CHAPTER FORTY TWO
OBSESSION
The air was much lighter than it had been during the winter, slowly proving the passing of time and the promise of the coming spring; it was in such a weather, covered with plenty of layers, and walking as confident as her title begged her to be, that Athena Ashdown walked the streets of the little town of Pevenway (also commonly nicknamed Grand Paravel simply for its certain proximity to the castle and the fact that it was big enough to hold at least five castles of the same size of the one where the royals lived). The town surrounded the great castle from north and west, leaving the eastern waters of the ocean perfectly unoccupied and the southern woods completely claimed by the dryads protectors of their trees; upon the very centre of the town was the square, where many different shops were housed and where all holidays (such as the Christmas festival, the anniversary of Narnia's salvation, Queen Helen's Day and each of the royals' birthdays) were celebrated with fires, dancing and the royals themselves joining as much as they wanted to join; there were trees who lived there welcome, little houses and dens for the animals who had found safety within the town alongside the great concoctions for the centaurs to reside, but the shops, endless as they seemed, occupied most of the main square itself.
They adorned each corner of the many streets created merely by so many steps taken, as it had come to end up becoming from the moment the Pevensies had been crowned within the castle at the edge of the village; from fruits, to vegetables, to little artistic decorations made by a talented beaver or creations made of wood simply for the continuous pecking of the beautiful speaking woodpeckers of the west, all the way to the very necessary appliances or pieces of furniture needed by other humans that travelled (or escaped) from Calormen, Archenland, or Ettinsmoor as well; it was all a sight to be seen, and one that perhaps any who lived in the village or in the castle could grow used to quite easily; but still, no matter how much time passed, Athena Ashdown could simply not be one of those people at all. The seasons could pass endlessly around her, time could make her older than the thirteen-year old girl Peridan had found resting on the grass that autumn day, and still, the green eyed warrior could not ever stop being simply impressed by the ease with which the talking creatures found means of being so… well, human.
Not that she would say it aloud, of course; perhaps not everyone would understand what she meant when she thought the word human and she would rather not offend anyone if that was possible at all; but still, as she walked past the many alleys and shops along Pevenway Square, the great general admired the working hand of a squirrel that used its quick movements to peal many nuts to sell roasted to any who wished to buy them, or the beautiful Mrs. Beaver, one of the many old friends of the Kings and Queens, who had opened up a tailoring shop for any humans or creatures that so decided they wished to be clothed by her (she had humbly refused the offer to become the royal tailor, claiming she did not only think her hand unworthy to tailor for royalty, but that having to spend so much time away from Mr. Beaver would surely end with him dead from having no one to take care of him). Of course the General greeted all those who acknowledged her, and waved to those she recognised the moment they met her wondering gaze—wondering only for that constant wary mind of hers that begged to make note of every corner and strange face that she passed to make sure that no danger would come unannounced toward the castle—, but her main focus as she went was the much darker and less populated edge south of the square that housed the shops most dedicated to all warriors and soldiers of Cair Paravel, such as the armour tailors, smithies and mineral and stone shops (the ones who provided the whetstones to tend to swords personally for those who wished it), of which personal focus for Athena was the smithy herself, in order to pick up her favourite sword from being sharpened the way she liked it.
