This is for A Talking Cat, who asked for more Oreius and Lucy. It's not so much a story as… reflections? But I hope you like it anyway.
Mine, and Narnia's
She belongs to Narnia.
That is true of all rulers, but especially of these four, these children Aslan gave to my country. They are Narnia's, for they are Narnia.
This one, the youngest, wanders through the orchard, looking at the holes the Moles just dug.
I watch her, with old eyes, to make sure she is well.
In that moment, she is mine. Mine to protect.
He belongs to Narnia.
His hair is grey and he doesn't often wear armor now, but the old warrior still moves so quietly I do not hear him.
It is only after I stumble over a forgotten shovel and fall into a muddy hole, after I try to scramble out and still-strong arms are suddenly lifting me up, that I realise he is there. In many ways he is Narnia—strong fingers lifting me out of trouble, giving me something to thank, to serve, to rule and to love. He held Narnia to his heart long before we came. Now that we are here, he holds the four of us safe and steady as well.
He belongs to us.
I thank him and go in to change my dress.