A/N: I HATE school. No, seriously. I missed my computer so much I drew a picture of it in class. I spend the whole day twitching, getting review withdrawal, just because some snot nosed prat thinks it's funny that we all have to go to bloody SCHOOL!

Ahem…

Happy place, happy place, happy place…okay, I'm alright now. And I'm ready to unleash the L I T E R A T U R E! So I didn't do my homework and am screwing up my life, I don't give damn. I am going to write my cares away…

Hope you enjoy! First section (in italic) is a flashback for the witch)

Chapter twenty two

"Do you yield, Lucifel, Gatekeeper of the Realm?"

The boy stared up at her with a strangely blank gaze, eyes drooping, apparently uncaring that all that was left of his pure white wings were bloody, bleeding stumps upon his shoulder blades. He cocked his head to the side, lips curling up into a twisted smile.

"Say what you will. Do what you will. Narnia shall never bow to the tainted of heart, such as you."

She smiled mockingly down at him, fingering the rod on which dried blood and soft feathers clung lovingly. Then she threw back her head and laughed.

"Sentimental fool! You truly believe salvation shall come? You are as naïve as you are pathetic."

The boy struggled to his feet, standing before the witch, eyes defiant. He seemed to pulsate with a shimmering energy, a swirling mass of colours of every hue and tone. She sneered.

"So this is what the Lion gifts his great defender? Tell me, angel, you expect me to be blinded by its beauty? Or maybe struck dumb by your own incompetence?"

His face grew impassive, and the witch saw a glimmer of uncertainty which fueled her resolve.

"You have been deceived, my dear. Poor little boy. Poor, stupid little boy. You should not put such faith in others; it leads towards a path you cannot return from."

The wind picked up, a harsh, biting caress. She smiled. It was taking effect. Her words were penetrating his subconscious, drawing poison from the depths of his mind.

"I shall not yield! I am Guardian of this realm; as long as I still stand upon two feet I will never bow to another, save my King."

She stared around in disdain at the scene of devastation and carnage which lay around them, of the rivulets of blood streaming between the crevices of the engravings in the stone table.

"It seems to me you have already lost, little angel. And you have no wings to fly away home. Tell me; where is your salvation now?"

She leant closer as he closed his eyes, and she sent thin, icy tendrils up through the depths of the earth to creep across his skin and wind their way around his heart.

"He tricked you. He shall never return, merely left you to your own devices. Why would he care of such a weak, pathetic little realm as this? What have you left to guard now?"

The tendrils formed a cocoon around the rapidly beating organ, sapping its strength and slowing its beat. She smiled.

"You failed. The great lion has abandoned you. You are alone. Your kinsmen are dead, your charges have fallen. You are nothing but a helpless, weak minded little boy."

The tendrils tensed and constricted, and the blood froze in the veins, trickling weakly downwards as the boy swayed on the spot, then fell to his knees, hands clutching his chest.

"And now," she touched a finger to his pale cheek, as she watched the stumps shimmer, grow black, and shrivel.

"You will bow to me."

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The witch's gaze roved over the panting, trembling forms of the pair of wolves standing before her. Their fur had turned a rusty coloured red, their coats matted with the life fluid of their companions. Two. Two of seventeen. Fifteen dead, fifteen lost to the Son's of Adam.

How?

How was this possible? They were naught but witless children. How could they possibly have defeated so many of her followers? How could she have allowed that traitorous celestial scum to slip under her watch!

Was there truly some hidden potential within them, which she had not seen? But surely, it was not humanly possible…

Unless…

"KRIMLOCK!"

The dwarf skidded to halt beside the throne, and bowed deeply, to which she slapped the pointed cap from his head irritably.

"Go now and check on the prisoner!"

She dismissed the two wolves, who staggered out of the hall, limping around the corner and out of sight; leaving a trail of crimson droplets in their wake. Steepling her fingers, she considered the situation; she had lost her two trump cards. But the enemy needn't know that…the defenses were in place, her forces gathered at strategic points along the newly erected border. Yes, she still had the advantage. If she played her hand correctly, she could still thwart the prophesy.

After all, she still held her most precious trump of all.

"My Queen, the prisoner has gone!"

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Susan walked at a steady, even pace, watching with a small smile playing on her lips as Lucy conversed animatedly with the little flower spirit. She had not seen Lucy this happy in a long time. She wished she herself could be more carefree, to forget the harshness of reality, even for a moment.

