A/n: Go figure! We have reached the end of this story, a story that challenged my writing abilities at every turn, and the ending is the easiest chapter of them all. I don't know why that is. Maybe I knew I had to wrap everything up. Maybe everything was just falling into place. Maybe it was because I spent much less time second-guessing myself than I usually do. Whatever the reason is, I am happy with the ending.
On an unrelated note: The events of The Greatest of Fears were not inspired by Narnia. Actually, many were inspired by a favorite (and very unrelated) TV show. I am curious to know if anyone saw the parallels. If you did and you leave a comment with the correct TV show and season, I will update this author's note so that it mentions your name. (It's like How Ridiculous's YouTube channel: "We'll pin ya!")
ONE YEAR LATER…
Faraji loped up the stairs and let out a sigh of relief. With a nod, he smiled at Kalil. Summer in Erizad was no pleasant thing; the late afternoon heat was strong enough to steal the breath out of your chest. And yet, there was no better time of day than now. All errands and matters of business for the day were done, the Assembly had adjourned for the weekend, and the two cheetahs stood guard as they waited for the Sarazen to return home. Above their heads, the new flags of Erizad danced in the breeze—a blue field with a golden lion marching across. And Faraji was tense with excitement. There was one request he had to ask, and today was the day. It was the proper thing to do.
"Be still," said Kalil with a chuckle. He lapped water out of an alabaster bowl between his paws. "The Sarazen will return soon enough. Then you can put in your request."
"What request?"
"The one you were telling the boys about: to go to Narnia and visit Philip and Nazeen."
Faraji scoffed. "I thought it was rude to listen in on others' conversations."
"Of course. But no one said anything about those conversations that you overhear by accident."
Faraji started to reply, but something caught his attention. Adan and his cheetah, Safa, had just turned off the thoroughfare and started walking up the stairs.
Faraji could not stop marveling at the change in the man. He had once looked so nervous, he seemed to be hunting for a place to hide. Now, as with most everyone in Erizad now, he stood confident and at ease.
Faraji smiled. "Adan, that uniform becomes you."
The man grinned. "Thank you, my friend. But now that my training is complete, the Mareshah needs to give me a mission."
Kalil nodded. "The Order of Aslan is still about. I'm certain you both won't have long to wait."
Faraji turned to Safa. "I see you have that book I asked for."
Safa swung his head over his shoulder, looking at the book that sat in his saddle. "And you must know that I am loath to give it up. Every book and paper we have on Narnia has been passed around a hundred times over, and it was finally my turn to read this one."
Kalil tilted his head. "What book are we talking about?"
"Only the most famous book in the country: A Thousand Years of Narnia."
"It is more than famous," said Faraji. "There are so many demands for it, our scribes are working day and night to produce new copies."
"And I assume that there is a coffer dedicated to paying those scribes," said Safa, "and that the sales from the book will go directly to the author."
Faraji nodded. "So they should. From what I understand—at least, when the book arrived eleven months ago—Tumnus spent eighteen years writing it. An endeavor like that deserves recognition, and no mistaking that." At that, Faraji turned to Adan. "On to business, my friend. Are there any letters?"
"Only letters for the Sarazen."
Faraji sighed as a look of worry fell over his face.
"There is one other thing," said Adan. "The Sarazen is asking for you."
On cue, Faraji bounded to all fours. "Kalil, would you watch things here."
"Of course. It will give me time to finally read this masterwork."
With that, Kalil crouched over the book and flipped open the cover. Faraji bade Adan and Safa a goodbye and padded down the stairs, and his gait rose to a merry trot.
Reza's face was solemn. "I am sorry, Faraji, but I cannot grant you the leave."
Faraji nodded. "As you wish, mehan, but . . . I am worried for them. My sister is grieving. She has no more family except me. And Philip has not answered my letters in the last nine months. After all he has done, it is only proper for me to see if he is all right."
Reza smiled sadly. "I know you miss them, my friend. But until we find a reprieve, we need to give ourselves to the work ahead of us. The Order of Aslan is threatening the followers of the Lion; even without the Calormenes, plenty of Erizadi still believe in the Man Aslan—many more than we thought."
There was a knock at the door, and Reza lifted his head. "Come."
It was the Mareshah. "I am sorry to interrupt, mehan, but we have guests."
"Thank you, Yassir." At that, he rose up from the desk. "I don't remember hearing we had guests."
