I don't own Narnia or the Pevensies.
So many things happened at once that later, Lucy wasn't sure if she'd dreamed it all. As she and everyone else turned to the back of the room in total surprise, wondering what sort of wedding guests arrived with a war cry like that, another figure stepped out from a hidden passageway near the front, and unnoticed by all, dispatched the guards holding Danya and Roche. No one but them noticed, too shocked by the enormous crowd of armored warriors that was then sweeping into the room, weapons aloft, one familiar man at its head.
"Timothy!" Lucy cried in surprise, hope rising anew in her breast. He seemed not to hear her, but charged on, the troops behind him surging around the cluster of guards surrounding Susan and spilling into whatever space was unoccupied – the aisle, the sides of the room, all rushing up towards the dais and the guards gathered against the walls, who were now drawing blades, charging to meet their sudden opponents. Strangely, every man and woman in this new force wore tunics of tattered black, their armor dented and marked but still serviceable, as if it had seen some great battle and then been forgotten for hundreds of years. In the benches, the actual wedding guests began to scream and panic, the men drawing blades too ornamented to be of use, the women clutching at one another and bursting into frightened tears. But Timothy's army ignored them entirely, and an instant later, the first blow fell and the battle began.
The guards holding Lucy had dropped her to draw their swords, and she took the opportunity to lurch away, her injured leg slowing her down. One of them shouted and grabbed for her, but she ducked down and rolled, almost tripping up one of the black-clad soldiers, who raised her saber to strike but stopped when she saw who she was about to fell.
"My queen!" the woman uttered, and suddenly reached down to pull Lucy to her feet. Bewildered by the address but grateful for the rescue, Lucy nodded her thanks in a hurry.
Instantly, she jolted off, ignoring her limp and the pain in her calf, racing clumsily back towards the dais, dodging through the battle, the clash of black-clad soldiers on palace guards. She had to get the cordial to Edmund – no one in this army had seen him injured, no one would know to help him. If she didn't get it to him, who would?
Unfortunately, she discovered soon after getting up onto the dais that Valin had retreated back behind his guard using the altar as a barricade and standing well back from any of the danger, like a true coward. She wouldn't be able to reach him without fighting through his soldiers, and even without an injury that would be a difficult feat.
Abruptly, two things happened: the wave of black-clad warriors smashed into the ring of palace guards, and a voice boomed out over the melee, amplified like Valin's had been, but it was not his voice, but a deeper, hoarser tone, a voice that sounded as though it had been in disuse for quite some time.
"All soldiers loyal to the double crown, throw down your weapons and you will be spared!"
The battle froze for an instant, necks whipping about to determine the source of the sound, and Lucy saw then that it was Vareth, broken chains dangling from his wrists, standing atop the gift table and flanked by several dozen servants, who'd armed themselves with spare swords as well as pokers, frying pans, cleavers and a myriad of other makeshift weapons. Some were injured; others were supporting them, but all of them looked grimly satisfied at the looks of astonishment on the guards' faces.
"This is a trick!" Valin roared, his voice also amplified, and Lucy saw the Head Magician standing nearby, retreated beyond the guards with a few underling magicians as well. The others had fled the dais, though, and a few of them had backed Vareth. Lucy sensed a great divide approaching. "An illusion! Guards! Arrest them at once!"
He may has well have ordered the tide back, though; not only were his guards completely overwhelmed by the army of people – Narnians? – who had come rushing through the doors, but they seemed utterly torn about the situation anyway. Vareth held up an old-looking sword, pointing it towards the dais though his arms trembled and his starved frame seemed to protest the action.
"I am no illusion, brother," he called across the room to Valin, his eyes steady even when his body was not. "I have come to reclaim my throne. If you surrender now, I will not have to take it from you."
"This is ridiculous! Are you loyal to your country or are you going to side with this criminal?" Valin roared to the guards around him, who had frozen in indecision. Seemingly spurred, they raised their blades again, and the black army surged up in response, ready to drive the battle to a bloody conclusion, but Vareth spoke up again.
