I find that being a commoner is not quite as obnoxious as I have been led to believe. Getting my own meals and running my own errands is quite fulfilling, and suits my independent nature well. I am making up the bed as the Hermit enters the room. "My daughter, please go into the yard if you wish to exert yourself. Enjoy the benefit of the sunlight as long as you may."
I obey. The golden warmth spills over me and licks my skin and drenches me in airy sweetness. The lone tree in the enclosure gently rustles its verdure, though there is no wind. I am startled, and the old superstitions, the ones taught to me as an impressionable child, gather thick in my mind. Is that tree…alive?
"Aravis, dear, you're awake." The bristles on Hwin's nose scratch my neck and I turn, embrace her as her lips whicker fondly in my ear. The smell of horseflesh brings back painful memories. I twinge, even though my back is healed.
"Where's Bree?" I murmur.
"In the corner." Something in her voice worries me. "He hasn't said a word since yesterday, and I don't think that I can make him. Talk to him, won't you?"
I look at him, even as I cling to her neck. His noble head droops; his mane, limp with dew, drags the grass. His entire bearing is one of defeat. Frowning pensively, I release my dear friend and approach the war horse. Hwin bobs along behind me.
Surely he's heard us, even though he doesn't lift his head. I look at Hwin, worry lines bunching in my brow. I see myself reflected in her large eyes, and the sight gives me no aid. Straining to force a smile, I say, "Isn't it a beautiful morning, Bree?"
He mumbles something unintelligible.
"I suppose that Shasta found the King. At least the Hermit thinks so. So we've made it at last. You're home, Bree!"
He finally speaks. His voice startles both Hwin and myself. It is mournful, broken, hardly befitting a strong confident charger. "This is not my home." He finally looks at us, his eyes full of sorrow. "I will return to Calormen tonight."
"Bree," Hwin begins, shocked.
He shakes the dew from his skin as he struggles to his feet. "I will grind grist at the Paduka mills. It would suit me well."
"But only the lowliest slaves work at Paduka," I protest. I want to take the words back as soon as I have spoken for they are foolish. Anywhere in Calormen would be slavery for a horse.
"It as much as I deserve," Bree retorts. "Should I show my face in the company of free horses of the North? I, who abandoned friends and comrades to be eaten by lions while I ran simply to save myself?"
"We all ran," Hwin argues weakly.
"All of us except Shasta," the other horse answers bitterly. "And how can I dare to boast of my deeds and my courage to true nobility, when I have been upstaged by an ignorant child who never had a good example set for him in his life? Shall I tell them just how quickly I ran away from a lion and left two children and a mare behind?" He turns away with a disgusted toss of his wet mane. We cannot counter, so we remain silent.
The voice of the Hermit surprises us all. "Cousin, come now. There is no need for remonstrance. This is your wounded pride giving you grief. Surely you realize that your deeds and your courage were more noble by comparison to poor, dumb horses, but just as your actions then did not endow you with a special nobility, so a momentary failing now does not permanently disgrace you. If you are truly humbled, as long as you realize that you are not particularly special, whether in Narnia or not, you'll make quite a decent sort of horse, and there will be no cause for excessive pride or guilt. And now, will the two of you horses come to the back of the house and have some hot mash?"
I trail my fingers through the thick grass, making a pattern before obliterating it with a careless wave and rolling over onto my back. Thoughtfully, I pluck a stem and chew it, experimenting with its cool, tangy taste.
I can't believe that I have met Aslan. The stories that they tell about him in Calormen hardly mesh with the celestial being that I have seen.
A force of irresistible evil, they said. I doubt that evil would long exist in his presence. He's so…very wild, and yet…I would feel content near him, even though I would be afraid. Perhaps I would not feel safe. His carriage does not inspire feelings of complacency.
I wonder that I could be so awestruck and so very glad all at once. It reminds me in a vague way of the first time that I heard Hwin speak; disturbing, as it went against my assumed knowledge, and yet delighting, for it opened doors that I did not know existed.
A stab of sorrow pierces me keenly as I think about the family that I left behind: a kindly and generous father, the younger brother whom I doted on, and my hateful stepmother who was envious of me, a mere child, at age 14. They will not see him; they will never have their eyes opened. Though they live in a land blistered by the sun, they will never know true light.