If this even was reality.

Perhaps she was simply dreaming?

Oh, that would be wonderful. Soon, she would awake from this; clamber out of bed, hurry to Peter's room, and find he and Edmund fast asleep and snoring like there was no tomorrow. Safe and sound, not lost, not injured. Not…dead.

She shuddered as a warm breeze lifted her hair, sending her skirts swirling about her legs. She was no saviour, no heroine, and no queen. She was simply Susan Pevensie, of Finchley.

And she would get herself, and her family, home, even if it required hurting her sibling's in the process.

Better to be a bitter failure than a dead martyr.

But for now, she would embrace the illusion and bend it to her will, if she could. Her brother's would return to her, and she would shoot that accursed witch in her spineless back. Flaming coward. Cowardess, she corrected herself. Her mother wasn't a long term feminist for nothing.

She wondered vaguely the reason why Aslan had summoned them to him. A development in the current state of affairs? Maybe news concerning Peter and Edmund?

Even though this was nothing but a fickle figment of her imagination, she still felt a shudder creep up her spine as she thought of her brother's at the mercy of that monster…

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Cifel viciously slammed a curled fist into a nearby rock face, and watched in interest as it creaked, then crumbled under the pressure. He irritably snapped his finger joints back into place, curled his fist once more, the knuckles aching slightly. No matter what he did, it simply didn't go away. He hadn't felt such things since before the winter.

Why the hell had he done such a thing? Why did he save the Son's of Adam? What possible purpose would it have served him?

And to have agreed to heal the youngest…rubbing salt into the wound...figuratively. Although, that was a thought. Why hadn't he simply dismissed their pathetic little plight?

'You think they may actually succeed.'

Cifel growled, and smashed his still aching fist against the side of his head. Unfortunately, rather than extinguishing the annoying voice of his conscience, the only thing he achieved was a large dent in his skull and a headache, not to mention a dizzy spell.

"Shut up! Just…they're only children…shut up!"

'You have seen it for yourself. They are the prophesized ones. You know this.'

Cifel withdrew his wings, and sank to the floor, allowing the limbs to wrap themselves protectively around him. Within the cocoon of inky black feathers, he closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands, muttering.

"I just…daren't hope. I can't take another failure, another betrayal. I'm not strong enough."

'Such things are what force you to grow stronger in the first place. You learned that long ago.'

Cifel sneered, and curled his legs under him, resting his elbows on his knees and cupping his chin in them. He sighed, and pouted slightly, feeling the place where he had hit his skull throb pointedly.

"From him. I stopped trusting in his little lies ages ago. You expect me to turn around and blindly fall down the path he has chosen for me now? I will not."

'You have become arrogant. You have a chance now to redeem yourself, save your country. The only true failure you will have suffered would be if you refuse to do so.'

Cifel blinked, as the voice faded. He had spent so long dwelling in the bitter resentment that the past had given him. He hadn't really…thought about what he could do now. He thought…it was all lost…

That there was no hope left.

Had he truly fallen so deeply under evil's influence, that he had lost sight of reality? Grown so detached, that it had clouded his thoughts, his judgement?

Could he have been wrong?

Could he learn to have faith in the goodness of others, in this world, again? Could salvation truly have come at last?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

Having finished his rather insightful conversation with himself, Cifel sighed, and clambered again to his feet, pulling his wings inwards with a hiss of pain. They still ached at the base, where severed ends had once met the bone of his shoulder blades. He sighed, and blew a few strands of rebellious hair out of his eyes.

"Well, at least I won't be starved of intelligent conversation."

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Somebody sighed.

"Don't be such a wimpy drip, Ed. It's only water, for goodness sake…"

But Edmund still shook his head vigorously, stubbornly refusing to go within a few feet of the 'evil' flowing surface of the stream. Peter sighed, recalling a little dark haired boy with an identical posture of defiance staunchly refusing to take a bath. Peter rolled his eyes and pulled his second sock off, gingerly plunging his swollen ankle into the cool, refreshing flow of water.

He hissed as it stung a little, and then relaxed, the caress soothing his nerves and washing the blood and grime from his leg. He smiled slightly as the refreshing sensation made him feel more alert, and turned to regard his younger brother with a mischievous smile.