It was sure to be known that Peter Pevensie, the High King of Narnia, had told her endlessly that she could very well make use of the private royal smithy within the castle due to the fact that she was not only a soldier, but a General, and—known only to the two involved, of course, but it didn't stop the King from reminding her—the future High Queen of Narnia when their engagement did finally become public and the two married alike, but as evident as it could be by her heading in the much private direction of the town smithy, of course Athena had simply refused the offer immediately; it was true, she was the General of the Narnian militia, and she was engaged to Peter, thus (as much as Juliet was the future Just Queen) she would eventually come to be known as Athena Pevensie, the High Queen of Narnia, but until she could actually claim such a title (not that the simple idea didn't make her nervous in the first place) she did not at all feel like she had the right of claiming any privileges that she never even would think she deserved were anyone to ask her at all. No, indeed, even her being called my Lady once in a while by other nobles and non-nobles left her baffled enough to have to force her own body to not give away her own thoughts and therefore swallow her intents of trying to say I'm not a Lady every time she was called so because she had to remind herself that she was not only a Lady but a bloody Marchioness, and thus most definitely had to be called with such titles whenever anyone addressed her; so having to even acknowledge she'd be called High Queen after her marriage to Peter made her nervous enough to know she did not need any more self-given guilt going into her mind by accepting the privilege of giving her sword to be sharpened by the royal smithy.
It was enough that she already held so many titles and had accepted the wonderful gift of the gold and silver armour given to her by the High King all those moths before (one made by the royal bloody tailor as it was), she simply did not need to feel any more inadequate by also taking advantage of her private position by the High King's side and making use of the royal smithy for the sharpening of her sword; thus her much louder steps echoing in the less populated side of the village she walked on.
That side of the town was much quieter, less colourful than the rest for the few war-like things sold within it; where the main square was full of colours, shades, trinkets and a lot of sound, the side where the smithy had taken up shop was dimmer, barren of colours other than those from the metals worked, or the fabrics woven onto the armours needed for Cair Paravel (which were red and gold), and quiet enough to sound like a busy street in the middle of the night, which was to say that there was sound, but someone did not have to raise their voice louder than the socially acceptable tone to have someone else hear the words of a normal conversation. The unfortunate part about such a privacy came in the form of the ease with which one would become a target for any sort of crime viable within the alleys and streets of Pevenway; of course, perhaps any other day Athena simply would not have thought of such a thing, lest her own mind become tainted by the sort of negativity she tried to stay away from even within her wary approach and attention to everything around her, but upon that day there was absolutely nothing else she could think of for the very evidence that brought the musing up to the front of her mind almost as quickly as she had been snatched away from walking.
It so was that at one moment she had been walking familiarly down the street, looking at the brand new designs of armour on display just a corner away from the smithy, and the next she couldn't even speak, barely even breathe, when a heavy hand fell upon her lips and her arms became completely trapped by the surprisingly strong hold of the stranger that so easily pulled her towards the nearest dark alley that stood between two high buildings housing plenty of working dwarves' apartments. "Shh, shh, shh…" The voice said; pulling her deeper into the alley as if she were a doll made of hey even as she tried to fix her footing so she could push against the stranger who so easily instead pushed her toward the nearest wall. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you not to scream, do you?" The voice said almost like a whisper behind her; she could feel his chest against her back, his breath heavy upon her neck as it made a couple of locks of loose hair move with the air of his speech. "It's not like your lover is here to rescue you, is he?" The voice was so taunting, so wrong, that it made her feel sick, "How's it going, by the way, your little fling with the King?" She hated the bearer of such a voice immediately, but still, it didn't make her want to scream even by the time the hand that was sure to have left at least one mark fell away from her lips; sure, she could have screamed regardless of his warning, nothing stopped her from it the second her lips were free to move, but if she did there were more things that could go wrong than right. Whether she was in the warrior section of the village, the smithy at the turn of the corner was no swordsman, nor were most of the other people in the street that had been entirely too far from her to have noticed something had gone awry; thus she simply remained silent, thinking of all the ways she could get out of her situation, and feeling that heavy heart of hers crashing continuously and wildly within her chest. It seemed her silence was amusing for the man behind her, for the breath of his amused scoff crashed against her neck in such a way that it made the hairs at its back rise in revulsion, "Well, you've changed." He said, and it only made her trapped hands turn into fists that begged to be freed so she could force a punch onto his jaw.
Instead, all she could do was try to escape, find herself completely trapped against the wall and his hold, and spit a couple of words onto the stone against her cheek: "You don't know me," it didn't feel like enough, but against his hold, against the single terror breaking in her mind so deeply that it only angered her even more, there was nothing else she could say.