The sound of a trumpet awakens me from my torpor, which I am grateful for. My thoughts were quickly headed in the direction of morbidity. I scramble to my feet as four men enter the gate. They are dressed in fine livery, and though the fashion is entirely foreign to my eyes, even I can tell that they are emissaries. They bow as I draw near.
"His Royal Highness, the Prince Cor, desires an audience with the lady Aravis," the head page announces to me, before withdrawing. A young man advances, and bows awkwardly. Though I am not impressed, I am nonetheless pleased and curtsy in return politely. Upon looking at the young man twice, I then burst out rudely, "Shasta!"
He immediately begins to stammer out an explanation, but I hardly hear for looking. He…looks very nice in finery. At the least, he doesn't look nearly as wretched as I thought he might. Why I had thought about what Shasta might look like in nicer clothes, I don't choose to consider.
"…my name isn't Shasta, you know. It's Cor."
"Really," is all that squeaks out. I suppose that it would only fit being nobility, he would have a different name. I swallow hard and manage, "Cor's nicer than Shasta."
He continues on, but I don't hear as I drink in his appearance. His soft blond hair flutters vainly against the enclosure of gold wire that crowns his head. He has always been a little slim, but the gauzy clothing that clings to his frame and warps in the breeze makes him look leaner than ever. My eyes stroke the bit of exposed skin that begins at his wrist and suddenly I realize that he is not speaking and that he also is staring at me, lips parted in a subtle pant.
I point at the gauze that mars his flesh, impolitely. "You were wounded." It is not a question.
He looks, smiles fondly at me and flicks his wrist formally. "Hardly. A mere scratch." He catches my gaze and his smile grows. "I took the skin off my knuckles. It's not worthy of being called a wound."
We make more small talk, and he tells me his story, a tale that I would have never given credence to had I heard it elsewhere. A kidnapped and lost prince; it seems altogether like a fairy tale. Like talking horses.
"You know, that lion that scratched you, Aravis, it wasn't going to kill you at all."
"Yes." Our eyes meet once again, but this time I can't bear up. I look down at the ground and kick the yielding grass. "I guess you'll be going on to Archenland and living in the castle, then?"
"Indeed, and you will too." I look up sharply, scrutinizing his face for mockery, but there is none, only the innocence that had once inspired my scorn. "Father's asked. There's been no lady at court since Mother died, and they're longing to meet you." He takes an uncertain step forward. "At least come meet them, Aravis, even if you won't stay."
"I'll stay," I answer without thinking. A great burden is off my heart, for I had not actually given thought to what I would do once I actually arrived in Narnia; I was so consumed with just trying to get here.
He smiles that lovely smile, and gently brushes past me to go greet the horses. I take his arm, restraining him. Something that I've wanted to say for some time is bubbling up. "Shasta – I mean, Cor – I…I'm s-"
He catches his hand in one of his own, imprisoning it, and presses a finger to my lips. I try to speak again, twisting away. "Please, I must tell you something."
Once again he restrains me, and I finally see the foam-flecked blue of his eyes up close. Somehow, they have the same wildness of the Lion Aslan's. "Aravis, you said it long ago. You needn't say it again."
Our wedding takes place in the woods near the castle, in a small grove that I have grown to love. King Lune planted every tree in it with his own scarred hands, and there are eight trees that he planted just for me when his son announced our engagement. That was six months ago, and the cool autumn breeze plays in the leaves of the birch trees and tousles my gown as Cor and I stand before the Hermit of the Southern March, who has graciously accommodated our request to join us in marriage. He is now one hundred and eleven years old, and his voice is as quiet and sonorous as the undertone of the brook that rushes by.
He sings to us in a melodious voice:
My son, my daughter, join hands together
To form one being. Let no man sever
What love has joined. Stand with each other,
To love, to honor, obey one another.
My son, my prince, be sure that guidance you obey,
Do not forsake your time-honored way.
Listen to counsel, of cautions take heed,
That in war or in peace you may always succeed.
Though this kingdom is yours, misuse not your power,
That has been granted you in this sacred hour.
My daughter, my princess, see before you this man;
Whe'er right or wrong, beside him stand.
His love is for you, for your sake alone
Has he embarked on this journey for future unknown.
Love your husband and king, and give him all your best,
May you be ever happy, and by Aslan be blest!
Cor smells of cream and cinnamon, I think as he leans towards me.
We kiss and the quiet grove echoes with applause and joyous weeping.