A/N: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews, favorites, and follows thus far! Your responses really encourage me to write; please keep it up. I'm sure you already knew that because it's the most cliche thing written in author's notes, but I thought I'd share anyway. Don't worry; I still have many twists and turns for this story's future, and it isn't near finished yet!

On another note, if anyone is in need of a beta reader or knows someone who needs one, feel free to PM me.

Chapter 12

It was almost midnight, and High King Peter was more than a little nervous. The horn was gone, another of his siblings had gone missing, and Aslan was nowhere to be found. For that matter, neither was Archenland. Despite the silence and apparent emptiness of the Witch's castle, Peter knew there was more to all this than it seemed.

No one had seen a single soul enter or leave the Witch's castle in days. The castle still looked abandoned, barely fortified. Peter wouldn't have believed anyone was there at all if it weren't for the scant amount of fell creatures standing guard outside her gates. Still, that didn't seem possible. The Witch he remembered would have attacked them by now, would have shown off her power.

Unless she was waiting for something, as she had waited to kill Edmund, but Peter couldn't imagine what that something was.

"Your Majesty," Oreius interrupted his thoughts, coming over to stand beside him on the small hill overlooking the Witch's castle. Still no movement from within. It was as if she hadn't even seen the army on her doorstep.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Peter sighed. Yes, he knew they should attack, but something-he wasn't sure what-was telling him to wait. He knew that they had agreed to attack in the morning, but something he couldn't quite define was twisting knots in his stomach and making his head pound. He didn't feel sick dread like this before battles. Nerves, yes, but not this. Something was wrong. But truly, what could be worse than this?

"What is it?" Peter demanded, a little snappily, not turning to look at him.

Oreius was silent for a moment. He had probably come to induce Peter to attack under cover of darkness, and that caused a spark of irritation in the High King. He had already agreed to attack in the morning. With another sigh, Peter turned away from the view of the Witch's castle and faced him.

To his surprise, Oreius was not alone. Standing rather indignantly on his back was a mouse, wearing Narnian chain mail and holding a small sword suitable for a mouse. More like a giant pin than a sword. The mouse was brown and had large doe-like eyes. He looked familiar, but Peter honestly couldn't recognize him.

Not under the heavy coat of blood drying on his fur. There appeared to be a ghastly wound in his side, hastily wrapped up with a bloody strip of cloth. He was breathing heavily, and Peter was surprised he had not noticed it before.

The mouse managed impressively to balance himself while he bowed before the High King, tipping a little on the centaur general's back. Oreius moved under him to support him, exchanging a glance with Peter.

"Sire, this mouse wandered into our camp just before nightfall. He refused to get any rest or treatment before speaking with you. He claims he brings an important message...from your sister."

Peter's breath hitched. What now? Had Cair been attacked with only Susan and a small band of warriors to protect it?

"Then let him speak," he heard himself say, numb. The mouse looked terrible, teetering on Oreius' back from the strength it had taken to bow, and for a moment Peter wished to tell him to wait on his news until he was at least looked over by a healer. But then he reflected that the news had to be terribly important, or the mouse would have done that already.

The mouse jumped down from his perch on Oreius' back and fell to the ground. He flinched, and then righted himself, gasping a little. He gave another sweeping bow and laid his sword on the ground at Peter's feet before beginning his tale.

"Your Majesty," the mouse greeted, lifting his head. "I bring grave news. I am Spikes... captain of the guards sent with your sister, Queen Lucy."

At these words, Peter's fists clenched, but his face remained impassive. "Where is she?"

The mouse lowered his head again, in shame. He was eying the sword as if he might use it to run himself through for his failure, and Peter immediately felt guilty for his harsh words. The mouse had clearly been through a horrible ordeal, and was barely staying upright. From the looks of things, he had fought a valiant fight.

Still, the thought that Lucy had been through the same ordeal and was not here was enough to put any sympathy for the creature out of his mind.

"Please, tell me what happened."

The mouse swallowed. "She left the dryads, saying she wanted to find King Edmund on her own. We could not dissuade her course, so my mice and I went with her."

"You let her go?" Peter demanded, horrified.

"She had the Queen Susan's magic horn, my King, and...I will give no excuses. I have failed her, and you, my King, and brought shame to my fellow creatures. But I ask that you hear me out before you decide my punishment."

