The Abduction of the Queen

The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.

~ Oscar Wilde

When all was said and done that night, no one found Susan anywhere about the castle. After being accosted by Susan's weeping maid, Lucy herself had gone all the way down to the cellars with a lamp in her hand and searched among the barrels. Queen Susan had been there, the centaurs said; they saw her come, but never saw her go. It was late and the moon was high, but even Corin came sleepily down the corridor to Lucy's study where she had hastily assembled a few of her most trusted friends.

"Peridan, do stop," Lucy said suddenly laughing and Lord Peridan started and bowed without thinking.

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty; I did not realize I was doing It," he apologized hastily, then struggled for words, "…What was I doing?"

"You had your Solemn Face on," Lucy said, her lips twitching in amusement as she lounged a little deeper in her chair.

"Oh."

"Before Peridan interrupted me with his Solemn Face, I was going to point out that Susan said something about going off on her own without telling. Perhaps she's done that. In the morning I'd like to organize a search of the surrounding countryside."

"Begging your pardon, your majesty," Chiron said. "But if the Queen's Grace would like to be alone, perhaps we should allow her to be alone."

"You don't think she's in danger?" Lucy asked.

"She's been saying for some time that she wants to go somewhere by herself."

"Not by herself," Lucy cut in, "she always says I can come, too."

"Why am I left out?" Corin complained.

"I don't think she'd go somewhere without telling," Lucy finished. "I really don't. It's not like her."

"Perhaps she is not feeling herself," Mr. Tumnus suggested, then added hastily: "I don't believe she is ill, but she has overworked herself. It's very possible that she wishes to be alone."

If it had been Peter or Edmund no one would have cared; they were always scarpering off and popping up again, sometimes even in the middle of the night…but this was Susan. Somewhere in the pit of Lucy's stomach an awful aching worry was forming. Perhaps Susan was perfectly well and had just taken herself off somewhere, but something told Lucy that was not the case.

"But she said she would be here when the delegation from Ruska arrived," Lucy pointed out. "I was nervous and…"

"Your majesty is quite equal to the task of dealing with the delegation," Chiron said comfortingly.

"You think so?" Lucy asked, a little brightened.

"I know so."

"Well, you'll be there, anyway, won't you?"

"Of course."

"And Peridan," Lucy said, warming to the idea. "He can always bring Gravity to the Situation."

Lord Peridan spluttered.

She went out after that, reaching to take Corin's hand; it was hours past his bedtime, but she felt that sometimes bedtimes didn't matter. He trotted next to her through the garden, wondering why she was so silent as she covered with long strides the meandering slates set in the path. The roses were dancing in the moonlight.

"We'll go to the practice grounds and do a little archery," Lucy mused, then glanced at Corin, "Would you like to?"

"In the dark?" he asked curiously.

"One must hit targets at night as well as the day," she replied and laughed at the look of wonderment on Corin's face.

"Queen Susan said she was going to teach me some archery this year," he said.

"Well, I can teach you too, believe it or not."

Corin believed it.

The training grounds were on a moon washed field well below the castle, where the grass was short cut and a strange formation from ancient days rose mysteriously under the turf. The targets were set up every thirty paces, filled with holes and waiting, almost as bright under that moon as they were in the day.

There were several bows in the shadows of a small stone shed, leaning unstrung against the wall. Lucy's favorite was a recurve bow, five feet long with a draw weight of thirty pounds. Though it was a heavy bow for Lucy, it was a lightweight in the world of archers. The yew wood longbows could have a draw weight of more than a hundred pounds, yet the archers drew them as if they were saplings.

Susan's bow was in the shed. Lucy started as she caught sight of it; she had expected it to be in her sister's room, not here. Stealthily, her hand stole down to caress the yew wood limbs. It was the finest bow in Narnia and often she had used it when Susan was busy.

"You can always use my bow," Susan said with a laugh. "Never hesitate. You're as good with it as I am, anyway."

"That's not true and you know it."

Lucy shook herself and selected a light recurve bow for Corin, handing it to him where he stood next to her.

"Do you remember how to string it?" she asked with a smile.

"Yes of course," Corin said airily.

He braced the limb against his foot, bending the bow just enough to slip the twisted linen bowstring into place. Lucy nodded in approval and Corin glowed.

To Lucy, archery was magic. In one swift motion she could draw the bowstring to the corner of her mouth and let fly, the bunches of horsehair attached to the string reducing vibration and effectively silencing the bow. The arrow bent as it jerked free, revolving towards the target, then it struck.

She kept a handful of arrows in her left hand as she shot, able to let fly twelve arrows in a minute. Corin knew how deadly she could be with a bow on horseback and he watched with respect as she drew almost effortlessly. He often tried to draw the same bow, but it only twisted his shoulder.

"Where are you going?" Lucy asked him as he turned and started back towards the stone shed.

"I'm getting an arm guard."

"Come back, you don't need an arm guard."

She ordered him to draw the bow, watching keenly as he did so.

"Don't let your elbow roll in like that and the string won't burn you," she said, turning his arm.

