Disclaimer: To state the obvious, I don't own anything except the OCs (for obvious reasons).
Wrong will be right when Aslan comes in sight.
Long had this been Raywind's refrain. He prayed it in the deep silence of his heart as evil covered Narnia like a blanket of snow. He uttered it in low tones among his countrymen when they were called upon to witness injustices with their own eyes. He declared it in the secret assemblies. He proclaimed it in the villages, in the woods, and in the mountains for anyone who would hear. He whispered it to himself in his lonely cell for his own benefit.
Wrongs had abounded and, alas! would only multiply. How long, who could tell? But sweet would be the day when the Lion returned.
At the sound of His roar, sorrows will be no more.
With every heartbeat that strained against the shackles of grief, every tear that ran valiantly into the cutting cold, the centaur clung to this promise. Sometimes it was with hands wide open, searching for hope in the sorrow as one gropes for a match in the dark. At times, with hands certain and sure, like those of an experienced healer. Often, with the hands of soldiers bidding a final farewell, strong in grip but clammy with apprehension. Sometimes with hands broken but unrelenting, like those of his friend the dryad, smoldering and gnarled from the fire. And sometimes with only feeble grasp, aided and strengthened by a hand stronger than his own.
His hands, stiff with cold and weighed heavy with iron, brushed away the fresh tear on his cheek. Oh, Narnia! Take comfort, for the king – the True King – will not leave you desolate!
When He bares His teeth, winter meets its death.
Death surrounded him always. Winter had come before its time, as Raywind had foreseen in the rising of its celestial herald, Eira; she had taken the crops before their time too. The king – foolish, deluded Son of Adam! – had cut down the Tree of Protection; for his folly, he too had been cut down: turned to stone on the battlefield, dashed to pieces before the people, and laid on the backs of those forced to scatter his remains from place and memory. Death was dealt and life was offered; yet what gain was there in a false life? Better to count it loss in service of the True King than to betray Him out of fear.
Death marched with tramping feet into the cell and out again with Raywind in tow.
And when He shakes His mane, we shall have spring again.
Spring. Spring encapsulated all the rest. Spring was newness of life, spring was making of all things right, spring was joy.
The centaur smiled. The driving snow that stung his cheek tried to scour it off. The bone-chilling wind could not touch it. Not even –
Heedless of his grim entourage, he stopped before the statue of a lilac dryad. Frozen tears glazed her stone cheeks, but even as she stood here silenced at last, her lips spoke of the hope she bore. In the now-petrified heart over which her hands clasped was the spirit of spring itself. He laid a hand over hers, half-gloved in snow though they were, and murmured for her deaf, stone ears the hope for which she died.
"I weary of your words, centaur."
Raywind turned to face the Witch, who had deigned to approach. "Yet I will not suffer them to depart from me."
"There are none left to heed them."
"Nevertheless would I speak."
The Witch's expression grew dark. "The penalty for treason is death."
"My allegiance is to Aslan; my life is laid between His paws."
She smirked – sourly, and with a curl of rage. "Half right." Her wand spun upward, its icy tip searing his flesh as surely as a branding iron. "Any final words, prophet of treason?"
"Only this: You seek to silence the prophecies; you silence only the voices."
Her eyes blazed. Raywind opened his mouth – and his words froze on his tongue.
Wrong will be right when Aslan comes in sight.
Prompt: "My life is in the hands of my God, and you are not Him." Use this quote as your inspiration.
For further reading: "Herald of Woe" precedes this piece, and is referred to a couple times here ( s/13809624/21/In-the-Way-They-Should-Go); "The Merchant's Son" offers an outside perspective on the premature winter ( s/13809624/12/In-the-Way-They-Should-Go); "Sweet Savour" comes a year into the Golden Age ( s/8735411/1/Sweet-Savour).
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