CHAPTER NINE: CATACLYSM
Tirian's mouth went dry and his heart skipped a beat.
For a moment it was as if time had stopped, the world around him like an image pressed into his memory, the July afternoon, the tendrils of green snaking up golden walls, the thunder of hooves and the glint of the crown in the stretcher clutched between powerful arms.
And then Gareth's voice, like an echo through his thoughts, thundering "cordial, now," and Tirian crashed back to reality and bolted for the palace.
His heart hammered against his ribcage, ears pounding with every jarring footfall, charging through the gate and up into the healer's wing.
Rooms blurred until he burst at last into a small and sacred chamber.
He barely even knew what he was doing, barely registered the diamond bottle and its last ruby droplets as he tore it from its shrine and bolted back out before anyone could stop him, flying through the halls, boots on stone, back out into the glaring sun, into the courtyard where the lordly centaurs stood over the place where a crowd had already gathered.
Tirian pushed through, stumbling over feet, lungs burning, chest on fire, and then he skidded to a halt before the sight that met him.
Gareth on his knees, head bowed over the figure on the stretcher, Mal's hand flying to her mouth as her eyes rose, shining, to meet his, but he barely saw her.
He looked only to his father's face, ghostly pale, unmoving, and there was something so wrong with that picture that his stomach plunged into ice water.
A creature in the crowd wailed.
Tirian's head spun.
He took another step and moved to unstopper the bottle, diamond etchings pressing sharp patterns into his flesh. But then Gareth raised his eyes, and the sorrow there cut straight to his core, deeper and more terrifying than anything he had ever seen, a knife through his chest, cleaving him in two.
The cordial dropped from his hand, diamond bottle clinking unbroken to the pavers, a distant echo, almost musical in the silence that engulfed him.
Suddenly nothing was real.
There was some mistake. This was all wrong. He needed to tell someone it was all wrong. But the words vanished into a whisper before he could utter them, sinking to the ground, slowly, as if any movement might confirm some terrible truth.
Erlian's ashen face lay statuesque in its nobility under a spray of blood too red to be a giant's.
For a moment a certainty surged within him that he couldn't be dead, the feeling so real and strong that he almost believed it, gazing over the face he trusted more than any other, the face that had never betrayed him before.
But then his eyes fell to the armor: silver metal cloven through, jagged edges shining red in the sunlight, rivulets escaping through cracks in the horrible gash that stretched from his shoulder to his thigh.
Tirian's heart dropped into his stomach.
He reached out, hand shaking, hesitating over the damage, searching for something to do, but he could only brush the sharp steel, fingers slipping over slick blood.
His eyes flew back to his father's face, as if he could find the answer there, like he always did, as if there were some truth he was missing hidden in the lines of those eyes or the strength of that brow. But Erlian's face did not move, did not smile, his eyes did not even flutter, lashes perfectly still, perfectly gentle.
A breath escaped Tirian as the last of his world shattered, piercing his lungs with its force, constricting everything inside him. No sound came out, trembling fingers hovering over the King's face before dragging down through the scratch of his beard, a silent plea, desperation surging hot into his eyes.
Whimpers and wails washed through the courtyard, the horrible whisper spreading back to those who couldn't see, but Tirian couldn't move, couldn't breathe, helpless, useless as the words reverberated around him.
Dead. The King is dead.
Without even realizing it, as if he were watching the scene from a distance, he found himself gripping his father's sleeve, like a child tugging for attention, and then he collapsed to bury his head in his shoulder, as if by burrowing there he could hide from the world, from the sun and the faces and the voices.
"Please," he breathed, only for his father's ears, away from those condemning words, they didn't have to know, they didn't understand. "Please." They were wrong. His father would know better, he always did. He would show them. Please, just tell me they're wrong.
Erlian's neck was still warm, the familiar tug of his beard in Tirian's hair, grey mane tickling his brow. But the scent was all hot copper on steel, and the invasive shoulder-guard pressed hard into his cheek, as if that were the only thing separating him from the strength of his father's arms.