"Of course, if you're scared, that's okay. I can understand how a little kid like you wouldn't like dealing with more than he could cope with…after all, baths are traumatic things…"

He trailed off, grinning as Edmund bristled indignantly. It was poorly disguised, and he knew Edmund was not fooled, but it riled his brother nonetheless. Ed was so easy to manipulate…

Peter turned away and began to wash his face with his removed shirt, carefully dabbing at the healing gash on his forehead with a wince. It didn't look so bad now, but the blood was still crusted in his hair. Peter tutted, as he heard Edmund hesitantly approach him, feet making light rustles in the long grass.

Peter smiled as he pitched suddenly forward, submerging his head fully beneath the surface of the water, and ruffling his hair in order to rid it of the sticky blood which streamed out and was washed away. He heard Edmund's cry of dismay, and a hand on his shoulder, and grinned wider under the water.

He sprang upright, and shook his head violently as a dog shook out its fur, and thoroughly drenching Edmund in a tirading spray of droplets. Edmund shrieked, attempted to back away, and Peter grabbed his arm and tipped him headfirst into the river.

He doubled over and laughed till his sides ached with the effort, as Edmund emerged, hacking up water, looking for all the world like a drowned rat; face set in a scowl which would send the bravest man on earth running for his life.

But Peter, too busy crying with laughter, failed to take note of this.

And this was probably why he ended up being so easily grabbed and pulled down to join his brother in the icy depths of the river.

Now it was the elder's turn to break the surface sputtering, and the younger's turn to fall to the floor of the river in hysterical giggles. Peter glared and Edmund smirked, and thus began quite the strangest spectacle ever to be seen in throughout the history of Narnia; the prophesized, highly revered future saviours of the realm having an all out water fight.

For several minutes the air was filled with nothing but ringing laughter, shrieks of joy and the sound of splashing water. Soon the disruption died down, and the wood grew silent once again as the two brother's lay beside each other, exhausted and out of breath, but feeling more exhilarated than either had felt in a long time. Just as Edmund began to drift into a light doze, a deep cough penetrated the warm contentedness he had been enjoying.

Peter began to shake.

Nothing good ever lasts long, he mused, as Peter shot upright and began to choke on his own breath, face growing red. Edmund placed an arm around his brother's shuddering shoulders, and then proceeded to rub comforting circles in Peter's back, just as he remembered their mother doing when Peter had one of his 'asthmatic induced respiratory deprivation hysteria'.

Their mother had hated it so.

She had explained that they basically meant Peter had trouble breathing.

They were otherwise known as 'panic attacks'. Lucy had a milder form, though she only suffered severe colds and an affliction to the cold. Apparently it was genetic, as their father also tended to suffer from the same symptoms as Peter, though he hid it well, retreating to his study to cough dryly for hours before it passed.

Peter had not sufferedso in years, however…had Edmund pushed him too hard? His older brother was still recovering from the witch's dark influence…he cursed his own stupidity and rested his forehead against Peter's bare shoulder, as his brother's fit passed and was reduced to a harsh breathing. Edmund felt a weak relief, mixed with fear.

How many more trials would they face? How much more suffering would they all have to face?

How much more could they take?

But just for those small moments of happiness, treasured times of pure joy and contentment…for them, and for those he loved, he would face whatever came with all the courage he possessed.

And he smiled, as they both fell gently back into the sweet smelling grass, the warm spring breeze lightly lifting their hair and seemingly carrying all their cares away upon itswhimsicalbreath.

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A/N: So, more background info on precisely why Cifel is the little bastard he is. This works on the principal that we are what our circumstance and experience made us to be. The witch completely undermined Cifel's faith, and as a result, he lost all hope and despaired. Hence the winter.

Cifel's little conversation with himself was inspired by the original BBC version of the LWW, in which Edmund occasionally splits in two and argues with his conscience. I figured it would make Cifel more interesting. Besides, his pride's so large, nothing but a full blown confrontation would force him to admit the truth.

Toll: (hums) uh, yeah. Review for our poor empty stomachs? (sickeningly sweet smile)

Cifel: (twitches) I am going…to kill…that BCH!

Thank you all for your help concerning a possible villain! You have inspired me greatly. I shall read up on my mythical creatures and see if I can cook something up…

Not literally, of course…oh, sooooooo hungry…

Quick! Review before a strike of inspiration burns me to a crisp! (thunder and stomach rumbles) Uh oh…