Peter raised a brow at this. Lucy was fourteen, and hardly ever went off on risky adventures by herself these days! The mouse should never have let her do something this foolhardy...He calmed himself, nodding for the mouse to continue.

Spikes was obviously exhausted, just barely able to keep his head up, but he continued. "We discovered an agent of the Witch in the woods, and managed to take him captive."

So they had been able to capture an agent of the White Witch but could not stop a fourteen year old girl from wandering off into a dangerous situation? Peter's fingernails were biting into his skin from how hard he was clenching them.

Spikes did not seem to notice, looking down at his sword and not at Peter. "The creature told us...under persuasion...that the Witch does indeed hold King Edmund captive and has some sort of spell protecting her castle from the outside, hiding the real size of her army and its restoration. She plans to attack soon, while you do not know her numbers. And I...learned even more disturbing news along my way here."

Peter sighed, mopping his forehead. He could not possibly imagine anything more worse than this.

"I just barely managed to get past an army, hidden a ways to the North of here, beyond the Witch's castle," Spikes gasped, doubling over suddenly in pain. Peter took a step forward, but the mouse held up a hand, begging to continue. "She has bribed the giants of Harfang into attacking from the North, so that your army is trapped between them."

Peter paled at this news, glancing at Oreius for confirmation. Oreius dipped his head, signifying that the mouse had spoken the truth.

"We sent out one of our scouts after hearing of this, as it was the only thing the mouse would tell us without first speaking to you. What he says is true. The giants are descending in many numbers..."

"What happened to my sister?" Peter demanded. "Why is she not with you?"

Spikes bit his lip, glancing down at his sword again in guilt. "I...tried to protect her, my King, as it is my solemn duty. But...we were waylaid by agents of the Witch. It was a trap, I believe, all to take the Queen. We fought them off, and the Queen blew the horn, but there were too many of them." He looked up then, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I was forced to watch as they took away the Queen and killed every one of my mice. I alone survived, barely, but they thought me too close to death to worry. I managed to get up and find my way here. We were not far from this place when it happened." He grimaced a little.

Peter took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. "Thank you, Spikes. You have fought bravely and paid dearly to bring me this news. I will make sure it is used well. You should go and get your wounds tended to."

Spikes didn't move. "My King, please. Dispatch of me. I have failed the Queen, my charge, and my guard. There is no honor left in my life, and it would be better if I were to die, as my guard did." He picked the little sword up off the grass and extended it with both hands to the High King.

Peter knelt down until he was face to face with the mouse. Resting a hand on the injured creature's shoulder, he gently pushed the sword back down into the grass.

"Go and get your wounds tended to, my friend. Tomorrow is a new day. There may still be time to regain your lost honor."

With that, he stood, clearly dismissing the animal. Sighing, Spikes re-sheathed his sword and walked away, back into the camp, leaving Oreius and Peter alone.

"He said it was a trap laid deliberately by the Witch's soldiers. Do you think any of it can be taken seriously?" Oreius ventured to ask after some silence.

Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair. "If it was true, what he said about the giants of Harfang, then I am certain the rest of it is true as well."

Oreius dipped his head. "Then, Your Highness, what do we do?"

Peter took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Has the group we sent to Archenland returned yet?"

Oreius shook his head, long hair shaking with it. "No, my lord. We have gotten no word."

The High King turned around, gazing at the White Witch's castle. A castle that was apparently enchanted to hide what was really going on inside. How...fitting.

"Then there is nothing we can do. We cannot allow the Witch to take back Narnia lying down. For the sake of Narnia, we must attack at dawn. With this number, we will not be able to defeat the Witch's army and the giants both. Send out word for any who are able to lift a sword to come and protect their homeland. Pray that Aslan is with us," he stated ominously, imagining the horrible things his siblings were going through just inside those ice walls.

He didn't know why he had said that last part. He didn't believe Aslan was with them, not this time. Surely if he was, he would have done something by now to stop all of this.

Oreius turned to go, and then stopped, as if he had just remembered something. "My lord, the mouse captain said that Queen Lucy blew the horn before she was taken. Perhaps there is still hope?"

Peter watched as the sun disappeared over the horizon, turning the sky a dull red. Red like the blood staining Spikes' fur. Behind him, the camp was beginning to settle in for the night. He chose his next words carefully.

"We can hope, Oreius. We must hope."

ǁ

Peter awoke the next morning to the sound of Oreius' horn, the feeling of dread that had been plaguing him twisting at his insides and causing his head to feel a bit fuzzy.