"Nor do I," said Faraji. "Who are they?"
"I think you should see for yourselves," said the Mareshah. "Come."
Faraji nodded and followed Reza, who followed Yassir out of the office. As the three wove through the dim stone halls, Faraji kept fighting the urge to say something. It was clear Yassir would say nothing more, and Reza was not going to inquire.
They made another turn, and they saw the morning sun shining through the doorjamb. On cue, the soldiers standing guard pushed the door open, and Faraji and Reza and Yassir strode onto the thoroughfare. The cheetah squinted down the street, his mouth open with curiosity—and then he felt a smile filling his face as his heart jumped in his chest. He wanted to run, but he had no time. A cheetah sat in the horse's saddle, and she leapt out and landed on the ground and dashed over to them as she said:
"Dear, dear brother!"
"Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA!" said Philip. "Greetings, spotted one!"
"How glad I am to see you both!" said Faraji. "But—what has brought you this far? Are you all right?"
"We are now," said Nazeen. "Oh, Haroshta, we have so much to tell you."
"Harrumph-ph," said Philip. "And unfortunately, most of it is unpleasant news."
"What happened?"
"In less than a year, the whole of Narnia has lost its mind, not to mention its head. Nine months ago, we were chasing a white stag through the woods, when all of a sudden we came to a most familiar place. Well, it wasn't familiar to me, but it was to them. It was a lamppost at the border of War Drobe, and for reasons still unknown to me, they were curious enough to go further in. So they did—and that was the last I saw of them."
Faraji stood slack-jawed. "What does all this mean? Are they dead?"
"No, and I can say that much. When I spoke with Aslan, he said it was time for them to return to their world."
"At least they are safe. So what happens now? Who will take their place?"
"No one knows. They have no heirs, none of them wrote a will, and the descendants of King Frank and Queen Helen are dead or missing."
"What about Aslan? Surely everyone would want him to be their king."
"Oh, you would think so. But Narnia does not want him. And being the sort of leader he is, he can only grant their request. Without him, the thrones of Cair Paravel are not the thrones of prophecy. Now they are prizes to be won."
"Confound it," said Faraji. "But surely Narnia does not want anarchy."
"Not at all," said Nazeen. "Everyone wants a leader—as long as they are the ones doing the leading. Philip tried to bring every race together: all the lions, tigers, panthers, wolves, the naiads and dryads—everyone. He wanted all of Narnia to agree on a king who would lead them rightly, and he said that Aslan was the only one qualified for that. But they could not even agree on that. In fact, the only thing they agreed to do was remove Philip from the council."
Faraji's mouth fell again. "What?"
Philip snorted. "And Nazeen warned them they might become strong and cruel like Calormen if they persisted in their folly. They wouldn't hear the end of it. They told her to leave and never come back, and I went with her."
Faraji sighed and bowed his head. "I am sorry."
"But we're not," said Nazeen. "Dear brother, this is where we want to be."
Faraji's head darted up. "Do you mean—?"
Philip gave a happy neigh. "Yes, my friend. We are here to stay."
"Haroshta, until you came to Tashbaan, I knew what Mother and Father had taught me—that females were only there to satisfy men and obey their mistresses, and that there was nothing of any true importance for me to do. But when you came, when you rescued us from Mirradin, I saw something better. Dear brother, I want to help others, just as you helped me and Philip and Narnia and the North. I want to do that. This would mean more to me than courting men and hearing gossip amongst the nobles. I tell you, I would not want that sort of life, not even if I could find it here. Besides, our brother's army might still be in Erizad. I want to help you find them."
"I don't know what to say. But are you certain? You are leaving behind everything you have known."
"Yes, and for something better," said Philip. "Spotted one, Aslan puts events in our lives that change not only our lives but also our hearts. Traveling with you on a mission of mercy and justice brought life back into my old bones, and it was more important than chasing a white stag and rolling in the grass of Narnia. While I might have lived and died happy in Narnia, I think there is a happier ending to be written for us in Erizad."
Faraji started to smile, but feared it would look improper. And yet, a full smile came. "I could not be more pleased," he said. "Hurrah!"
Yassir smiled. "And you both could not have come at a better time. Today is the first anniversary of our deliverance from the Red Death. There is going to be a feast at the old palace, and I want you both to be our guests of honor."