Please, his lips formed the word, but even his breath caught this time.
Please.
He didn't know how many eternities later it was that someone placed a hand on his back and he looked up hazily to find Gareth coaxing him away from the stretcher as new men came to lift it.
The lord's voice was thick when he murmured "they'll take him to get cleaned up."
The words barely registered.
He didn't understand. There was no point. There was no point to anything anymore.
But he sat back and watched blankly as they lifted his father out of view, leaving Tirian alone on the bare ground, bloodstained where deep red had soaked through the stretcher.
The murmur of the crowd rippled around him. Figures moved past, soldiers and horses and small creatures with their whimpering and snuffling, following the procession inside or dispersing into the city.
But none of it belonged to Tirian's world anymore.
His eyes drifted unseeing to the diamond bottle on the ground, that ruby droplet glittering pointlessly inside, unused.
A delicate hand reached to pick it up.
He didn't raise his eyes enough to meet Mal's.
"Do you want to go somewhere?" she asked gently, lightly, in a tone she had never taken with him before, as if she were speaking to a trembling Elise.
He shook his head, looked away from the cordial, and she didn't argue, just stood and walked away.
No one else tried to approach him.
Not until Jewel's shadow blotted out the dying orange light, and he looked up to find the courtyard empty, only the Unicorn's lone silhouette standing before him under the arch of the castle gate as the shadows stretched eastward.
Tirian wondered vaguely how long he'd been alone.
Jewel lowered his nose, ghosting the side of his head, blowing warmth into his hair.
He opened his mouth to say something, but there was nothing to say, and his throat closed up when he tried.
The Unicorn said nothing, only lowered himself to the ground beside Tirian, allowing him to lean against his neck on reflex, burying his hands into the snowy white mane, breathing in that warm horsey scent, letting his mind drift into endless swirling repetition.
It was like some horrible dream, but never before had even Tirian's dreams touched on this kind of aching, hollow numbness.
Every thought struck like a blow, but he couldn't stop thinking, what about, what about, what about—
What about that smile yesterday morning?
What about that voice ringing clear and rich and warm as ever?
What about those broad shoulders that could carry the world and the eyes that held its secrets in their sky blue depths?
What about me?
How was this happening?
It wasn't happening.
He would wake up. He would wake up and find his father home and hear all about how they'd defeated the giants, and beg for every little detail of the battle that they'd won so easily, and complain for being left behind, and Erlian would laugh and ruffle his hair and tell him one day he would be ready too.
But he didn't wake up.
The next thing he knew was a shadow at his side as Hosha knelt uncertainly on one knee, hand brushing his shoulder, as if he were almost afraid to touch him.
"Tir?"
The sun had set.
The courtyard was cast all in grey and silver, pale moon gleaming through a thin patch of cloud, and Hosha's face was drawn and earnest when he looked blearily up into it.
"Mm?" His voice cracked, and he swallowed against a dry throat.
"They're holding a council. Father sent me to fetch you, if you're up for it."
"What has that got to do with me?" he asked vacantly, brows knitting as his sluggish mind worked to comprehend.
"Um, well…" Hosha stumbled through his words, suddenly extremely awkward. "You know, after your father's— now that— er, you're, uh…"
Tirian only blinked.
"You're the King."
The world snapped back into place with knifepoint clarity.
Jewel's warmth fell away in a rush of cold sweat as night air flooded his lungs.
Hosha bit his lip and looked away.
Tirian stared into his face, seeking desperately for an escape there, as if Hosha could undo all of this and go back to the way they'd been just a few hours earlier.
For several long moments the boy's expression worked against some invisible force, brows knitting, until at last he looked back at Tirian. The pity was not entirely scrubbed from his eyes. "Shall I tell him you're not up for it? You really don't have to go, Tir, if you don't—"
"I am," snapped Tirian, too sharp, too forceful. "I'm fine, I'm going."