He dressed in a dream-like state, not entirely aware of what he was doing, and then called in his servant, a light-haired fawn. The fawn held a bundle of Peter's armor in his arms, cradling it.

Peter stared at the armor for a moment, hesitating. Then he donned the helmet, feeling the thing enclose around his head and for a moment, panicking. Then the feeling was soon gone. He blinked. He had never felt that way about putting on his helmet before.

The faun helped him into the rest of his armor, and then handed him his sword and sheath. Peter plucked it out of his hands, gazing at it for a moment longer than necessary, trying to quell that strange feeling, before buckling it to his belt.

He nodded to the faun. His armor bearer smiled, a bit nervously, and walked to the entrance of the tent, quickly opening it for the High King.

When Peter stepped outside, he wasn't sure what he was expecting. The men making their last preparations for war, perhaps. Certainly not this.

Every Narnian in his army was at attention already, and all who had come during the night, was facing Peter's tent, their heads bowing when they caught sight of him for the first time that morning. They were already wearing their armor and weapons, and the last vestiges of the camp, besides Peter's tent, had been carefully stowed away. The looks on their faces surprised him as well. Even Spikes, the mouse who had served as informer last night, was there, though he lay on a stretcher and was covered in bandages.

Peter hoped he would not have to be the one to tell the valiant little injured mouse that he would not be fighting today.

But it was the golden chariot lying on the grass in front of the troops that caught Peter's attention first. It was beautiful, long and sleek, driven by two white unicorns that made him think back to his last battle with the Witch. The chariot had obviously been polished recently, and it shown in the morning sun.

Peter didn't normally ride in chariots; he preferred horses, preferred to be equal with his soldiers during battles, at least, but this was beautiful. He couldn't held wondering how they had gotten it here without his knowing.

How early had they awoken to prepare for this? How long had he been sleeping?

Peter stood in shocked silence for a moment, unsure how to respond to this honor. Normally, he would have the right words, would thank them for their duty and loyalty and give a speech inspiring them for the battle ahead, but his mind had gone completely blank. Then Oreius was standing beside him, and he found himself grateful for the centaur's presence.

"My lord, your men are ready for battle, ready to follow you to the death for Narnia, if need be."

Peter turned to his General, blinking at him. He was about to respond, about to thank them all.

Then his eyes caught movement just over Oreius' shoulder, to the north, and all thought of a lovely speech to motivate his men vanished.

Spikes had been correct, about the giants of Harfang. They had indeed come to fight at the behest of the White Witch, in numbers even larger than Oreius had described to him.

And they were perched on the edge of the valley, silent as the dead, as if they had been there forever, armed with giant weapons that looked about the size of Peter, some even larger. Their king, a heavyset giant, sat in a giant golden carriage, peering down at Peter and the Narnians in distaste.

He wondered briefly what the Witch had promised the supposedly Gentle Giants to help her. It was not usually their way to war against another nation; they preferred to lie in wait for some innocent to come along that they might feast, and to stay put in their castle.

They had surrounded the encampment in a semi-circle, and Peter was loathe to turn around and see whom was on the other side of the valley.

He turned his attentions back to Oreius, meeting the centaur's eyes, and realized with shock that really shouldn't have been so surprising, that Oreius already knew that they were surrounded. There was no hope of escape.

They would fight today, and they had to win, despite all the odds. For Edmund's sake, and for Narnia's.

Dreading what he would find on the Southern ridge of the valley, Peter turned slowly.

The Witch's army, looking eerily similar to her army five years prior, as it was filled with giants, wolves, and all manner of Fell Beasts, laid in wait on the other side of the valley, but Peter could find no trace of the Witch, which was...strange. Surely she would be out here gloating as well.

He glanced back at the Witch's castle, paling as he saw more soldiers arriving. They were hopelessly outnumbered, thanks to the Giants of Harfang. Even the Narnians who had arrived during the night would not help to even things out.

He found himself wishing that he had waited to attack until Archenland responded.

"They have been there since dawn, Your Highness," Oreius said softly. "They seem to be waiting for something."

Peter reflected with irony that the White Witch certainly enjoyed her dramatic entrances.

Apparently, that something happened to be Peter, for suddenly a lone rider on a small pony descended from the Witch's side, galloping down into the valley.

The Narnian army spun to face this lone attacker, and one of the loyal minitors stepped forward to intercept the rider, but suddenly a voice rung out, "Parley!"

