Lady Hannah: I'm so glad you liked Susan. I really like her in these scenes. She's so sensible when others aren't. This story definitely needs more of Lucy's sweetness and bravery, which I hope I'll be able to put in later. Thanks for acknowledging it. I'm so happy the Aslan scene felt right! Switching between book and movieverse was tough there. Had to pick and choose dialogue. Thank you for thinking about me

Short chappie, sorry, sorry. Wrote half in Luxembourg this summer, half in Israel last week. Hence the very dark second part…was driving through a less-safe part of the country and trying not to panic.

For anyone still trying to follow the Wolves, after they get swept away by the River, Maugrim and Vardan do track Susan and Lucy to the stream at Aslan's camp. Birta and Tungljoma have returned to the Witch's camp to report. When she arrives at her camp, the Witch finds out about the loss of some of her Wolves, as the few survivors have come in. Maugrim and Vardan never meet up with Birta and Tungljoma. They're not interested in the camp, just in killing the Pevensies.

The Lion and the Fox

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Fox's Degradation

Vestur Skogur, 100th Year of the Reign of Her Imperial Majesty Jadis, Queen of Narnia

"Since a prince must know how to make good use of the beast [in his own personality], he should choose then the fox and the lion [as his representations]; for the lion has no protection from traps, and the fox is defenseless against wolves. It is necessary, therefore, to be a fox in order to know the traps, and a lion to frighten the wolves. –Niccolo Machiavelli, The Prince chapter XVIII 'How a Prince Should Keep His Word'"

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Edmund crouches in the bottom of the Witch's sleigh as the reindeer struggle alongside the river, Ginarrbrik whipping the animals into a foaming and bloody frenzy whenever they get mired in the mud. The Witch sits above them all, statuesque in her furs and gown, the hem of which has browned with mud. Her robe has slipped off her shoulders, a concession to the warm spring air. She no longer watches Edmund, focusing instead on her wand, which she points at the ground ahead of them. In their path, the grass rapidly dries up, the dirt hardens, flowers droop. She is recasting Her Winter, but based on how her eyes darken and lips thin, how she spits each word as if it's a personal affront, the magic does not entirely bend to her will.

Had Edmund been able to see behind the sleigh, he would have noticed that not long after they pass, the ice begins once more to melt, the flowers swelling back to life. However, Edmund is completely absorbed with remaining as still and small as he can. He can feel his muscles throbbing with the motion of the sledge, his bones rearranging with each bump, a little more blood leaking from his half-open wounds. Over and over he hears the Witch in his head, her last words to him as he regained consciousness in her sleigh: one final icy glance, one slow bending of her spine to breathe in his ear, "Let that teach you to ask favor for spies and traitors."

A horrible lesson, but a true one, it has sent him into despair. For isn't he a traitor, a spy on his family, and doesn't he desperately want their forgiveness, their love, their assurance that all will be made right and wrongs will be forgotten? But he is forever marked, forever damned, and Aslan, that frighteningly horrible Lion, will tear him righteously to shreds—if Mr. Beaver doesn't get to him first.

When the sledge sticks in the mire, Edmund staggers down to push against the back while Ginarrbrik hauls on the reindeer's bridles. They get it unstuck with a mucky pop and drive on, though soon after, they stick again. Edmund gets out to push, frees the sleigh, and gets back in. The third time the sledge sticks, the Witch must dismount to lighten the load. When Edmund pushes the sleigh free, it shoots forward so quickly that he falls face-first into chilled mud. He scrambles up, shivering and gasping, blinking grime from his streaming eyes. The Witch takes one look at him and orders him to travel alongside the sledge.

Though the walk is not hard, he is tired. It is easy to place one foot in front of the other without really thinking, the motion monotonous, the pain a steady ache he can't remember having ever been without. The trees flicker green, then snowy white, then back to green. He doesn't question it. The river rushes beside him, then freezes before him, the rears up in an iced-over waterfall. His siblings are following Mr. Beaver across the ice. They don't react to his appearance.

Helplessly, he watches the Wolves corner his family. He works to keep his face blank. The Witch must not know that traces of her spell still linger in him, that he could lead her to her prey.

Mr. Beaver is pinned, Lucy and Susan are crying, and Peter raises his sword.

The ice cracks.

Never had Edmund thought it would be like this. Not an end by the Witch, but by Nature. By water, fiercely freed; their own doing, if the prophecy is true. Peter, stupid with pride, cannot see the danger. If Edmund were there it wouldn't be a problem. He would scream, "No, you idiot, down. Down!" And Peter would realize the sword has uses other than ending lives.

The water explodes outwards, filling his vision. The Wolves are washed away, yelping. He cannot hear his family. He cannot hear anything.

He blinks back to the present when he walks into the sleigh. It sticks fast and won't be moved. The Witch climbs down, every movement betraying her displeasure. Her hair is sliding from its elaborate arrangement, black roots showing at her scalp. "Well?" she demands of Ginarrbrik.

The Dwarf removes his scarlet cap and wipes his glistening forehead. "It's no good, Your Majesty," he says hoarsely, "We can't sledge in this thaw."

"Then we must walk," she answers. Raising her arm, she slices at the fur robes with her wand. For a moment they glow blue, then shrink and darken into a stole—the epitome of practicality.

"We shall never overtake them walking. Not with the start they got. The Wolves'll have to bring the prisoners to the camp." Ginarrbrik unties the reindeer, slapping their rumps to send them limping in the direction of Kastlinn Vetur Konungur.

