A/n: Go figure! We have reached the end of this story—one that challenged my writing abilities at every turn—and the ending is the easiest chapter of all. I don't know why. Maybe I knew I had to wrap things up. Maybe everything was falling into place. Maybe it was because I spent less time second-guessing myself than usual. In any case, I am happy with the ending.

On an unrelated note: The events of The Greatest of Fears were not inspired by Narnia. Actually, many were inspired by a favorite (and very unrelated) TV show. I am curious to know if anyone saw the parallels. If you did and you leave a comment with the correct TV show and season, I will update this author's note so that it mentions your name. (It's like How Ridiculous's YouTube channel: "We'll pin ya!")

ONE YEAR LATER…

Faraji loped up the stairs and let out a sigh of relief. Summer in Erizad was no pleasant thing; the late afternoon heat was strong enough to steal the breath out of your chest. And yet, there was no better time of day than now. All errands and matters of business for the day were done, the Assembly had adjourned for the weekend, and Faraji and Kalil stood guard as they waited for the Sarazen to return home. Above their heads, the new flags of Erizad danced in the breeze—a gold lion marching across a blue field. And Faraji was tense with excitement. There was one request he had to ask, and today was the day. Besides, it was the proper thing to do.

"Be still," said Kalil with a chuckle. He lapped water out of an alabaster bowl between his paws. "I'm sure Philip and Nazeen are fine."

"I would rather go up there and remove all doubt," said Faraji. "The night I left, she looked as though she were at a funeral. And Philip hasn't answered my letters in the last nine months. Something has happened to them—I know it."

Kalil nodded. "Well, the Sarazen will return soon enough. Then you can put in your request."

Faraji started to reply, but something caught his attention. Adan and his cheetah, Safa, had just turned off the thoroughfare and started walking up the stairs.

Faraji could not stop marveling at the change in the man. He had once looked so nervous, he seemed to be hunting for a place to hide. Now, as with most everyone in Erizad now, he stood confident and at ease.

Faraji smiled. "Adan, that uniform becomes you."

The man grinned. "Thank you, my friend. And now that my training is complete, the Mareshah needs to give me a mission."

Kalil nodded. "I'm certain you both won't have long to wait. The Order of Aslan is still about, and they are bound and determined to cause trouble."

"Agreed," said the man. "But I survived the Red Death and saw the Lion with my own eyes. I'm not afraid of them or any man."

Faraji smiled warmly and turned to Safa. "I see you have that book I asked for."

Safa swung his head over his shoulder. A book sat in his saddle. "And you must know, my friend, that I am loath to give it up."

Kalil tilted his head. "What book are we talking about?"

"Only the most famous book in the country: A Thousand Years of Narnia."

"It is more than famous," said Adan. "There are so many demands for it, our scribes are working day and night to produce new copies."

"Until then," said Safa, "we are all required to read it with haste, which is unfortunate given what a masterpiece this is."

"And I assume that there is a coffer dedicated to paying those scribes," said Kalil, "and that the sales from the book will go directly to the author."

Faraji nodded. "Indeed. From what I hear, it is a masterpiece. It should be, as Tumnus spent eighteen years writing it and knows more than anyone else about Narnia. An endeavor like that deserves recognition, and no mistaking that." At that, Faraji turned to Adan. "On to business, my friend. Are there any letters?"

"Only a message," said Adan. "The Sarazen wanted me to tell you he's asking for you."

On cue, Faraji bounded to all fours. "Kalil, would you watch things here."

"Of course. It will give me time to read this masterwork."

With that, Kalil crouched over the book and flipped open the cover. Faraji bade Adan and Safa a goodbye and padded down the stairs, and his gait rose to a merry trot.

Reza's face was solemn as Faraji spoke. "Mehan, I am worried for them. I'm the only family my sister has. And Philip has not answered my letters in the last nine months. After all he has done, it is only proper for me to see if he is all right."

Reza nodded. "I know. But until we find a reprieve, I need everyone I can spare. The Order of Aslan is threatening the followers of the Lion; even without the Calormenes, plenty of Erizadi still believe in the Man Aslan—many more than we thought."

