CHAPTER TEN: GHOSTS OF THE ABYSS
The morning seemed to dawn with no color.
What few blissful hours of nothingness Tirian had managed to clutch with smoke still burning in his eyes fell away as the first light of dawn pierced thin curtains and fell sharply over his pillow. The first moment of memory plunged him into suffocating, icy depths that filled his stomach so that he almost couldn't move.
His bed swallowed him, and he wished for a moment that he really could drown in it, burying his face in the covers and shutting out the pale grey dawn for just a few more minutes.
But when at last a royal attendant came in to check on him, any hope of convincing himself that this was just a dream again disappeared, and he dragged himself out of the feather-down depths as if from a tomb, into the hollow alabaster shell that had once been the royal apartments.
The scent of his father's pipe smoke still hung about the place, the books he'd been reading before that day the giants first appeared (never fewer than three at a time) stacked haphazardly on the low table in the sitting room, makeshift bookmarks sticking out from dog-eared pages.
Tirian almost felt he might run into him around any corner, perhaps humming some snatch of a tune or muttering to himself, but every room was achingly, betrayingly empty.
The air of mourning in the rest of the palace felt stunted, half-breathed as the buzz of preparation overtook it, two energies clashing discordant in his lungs as he stepped into the courtyard, breakfast abandoned untouched on the table next to Tales of the Telmarine Age.
Men and beasts rushed between stables, smithies, healers, never ceasing with a purpose of step that crept like poison into Tirian's veins.
How could the streets still bustle when their master was gone? But somehow the urgency drove it forward, blood pumping even when the heart had stopped.
He was foreign to it all, a stranger in this world of frenzy as the earth dragged him down, boots anchored to stone as if towing lead in their soles. He had nowhere to go, not even the slightest idea where to begin, and he felt the redundant weight of his presence no matter where he went.
Once, he caught sight of Hosha across the street at the armorsmith, and the boy's honey-brown eyes flew up to meet to him in a flash, but the cheerful greeting that might once have rung through the noonday air died before it came, and Tirian only forced a weak excuse for a smile before turning around and walking back toward the palace.
An hour later, it was Jewel who found him in the great hall, staring vacantly down at the table. He barely remembered how he got there.
"I should write to Aunt Iola," he mumbled, dragging himself out of a deep well of thought to look toward Jewel, though he did not quite meet his eyes. "They weren't at the funeral. They don't know…"
He trailed off. His father's sister was the queen of Archenland now. She wouldn't have heard in time even to try to come. An empty sick feeling settled in Tirian's stomach at the thought of his aunt, golden-haired and so much younger than his father, whose smile had brightened Cair Paravel on so many occasions as cousin Cecilie ran madcap through the halls, Tirian and Hosha chasing after her babyish giggle. She didn't even know her brother was dead. They had already burned him. How would she hear? What would she do? In his mind he could only see the color draining from her rosy face.
"I'm sure word has already been sent to Anvard," said Jewel softly. "It would be a matter of state."
Tirian blinked. "Oh," he said simply. "You're probably right."
But the image did not leave him.
Jewel ghosted at his side until mid afternoon, when Lord Bran appeared and sat gingerly on the bench beside him, and the Unicorn pardoned himself to afford them some privacy.
Tirian didn't think quickly enough to tell him to stay.
"Forgive me for intruding, your Ma—Highness."
He looked up.
Majesty was his father.
"You don't have to do that," he said, voice quieter than he meant it to be.
Bran looked pensive for a moment and nodded, but did not revisit the word. "I should have found you sooner. I'm afraid we've been busy sorting through things and getting it all in order. You must be overwhelmed right now."
Tirian should have responded, surely not as overwhelmed as you have been. But he didn't.
Bran continued before the silence went on too long. "I just want you to know you don't have to do everything right now. I can take care of what legal matters are left, and the other lords are more than capable of handling this battle on their own. You can take your time, we'll set everything in order when the crisis is dealt with. No one expects you to become— no one expects you to take charge all at once."
Again he avoided the word.
King.
Tirian's stomach churned.
"Thank you," he said, and he really was grateful. Lord Bran looked exhausted, his usually proud and poised demeanor giving way to slumped shoulders and dark circles, and Tirian wondered briefly if he'd slept at all.
The man put a strong hand on his shoulder, and sat there for another moment, as if trying to think of something else to say, but neither spoke and eventually he just stood again. "Don't hesitate to come to me if you need anything, Tirian."