Peter and Oreius exchanged glances. Their situation was hopeless; they were terribly outnumbered. What could the White Witch be up to? She had no reason to negotiate with them.

Peter had a bad feeling about this.

The minitor moved back, allowing the pony through the ranks. It seemed to take an agonizingly long time for the rider to move to the front of the army, but when he finally stopped before Peter, the High King found himself wishing the minitor had run him through.

The dwarf, eerily familiar to the one that had beaten Edmund and stood before the Narnians to announce the White Witch to their camp, slid down from his horse and gave Peter a mocking bow.

He straightened, a stern smirk on his ugly features. He was a red dwarf, his long red beard reaching down to his ankles.

Peter's private guard, made up of mostly wolves, growled as one at the dwarf. He sighed inwardly at the thought that many of the wolves in his army would be fighting kin today.

He ignored them, eyes only for Peter. "I bring a message for the one who calls himself High King of Narnia, from her Majesty, the Queen of Narnia, Empress of the Lone Islands, -"

Peter sighed, stepping forward with his hand resting on the hilt of Rhindon. "What is it?" he interrupted, before the Witch could try and claim any more of his lands.

The dwarf drew himself up to his full height, reaching to Peter's waist, and began to recite, a cocky grin splitting his mouth as he spoke.

"The Queen of Narnia wishes a parley with the one who calls himself High King Peter, for the chance to end all of this with as little bloodshed as possible. You can see-" he gestured to the two armies surrounding them- "that it is in your best interest to do so."

ǁ

When Lucy woke up, she was lying on something hard and cold. For a moment, she thought she had returned to Cair and perhaps fallen asleep on the ivory bench in her favorite garden.

Then she opened her eyes and realized the situation was far more serious than that.

She was lying in the middle of Jadis' ice castle, probably in the dungeons, although she had never been to them before so she couldn't be sure. Her hands were chained behind her back, pressing into the solid ice, but her feet were free. It was cold, far too cold for the clothes she was wearing.

The White Witch was standing above her, smiling in a way that almost seemed manic. Her eyes followed Lucy's every movement with something like glee. Lucy wondered absently if Edmund's nightmares were like this; the Witch looming over him, smiling in victory.

She decided then that she would not allow this Witch victory.

Speaking of Edmund, where was he? She glanced around the dungeon, but he was nowhere to be found. The thought terrified her. Perhaps he was already dead. No, she couldn't think like that.

"Little Lucy the Valiant," Jadis pronounced, still grinning. "The one who started it all. Oh, I was almost tempted to kill you when they brought you here. It would have been fitting. The sibling who unites them all, dead at my hand."

Lucy glared up at her, feeling vulnerable lying on her back on the floor while the woman who had caused Narnia so much pain towered above her. She refused to respond to the taunts. Forcing herself to sit up, Lucy rubbed at her wrists, wincing when the movement stung.

Her hair had fallen out of the tie she had it in earlier, some of it falling in front of her face.

"But I suppose I shall have to have patience for that, as with your dear brother," the White Witch continued, not at all bothered by Lucy's silence. "After all, I shall not have to wait long."

"Aslan will never let you win!" Lucy bit out confidently, the name of the lion causing her to feel slightly empowered. The Witch didn't seem as terrifying as she had when Lucy was nine now.

The White Witch's reaction to the lion's name was enough to make Lucy feel even more confident.

"Do not utter that name in my presence!" she hissed, leaning over Lucy, face twisting with rage. Her hand was itching for her wand, but for some reason, she didn't have it with her. Red blotches stuck out on her porcelain neck. Then, slowly, she calmed until her face had that creepy smile once more.

"He cannot help you, child. Not this time. Narnia is mine. He knows this, or he would have come to your rescue already." She turned on her heel and started for the door.

Lucy was not going to let her get away that easily. "Aslan would never abandon us. What have you done with my brother?" she shouted after the Witch.

Slowly, Jadis turned around in the doorway. "Ah, I was wondering when you would ask." A frown now, her brows knitting together. "These are the dungeons. He is nearby. You didn't think I would leave you together?"

Lucy was just glad that he was still alive, unless...unless the Witch was lying to her. She had to know. She had to see him again, to know he was all right before...whatever the Witch had planned for them. "I want to see him."

The Witch laughed, a musical sound that chilled Lucy to the core. "Patience, child. You will see each other soon, but not quite yet."

