Chapter 4

A/N: So unless someone gives me some kind of critique, whether through reviews or PM, I don't care which, I'm going to assume this story is perfect in every way.

It was morning. Light filtered through the forest leaves and hit Charlie's eyelids. Grumbling, he turned over, but felt the wet nose of an animal nudge him. "I'm still tired," he moaned. "Gimme a few minutes, rat." Then a sharp scratch hit him, manicured claws lightly raking his face. "Ow!" He shot upright, finding Azaroth the Jaguar facing him, sitting on her hindquarters with a curious expression in her eyes. "What the hell?!"

"Be thankful I'm the one standing here and not Reepicheep," she said. She began licking and grooming her paw. "You should start heading back now; you wandered quite far last night."

Charlie, realizing what he did last night, got up and looked around. "So much for exploration," he sighed. "Nothing but trees."

"What else did you expect?" said Azaroth. "Aslan designed this world with the sole purpose of training and preparation."

"Still, he could've jazzed it up a bit," said Charlie. "Maybe put in some buildings—or if a natural thing is what he was goin' for, maybe some deer and wildlife. Something, y'know?"

Azaroth didn't even look up from her (seemingly constant) grooming. "No point," she said glumly. "This world wasn't meant to be sustained for very long."

"What do you mean?" asked Charlie. Apparently, he had taken off his boots the previous night and sat on the ground putting them back on.

Azaroth yawned. "I mean Aslan will destroy this world after we're done with it."

"Why?" Charlie asked. "I mean, not that I care or anything—just curious."

Azaroth stretched and yawned again. "Because afterwards it will be useless," she answered dryly. "And that's a shame, that you don't care; I am beginning to enjoy the quiet of this forest."

Azaroth then bounded away, leaving Charlie struggling to keep up. The entire way back, he found himself wondering if Aslan typically destroyed realms when they were no longer "useful" to Him. Did the Lion have any goal he was working towards? Were Earth and Narnia and the countless other realms just tools for Him, simple means to an end?

His wondering was cut short, however, when he came to the clearing. Reepicheep was standing over a sword in the center, buried in the soil, walking around it with his paw under his chin, as if in contemplation. Azaroth was next to him, this time laying down and grooming her forearm above her paw.

"What's that?" asked Charlie.

Reepicheep looked up. "Ah! Charles," he greeted. "Remember the knife I stuck in the ground last night?"

"Yeah," said Charlie. "You replaced it with a sword."

"Incorrect," barked Reepicheep. "The knife is still there. It simply grew into this sword you see here."

"Huh?"

"Remember when I told you this world was still forming?" reminded Reepicheep. "Often, in a newly formed world, there is little distinction between living and objects. When the two are brought together, they might meld, and grow into something different." He gestured to the newly formed sword.

"This grew overnight?" asked Charlie. He walked up to it and rested his hand on the hilt.

"Now, be careful, boy, I can hardly lift it myself—"

Charlie pulled it out with ease. "That's 'cause it wasn't meant for a mouse," he said. And it was true. The sword itself was a saber, very slightly curved, while the hilt was a reddish stone like color and had a handguard like a flat band of wrought gold. Charlie held it up, noting the blade looked as if it were made of stone, and went about mentally marking various notches and breaks in the blade. "It looks kind of dull," he said.

"Run your finger along it," suggested Azaroth. Seeing no harm in touching the edge of a dull blade, Charlie did, but immediately regret doing so, as a cut flew open along his finger.

"Ah! Dammit." He sucked the cut to stem the bleeding. "Turns out it's not so dull," he said around his finger. Somewhere, from deep within the blade, a faint, almost inaudible sound rang out, akin to the laughter of a deranged child.

"The blade is a lie," said Azaroth. "It is sharp as the finest steel, though it looks of stone; and though it looks of stone, it is light as a feather."

"Not to mention that creepy laugh," said Charlie. "You heard it too, right? Or am I going crazy?"

"I heard it as well," said Reepicheep. "But look!" He stood at attention and pointed to the blade where Charlie had cut himself, for the blood rapidly disappeared, and a fainter and more subdued version of the laugh rang out; if the sword had a face, one could imagine a subtle satisfied smirk to accompany this second laugh. Although it wasn't a haunted doll, or a zombie, or a ghost, Charlie couldn't help but feel this strange sword was the creepiest thing he had ever encountered. He backed up and swung it around a couple of times, wondering if the blood was truly absorbed or just stuck somewhere within the blade, but nothing came out.

Azaroth laughed. "Indeed the sword is a liar."

"A liar that laughs," replied Charlie.

"We should name it The Liar's Laugh," said Reepicheep. "It rhymes!" And the Mouse himself laughed at his own realization.