There was a knock at the door, and Reza lifted his head. "Come."

It was the Mareshah. "I am sorry to interrupt, mehan, but we have guests. They came in on the eight o'clock transport."

"Thank you, Yassir." At that, he rose up from the desk. "Were we expecting any guests today?"

"Not that I'm aware of," said Faraji. "Who are they?"

Yassir smiled. "I think you should see for yourselves."

Faraji nodded and followed Reza, who followed Yassir out of the office. As the three wove through the dim stone halls, Faraji kept fighting the urge to say something. It was clear Yassir would say nothing more, and Reza was not going to inquire.

They made another turn, and they saw the morning sun shining through the doorjamb. On cue, the soldiers standing guard pushed the door open, and Faraji and Reza and Yassir strode onto the thoroughfare. The cheetah squinted down the street, his mouth open with curiosity—and then he felt a smile filling his face as his heart jumped in his chest. He wanted to dash over to them, but the cheetah in the saddle did it first. She leapt out and dashed over to them as she said:

"Dear, dear brother!"

"Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA!" said the horse. "Greetings, spotted one!"

"How glad I am to see you both!" said Faraji. "But are you all right?"

"We are now," said Nazeen. "Oh, Haroshta, we have so much to tell you, and most of it is awful."

"Indeed," said Philip. "The whole of Narnia has lost its mind, not to mention its head."

Faraji's face fell. "What do you mean?"

"Nine months ago, we were chasing the White Stag through the woods. All of a sudden we came to a most familiar place, and they went further in. So they did—and that was the last I saw of them."

"But . . . what does that mean? Are they dead?"

"No, and I can say that much. Aslan was the one who took them back. He said it was time for them to return to their world."

Faraji nodded. "At least they're safe. So what happens now?"

"No one knows. They have no heirs, none of them wrote a will, and the descendants of Frank and Helen are dead or missing."

"Well, that's no problem. They can just appoint Aslan."

"Oh, you would think so. But Narnia doesn't want him. They insist on ruling themselves without any help from him, and being the sort of leader he is, he can only grant their request. As of now, the thrones of Cair Paravel are prizes to be won."

"But surely Narnia doesn't want anarchy."

"Not at all," said Nazeen. "Everyone wants a leader—as long as they are the ones doing the leading. Philip tried to bring every race together: all the lions, tigers, panthers, wolves, the naiads and dryads—everyone. He wanted all of Narnia to agree on a king who would lead them rightly. But the only thing they agreed to do was remove Philip from the council."

"And Nazeen warned them they might become strong and cruel like Calormen if they persisted in their folly. They wouldn't hear the end of it. They told her to leave and never come back, and they said I would do well to join her."

Faraji chuckled darkly. "Philip, what happened? They've rejected Aslan, they've thrown you both out of the country—this is not the Narnia I saw last year."

"Nay," said the horse. "It was what they were all along. Most of us didn't want Aslan; we just wanted the favors. And now that he's taken away the best thing to happen to Narnia, Narnia is rejecting him."

Faraji let out a breath. "I am sorry."

"But we're not," said Nazeen. "Dear brother, this is where we want to be."

"You mean—?"

The horse gave a happy neigh. "Yes, my friend. We are here to stay."

"Haroshta, when you rescued us from Mirradin, it left an impression on me. I want to do what you do."

"So do I," said Philip. "Spotted one, Aslan puts events in our lives that change our hearts. Traveling with you on a mission of mercy and justice brought life back into my bones, much more than I ever got chasing a White Stag and rolling in the grass of Narnia. I might have lived and died happy in Narnia, but I think there is a better ending to be written for us in Erizad."

Faraji started to smile, but feared it would look improper. And yet, a full smile came. "I could not be more pleased," he said. "Hurrah!"

Yassir smiled. "And you both could not have come at a better time. Today is the first anniversary of our deliverance from the Red Death. There is going to be a feast at the old palace, and I want you both to be our guests of honor."

Reza nodded. "At the feast, I want to personally grant you both citizenship. And Philip, I want to personally commend you in front of the Assembly and the nobles of Erizad, to bestow upon you the award that the Marehafa bestowed upon me and Faraji: the Golden Lion for exemplary service and courage. Erizad owes you a debt for what you did in Rasul and how you discovered the truth about the Red Death."