That hateful amused scoff of a breath came again, and she could almost feel the way his chest moved up and down with the chuckling he released after, "yes, darling, I really do." Why did his voice sound so bloody familiar?
"Do tell," she encouraged with the venom of her sarcasm as she tried moving away once again, but still by that point she couldn't even move her feet, for he had blocked them with his, and any single movement of hers only seemed to bring him all the closer.
So she simply stopped moving entirely, "Mm, where to start?" The soft breath came again against her ear, "You've got freckles on your left arm in the shape of a constellation you said you can see in your home country, lovely, if you ask me," Athena's heart simply beat harshly against her ribcage, and she could even hear it upon the depths of her ears, "There's a battle scar on your right shoulder blade that reaches down to your waist, and another one that goes from your ankle to your thigh on your left leg, both pretty reminders of the long time we all thought you dead; your eyes are a mix of green and gold, yet you say they're just plain old green because 'you're not special'; you can dance the Narnian waltz flawlessly, and—"
"—got all that from invading the Narnian records of the castle, buddy?" She interrupted him when she simply had enough of hearing the soft whispers of his voice; and what was worse, the continuous annoying inkling within her heart that, even as a whisper, she knew that voice from somewhere else, made her feel all the worse upon her inability to even move.
If only she had her sword.
The hateful frame holding her against the wall found means to laugh again, "The General's not impressed," only then did the voice shift onto a murmur to match the soft chuckle that echoed deep within his throat, the way Athena had only ever heard one other person laugh. "Fine, what about something more personal, then? Something you told me and only me…" Oh, god, if she was right, if he was here, if he was the one trapping her... "You came to Narnia on the sixth of September 1940, in what you call 'earth time', and… you think you died there, in a car crash, which is the reason you think you ended up here. And… you may only think you died, but you know for certain that your younger sister did die because, in fact, you watched her dying; she was the reason you even decided to join the army in the first place, because she wanted to join it when she grew up, and you wanted to make her proud." She felt sick; now more than she had even before as a lump formed deep in the middle of her throat, not only for the horrible and terrifying confirmation of the voice that spoke so softly against her ear in a note enough for her to know who he was even before he tainted her truths with it, but because of the things he said. "Her name was Thalia," Her eyes shut tightly, begging to trap the tears that wished to escape at the mention of her name the way he trapped her hands and body so strongly against the stone wall, "she was eight."
She had not even wanted to scream the moment she had been trapped in the first place, but now… oh, now she did. "How dare you." She said instead, in a note so broken and threatening that it sounded, in its silence, even louder than any scream she could have released; she wouldn't cry, no matter how much she wished to, no matter how the mention of Thalia's name brought such images within her mind that truly made it almost impossible to keep the tears back.
She wouldn't give him the satisfaction; not when he so easily laughed already against her ear, "Now you know who I am, don't you? How well I know you…"
For the first time since she had given up trying to escape, she moved against his hold again, and all it did was make him hold her tighter against him, against the wall; god, he made her feel so sick, "Go to hell," she began with the same venom that had lit her sarcasm before, but now it was only anger and hatred that remained. "I came to you when no one else would listen; I told you those things… and you used me to get to Peter and Edmund." She would spit if she knew it would actually fall on him, but knowing it would not, she swallowed down the bile and let all the loathsome emotions within her light her words instead: "How dare you come back after all you've done to us, to the Kings and Queens, to Juliet… how dare you say her name."
"I did hear that poor excuse for a children's tale died tragically in her queen's arms," he hatefully retorted as his hands moved easily to finally rest harshly against her wrists. "But I did also hear her wedding to the youngest King will be in a few months, so I'm sure she managed to resuscitate if she died the way you said. Good for her, isn't it? But she doesn't matter, mm-hmm." His head shook, and she could feel it so close against her, "No, what matters is that I have said her name," it was obvious, even without the near inexistent pause between the two different subjects, that all thoughts of Juliet Capulet had escaped his mind the way they had escaped hers before; the future Queen was not the her they both spoke about anymore. "So now you can say mine."