Tirian nodded, wishing he could say more, but nothing seemed anywhere near adequate, and his insides were buzzing as he watched the man walk back out into the falling daylight.
He swallowed hard, trying to calm the churning sea inside, but if anything, Bran's words only achieved the opposite of their intended effect.
You don't have to do everything right now. The other lords are more than capable of handling this battle on their own.
No. This was his battle.
He stood before his thoughts had time to run their course, already walking back out toward the courtyard. No matter how saturated he was by this crushing black weight, he hated being treated like some fragile incapable thing that might break at a mere word even more. Every concerned glance, every gentle tone made him want to snap.
He wasn't made of glass. He didn't want space. He wanted a sword in his hand and a giant at his feet.
He spotted Gareth almost the moment he stepped outside, speaking with Jewel on the other side of the courtyard.
They both turned when he approached.
"Tirian," said Gareth with a weary smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I was just asking after you."
"You could always ask me, you know." He tried to mirror the smile, pushing down his bubbling frustration. "What are our plans?"
Gareth glanced around with a deep breath. "We march to Beruna tomorrow; hope to hold them off there, away from the city."
Tirian furrowed his brow. "But I thought you said we ought to be on the offensive?"
Gareth's jaw tightened and he let the breath out. "Yes, well… I'm not the only one making decisions here. The others overruled my vote."
Nobody had asked Tirian. When had they met without him?
"But still," said Gareth, "We must do something, and the How at least is defensible."
Tirian shook his head. "Couldn't I overrule them? I think you're right. We should strike now, before they're ready to fight again. Why should we give them the courtesy of waiting?"
Gareth's mind worked behind his eyes, choosing his next words carefully. "I admit I ask the same, but Tirian—"
"We can do what we did the first time, take them unaware, before they do more damage, before they kill anyone else. We've already proved we can't meet them in open battle, but perhaps if a few of us attack at night—"
"No," said Gareth, and something in his face changed, as if coming back to himself. "We have no element of surprise now, that's a suicide mission."
"But so is—"
"I cannot allow it."
Tirian stepped back as if struck. It took him several moments to remember how to speak again. "You cannot allow it? Am I or am I not the King?"
Something inside him snapped.
"If I am to rule Narnia then must you not listen to me?"
Gareth's eyes hardened, but they were not angry. There was something else there, and Tirian hated it. "Yes," he said at last. "I must. You have the right to overrule any order I give. But… I'm asking you not to. I have experience in war, Tirian, it would only hurt us to attempt an ambush now."
"Experience in war? Will you ever shut up about your experience in war?" Tirian's face flushed, heart suddenly pounding. "I know you're better than me, I know you've fought battles and led conquests, and what good does it do us now, huh? What good did it do my father?"
"Tirian," snapped Gareth, but he didn't stop.
"He's dead! He's dead and you can't even avenge him! He said you knew what you were doing but you don't, none of you do! You don't have experience, not with giants, not with monsters, none of it matters. I know just as much as any of you, and you won't even listen to me!"
Gareth's jaw tightened and flashing brown eyes pinned him, anger mixing with a pain that Tirian ignored.
"We did it before," he motioned sharply to Jewel, "We could do it again."
But the lord said nothing, and Tirian could only stand, chest heaving, until he turned to the Unicorn.
"Right?"
Jewel didn't look at him.
The hesitation struck like a blow.
"Jewel?"
When at last the noble beast looked up, there was apology in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Tirian, but… you almost died, even when we had the element of surprise. How can we think of doing that now? What would have happened if we didn't get back in time?"
Tirian shook his head in disbelief. "How can you— The point is we did get back in time!" Then something else occurred to him, and his insides went cold. "Is this what's been bothering you for weeks?"
The Unicorn lowered his head.
Tirian took a shaky breath.
"It was a mistake," said Jewel, "I'm sorry for ever suggesting it. I was rash, I should have considered the King's words."
The air rushed from Tirian's lungs as if Jewel had gored him straight through the heart. "Wh-what? But what about those Narnians— they— the rabbits, everyone who could've—"
"We don't know what could've happened," said Jewel quietly. Gently. "Maybe there would have been a better way. But that's not what matters now. It's already happened, and now we have a war to fight—"
But Tirian wasn't listening anymore. His mind whirled. He forgot how to breathe. For a moment the world blurred around him.
We don't know what could've happened.
No, that wasn't right. They saved people, nothing good could have happened if they waited, right?
Maybe there would have been a better way.
Something inside him tightened, closing around his throat, choking.
And then another voice broke into his thoughts.