"No!" Lucy shouted, causing herself to flinch at how loud it sounded in the echoing room. Even the Witch seemed surprised. "No, I want to see him now. How do I know you haven't already killed him?"

The White Witch smirked. "I suppose you shall just have to trust me, child."

In hindsight, Lucy would have laughed if her situation was not so desperate. "Please, let me see him."

The White Witch studied her for a moment, her eyes seeming to bore into the Valiant Queen's soul. "And what will you give me in return?"

The youngest Queen of Narnia chewed on her lower lip, deliberating.

She was a prisoner in the White Witch's castle, and she assumed the Witch had searched her before she woke up.

Rubbing her leather boots together and wondering why the Witch had allowed her to keep even those, she realized that Susan's magical horn was gone. Her dagger, she remembered, had been flung from her hand during the attack. There was nothing she had that the Witch would want, or she figured the woman would have taken it already.

ǁ

Edmund moaned, sagging even further against his chains. It was getting harder and harder to stand up. His legs had grown weak long ago, his knees giving out. Everything ached, but it was a dull sort of aching. He had gotten past the initial pain and he thought maybe he was dying and that was why everything felt so strange.

The Turkish Delight lay untouched on the floor beside him, just out of his reach, where he had kicked it. He was afraid. Afraid the temptation to keep from starving to death would be too strong and he would succumb.

For some reason that he didn't remember, he couldn't eat the Turkish Delight.

Oh, yes, that was it. It represented something horrible, and it would only make him crave more until he did foolish things for it. He remembered that now.

Sighing, Edmund leaned as far as he could against the wall to allow his shaking limbs some respite. There had been no more offers of food after the Turkish Delight came, but there had been no more pain, either, and for that he was glad.

At least now the Witch was leaving him alone.

As if on cue, the door to the dungeons slid open ominously, invading his thoughts. He panicked, sliding back until he could feel his spine grinding into the ice wall behind him. There was no where else to go. He was as far away from the doors as he could get stuck in these chains, but that small distance would not keep him from the Witch for very long.

He squeezed his eyes shut in horrified anticipation, not able to bear the thought of facing the White Witch again. He had tried to stay strong these past few days-weeks?-for Peter's sake, but it was getting harder and harder every time he closed his eyes and dreamed.

Suddenly there was a hand, wrapping around his bare shoulders and pulling him against a warm body. In response, as if his body had just then realized it was cold, he began shivering uncontrollably. Whoever it was offering him their warmth, their comfort, made small crooning sounds and rubbed his upper arms, trying to warm him.

It struck him then that no agent of the Witch would bother to be so gentle.

Warily opening his eyes, knowing this could only be another trick of the Witch to wear him down for...what, he wasn't exactly sure, he glanced up blearily at his new companion in these dungeons.

An angel sat before him, offering him a sad smile as she looked over his many injuries. Her eyes were wide, but that was all of her face that he could make out in the cruel light that had recently invaded the dungeons. There was light, all around her face, a warm, kind light that nonetheless hid her identity from him. He squinted at this being, wondering how this could be real.

He knew the light likely had more to do with his distended stomach and burning back than the fact that she may have been an angel come to rescue him, but it didn't matter to him anymore.

Then the light around her face faded and he found that he recognized this angel. In a horse, cracked voice he whispered, "Lucy?"

He heard her voice as if for the first time then, a voice he had never expected to hear again, a voice that couldn't possibly be real. "Edmund? Are...can you hear me?"

For a moment, his lips wouldn't move, his tongue wouldn't work. He blinked rapidly at her for a few seconds, trying to decide whether or not she was real, then repeated, "Lucy?"

"Oh, Ed!" Lucy fell to her knees on the rock hard ice in front of him, throwing her arms around him and bursting into tears. Her shoulders began shaking and some of her hair fell in face, blinding him and getting in his mouth.

He didn't know how she was here, but her touch was gentle and warm, unlike anything he had become accustomed to ever since the beginning of his imprisonment, and he craved it.

If it was a dream, it was a vast improvement from the nightmares that had been plaguing him, and he didn't mind.

He felt tears filling his eyes, and had he been able to see past her long hair, everything would have still been blurry. Edmund ran a hand through that beautiful, soft hair, twisting his bloodied fingers around each strand that he could reach and fighting back the dry sobs creeping up his throat.

But why was she here? How was she here? Had she come to rescue him? He noticed that her hands weren't even bound. That made no sense.

