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Chapter 14
I don't really watch Peter's fight with the Witch. I know he's a natural with the sword, plus he's fueled with anger over... over... Shake it off. Anyways, Peter will be fine.
No, I stay absorbed in the moment. Load the bow, pull the string, shoot the arrow. Load the bow, pull the string, shoot the arrow. Over and over and over again; the constant rhythm keeps me sane. Keeps me from thinking about–
No. Keep going. Just keep going. Load the bow... pull the string... shoot the...
Tears prick the corners of my eyes and a funny feeling tingles in my nose. But I shake my head and literally suck it up, forcing myself to go on. I won't break down. I can't. Not now. I owe it to him. I owe it to... to...
"To Edmund."
There. I said his name. Instead of breaking me down, the thought of his sweet, pale face; of the dark eyes, too deep for someone our age; of the hesitant half-smile that lightened those eyes and made them sparkle like the sun – it all fills me with fury. The rage roars in my ears and rushes through my veins, and everything around me turns red: red with anger, red with pain, red with blood.
Like the blood on the Witch's sword when she took Edmund's life.
My eyes narrow, my focus hones, and my aim is even better than before.
I don't know how long I stay in this trance. I do know, though, that every one of my shots is fatal, that every time I fire an arrow, one from the Witch's army goes down and he doesn't get up again.
It should bother me, shouldn't it? It should hurt me, right? Knowing that I'm murdering beings, knowing that – even if they aren't human – they once lived and breathed and had families and friends and wants and dreams and life.
And now they don't. Because of me.
But it doesn't bother me. I want them all dead so bad – so, so bad – that that is what hurts my heart. That gnawing, desperate need that won't stop screaming until the Witch and all of her followers are dead, dead, and dead.
After what seems like days, weeks, months, years, something breaks through my murderous monotony. Loud panting. Pounding feet. Thick, heavy pawsteps.
Pawsteps?
I don't want to stop. I don't want to leave this safe place in my mind where all I do is kill and all I feel is fury. But something beckons me, calls me by name.
Turn around, Zaylie. Turn around.
So I do. And then I nearly drop my bow off the mountain.
Just to the east of me, on a high outcropping of rocks, is Aslan.
Lifting His mighty head to the sky, he roars. The golden sound washes over the field, flows deep into my soul, and the dam inside me breaks, sending tears streaming down my cheeks. It should be impossible. I saw Him die myself.
But there He is. And in this moment, I don't care that He can't be here. I don't care that it's impossible. All that matters is that Aslan came back from the dead.
And maybe Edmund can, too.
The more I stare at the Great Lion, the more I start to realize He's not alone. Susan and Lucy stand by His side, and hundreds, maybe thousands of warriors gather around them, surging down to join the battle. For the third time today, everything stands still, as we all look out on the impossible.
And just like that, "everything" comes back.
I whirl back around, shooting again, but not mindlessly now. I'm conscious and careful – and searching for Peter.
My heart plummets. There he is, still fighting the Witch, but that woman is after him. Like seriously. She hacks at his sword with the force of a minotaur, shoving him farther back with each strike.
Dang. The Witch is freaking beating Peter.
Fear strikes in my chest, but I push it away. She's still going down. With all her focus on Peter, I can finally take her out with an arrow.
I turn around and my jaw drops. I don't believe it. I'm freaking out of arrows!
A quick glance back over my shoulder shows the Witch sweeping her sword across Peter's calves, him falling flat on his back. She lifts her weapon again –
And I whip back around. Leaping to my feet, I race around the bluff to another archer, borrowing an arrow while she's not looking. Hopefully, it doesn't cost the centaur her life.
I place the arrow, pull the string, and spin around to let it fly.
With the Witch's sword in his arm, his own weapon just out of reach of his scrabbling fingers, and his shield lying a few feet away, Peter is now defenseless. The Witch wields a second sword, pausing for a moment before she gives the death blow.
I adjust my aim, trying to keep my hands steady while my heart pounds like the Jumanji game. I've only got one shot at this.
But just when I'm about to release it, I don't have to.
Because Aslan is there.
He takes a running leap and roars, tackling the Witch like an NFL linebacker. As He launches them backwards, her sword falls from her hands, clattering to the ground beside Peter's shield. For a second, the two of them just lay there on the grass, staring at each other.
Then He bites down on her neck.
Half of me wants to cheer. The other half, now that I've allowed myself to feel again, wants to upchuck.
I send off that last arrow, – don't know, don't care if it hit anybody – and hurry down the mountainside to meet up with the Pevensies. Now that the Witch is dead, the other Narnians can finish the rest of her army.
Even though the battle is not technically over, for me, it is finished.
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