Hosha nodded wordlessly and stood, offering a hand down to him.
He didn't want to take it, didn't want the help, but his limbs were stiffer than he expected when he tried to move and Hosha's strong fingers closed around his wrist, hauling him sturdily to his feet.
Tirian's eyes flew back to Jewel for a moment, though he could not follow, and Hosha turned to lead him inside.
The council hall fell silent the moment he entered.
Gareth cleared his throat and straightened in his chair, torchlight dancing along the long mahogany table. "Come in, Tirian."
His voice now had a low rasp to it, and his eyes were weary.
Tirian glanced back at Hosha, wishing suddenly for him to stay, but the boy only looked back, apologetic and helpless, before turning and shutting the doors behind him.
He took a small breath and walked quietly around the side of the table, passing the head chair and taking the one to its left, the same he had taken before.
No one commented on this.
"I'm glad you could make it," said Gareth, "We've only been in for a few minutes."
Tirian nodded. He didn't trust his voice yet.
A few moments later, one of the lords continued what he had been saying before Tirian came in. "I propose we regroup at Beruna. It is defensible enough, and we could employ the How if needed."
"But so close," said Lord Bran, "They would be less than a day's march from the city should we fail again."
"Where else would you suggest? They're already inside Narnia, and they will be back to fighting standard in a day or so, which is more than I can say for us if we do not take the defensive position."
"Our defense has already failed," said Bran, "This was supposed to end before it began."
"Their numbers were not beyond what we anticipated," said another, "We should have finished it on the border. Our chances grow smaller with every step they take into Narnia."
Tirian looked from one lord to the next, trying to take it all in, and glanced briefly to his father's chair.
Empty.
For a second he had forgotten.
"Who ordered the retreat?" asked an older lord, one who had not marched with the army.
Silence fell over the council hall, thick and heavy, until at last Gareth spoke.
"I did."
Tirian turned to look at him.
So did the rest of the room.
"But, why?" asked one of the other lords, "How could you compromise our only chance at keeping them out?"
"There was still time," said Gareth, "To save— At least, I thought— I— Shouldn't that chance be taken?"
Tirian had never heard Gareth struggle to speak before. His confidence was only ever matched by the sharpness of his mind, but now his tone was laced with a desperation not quite masked by the force of his argument.
"To turn our back on such an enemy is weakness."
"To face it until we are all dead is brash foolishness," snapped Gareth. "We cannot defend against these creatures, we are not made for it, their weapons and strength are beyond all of us."
Tirian almost recoiled from the sudden thunder in his voice.
"You would have us surrender?"
"I would have us attack!"
"Gareth," said Bran softly, and his tone was calm enough that the contrast said the rest for him.
Gareth clenched his jaw. "I would have us attack," he said again, more evenly this time. "We must take the offensive if we wish to do any more than slow their advance. We cannot wait for them to strike us."
"I know you were close with his Majesty," said another lord, soft but tense, "But we cannot go charging off to avenge him with no defenses."
Gareth stiffened beside Tirian, invisible to the eye but he could feel it, the air vibrating between them, his own heart skipping a beat. "This is not about avenging anyone," said Gareth, tone forced and steady in the way Tirian had so often heard when he was trying not to lose his temper with Hosha, but there was something dangerous in it now. Then he took a breath, leaned back, and glared into the table as his jaw worked.
Tirian couldn't take it, the tension buzzing in the air between every man at the table, churning under his skin.
"How did he die?"
For a third time, the room went silent.
He didn't know whether he'd said it out of anger, or simply to prevent the other lord from speaking again, but he met every man's eyes evenly, as if challenging them to make another comment.
Some glanced away, and he got the distinct impression that nobody knew quite what to do with him.
Frustration flooded his veins before Lord Bran finally spoke up.
"The Giant Chieftain."
Tirian's eyes flicked to him, and Bran met him just as evenly, sharp features matching the fire in his chest.