"Listen! I am no criminal. I am Vareth, a rightful king of Caelan, and you, brother, have thrown away your right to the crown with treachery and manipulation. Soldiers of the realm, make your choice now. Side with me and you will be spared. Side with my brother and you will face this battle to its end and either perish or live to be imprisoned alongside him."
And this seemed to be the last convincing anyone needed. All but about a dozen guards dropped their weapons, holding up their hands in surrender to Timothy's mysterious army, and as if being washed from the stone, began to swarm away from the dais and the false king, along with all the magicians excepting the Head. Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy saw Danya catch two of them by the arm and draw them towards the corner where the injured lay groaning, Edmund among them. She limped towards them, unopposed by anyone now, as all Valin's loyalists had gathered about him on the dais protectively, looking rather frightened at the prospect of facing seven-score warriors – they were outnumbered more than ten to one.
Lucy heard the scattering of the deserters' feet just as her own injured leg gave out, but a pair of strong arms caught her before she could hit the ground.
"Easy does it, little queen," Timothy told her, swiftly picking her up and carrying her over to where several magicians were now tending to the wounded who'd been dragged off the dais earlier.
"Where did you come from?" she asked him in shock as he set her down and she crawled towards Edmund, above whom a middle-aged woman was crouched, uttering a quick word as she poured clean water over the wound in his shoulder.
"I'll explain later, Your Majesty," Timothy said from behind her, and she heard his footsteps retreating back into the room. Just as she turned to thank him, Edmund let out a sharp yell and a loud curse, and she turned back ready to scold him when she saw how his face was contorted in pain, but he was awake, and certainly alive. She grasped his hand quickly and looked up to see what was going on with Valin. She could not imagine he would surrender, but what other options did he have?
On the dais, two people were approaching the lone tyrant from where he stood behind the altar, looking utterly furious and confused and frightened all at once, sword out and pointing at each of them in turn. One was Vareth, who walked as if it pained him to do so; Lucy imagined that he hadn't walked more than a few dozen steps in all his years imprisoned, but still his back was straight and his pace was steady, as though will alone kept him moving forward towards the brother who'd betrayed him so many years ago. The other was Peter, eyes flashing in anticipation of what was to come, the force of his vow and his duty to his family lighting up the pride Lucy had been missing in him since Susan's disappearance even despite his current injuries. The two advanced like twin behemoths, swords at their sides, united against the common enemy of their two countries.
The whole room fell silent, an anticipant hush drawing all eyes to the three men near the thrones, to the bloodshed or surrender that had to follow.
Lucy had expected Valin to make some sort of speech of defiance, to try and salvage his dignity, but he did not. With sudden fury, he raised his blade, let out a roar of challenge and lunged towards his elder brother, a skilled, heavy blow rushing towards the frail man. But Peter was equally quick, and Rhindon flew out into the space between, blocking the blow before it could fall, the blades sliding against each other with the metallic song of steel on steel.
"You never understood power," Vareth told his brother as Peter and Valin withdrew a pace, and all three circled carefully. "You always thought your power came from yourself, in this idea of a self-made man, a singular destined ruler. You thought you could achieve everything alone, brother. You never understood that every man draws his power from his allies, the others he trusts. I know I cannot win this battle by myself…"
"…But he doesn't need to," Peter finished, leaping in with an aggressive attack towards Valin's shins. The dictator had to jump out of the way, leaving him off balance, and Vareth dealt him a stinging blow to the backs of his legs. Whether he was reluctant to hurt him or too weak to do more, Lucy could not say; she could only clutch Edmund's hand as he grew stronger by the minute and the two watched, transfixed.
"Do you mock me?!" Valin demanded furiously, whipping around to try and keep them both in his sights, clearly on the defensive now.