Reza nodded. "At the feast, I want to personally grant you both citizenship. And Philip, I want to personally commend you in front of the Assembly and the nobles of Erizad, to bestow upon you the award that the Marehafa bestowed upon me and Faraji: the Golden Lion for exemplary service and courage. Erizad owes you a debt for what you did in Rasul and how you discovered the truth about the Red Death."
Philip and Nazeen thanked him and started to bow. But Reza pushed out a hand.
"No," he said. "Just as it is with Faraji, and just as it is with my wife and my sons, it will be with you: You do not bow before me. You are family."
Philip neighed softly. "Thank you, Sir," he said. "Well, at least I will call you mehan. As Faraji might say, it is the proper thing to do."
Philip's words about a happy ending in Erizad came true: Indeed, all could say they lived happily ever after. Faraji and Reza, who had already been less fearful and stern, became as good and generous and kind as anyone in Erizad had ever known. Faraji returned to the University of Palár and eventually became a full professor in natural and magical medicines, a post he held in those long stretches when Erizad was at peace. In times of war, he joined Reza and his men in battle, and they would return victorious, enough to surpass every Sarazen and army that came before them. True to his word, Reza would not let Andur be rebuilt. Its ruins stood as a monument to Moro's attacks, and everyone who passed them would know what happened. Besides, Reza was glad to live in the Mareshah's house—it was much smaller, anyway—and Yassir was more than pleased to live in the old palace, to make it a home and a house of government.
Philip, who had once had a reputation for blustering at length, became one of the Assembly's most sought-after speakers, and one day when Erizad was at peace again, he said he would bluster for a living. He became a professor of Northern literature and culture, the only Erizadi who could speak with authority on Narnia (and whose classes were always full).
Nazeen had been ridiculed for wanting to fight in battle, but even the men put a stop to it when they all saw she had her brother's strength and wits, and the silence was even more profound on the day she stood beside Philip and both received the Red Diamond for excellence in battle. No one dared to speak a word when she earned the Golden Lion for exemplary service and courage (which, as any Erizadi would tell you, was not something given to just any warrior, and certainly not for the asking). And one cheetah found her to be an extraordinary and ravishing creature. You can imagine his delight when she had the same sort and intensity of feelings for him. And of course you can imagine how glad Faraji was to have a brother in-law, Kalil, one who went on bantering with him on those sweltering afternoons when they stood guard at the Sarazen's house.
Faraji and Philip remained bachelors and warriors and friends all their lives, and together they watched Erizad grow and cities be born and battles be fought and won (especially those where the two of them were in the thick). Reza's sons grew and went to university, and they became men of high standing in Erizad. Navid, who accompanied Faraji and Philip on a journey to the mountains of the sun, would become a soldier and warrior, and would go on to rule over Arkanaz as its Mareshah. Rafik, who had the sort of head that always looked for the highest of rightness and truth and stopped at nothing until he found it, would become the Sarazen.
And there was one thing that Faraji would always insist. Though Philip and Nazeen were much loved in Erizad, now and then some man or tiger or cheetah would come up to him with a most indignant face. They acted as if they knew something Faraji didn't, and with a look of insufferable arrogance they would say, "You expect me to call that horse mehan? You expect me to call that cheetah meha? And on top of it all, you expect me to bow before the Lion and call him mehan?"
And Faraji would nod and say:
"Of course. It is the proper thing to do."
THE END
A/n: Writing a 90,000-word novel can feel like sculpting a statue. You start with a shapeless slab, and you chisel away everything that isn't part of your design. At first, you feel euphoric: That thing in front of you is starting to look like something. But then, as you cut away more of the stone, you start to second-guess yourself. Every blow to the chisel is followed by a long pause, and then you start to wonder if you have been doing this the right way all along. Before you realize it, you have spent an embarrassing amount of time holding the hammer over that chisel. You know that the next thing you do will affect the rest of the shape from here on—perhaps even ruin the piece. But you can't stop now. You refuse. You have to cut away another piece of rock, just to see what the shape looks like. And all the while, despite the toil and sweat and second-guessing and the huge risk of making a bad choice, you're having a hell of a good time.
That, my friends, is what it felt like to write The Greatest of Fears.