"Bigger than the others. Fiercer." He spoke matter-of-factly, as if reporting any other event, as if sharing counsel with Erlian on any other day. "The King met him on our second pass, and both landed blows, from what I saw. But these giantish weapons… they hold some kind of magic, or else are made of some material we have never yet encountered." He shook his head, silent for a moment, and Tirian already knew the rest.
He had seen the gash through his father's breastplate, steel cloven like butter.
"We can discuss strategy in full tomorrow," said Bran. "The funeral is already being prepared. We don't have time to give it the care we ought, I'm afraid, and the coronation will have to wait until after the matter at hand has been dealt with, though by law you are already the King."
Tirian's stomach flipped over, cold sweat flushing over him again.
He averted his eyes, feeling strange and wrong and suddenly angry, but he only nodded.
The moment the council adjourned he rushed from the hall, not caring if he was the first to leave, not caring where he went or who saw him, the pressure building inside him nearly boiling over. He just needed to get out, get away.
He ran straight into Mal not ten steps out the door.
"Hey," she gasped, grabbing him to steady them both, eyes flashing up to him.
He looked away, but his face must have betrayed it all because the next moment he found himself wrapped in her arms, silky hair against his cheek, cool dress under his hands that didn't quite know where to go.
The breath vanished from his lungs.
She was smaller than he'd expected, a wisp of a thing, and then too soon it was over.
"Come on," she murmured, "You should get freshened up for the funeral."
That was when he looked up, voice pitifully small. "Already?"
It was too late to clear his throat.
She nodded.
He couldn't argue. He couldn't do anything but allow himself to be guided to his own chambers and go through the motions, washing, dressing in the robes that had been laid out for him, white with gold embroidery.
Black was not worn at Narnian funerals, but the gleaming tunic only clashed with the churning inside him as Mal brushed the hair from his face and looked him over, straightening his collar.
He should have thanked her, but he didn't.
In the entry hall, a dryad tied a red silk kerchief to his wrist, the same he had seen so many times as a child during the war; even on Jewel, six years old but already fully grown. The silk had been tied into his mane. And there had been two of them.
When at last he and Mal walked out into the cool sea breeze of the eastern balconies, it was as if the entire city had assembled there, creatures of all kinds filling walkways and parapets and the flat yard out to the furthest peak, where the sharp silhouette of a pyre stood black against the glittering sea bathed in moonlight.
Jewel's white figure shone like a star in the very front, and Tirian looked at nothing else until he reached his side and Mal parted to join her own family standing to his left.
Gleaming white tunic brushed gleaming white coat as his hand found a home in the Unicorn's mane.
He'd never stood in the front before.
He was out of place, unprepared, the moonlight lending a dreamlike quality to everything around him.
Nothing was real.
A silken sheet fluttered atop the pyre, the King's form outlined beneath it, sword resting atop his chest, like a statue, not like his father.
This wasn't what it was supposed to feel like when someone died.
He'd seen his father cry on many occasions; Erlian had never hidden his emotions from him, least of all grief. He had seen him cry during the war, at pyres, with families, with his people. You were supposed to cry at funerals.
But this wasn't a funeral. It couldn't be.
All the trappings were there, the crowd, the silk clinging to sharp edges of the hastily erected wooden structure and billowing out in the mesmerizing patterns that had so fascinated him as a child.
But it felt like a lie.
Artificial.
This wasn't like the funerals he remembered from the war. And yet here he stood, as the same words rang into the night, the same pledges of the soul and body to Aslan, the same ceremony of remembrance.
Somehow it all felt rehearsed.
Even the heartbroken cries of a thousand creatures sounded out of place, like he'd come at the wrong time, to the wrong world.
You were supposed to cry at funerals, but Tirian's face burned dry in the torch smoke, waves crashing far below, as if they too cried out for their beloved King.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hosha take Mal's hand as flickering light licked up from the torches to the silk, engulfing the timber, flames wavering behind a curtain of glass, the night a burning blur.
Until at last the fire claimed his father's form, and Tirian's world vanished before his eyes.
