will and determination. Edmund's fighting for his life inside that tent, Mesinthus, and usually when Edmund picks a fight, he wins."

"Usually, my friend. Usually. Anyways, where's that scumbag Mantèra and his company?"

"The Telmarine fool? Probably partying with his men in their dingy tent like dumb animals. We both know they would do anything to overthrow the Kings and Queens of Narnia."

Mesinthus shrugged. The pleas of the crowd increased in volume; they wanted to know if their king was going to live. Mesinthus resisted the urge to cover his ears. Tens of thousands of warriors hollering for all they were worth was louder than a thunderstorm. Much louder. He turned back to the tent and almost ran straight into the healer from Archenland. The head healer was a woman with long brown hair (although this time it was tied into a bun) and fair features. Well, the satyr thought, for a human, anyway.

"Is he okay?" he inquired fervently but quietly. Unfortunately, at her arrival the crowd hushed as if signaled by the words of the king himself. "Will he be alright?"

The woman ran a hand across her sweaty forehead. Her cheeks were pink from the heat of the tent, and she was clutching a damp rag in one palm.

"He is still alive, if that's any comfort." she informed the captain in a low voice. "We will need to stay at his side constantly, however, until he recovers completely."

A great weight seemed to lift from his shoulders, and Mesinthus grinned. "So, he will be fine."

The woman scowled. "Fine? Your king suffered two decimated shoulder blades, a pierced lung, fractured ribs, near-total blood loss, and a ravaged kidney. If we attend to him every second, which we are planning to do, he will be ready at the end of the year. If not, you best pray to your Lion that King Edmund will live to see his precious brother destroy Middle-Earth."

With that said, she whirled back into the tent.

The weight was back, and heavier than ever. He trudged back to Oreius. "I'm going back inside."

"Understood."

"Any word from Peter?" the captain asked hopefully.

' "The High King has not yet returned from his little excursion to the north. I believe a flock of griffins watch his route, but no sign of his journey back has been confirmed. All we can do is wait. Wait and see if our High King Peter the Magnificent has not gone completely insane."

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

Ice Bay of Forochel

Northern Middle-Earth/Forodwaith

Peter had not known the last time he could be by himself. The recent years had not allowed him any. Wars, politics, personal affairs, finances, etc. gave the High King of Narnia little time to stop, sit, and think. Now, alone at his order, he could rest.

He was sitting on a boulder, on a small island about a few feet away from the coast. His clothes were wet; he had swum to get to the boulder. Below him, the cold water gently lapped on the shore, nearly grazing his feet. In the distance, the setting sun painted the sea and sky with red, orange, and purple, dark hues that kindled warmth in the young king's belly. He sighed, skipping a stone along the rippling waters.

Five arrows. Three fatal. Outlook grim. Expectation of life low. Sorry, my lord. My apologies, my king. Hope he gets better, your majesty.

"AAARGGH!"

He threw his last stone as far he could, rage coursing through his body like wildfire. He roared more, venting his fury to the heavens. Peter howled for what seemed a lifetime, cursing and forsaking everything until he slumped down, tears pouring down his face relentlessly.

"Why Aslan?" he moaned. "Why? Is it because of what I did? Start a war? I'd take it all back, you know I would. I'd take everything back! Just don't let him die….please."

Silence.

"This wasn't supposed to happen! None of this was supposed to happen! I was supposed to win that battle, and Rohan would be mine. Edmund wasn't supposed to get hurt!"

A flock of seagulls squawked nearby a cliff face, ignorant of the broken soul deteriorating below them.

"I DIDN'T WANT ANYONE TO DIE! I'M SORRY! I'M SO SORRY! PLEASE, ASLAN, JUST…just…don't…I don't want to feel this pain anymore. I don't want to hurt."

He knelt, ignoring the fact that the waves were beginning to increase, and that dark clouds were gathering on the horizon, covering the glorious sun until all was dark. Lightning flashed in the sky, and thunder pealed and rumbled. Peter could distantly hear cries of distress from the howling skies, but he paid them no attention.

"Everything…is my fault," he whispered to himself. "I…am the reason…Edmund is going to die."

Hard talons gripped him by the shoulders, followed by urgent pleas from the beak of a griffin. Peter disentangled himself furiously, his face purple with self-loathing. "LET ME GO!" He pushed the distressed griffin away from him.

Suddenly, a wave loomed above him like a beast, casting a menacing shadow over the High King. He had just enough time to yelp in shock until the water hit him like a sledgehammer and sent him sprawling into the cold embrace of the sea.

He flailed underwater, trying to grab a hold of the boulder he had sat on. All he grabbed was more water, however, as the strong tide pushed him deeper and deeper in. I should be getting closer to the shore, he figured desperately, I was thrown behind me, so I should be near the beach. He waited, but the sea had different ideas. The current was wild, unpredictable. It seemed to have a mind of its own, tossing Peter up and over and never near the shore. His hand touched surface, and he pushed himself up. Peter gasped for air, and through his blurry eyes he could see a group of griffins wheeling frantically overhead.

"Over here!" he gurgled, but the water took him down again.

Everything was dark underwater; he couldn't figure out which way was up and which was down. A sense of complete isolation and fear choked his spirit. He was going to die alone in the cold waters of the Forodwaith; end his campaign where it began. He groaned pitifully, his arms up and hands reaching desperately for open air. The water surrounded him, filling his whole body with icy fear and desperation.

No. Not today.