"You are a mockery unto yourself, brother," Vareth scoffed, his footwork impeccable despite his long years in prison. "There is no need to mock you. Look around you. The kingdom you built has crumbled beneath your feet. You have no subjects, no authority, no hope of victory here. Every second you struggle will make your defeat all the more humiliating in the end."
"Shut up!" screamed Valin, rushing forward yet again. Peter lunged for it, but Vareth lifted his own blade and deflected most of the blow, though the shock of the impact knocked his sword from his hands. Valin whirled on Peter, lifting his blade to strike, but Peter was ready for it with a counter of his own, edging himself between the two brothers to defend the elder king.
A flurry of blows followed, too fast and hard for Lucy to follow well, but she knew that Peter would not lose, not when so much was at stake, not when he was fighting the same man who had kidnapped his sister and attempted to murder his brother. But suddenly, Peter's arms seemed to jerk and he stumbled clumsily, far apart from his normal grace. Valin raised his blade to capitalize on the momentary weakness, and Lucy cried out in terror as the blade neared, but at the last moment, Vareth's own sword rose up and deflected it; he had picked it up while Peter defended him. But now Peter remained still oddly stiff, moving slowly, his eyes flicking much faster than his body, looking completely out of sorts, and suddenly his hands lifted up in the air as if they were being lifted by someone else entirely, like his body was not in his control anymore. His feet jerked; he tripped and fell halfway to the ground before he was jerked back upright by no visible force at all.
Lucy opened her mouth to cry out in horror – something was going horribly wrong. Peter looked as though he was being held up by some invisible marionette strings. A ripple of confusion and shock shot through the crowd as Valin lifted his blade swung it hard down at his brother, who blocked once and dropped the sword again, too weak to hold it against such a forceful blow. Peter's eyes widened and his mouth opened in silent protest, but his arms had been stretched up against his own will, his sword high above his head. Valin copied the motion, his blade rising high above his head, ready to come down on Vareth's unprotected neck….
A dozen of Timothy's allies had already begun the charge up to defend the two beleaguered kings, but clearly, there was no way they could stop this. Valin let out a bellow of victory, and the muscles in his arms flexed furiously as he changed his sword's direction and it began its fatal descent.
Arrows run faster than people and swords.
Susan's split the air above the crowd's head, whistling into the Head Magician's shoulder with a fleshy thock, and the marionette strings above Peter's head snapped. Sudden gravity took its course. Rhindon fell, and it had less distance to travel than Valin's own blade; before anyone could blink, it sank into the tyrant's back, and Vareth managed to stagger out of the way as his brother collapsed in wordless agony, screaming his pain to the room. Peter retrieved his sword, breathing heavily, looking to Vareth.
"Valin, little brother," the elder king said softly, kneeling down, his arm reaching out to rest on his sibling's shoulder even as he twitched and screamed on the ground. "We could rule together again. A second chance. I can save you."
Valin made a move for the cordial on his belt, but his hands were too jerky; he couldn't manage it. Vareth stilled his hand and drew out the bottle himself.
"I can give you a second chance," he repeated, his voice broken and tired as he unscrewed the top, waiting.
"I would sooner die than receive your pity!" Valin screamed out, even as he convulsed, blood soaking through the back of his white tunic. Lucy flinched at the hatred in his voice, wondering how two brothers could be so entirely different; after all these years, Vareth was ready to forgive, but Valin would take his pride with him to the grave.
"You have had my pity for six long years," Vareth told him, rising up to his feet. Valin rolled onto his side, gasping and choking up blood; he could not last much longer. "I wish you blessings, brother, wherever your next journey takes you. I hope you carry your lessons with you."
Valin opened his mouth, but no words came out. For a long, long moment, there was total silence in the room as he tried to work up the venom and the energy to speak. Then his head fell back on the tile, and his eyes slid shut even as they rolled up in the sockets, and it was all over. The dictator was dead.
"Lucy," said Edmund softly, his hand tight around hers. "I'm tired. Can we go home now?"