He shot arrows steadily after that, watching out of the corner of his eye as Lucy switched between targets somehow managing to hit every time. She seemed to have an uncanny instinct about where to aim her bow to make the arrow stand, quivering, in the bull's eye first go.

Susan came to herself in a silver forest, beneath a star scattered sky.

But it was bright, so bright.

As her eyes slowly grew accustomed to the brilliance, she saw that the trees that stood all around her were the walls of a room and the dark dome of the sky was only a silver starred ceiling. Trees or walls, ceiling or sky, she knew it was magic…very strong magic. The silver tendrils that seemed to drip down and twist, forming into the heavy trunks of Olive and Apple, were fashioned into knots so intricate she could never have dreamed of untangling them…and there was music.

The voice of a fiddle was singing so softly she barely heard it, and thought for some time that it was only the stars that swam across the dome of the ceiling that arced above her. It was not, she knew that at last, just as she stood up from the couch she had been lying on and went down the shallow steps below her to look down into a mirror of a pool, to see her own beautiful face reflected like ivory, with ebony tendrils of hair.

She looked away and surveyed her surroundings; the walls, standing like trees that lead away in orderly rows into darkness, were the things of light- like white gold their bark shone. There was a great door hanging in a bit of empty space and when she went to it and reached out to touch the handle, it opened on its own. She looked down a set of steps to where an enormous, steel coated hound lay as quiet as a statue, but his eyes were open and watching her. He may have had three heads.

When she turned away from the door again, it closed and she saw, suspended in the air a few feet from her, a silver flagon of wine and a gold plate of brightly colored fruit. She was not hungry, and she passed them by.

She circled that strange chamber again and again, each time noticing a new beauty in the way rubies gleamed and emeralds shone, but each time never finding another way out but the door guarded by the great hound. At last, she went back up the steps and sat down again on the couch. She noticed a wooden hoop with fine linen stretched on it and a needle and thread all ready. With a sigh, she picked it up and began to embroider.

Alasdair's longsword struck the first blow in the frenzy that followed. Margaret fell, the bones cutting her hands, and already she could see the great, golden blade of the claymore flashing across her vision like a ray of light. The dark shapes of Peter and Edmund had leapt into the fray, not going directly towards the monster, but circling around him, constantly in a different place as he spun around, swatting wildly at the shadows. Once, he caught the blade of Edmund's sword and shattered it; one moment it was whole and shining, the next, it was in fragments as a great clawed paw struck it.

Margaret picked up the torch where it had fallen and held it up, trying to light the battle as well as she could. She could tell by the way it was flickering that she would soon need to light another. The mighty walls shuddered and vibrated with the battle and the bones shivered in the darkness as hundreds of innocent victims let loose a silent plea of vengeance.

The beast roared and thundered and the sword blades flashed, reflecting the torch as if they were alight themselves, and beyond him, at the great, yawning entrance to the cavern she saw, shimmering just out of the corner of her eye, the calm thread of light leading away into the darkness.

Oh Aslan, strengthen their hearts and enliven their hands. Let them be strong and courageous; do not let them be afraid, for you are with them.

Then the beast swung around, almost in slow motion, his blood-stained hide quivering as he stretched out to seize the light from Margaret's hands and smash it to glowing dust, grinding it and grinding it as if he hated it with his whole soul.

In the last moment before the light was gone, Edmund, with his shattered sword still in his hand, threw himself at the monster. His hands met the dank, musty hair as he was caught in a powerful embrace and almost by instinct he drove the broken blade of the sword deep into the roaring throat.

The hush that followed was terrible as they heard the soft whistling breath of the monster slip away into the darkness that was all around them.

Then there was silence.

Author's Note: Is anyone reading this story, or are all the hits Martians and Russian bots? I realize I shot myself in the foot when I failed to update for five years, but if you are reading it and enjoying it (or not enjoying it) please let me know. Flames are always welcome! :D

~ Whatever

Anonymous reviewer on 'I'll Be Home For Christmas': I have no idea if you are reading this story, but in the event that you are, thank you so much for your review. I think my favorite kinds of stories set in the Narnian universe are the 'Pevensies in England' ones. WWII, as sad as it was, is an extremely dynamic time to write about, and somehow placing them back in war-torn England offers them a chance to work through what they experienced in Narnia. The underlying theology of the series is much easier to approach in a rational way under that drear grey sky.

Hopelessromantic (In The Bleak Midwinter): As with the previous, if you are reading this story, thank you for your review. It's easy to write about the Longing that Narnia leaves within us. I think that's why it resonates with people... there is an unnamed Something, like a whiff of perfume, or a bar of music you can't quite place. Perhaps we never heard it before, but somehow it still seems familiar. Also, un-dragoned Eustace is probably my favorite character in the Chronicles of Narnia. He's just so brave and up for anything and has a waspish sense of humor that is not unlike my own. Not everyone can be in a good mood all the time.

Production Note: A plush version of the Monster is available in the gift shop. He assures us that he is very cuddly and loves hugs.