He pushed with his whole body, his frame stretching to its utmost limit. The veins bulged in his neck, and the muscles in his torso and legs strained to push their user to the top. He roared, bubbles escaping from his open mouth. A rock hit him on the chest, but he pushed it away. With one final push, he reached the surface. Harsh wind bit his face, and he almost fell back into the water from the shock. Shaking it off, he let the waves push him to the rocky shore.

He landed with a gasp, the tide receding from his limp frame. His clothes stuck to him as if it were a part of his body, and his mind was as tumultuous as the storm. Something tapped his foot, and, groaning, he looked over.

He had thought what had hit him was a rock, but he was mistaken. The thing was too spherical to be a crude stone; there were no dents or scratches on its perfect hull. Peter crouched warily, his eyes locked onto the orb. It was dark, and a misty substance rolled inside of it, drawing the eye to its hypnotic movements. Shadowy hues shimmered across its surface, evoking wonder in the gasping king.

Gingerly, he wrapped his hands around it.

Pain like nothing he had ever felt struck his mind like lightning. He screamed, falling back to the shore in surprise and anguish. His hands were still clutching it, however, as if attached by glue. Deep voices echoed overwhelmingly in his head, speaking in a tongue that tortured his soul with each harsh consonant. Peter had the feeling he had opened the gates of hell and let its inhabitants run amok in his mind. The onslaught of words and pain ceased, and Peter lay exhausted on the beach, gasping like a landed fish.

The griffins came for him later, but he did not respond to anything they asked him. The flock flew him to the nearest outpost, where he was treated by the healers stationed there. Again, he was silent. They did not know that inside the High King's mind, a battle for his soul was raging.

/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\

The man was dark-haired, with features as pale as the moon. He had a noble face, more handsome than any of the men in the royal courts Peter had visited. Dark eyes peered at him curiously from his oval-shaped face, and there was a mischievous gleam in his smoldering pupils. A midnight-black tunic covered his chest, and a long black garment that covered his lower body and fell to his ankles accounted for his lower half. It was, in the loosest sense of the term, a skirt, but there was nothing silly about it when the man wore it. He wore golden bracelets studded with luminous pearls around his wrists.

They were in a wooden room. A window was in the left side of the room, and brilliant sunlight poured in from what looked like a stately countryside. In the far end of the room, there stood an ornate oaken wardrobe, alone and unmoving.

"Where am I?" Peter asked. He looked down to see he was still in his turquoise Royal clothes, but this time it wasn't wet.

"You are in a place significant in your memory," the man spoke suddenly. His voice was lyrical, ands a soft as a spring morning. It seemed to echo in the small room, evoking waves of calm through the High King's body. "For whatever reason, you think that this room means something important to you. Very important."

"Who are you?" Peter demanded, reaching for a sword and finding it wasn't there.

The man chuckled, noticing the movement with a twitch of his eyes. He smiled, a pure gratifying smile that lit up the room. "You are a warrior, that much I know. A seasoned one, at that. You know many a battle, stranger. Let us be familiar with one another."

The man took a step forward, and Peter took one step back. The man smiled again, and the effect was dramatic. He bowed elegantly, his form practiced and graceful.

"My name is Annatar," the man said. "I am the spirit present in the Palantìr you acquired. I must say, I wasn't expecting company for quite some time."

Peter stared at him, trying to find any lie in the stranger's voice. He found none.

"Hello…Annatar," Peter greeted carefully. "Where am I?"

Annatar looked at him with a confused expression, one dainty eyebrow above the other. "Did I not say? This place is a significant location in your memory. So, hypothetically, I should be asking you that question."

Peter's eyebrows scrunched together. "But…I don't remember this place."

"All is well, friend. You will remember in time. Forgive me, but you did not give me your name."

"I am High King Peter the Magnificent, Emperor of the Lone Islands, Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, Wolfsbane, and Slayer of Giants." He spoke with pride, having those names bestowed upon him by Aslan himself.

The man appraised him with a quick once-over. "My, my. I am in the presence of a king. Must I bow?"

Peter waved a hand. "Don't bother. I have enough of that every day. What I really want you to do is explain to me why we're having this conversation. Last thing I remember was that I fell down on the shore."

Annatar nodded. "True. Your conscience, however, retreated into your mind, apparently locked out by the shock of my inspection of you."

Peter narrowed his eyes, the suspicion returning. "That was you?"

The noble-looking man spread his arms in supplication. "Forgive me, King Peter. I cannot let any man just grasp my abode. I needed one worthy enough, so I needed to see what sort of man you are."

"And?"

Annatar smiled. "I was not disappointed. My roughness was…unnecessary, but you must understand. I have not done this in…quite some time."

Peter tilted his head. "Who are you?"

Annatar leaned against the wardrobe, which creaked under his weight. His dark eyes darkened even more, as if recalling long-forgotten days.

"I am your friend," he said after a while. "That is all you need to know. For now, at least. I will speak with you later. Your mind is beginning to reorganize, and your consciousness back to reality. He opened the wardrobe door, and beyond it, Peter could barely see a hint of white snow.

Peter stumbled towards it, hypnotized.

"Susan, get off me!"

"Lucy, you're on my foot!"

"Stop pushing me, Peter!"

"Oh," Annatar interrupted, bringing his face close to the king's. "You newfound enemies, the Gondorian king and his elf friend. You were right to confront them, King Peter. They have also done me a grievous wrong, and I intend to enact justice. I will be with you every step of the way, my friend. Go."

Peter pushed himself into the wardrobe, and into the light.

AN: Hope y'all enjoyed it! Please R&R, and NO FLAMES PLEASE! Have a great New Year (for those who have it this week)!