Finally pulling back, Lucy offered him a watery smile. She rested her hands on his shoulders, unable to let go of him. He took the chance to look her over and knew she was evaluating him in that moment as well.

She wasn't dying or near to it, as she always was in his dreams. Her hair was a fantastic mess and her clothes were ripped but not bloody. That alone relieved Edmund immensely. There was a bit of dirt and blood smudging her forehead, and he frowned at that, lifting a manacled wrist to it. She flinched away at the unexpected pain this caused her, but forced on a smile in the next moment.

As for his sister, the sight of her older brother horrified her, and she found herself wishing she still had her dagger, so she could run the Witch through. It was a rather horrible thought, and, despite everything the Witch had done she regretted it as instantly as she thought it, but the idea wouldn't leave her.

She evaluated him from a healer's perspective, knowing that she could not look upon him as a sister without gagging at how badly he was hurt.

Edmund was skin and bones. She barely recognized him but for the dark mop of hair on his head and those haunted brown eyes, looking as they usually did the morning after a particularly bad nightmare. There were bruises and cuts all over him, and, as her hands slid down his back, she could feel the raised flesh there, evidence of a beating. He wasn't wearing a tunic, and she could count every one of his ribs through his skin. His hands were held back by sharp metal manacles, chafing the skin around his wrists.

A dry sob caught in her throat, and she hugged her brother tighter, closing her eyes.

"Lucy," Edmund repeated hoarsely, his voice sounding harsh and cracked to his own ears. He couldn't remember the last time he had spoken without screaming soon after. "You're alive."

She hadn't been, in his last dream. He knew dreams didn't usually follow a particular pattern, so it didn't make sense to believe that this one would have anything to do with the last, but he couldn't help the thought. She had died so many times since he'd fallen asleep.

He was beginning to wonder how it was possible that she was alive in this dream. Unless it was just another cruel nightmare, and she would be ripped away and stabbed to death at any moment...

Lucy lifted her left hand to wipe at her eyes, sniffing as she did so, and then touched his cheek, frowning at how thin he was. The touch yanked Edmund back to the present. "I'm alive! You're alive!"

Edmund didn't respond, just leaned against her, looking exhausted.

"What has she done to you?" She rubbed her thumb along his jawline, and he flinched at even that small contact, for everything ached.

Lucy made a soft crooning sound, not wanting to pull away from him but cramping at the awkward position. His hands reached desperately for her, his movements almost frantic, and then dropped back down once more with an expression of defeat.

"I knew it was only a dream," he whispered brokenly. "It's not really you, is it?"

Lucy gasped, confusion wrinkling her forehead. "Of course it's me, Ed! Of course it is." She reached forward, resting a hand on his shackled wrist in comfort. "You're alright now." She knew it was a lie, but she couldn't tell if he was lucid enough at this point to see through her words. "I'm here; everything's all right."

Edmund leaned against her, resting his head on her shoulder as she moved closer, and closed his eyes with a relieved sigh. Lucy ran a hand through his raven hair, knowing it was something Peter always did after Edmund awoke from a nightmare to calm him.

Only this was much worse than a simple nightmare disturbing Edmund's sleep. Still, the feel of her hand in his hair seemed to slow down his panicked breathing, if only a little.

"It's all right, Ed," she whispered, feeling tears brimming in her eyes as she now saw the full extent of the damages to Edmund's back. Inflicted by a whip. The thought sickened her as she remembered a time when Edmund had been bothered to talk about what had happened to him while with the Witch.

That was when she saw the Turkish Delight, lying just to the right of Edmund, still and untouched on the ice. Anger rushed through her at the sight of it, and it was all she could do not to tense and therefore worry Edmund. The Witch had done this on purpose, though, for what purpose, innocent Lucy could not fathom.

Edmund let out a whimper then, and it was so unlike Edmund not to try and act strong in front of Lucy especially, even when under the worst imaginable pain, that Lucy frowned in fear, glancing up and meeting his dark eyes. Somehow, those eyes seemed to have gotten older and even more hooded in the time the siblings had been separated.

"Don't be frightened, Ed," she whispered, saying the first words that came to mind. "Peter's coming for us," she leaned closer, just in case the Witch was outside eavesdropping, though she had no doubt the Witch already knew what she was going to say. "He has an army right outside. And Aslan will rescue us soon. We need only wait for one of them to make the first move."