Philip and Nazeen thanked him and started to bow. But Reza pushed out a hand. "Just as it is with Faraji and my wife and my sons, it will be with you: You do not bow before me. You are family."

Philip neighed softly. "Well, at least I will call you mehan. As Faraji might say, it is the proper thing to do."

Philip's words about a happy ending in Erizad came true: Indeed, all could say they lived happily ever after. Faraji and Reza, who had already been less fearful and stern, became as good and generous and kind as anyone in Erizad had ever known.

Faraji returned to the University of Palár and eventually became a full professor in natural and magical medicines, a post he held in those long stretches when Erizad was at peace. In times of war, he joined Reza and his men in battle, and they would return victorious, enough to surpass every Sarazen and army that came before them. True to his word, Reza would not let Andur be rebuilt. Its ruins stood as a monument to Moro's attacks, and everyone who passed them would know what happened. Besides, Reza was glad to live in the Mareshah's house—it was less space to keep, anyway—and Yassir was more than pleased to live in the old palace, to make it a home and a house of government.

Philip, who had once had a reputation for blustering at length, became one of the Assembly's most sought-after speakers, and when Erizad was at peace and the Order of Aslan was nothing but a bad memory, he said he would bluster for a living. He became a professor of Northern literature and culture, the only Erizadi who could speak with authority on Narnia (and whose classes were always full).

Nazeen had been ridiculed for wanting to fight in battle, but even the men put a stop to the ridicule when they all saw she had her brother's strength and wits, and the silence was even more profound on the day she stood beside Philip and both received the Red Diamond for excellence in battle. None of her critics spoke a word when she earned the Golden Lion for exemplary service and courage (which, as any Erizadi would tell you, was not given to just any warrior, and certainly not for the asking). Even as a warrior, she still heard rebukes and taunts, but one cheetah found her to be an extraordinary and ravishing creature, and you can imagine his delight when she had the same sort of feelings for him. And of course you can imagine how glad Faraji was to have a brother in-law, Kalil, one who went on bantering with him on those sweltering afternoons when they stood guard at the Sarazen's house.

Faraji and Philip remained bachelors and warriors and friends all their lives, and together they watched Erizad grow and cities be born and battles be fought and won (especially those where the two of them were in the thick). Reza's sons grew and went to university, and they became men of high standing in Erizad. Navid, who accompanied Faraji and Philip on a journey to the mountains of the sun, would become a soldier and warrior, and would go on to rule over Arkanaz as its Mareshah. Rafik, who had the sort of head that always looked for the highest of rightness and truth and stopped at nothing until he found it, would become the Sarazen.

And there was one thing that Faraji would always insist. Though Philip and Nazeen were much loved in Erizad, and though Erizad had once again become known as the Narnia of the South, now and then some man or tiger or cheetah would come up to him with a most indignant face. They acted as if they knew something Faraji didn't, and with a look of insufferable arrogance they would say, "You expect me to call that horse mehan? You expect me to call that cheetah meha? And on top of it all, you expect me to bow before the Lion and call him mehan?"

And Faraji would nod and say:

"Of course. It is the proper thing to do."

THE END

A/n: Writing a 90,000-word novel can feel like sculpting a statue. You start with a shapeless slab, and you chisel away everything that isn't part of your design. At first, you feel euphoric: That thing in front of you is starting to look like something. But then, as you cut away more of the stone, you start to wonder if you have been doing this the right way all along. Before you realize it, you have spent an embarrassing amount of time holding the hammer over that chisel. You know that the next thing you do will affect the rest of the shape from here on. For all you know, you might even ruin the piece. But you can't stop now. You refuse. You have to cut away another piece of rock, just to see what the shape looks like. And all the while, despite the toil and sweat and second-guessing and the huge risk of making a bad choice, you're having a hell of a good time.

That, my friends, is what it felt like to write The Greatest of Fears.