"Now, Reepicheep," said Azaroth, who had gone back to grooming her paws, "Charlie will be the sword's master, so it is only fitting that he name it—that is," she turned to Charlie, "if you want to at all."

Charlie swung the sword a couple more times. "Liar's Laugh," he said to the sword, and a deep hum could be felt and heard, a throbbing sigh of agreement and contentment emanating from deep within the steel, as if it were alive on some level. "I like it," he said, and he silently he thought to himself, "and so does the Liar's Laugh."

Father Pierre came into the basement after he had supper, with a steaming plate of chicken and vegetables for his charge. "Honestly Father," protested Sister Abigail, "this food is too rich. How's a boy supposed to grow up with humility when we spoil him so? Especially one who lies?"

"A fair point, Sister," said Father Pierre. "We should all eat less luxuriously, for as Christ Himself said to Matthew, 'sell all that you possess and distribute it to the poor, and you shall have treasure in heaven."

Sister Abigail stood up a little straighter, for she had seemingly managed to talk some sense into the old man. "Exactly what I'm trying to say," she sighed exasperatedly.

"And would you like to begin this trend, Sister?" asked Father Pierre. He knew for a fact that none of the Church staff, himself included, ate plainly as Christ instructed.

Sister Abigail's pride deflated instantly. The corner of her mouth curled in a snarl of embarrassment and anger. "No," she answered honestly.

"Alright, then keep your mouth shut," Pierre snapped. "Remember the boy's history; Charlie is more deserving than any of us in the eyes of the Lord."

Sister Abigail turned on her heel and swiftly walked away.

Father Pierre walked through the door and descended the stairs to the basement. The basement itself was not a pretty place; it was dark, drafty, and cold. But through some innovative design and the digging up of old furniture, the nuns and Father Pierre had managed to make it a livable environment.

Charlie had, over the years, customized it to his own design as well. He had gone to antique sales all around the city with money he earned from various (and no doubt somewhat sketchy) odd jobs, buying himself a more comfortable mattress, some pajamas, and basic other luxuries that he had found and fixed up.

One of these amenities was in use by the boy. Father Pierre stepped off the last stair and turned a corner into the cellar, greeted with the sight of Charlie violently going at a dirty moth eaten punching bag. He froze mid-punch when he smelled the food. "Father?"

"You lied to Sister Lina," said Father Pierre as he set the food down on a small wooden table.

"What makes you say that?" asked Charlie innocently as he shoveled up mouthfuls of food.

For someone so old, Father Pierre had surprising reflexes, which he demonstrated when he grabbed Charlie's arm halfway to his mouth. "Slow down," commanded Pierre. "And do I look stupid? I know you didn't go for a 'simple walk,' boy. Such a poor excuse is an insult to my intelligence."

"Then what do you think I did?" asked Charlie. He ate carefully now, as per his guardian's warning, in a more civilized manner as the two conversed. "Where else do I have to go?"

Father Pierre sighed in exasperation. "Must we play this game, boy? I know you went to the blind pig in Black Bottom."

Charlie laughed, a feigned laugh that Pierre saw right through. "Why would I go to a blind pig, much less one in Black Bottom?"

"To meet that seductress of yours."

"Scarlett?"

"You just proved my point."

Charlie's face went red as the realization he had once again been outsmarted by his guardian dawned upon him. "So what if I left?" he asked, then added quickly, "and anyway, it's over. We got into an argument."

"You mean you saw her with another man, as I warned would happen. There never was any argument."

Charlie sighed in defeat. There was no point in keeping up this angry charade. "I swear, Father, sometimes I think you can read minds."

Father Pierre laughed. "I wasn't always a priest, Charles," he said. "I too was once a boy of fifteen. I made the same mistakes."

"I should've listened to you," said Charlie mournfully.

"No," said Pierre.

Charlie looked at him, confused. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"You wouldn't have listened no matter what," he said. "What you should not have done was lie through your teeth to Sister Lina. That is your main mistake in all this." He turned to leave the basement, but Charlie stopped him.

"How did you deal with it?"

"Deal with what, my boy?"

"When you made the same mistake. It must've hurt, right?"

Father Pierre turned around. "I became a priest, so women were never a problem thereafter."

"I don't want to be a priest," said Charlie in a dull monotone. They'd had that conversation before.

"Yes, you've made that clear in the past," said Father Pierre. "Time will have to heal you. Time and the Lord, through prayer." He took the first step up the stairs, but stopped. "And ask the nuns, too, about their mistakes. They were also children at one point, and romance has a troubled history with us all. It comes with growing up in this world, I'm afraid."

A/N: It's hard to write a love story when you're single. I hope I worked this in all right, because the second half of this chapter was born out of my own frustrations, so I'm anxious about the quality and whether it fits.