"Are you my councilor or my slave?" snaps the Witch. "Do as you're told. Tie the hands of the Human creature behind it and keep hold of the end of the rope. And take your whip."

Ginarrbrik obeys, and Edmund is soon stumbling through the woods at the end of a leash. Each time he slows, Ginarrbrik flicks his ankles with the whip and curses him.

"Faster, faster!" says the Witch as they finally ford the river. Edmund's aching, blistered feet slip on the rocky bottom and he falls to one knee, water rushing about his neck.

"Your Queen said faster, you twice-whored, mother-cursed swine!" Ginarrbrik lances the whip about his ears and Edmund surges up, seeing red.

"You leave my mother out of this." He's been frightened for so long he's forgotten what pure, unadulterated hatred feels like. It's empowering. Ginarrbrik's eyes widen. He takes a single step back.

Edmund is shoved unceremoniously underwater and held there. He writhes, but the Witch's grip is steel. She holds him until his eyesight fuzzes and his muscles relax before hauling him out and hurling him onto the bank. He wheezes, coughs up lungfuls of water. Mud runs off him in rivulets.

"Get up," She orders.

He shakes his head, the anger of a moment before swept away in the current. No more. He is alone. She has numbed him. He has tried to hide away from feeling after the Animals were enstoned. But how fitting it would be for it all to stop here, to end all the Pevensies by water, unbeknownst to Her. The prophecy unfulfilled. They are gone; he has killed them. He cannot go back. Death is all he has left. He thinks if he knew how, he might be sorry.

"Get up," She says again, and there's a decision behind her words. He knows She will not ask another time. He can't fathom what's taken Her so long, really, but he welcomes her strike.

A gentle, golden ray of sunlight dances before his fluttering eyelids. He shivers, watching dust motes dance in the beam. Another beam of light kisses his head, a gentle breeze cards through his hair.

He finds the strength to rise.

Further along, Ginarrbrik exclaims, "This is no thaw, this is Spring. What are we to do? Your Winter has been destroyed, I tell you! This is Aslan's doing—"

"If either of you mentions that name again," the Witch hisses, "he shall instantly be killed."

Beside them, the bushes rustle. The Witch sights down her wand, trained on the quivering leaves. "Who goes there?"

Edmund holds his breath. Have the others been caught?

"Here, Your Majesty, is Pittlefortz, your humble servant, to guide you to your camp." A tiny creature skitters from the undergrowth. Its eyes glow red and in place of hands it wields blades.

The Witch smiles, feral. "Lead on, slave."

The creature bows and hurries ahead. Behind him, Ginarrbrik mutters, "I hate Ankle-Slicers," before jerking Edmund's rope to spur him on.

Edmund hears and smells the camp before he sees it. Metal striking metal rings through the trees, grunts and snarls echo around the rocks. They emerge into a sloped clearing. Trees have been felled and brush torn up to make room for the Witch's army. Fires crackle, scattered groups of soldiers huddle nearby, crafting or testing weapons.

And the creatures! Edmund has never seen beings so terrible. Ankle-Slicers scurry underfoot of Wolves, Trolls, Apes, Minotaurs, and beings Edmund doesn't recognize. Fearfully, he scans the darkness to see if he recognizes any beasts, but the mood in the camp is not celebratory, only warlike. Maugrim isn't back yet. They don't know. Perhaps finding the bodies is proving difficult, if the Wolves survived at all. Sickened, Edmund vomits again.

Ginarrbrik cuffs him as the soldiers laugh, drags him to a tree. The Witch turns to speak to a black Minotaur, ignores Edmund's inadvertent cries of pain as the Dwarf binds him tightly, does not look around until he is gagged. Ginarrbrik gestures to the ropes—would she like to test his knots? The Witch smiles, sharp as a blade.

"I trust, Ginarrbrik, that they are well done."

The Dwarf pales and leaps to recheck the ties. Satisfied at last, he slaps Edmund once across the face and follows his mistress away. Edmund is left alone with his hurt and hatred, and they do not keep him warm.

Dawn is chilly, grey with smoke from both smelting and cooking fires. Edmund floats, dizzily half-conscious, thirst and hunger tearing into his already flayed flesh. It will be over soon, he knows. He just wishes it were over already.

"Is our little prince uncomfortable?" Susan's voice wafts over him and he chokes on a scream. It's a trap, Susan's gone, no no no—"Does he want his pillow fluffed?" Her hair brushes his face, then smacks it, and he jerks away from Ginarrbrik's beard, torn between relief and horror. He's braced, waiting for the news, for the gleam of triumph in the Dwarf's eyes, but there's no more malice than usual. Still the Wolves have not returned. Small favors.

"Special treatment for the special boy!" Ginarrbrik flies at him, cackling, and Edmund strains back, panic shortening his breaths. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

Laughing, the Dwarf swaggers away. Edmund drops his head to his knees, whimpers as the tree bark digs into his spine, his seatbones. The world tilts and he closes his eyes, focusing on drawing in one breath at a time. He feels the air brush past bloodied lips, pull through his battered throat; strive to fill his lungs, ribs protesting their expansion. As the day brightens, he cannot avoid thinking of them: of Lucy, light and joy, wide-eyed and trusting. Of Susan, warm and kind, smart and careful. And of Peter, golden and brave, fierce and protective. He can feel them all around him, closer than they'll ever be again.

It hurts too much to cry, each gasping breath an agony, each tear furthering his dehydration. She has denied him even the ability to grieve.

No, this isn't what he wanted.

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