Looking over her undoubtedly broken brother, Lucy felt the first pangs of doubt. There were black bags underneath Edmund's eyes, reaching down to his too-gaunt cheekbones. Blood marred the side of his throat.

How could Aslan have allowed the Just King to go through such pain, sitting by and doing nothing?

No, Aslan always had a plan. He was there for them; he would ensure that all this did not go unavenged. They need only have patience, as she had tried to warn her siblings.

"Brave words," a tauntingly amused and at the same time cold voice interrupted their little reunion, and what little blood was still there rushed from Edmund's face at the sound. The unconscious reaction was awarded a lilting laugh. "Did you miss me, Edmund? Or were you beginning to believe the little Queen?"

Before Lucy could understand what was happening, she was roughly shoved away by her brother. She found herself falling backward and landing on her backside on the ice while Edmund pulled back against the wall as far as he could go, huddling against it and quivering in fear. Lucy tried to rise, tried to reassure him, but suddenly found herself unable to move.

"I knew it!" Edmund hissed, glaring at her like she was some sort of vile fiend. He did not even glance at the White Witch as she strode gracefully into the dungeons, her white gown sweeping around her feet. There was a blood red grin fixed on her face, a grin that froze Lucy to the core.

"Edmund, what-?"

"I knew you were only a dream," Edmund repeated softly, chanting it like a mantra. It was his only thing left to hold onto. She was only a dream, and now the Witch was going to kill her as she always did but that was all right because the Lucy in front of him was only a dream. The real Lucy was somewhere safe, somewhere far from here, with Peter and Susan...

Peter. Soon, he would wake up from this horrific, never-ending nightmare and Peter would be there to assure him that none of it was real.

The Witch stepped up behind Lucy, and Edmund found himself wishing Peter would wake him up quickly.

The look of horror on Lucy's face made him hesitate in his conclusions for only a moment, but then he shoved himself further against the wall and wished for once that he could be buried inside that ice, so that he did not have to go through this again.

"Edmund, I'm not a dream," she said softly, her voice warm like honey, but he didn't believe her for an instant. "Listen to me, Ed, this is real! I'm real! Whatever the Witch has done to you..." she sounded a bit more panicked now.

Horrified by her words, Edmund lifted his shackled hands to cover his ears. Lucy's eyes widened even further, and he found himself sending a thousand apologies to this dream-Lucy.

"None of this was my doing, little Daughter of Eve," the Witch simpered with a wicked smile, trotting forward until she stood next to Edmund. A hand reached out and touched his head, and Edmund let out another terrified whimper, jerking away. His hands slowly came away from his ears, though.

The Witch laughed. "Well, some of it was. The physical pain. Nay, this madness is all his own doing, though I wish I could take credit for it. I suppose, in a small way, I can. The mind is such a...powerful thing. Isn't it, my little prince?" She reached down and picked up the plate of Turkish Delight, holding it out to him temptingly.

Edmund paled, shrinking away from her.

The Witch laughed and allowed him his space. "As touching as this little...reunion was, I am afraid I cannot allow it to last," she said, turning back to Lucy. "I have pressing matters, after all."

Lucy glared at her, wondering what Father Christmas would think of her intentions if she had her dagger in that moment. "You said-,"

The Witch shrugged, still grinning. "I'm afraid your dear older brother is due to arrive any moment now, little Queen, and as much as I would love to allow this to continue-," she motioned towards the now shaking Edmund, "I'm afraid he will not wait, and will likely insist upon seeing you."

Lucy eyed the Witch with confusion and distrust. Her earlier words finally sunk in, and the Valiant Queen paled. "What manner of business do you have with the High King?"

The White Witch bristled at that title. "I am going to offer him a choice that will change Narnia forever. But don't worry," a sudden smile twisted her features. "You'll both be there for the main event. You will hear all about it then."

The door opened and two large ogres came in, carrying axes. Lucy paled. In a moment, she found her hands bound behind her back and she was dragged to her feet. Then one of the ogres stepped towards Edmund, and, lifting his ax, broke Edmund's chains.

The Just King whimpered at the ax came perilously close to his skin, but then his chains were chopped in half. A small length of chain hung from each wrist and each ankle, but he was, mostly, free.

Lucy knew better, though. Edmund was in no shape to try and run. He didn't even look like he was capable of standing on his own.

The White Witch gestured to the door of the dungeons. "Shall we?" she smiled at Lucy.