This story is the first novel- or novella-length piece I have finished in thirteen years. The whole idea of a cheetah being scared of Aslan and being sent on a journey to the country of the king he fears the most—that was the only story idea, out of many I have considered in the last thirteen years, that took off. Better yet, this story grew into something bigger and more exciting than I ever intended. The original tale was supposed to be a much simpler thing—Faraji goes to Narnia, finds out Aslan isn't anyone to be scared of, and goes back home, bringing Narnian medicine to heal a sick child. Obviously, that all didn't happen. Instead:
(1) A disease became the biggest character of the story. First, the Red Death was never supposed to be in this story at all. Second, it was originally a cliffhanger—something to end a fairly uneventful chapter—but it eventually it became a character in its own right. It had the biggest influence over everything Faraji, Philip, Reza, and Narnia and the North did, and it filled everything with danger and fear and urgency. Besides, it's an illness that brings excruciating death to over 95% of its victims, and it's a weapon that an entire nation thinks is the wrath of its god; how could that not become a character?
(2) Moro (a.k.a. Beresh) was never supposed to be a character. I never planned for this cheetah to even be in the story. When he showed up, I didn't expect him to be a villain. Originally, he was supposed to be everything Faraji was not: While Faraji served his masters, performed tasks beneath his lofty station, and went on a journey to help a sick child, Moro was rebellious, arrogant, and unfeeling. But he didn't stay that way. He had bad attitudes toward women and superiors, spied on Reza, and called for the execution of children. Oddly enough, by Chapter 5 I knew he would be the big bad of the story—though I didn't know (until Chapter 12) that he would blow up a six-story residence and use the blast to spread the Red Death.
(3) Rafik, the sick boy that Faraji went to get medicine for, was not supposed to die. Nor was Reza supposed to die. Nor was Aslan supposed to bound in glorious splendor and majesty to Palár, bring Reza and Rafik back to life, and announce that he was the true Aslan and that justice and truth were coming back to Erizad by Aslan making Reza something of an apostle Paul. Surprise!
I could go on and on (and on). But you get the idea. This story turned out to be almost nothing like what I had imagined in my head. Instead, it turned out better. The complex story lines, the large cast of characters, the constant challenge to keep the story engaging and interesting—all while almost completely making it up as I go along—it has been a ball.
That said, I know this story is . . . imperfect. (And that's being VERY generous.) As I look back on it, I see just how much revision it needs. Some chapters are just weak. Some minor plot lines went unresolved. (I tried, but every attempt seemed either incredibly weak or a needless diversion from Faraji's misadventure.) And why did I try to sound like C.S. Lewis? I ought to sound like myself. For Heaven's sakes, these author's notes have been easier and more rewarding to write, because I am writing them in my voice. Then again, I am an American thirty-something dude, and this story takes place in a world influenced by British culture and ancient mythology. It would be weird for my characters and narration to sound like my natural writing voice. I guess I was smart to try to make these characters sound somewhat native—but I'll tell you: It takes a lot of skill and practice to be able to pull it off.
Snoopy (from Peanuts) said it well: Good writing is hard work!
And whether or not my story was good writing (or simply mediocre or bad writing that took too much effort), that's not for me to say right now. I can say this, though: It was the first story I have finished in thirteen years. I am proud of what I did, if only because I did it.
There are a few folks who helped see this endeavor to its end. I want to give special thanks to treehugger00, thunderbird shadow, Anonymousme, and PadrePedro for their many reviews. Their feedback did one of the best things imaginable: inspire me. Their thoughts on each chapter planted seeds in my imagination, and the ideas that grew up out of that ground helped shape the story into something bigger and richer than I ever dreamed. Plus, their reactions to events and characters of the story not only excited and inspired me, but made the plot twists especially fun to write. (And to my amazement, some of those plot twists seemed to catch them by surprise. That showed me I was doing something right.)
Finally, thank YOU. Thank you for taking the time to see what my story is made of. Thank you for reading my first ever Narnia fic and the first story I have completed in thirteen years. If it was a joy, I am glad. If it was not, you have my apologies.
And now, I get to rejoice. This is the first story I have finished in over a decade, and I'm going to bask in the glow of that accomplishment. Meanwhile, I am going to take a much-needed break from writing. This site is an awesome place built on awesome ideas—writing in your favorite fictional universe and getting feedback from writers who love the universe as much as you do—but I am not ready to start a new story. I do have some ideas I'm tinkering with, but my doctorate studies are making increasingly large demands on my time. A long break will be enough to let some new ideas grow and mature. And should I come back—which is a high certainty—I might come back to the Narnia genre. With any luck, I might be able spin an even better Narnia fic.
Peace out, everyone.
John Jude Farragut