This is serious now, you're not a soldier.
He shook his head.
It's my fault for sending sixteen-year-olds on a mission like this.
"No," he said, and realized too late that he'd said it aloud.
Gareth and Jewel looked at him.
The Unicorn had stopped talking.
Tirian shook his head dismissively, backing away, shrugging a hand in lieu of the words that wouldn't come, and at last, only a choked "Do whatever you want," before he turned and ran for the palace, as if the force of his steps would drive away the pressure building in his limbs, in his head.
Without fully realizing it, he aimed for the throne room, arches passing like a blurry dream, feet treading their well worn path over the marble into the vast and hollow chamber, now devoid of life, his breaths echoing as he slowed, boots scuffing sharply over tile.
There were no guards at their posts, the throne a cold shrine to a king who would never return, no red robe draped over its arms where he'd always left it.
The lifeless grey stone lay bare save for the glint of gold on its empty seat.
The crown.
A sea of nauseous energy roiled under Tirian's skin, but the gold drew him toward itself all the same, as if by some dark magnet, glinting in the dying of the light.
His shadow fell over the empty circlet as he mounted the dais, reaching out, fear mixing with awe mixing with hatred, ghosting cool metal, lifting it, the gold heavy, straining against his fingers, imprinting the intricate patterns he'd admired all his life as his father wore them so steadily, foreign now, accusatory.
Maybe there would have been a better way.
What would have happened if he'd never ridden out that night?
The crash of trees echoed in his ears, groaning, crunching, shattering. But that would have happened anyway, wouldn't it? They were already in the forest, they were already killing.
But then… what would have happened if he'd never begged to go into the mountains?
By the Lion, Tir, I don't know how you convinced him to let you go but I'm so glad, my father would never have let me go if you didn't.
Gargantuan figures against the moonlight, horn-call bellows, Hosha's thrashing form, the twang of a bow, the chaos and the fire and the giant disappearing into the night.
If they'd never let that last monster escape, would there even be a war? Would his father even be…?
Heat crowded up into his throat.
Perhaps if he had not been so rash, he would have been allowed to ride at his father's side. Perhaps he could have done something. Anything.
Four carved figures beyond the dais loomed over him, tall and noble and wise, and he felt suddenly small.
His father had always said he was a natural leader, and Tirian had always believed it. But now for the first time in his life a horrible doubt crept in. Perhaps his father was wrong. Perhaps he'd always thought too much of Tirian, let him do too much, trusted him too much, let him on that mission when he wasn't ready.
He'd let Erlian believe he was ready.
But it was a lie.
Perhaps he was never the person his father thought he was, the person he'd been so proud of, confidence glinting in glittering blue eyes.
"Tir?"
The voice echoed off marble, small in the hollow cathedral, and this time it was real.
Tirian let out a shaky breath and set the crown back in its place, but he didn't step back, didn't turn around.
"Cinder said you came in here, I just wanted to—"
"Oh, why doesn't that miserable creature go back where he came from and mind his own business?" Poisonous thunder ricocheted back at him as he spun to face Hosha, his friend's mouth open, halted mid-word, and Tirian's insides flipped over.
Several horrible moments of silence stretched out, Tirian standing atop the dais like some terrible god over Hosha's soft figure in the ebbing light of the doorway.
I'm sorry, he wanted to say, but the words never came.
"Tir…" This time it was almost breathless, "What happened?" Hosha moved hesitantly toward him, testing the waters, seeking permission.
Tirian bit the inside of his lip, fighting desperately to keep his face in check, brow furrowing involuntarily as heat blurred the edges of his vision.
"I—" he tried to start, but the moment he opened his mouth it all came out at once. "I just wanted to do something, I thought it was right I swear, I didn't mean for all of this to happen, it was supposed to be me, I was supposed to fight, I owed it to them and now instead it's him and nobody understands and I can't— I have to— they don't— why can't he just— if Gareth knows so much better then maybe he should've saved my—"
He choked, clapped a hand over his mouth.
Hosha stood stunned at the foot of the dais, flyaway curls glowing in the soft backlight, eyes wide and innocent and bewildered.
Tirian blinked back the sea in his eyes, swallowed hard, took a shaky breath and lowered his hand. "Do you… do you think I'm a leader?"
The answer was automatic. "Tir, you know I'd follow you anywhere."
But somehow exactly what he wanted to hear only plunged him deeper into churning, drowning guilt, every inch of his body aching from it, rolling over and over in a surge of black despair.
Yeah, well, you know where that got us.