Oh, she hated him; she hated him for returning, hated him for what he had done, hated him so much that she even attempted to forbid herself from truly hating him because he was unworthy of such a strong emotion; but still, with the venom spilling from the single word, she said: "Lune." Ever a curse word if there was one.
But it seemed to be enough for him, for just as swiftly as he had pressed her against the wall, he pulled her away from it and moved her harshly enough to hurt and almost even take her breath away when he pushed her back against it; only, this time, it was her back that crashed against the stone and not her chest, making her face him fully enough to feel even more sick by the time she was able to see the horrible smile she had been able to hear against his lips before. "Oh, I do love the way you say my name." His hands held her wrists against the stone, and for the first time since the ball where Peter renounced to Juno's hand, Athena truly saw King Lune of Archenland.
He was dressed all in black, the way his assassins had been what felt like a lifetime prior, with fabrics that would not befit a King at all and therefore did not surprise her to have allowed him to be able to walk past the guards at the edge of Pevenway; but it was his eyes that simply did not seem right. Once, those eyes had seemed like a salvation, a soft gentleness for she who so welcomed the friendship she had wished, but now… now they seemed absolutely wrong, tired, dilated, bloodshot; they seemed crazy enough to bring all the horrors Juno Laelia had spoken to her about from before the war had broken; what the hell had happened to him? "Let me go and I won't tell Peter you're here." She said; harsh as she had been from the beginning and even forcing herself not to fight against his hold.
But what she saw on those eyes mirrored the response she got: the King laughed, and his hold on her only tightened enough for her to truly be surprised at the strength he held. "You truly are in denial, aren't you?" He mused when he looked at her again. "Oh, you just can't see; of course you can't see; they've blinded you."
At least, to that, it was Athena's turn to scoff out the sardonic amusement of a breath; "Oh, I can see very clearly." Even her lips twisted with the very truth she thereafter expelled: "I know a coward when I see one, and that is all that I can see in front of me; it's all I will ever see in you." Indeed, for only cowards would send others to do his own dirty work, only cowards would come in the middle of an otherwise peaceful village and hide by the shadows of the alleyways, only a coward would hold a warrior hostage instead of fighting against her with a sword.
By the good of Aslan, she simply watched as the clear sorrow of disappointment crossed the King's features, but even that seemed to be tainted by the insanity written in his deep brown eyes, "Maybe I am a coward," he began sickeningly enough to make Athena want to look away; but she would plainly not give him such a satisfaction. "But you love me…" he nodded, so convincingly that anyone else might have even believed him, "and I love you."
Finally, with the proximity of his hold and the way he kept her trapped even face to face, the great warrior allowed herself to do as she had wished moments before and expel the very disgust his words brought within her by a single spit across his face, "Not even in your wildest dreams." Oh, she wanted her sword; she wanted to end the whole idiocy of Archenland and King Lune by the final echo of her sword entering his belly, she wanted him to get on his knees, pay for all he had put Narnia and her friends through.
Instead, all she could do was watch as a single hand shifted hers so he could hold both of hers in one and lift the other to remove the wetness of her saliva from his face, "No matter," he told her as if bewitched, so solemnly that it made the hairs at the back of her neck stand once again; and her sword was only a corner away from where she was at that moment, waiting for her at the smithy's shop. "Not all marriages are based on love, so my offer still stands." His eyes finally shifted to look back into hers, and the short hope she found within them only made her harden her own stance, "Marry me." Even his hold tightened on her arms, and she could almost feel his nails digging into her flesh.
She would spit at him again if she thought it would do anything; instead, she simply and strongly said: "No."