This story is the first novel- or novella-length piece I have finished in thirteen years. The whole idea of a cheetah being scared of Aslan and being sent on a journey to the country of the king he fears the most—that was the only story idea, out of many I have considered in the last thirteen years, that took off. Better yet, this story grew into something bigger and more exciting than I ever intended. The original tale was supposed to be a much simpler thing—Faraji goes to Narnia, finds out Aslan isn't anyone to be scared of, and goes back home, bringing Narnian medicine to heal a sick child.

Obviously, that all didn't happen. Instead:

(1) A disease became the biggest character of the story. First, the Red Death was never supposed to be in this story at all. Second, it was originally a cliffhanger—something to end a fairly uneventful chapter—but it eventually it became a character in its own right. It had the biggest influence over everything Faraji, Philip, Reza, and Narnia and the North did, and it filled everything with danger and fear and urgency. Besides, it's an illness that brings excruciating death to over 95% of its victims, and it's a weapon that an entire nation thinks is the wrath of its god. How could that not become a character?

(2) Moro (a.k.a. Beresh) was never supposed to be in the story. When he showed up, I didn't expect him to be a villain. Originally, he was supposed to be everything Faraji was not: While Faraji served his masters, performed tasks beneath his lofty station, and went on a journey to help a sick child, Moro was rebellious, arrogant, and unfeeling. He had bad attitudes toward women and superiors, spied on Reza, and called for the execution of children. Oddly enough, by Chapter 5 I knew he would be the big bad of the story—though I didn't know (until Chapter 12) that he would blow up a six-story residence and use the blast to spread the Red Death.

(3) Rafik, the sick boy that Faraji went to get medicine for, was not supposed to die. Nor was Reza supposed to die. Nor was Aslan supposed to bound in glorious splendor and majesty to Palár, bring Reza and Rafik back to life, and announce that he was the true Aslan and that justice and truth were coming back to Erizad by Aslan making Reza something of an apostle Paul. Surprise!

I could go on and on (and on). But you get the idea. This story turned out to be almost nothing like what I had imagined in my head. Instead, it turned out better. The complex story lines, the large cast of characters, the constant challenge to keep the story engaging and interesting—all while almost completely making it up as I go along—it has been a ball.

That said, I know this story is imperfect. (And that's being generous.) As I look back on it, I see just how much revision it needs. Some chapters are just weak. Some minor plot lines went unresolved. (I tried, but every attempt seemed either incredibly weak or a needless diversion from Faraji's misadventure.) And why did I try to sound like C.S. Lewis? I ought to sound like myself. For Heaven's sakes, these author's notes have been easier and more rewarding to write, because I am writing them in my voice. Then again, I am an American millennial writing a story that takes place in a world influenced by British culture and ancient mythology. It would be weird for my characters and narration to sound like my natural writing voice. I guess I was smart to try to make these characters sound somewhat native—but I'll tell you: It takes a lot of skill and practice to be able to pull it off. Snoopy (from Peanuts) said it well: Good writing is hard work!

That said: Whether or not my story was good writing (or bad writing that took too much effort), that's not for me to say right now. I can say this, though: It was the first story I have finished in thirteen years. I am proud of what I did, if only because I did it.

There are a few folks who helped see this endeavor to its end. I want to give special thanks to treehugger00, thunderbird shadow, Anonymousme, and PadrePedro for their many reviews. Their feedback did one of the best things imaginable: inspire me. Their thoughts on each chapter planted seeds in my imagination, and the ideas that grew up out of that ground helped shape the story into something bigger and richer than I ever dreamed.

Finally, thank YOU. Thank you for taking the time to see what my story is made of. Thank you for reading my first ever Narnia fic and the first story I have completed in thirteen years. If it was a joy, I am glad. If it was not, you have my apologies.

And now, I get to rejoice. This is the first story I have finished in over a decade, and I'm going to bask in the glow of that accomplishment. Meanwhile, I am going to take a much-needed break from writing. This site is an awesome place built on awesome ideas—writing in your favorite fictional universe and getting feedback from writers who love the universe as much as you do—but I am not ready to start a new story. I do have some ideas I'm tinkering with, but I want to take a break so I can think them through. And should I come back—which is a high certainty—I might be able to spin an even better Narnia fic.

Peace out, everyone.
John Jude Farragut