He choked back a sob and his shoulders shook, a silent shudder, grasping back to clutch the arm of the throne, trying desperately to keep it together, but the soundless sobs racked his body until he gasped and brought his wrist up to stifle a pathetic suppressed squeak.
Hosha was at his side in a second, still hesitant, hovering, but his hand found Tirian's shoulder. "Hey," he murmured, desperate, totally out of his element.
Tirian could only give hitching gasps when he tried to breathe, hot tears spilling down his cheeks, gripping Hosha's sleeve. "I— I can't do it."
"What are you talking about? Sure you can."
"No, I CAN'T do this," snapped Tirian, "I can't BE like him! It's my fault he's dead! I killed him!"
Hosha just stared as the rasping sob echoed off the ceiling, struck dumb, and Tirian pulled away.
"No, hey! Just— tell me how to help, I'll do anything you want, I'll—"
"I don't want your help," shouted Tirian, "I want all of this to stop!"
He clutched his own head as the echoes rang around him, pounding in his skull, fingernails digging into his scalp as if he could claw himself out, towering pillars swimming around him, saltwater on his lips.
Hosha reached for him just as he turned toward the doorway, warm fingers closing around his wrist. But Tirian wrenched himself free, tearing the skin of his own hand as he broke away and ran.
He didn't know if Hosha called after him, couldn't hear anything over his own footsteps pounding through the halls, running, running until he crashed through the door to his father's bedroom and locked it behind him, sliding trembling to the floor.
No fire burned in the hearth, all signs of life swept away as if they'd never existed, the marble floor cold against his hands, chest heaving, breath hitching in the silence.
The massive four poster bed he'd crawled into so many nights to curl against his father's warmth now stood cold and empty, made up in clean sheets, too crisp, too unlived in. He could still hear the half-asleep rumble of his voice, complaining when Tirian was much too old to be sleeping there, but wrapping a heavy arm around him all the same, the safest place in the world.
Now he only burned to get as far away as possible, but there was nowhere to go that didn't ache with the emptiness of everything that would never be again.
He stumbled to the window, pulled the latch and pushed the frame open, cool evening air rushing in against damp cheeks as he gazed over the dizzying height, towers and turrets and courtyards, and beyond that, wild Narnia, backlit in the sunset.
And then another memory rose to the surface, something he'd only ever daydreamed about, gazing from his father's window as a very small boy.
He leaned out and looked down, eyes falling to the uneven brickwork all the way down to the next roof, and in his mind, "I could climb down there."
"I'm sure you could," laughed Erlian's voice, strong arms wrapping around his middle and lifting him away from the edge, "But shh, that's our secret."
"Why?" Tirian had twisted against his shoulder, craning back to get one last glimpse of the window.
"Well, it was built like that so the King could escape if danger ever came from inside Cair Paravel." His father's exact tone came back so clearly, the scratch of his beard as Tirian nestled into his neck. "The dwarves in King Caspian's day laid the bricks for climbing, though you can only tell from above."
"Have you ever climbed it?"
"No," said the King, but then a moment later amended, "Once, on a dare. But a King should never run from his duty. I cannot imagine when I would use such an escape."
This had satisfied Tirian's small head, though for a long time he still longed to scale the tower.
Now he flung one leg over the sill, dropping down the other side as evening breeze ruffled his clothes and he grasped the rough stone, just enough room above each protruding brick to grip comfortably.
Only one thought echoed in his head now.
He was not his father.
Brick after brick he lowered himself until his feet connected solidly with the roof below, and he darted across to the wall on the other side, leaping up to the top of the stone, and following it until it dipped to the lower level, connected with another roof, and at last the outer wall of the city.
He glanced both ways before sliding over the edge to hang by his fingers, and then let go, heart skipping a beat before he hit the ground and rolled, and popped back up a moment later to glance up at the wall which looked very much higher from the outside.
And just as the bells rang, signaling the closing of the gates, he ran, into the gathering twilight, into the lash of long grass, up and down hills and through thickets in the dark.
Time faded into memory, leaving only the songs of insects and owls, only waterlogged boots as he splashed through shallow streams, moonlit fields and black forests, branches whipping his face, cool air burning his lungs, pressing harder, further.
Until the stitch in his side stabbed like a knife and his legs gave out and he lurched down a steep embankment, tumbling into a grassy ravine.
Earth rushed up to slam into his back, head snapping back in a burst of color, air knocked from his chest.
And the last echo of thought slipped away as the drowning, trembling weight of exhaustion overtook him.