The sort of hold he quickly shifted to press against her chest with an arm and thus made her back crash almost breathtakingly against the wall again made the hold he had had upon her before seem like a soft caress, "Do it, Athena, or you will come to regret it."
It was hard to breath against the pressure of his arm, but still, she spoke: "I will never… marry you."
Whether it was the frustration against the words she spoke, or the insanity that drove him to it, the arm that had been holding her tightly against the wall moved away from her chest so his hand could form a fist and strongly punch against the wall just at the side of her head, "DAMN YOU!" he exclaimed loudly enough for her to think that maybe some of the dwarves living in one of the buildings that created the alley they stood in might have heard it; and yes, she had thought to take advantage of his easy means of letting her go, but a single movement made both his hands fall upon her arms not even a second after she had shifted towards the street, making her movement seem more like a flinch than a means of escape; and just like before, as strongly as then, he held her arms painfully against the wall, making her back crash against it once again. "Oh, no, no, no; you won't get away that easily, you treacherous witch. No, no; if you won't marry me," he continued closely and only inches away from her face, "then Narnia will suffer in your stead," he paused. "I will send another attack, and this time you—"
"You can't afford another attack," The General interrupted without daring to look away from his eyes; yes, she looked directly, strongly, showing the very anger driven forth by the venom tainting her every word, as she did.
If he wanted her to be afraid, he'd have to try much harder than that; not even the little disgusting smirk that lifted a corner of his lips would work. "I can now," he taunted in a note she once would have thought to be gentle. "I have Calormen entirely on my side."
Athena tried to move away from him again, angry and silently horrified, but just like before, all it did was make his hold tighten upon her arms enough that she could swear his nails were digging deep into her skin again; "You wouldn't dare." She threatened, staying still once again and letting her eyes to do all the talking for her: there was fire there, only fire from the very hatred she carried to his name.
Anger that only sparked brighter by the annoying echo of that amused half breath half laugh, "Oh, I could, my love. For if you refuse to marry me, than I have no reason to stop me." He even leaned closer, and the insanity within his eyes became all the clearer as the twisted attempt of sympathy shifted the King's features at once to accompany the softness of the words he spoke, "So do right by your country, will you?" His breath crashed against her lips softly enough to make her finally want to scream again. "Call off your engagement to Peter, and marry me."
For once, she had looked away, simply because his lips had been so close to hers and she would not stand a kiss by him, and thus the end of his words crashed against her ear as horribly as they had when she had been facing the wall; but his words made her commit the very first mistake of their encounter: she looked at him quite suddenly once again, with eyes widened, and the rage still pressing her lips in a line, "How do you know about our engagement?" She said whilst pressing herself against the wall behind her to get as far from him as she could, and hating her own lips for betraying her the very second in which surprise took hold of the King's face at last. Oh, what had she done? "You didn't…"
Lune shook his head, "No, I didn't know." He confirmed softly enough to make the satisfaction in his features make her feel even sicker than before. "I mean, I just assumed that he had proposed to you at last; and it's not like word has not spread about you both since we left Narnia, but…" The breath of his laugh crashed against her lips again to match the amused shaking of his head. "Well, you just confirmed it. Oh, Athena, Athena," His head continued to shake without letting his eyes fall from hers, those he had called green and gold, those that she made sure looked back at him with the very echoes of hatred she felt deep within her heart. "Why would you accept him when you could do so much better?" He wondered almost as if he truly expected a reply, "When you could have me."
Whether he had wished for a reply or not, Athena did reply, and it was not with anything other than the very poison she wished tainted him to death simply for the echo of her words: "I accepted him because I want him and not you. Get that into your thick head: I will never want you, not while I still have breath in my body, not even after that." Finally, for once, it felt as if the venom in her words touched him, for he flinched, and even his hold on her loosened; not enough for her to escape, yes, but enough that now she didn't feel his nails on her flesh. "Peter is twice the man you are, and I don't deserve him, but still, he chose me, and I chose him. Nothing you can say will change that."
Without the wounded look disappearing from his face, the horrid King shook his head at once, "Modesty doesn't look good on you, darling." But even his mocking words did not sting, for they lacked the very satisfaction that had been driving him from the moment he had told her a simple shh.
It was enough to spark the fire of the General's words, "I'm telling the truth: he doesn't deserve someone like me, but he chose me, so he will have me. But not you, no, you won't ever have me, or anyone, because you don't deserve anyone," his hold loosened even more, "Not after you invaded Narnia, not after you sent assassins to kill the Monarchs, not after you killed Juliet, not after you hurt Juno, and very much not after you terrified your own son into running away with his aunt," Even her legs seemed to be easier to move away from the lock his own attempted to hold. "You don't deserve anyone."
Was that sadness she saw in the King's eyes? Was it pain? "You love me," he said, but it was weak; it wasn't as convincing as it might have even been only moments before; no, indeed, he sounded like a child whose favourite toy had been stolen. "You can't stop that," Maybe what she saw in his eyes was denial.
Whatever it was, she refused to stop the very words that seemed to be making him loosen his hold on her all the more, "I don't love you, Lune." He seemed to flinch softly once again. "I never have; I love Peter. He is the only one I have ever loved; you… you were a friend; I never wanted anything more than friendship with you, and I should have told you so before you did all those awful things, but…" her head shook, with the very anger still seeming poisonous enough to keep the King within the weak resolve he seemed to have caught from the moment she had begun to gain more strength. "…but still you did them, and now you won't have me even as a friend; you won't have anyone, you won't deserve anyone. Ever."
His head shook shortly again, "I'm not giving up on us," he said stubbornly, his hold on her legs so soft that the idea of moving away from him begun to feel easier and easier.
She was so close… "There is no us, don't you understand?" She continued, looking into his eyes so harshly that his even began to blink repeatedly. "There never was, and there never will be." Her feet finally were able to move, so they did, getting a proper hold on the floor as she continued to speak, "And if you mention my sister again, or if you try something against Narnia after this, I will slit your throat, understood?"
His resolve simply died down; her words wove within his mind so profoundly that they turned him so absolutely weakthat the only barely strong hold upon her was the one he had on her arms. What had happened to him, she wondered then, watching as his eyes fell from hers the way she had seen them do long before, when he had still been a friend, when he had seemed soft enough to act shy; "What happened to the good… scared little girl?" He wondered in a note so low that the only reason Athena even heard it was because his hold kept her so close to him.
Had that been how he had seen her before? Had she truly been nothing more than a good girl? A scared girl? Well… "She became a warrior." She whispered right back, watching with hatred as his eyes slowly lifted to hers once again, and only when their gazes met she finally decided to move: using the newfound freedom of her legs she moved her lower arms to hold onto his elbows and lifted a knee to crash strongly against his groin; she put her hatred there, she put her anger there, she put every single emotion she had denied herself from the moment everything in the previous months had occurred into that single strike, so it was absolutely no surprise that the impact had been vigorous enough to have an immediate reaction. The crazy king's hands fell quickly from her arms, and just as quickly as that had happened, his frame doubled over and thudded against the dusty ground, leaving Athena Ashdown standing above and looking down on him so hatefully that the tears that came unto his eyes were for her as much as for the pain that kept him curled up on the ground. "Stay out of my life." The General told him and finally turned around to walk away from the alleyway without looking back; the only reminder of what had happened were the bruises she could feel forming upon her arms, and the coughing from the King upon the floor behind her.
She placed a smile upon her lips by the time she turned the corner onto the smithy's shop, and on her way back to Cair Paravel, she kept a close hand upon the hilt of her newly sharpened sword. Never again would she be taken by surprise like that again, and within her mind a brand new silent vow was made: if she ever saw the King of Archenland again, she would drive her sword against his throat, and nothing would save him from that fate.
To Be Continued
