Warning: This chapter is rather...dark. Just remember; this is not the end.

A/N: Happy Thanksgiving! Because I took so long with this, I've made this chapter longer than usual. The next chapter should be up soon; I'm not so cruel to leave you with this cliffie. Oh, and please don't kill me. Let me know what you think of the flashback, and of my portrayal of Aslan. I think that's what took me so long with this chapter.

Chapter 16

The White Witch's army was failing against the superior forces of Loyal Narnia and Archenland. She had not counted on Archenland coming to the little usurper king's aid, as they had never done so in the past that she could remember, (they had certainly never come to hers, not that she had ever needed them or thought that they would,) but it no longer mattered.

Despite appearances, things were finally turning in her favor. By morning, Narnia would most certainly be hers.

For, though her castle was no doubt lost to the little king, along with everything in it, it was irrelevant. She had what she wanted.

The White Witch glanced back at the bound and gagged Edmund, being dragged along by another faithful hag, her replacement after the last was killed by that little king, and a wolf. She knew that this same wolf had brought the last human boy to her, murdered so that she might live, and something about that was so...poetic, that she could not pass up the chance to use him again, for the same purposes.

And this time, she would not let the chance to kill the boy escape her again. This time, Edmund would die on the Stone Table like the traitor that he was. And she would make sure that he died this time.

It had been a mistake not to do so the last time, at the Battle of Beruna, or with any of the chances she had before then. If she had just killed him when she met him, in the Western Woods, all of this could have been avoided. The prophecy would ended and her reign would have lasted a thousand years. It had been her own pride, her wish to show Aslan and the Emperor over the Sea that she had been the one to raise the knife, against the Lion himself, that had led to her downfall.

This time, the Witch would make sure that nothing could help the little brat now. Smirking, she patted the pocket where she had placed the magic horn that the little Valiant Queen had brought with her. Foolish child.

She had given the healing cordial back to the little queen, simply to make sure that, by some terrible twist of fate, it did not come into the possession of anyone who might be able to help Edmund. The little queen would not be alive for very much longer, and she doubted that, judging by the axe that her minotaur held so close to Lucy's neck, her siblings would wish to dig through her remains to retrieve it.

And, perhaps it had been a taunt to the girl, who held entirely too much faith in that Lion to save them.

The horn, though, she had taken with her. She would take no further chances.

The White Witch glanced back at Edmund once more, her eyes dancing with mirth as he stumbled over a root and tripped, sprawling to the ground. He looked so fragile now, so weak after such a small time in her dungeons, that she was almost disappointed after waiting so long for this.

His head knocked against a rock as he fell, and the Just King grunted in pain, unable to make any other noise past the gag, as a trickle of blood erupted from his right temple, running down his cheek and staining his jaw. He lay still, not bothering to move, as if that alone would spare him what was to come.

And he had to know what was coming. He had cheated her, Death, for far too long. All traitors belonged to the Witch, after all, and in turn, she gave them to Death. It was an arrangement that Jadis had almost come to enjoy over the years.

The wolf bent down and grabbed the back of Edmund's tunic with his teeth, yanking the little king back to his feet. Edmund cried out around the dirty rag stuffed between his teeth as he was made to stumble along the dirt path once more. The hag began prodding him with long, filthy fingernails, cackling as they marched.

There were not many of them here. Jadis was afraid she could not spare many, or the little usurper king would become suspicious, and so she had only taken those necessary to help with the boy and a few that she had wanted as witnesses.

Oh, vengeance was sweet.

She would have preferred the traitor king not half-dead, but then, one had to do with what they had. Actually, she would have loved to take the other Son of Adam as well, but after that stunt that the Lion had pulled on the Stone Table, she wasn't sure it would still have worked. After all, he was not a traitor.

No, this was as it should be. Edmund, the traitor king, would die this night, and the next, Jadis, Queen of Narnia, would be sitting upon a throne in Cair Paravel itself.

"Keep moving," she hissed at the creatures dragging Edmund along. "We must reach the Stone Table by nightfall or all will be lost."

The Witch's castle was theirs by nightfall. King Lune and Oreius were at the head of the charge, Archenland soldiers and Narnians at their back. The eagles were sent ahead, carrying soldiers to be dropped down behind enemy lines while the dwarves, moles, and wolves that were faithful to the Kings and Queens were hard at work, digging tunnels below the fortress.

Frankly, Peter was surprised the castle had fallen so easily. The Witch's power had grown alarmingly ever since her return. As the Witch had hidden inside all day, and not facing them in battle, he would have thought she would do a better job protecting it. It seemed the spells she had used to make it invisible to Narnia's scouts could not help her in protecting it from attack.

Thank Aslan for small favors.

He reached for the bow and arrows strapped to his shoulder, for now ignoring Rhindon, and the slight shift in weight caused a wave of nausea to rush through him. The High King gritted hiss teeth. Indeed, Oreius had not been happy that Peter wished to ride an eagle at all, but had not tried to sway him. Peter could not wait hours for the battering ram to break through the castle gates to find his sister. He needed to get in fast, and this was the fastest way he knew how.

It was not the first time he had ridden on the back of an eagle into battle, and he knew that it was a great honor to do so, but he had never taken to it as Edmund, or even Lucy, had. Being this high in the air made him feel as though his stomach was still stranded on the ground far below.

But the sight of his little brother, beaten and covered in blood, frostbitten and shivering, had convinced Peter of the need to find Lucy now. He had never seen Edmund so shattered by something that had happened to him, not even when he was kidnapped by giants and used for weeks on end as a way to ease their boredom.

Peter was not just angry over what his brother had suffered at the Witch's hands; he was livid.

And he swore to himself, holding Edmund and whispering assurances that he was sure the other boy didn't hear, that he would not allow the same thing to happen to Lucy.

Edmund and Lucy. He knew he could not allow himself to think of them now, not in the heat of battle where he needed to keep his head. Indeed, that was a lesson that Oreius and Edmund had attempted to instill in him many times. Pity he had never been much of a good listener. And, despite what they constantly told him, that emotions only got in the way when one took up a sword, Peter could not bring himself to put them aside, much as he often wanted to.

Edmund didn't see the reasoning behind that, but then, he was Edmund. The Just King, who fought as if he was the sword itself, movements like water, all emotions packed tightly away until the last enemy was down. Only then did he cease to be the lethal machine Peter had gotten used to over the years and become Edmund once more.

That was why Edmund's condition terrified his older brother so badly.

Peter was not like his brother in that way. Ever since the first time he had picked up a sword to defend his sisters against the wolves, it had been his emotions that guided him. He was a hot head, as Susan and Lucy were always reminding him, constantly trying to change that fact. Edmund had given up on trying long ago, perhaps before they had even entered Narnia.

And it was anger that caused the first arrow from Peter's bow to hit its mark; a Fell porcupine acting as a scout for the castle. It stood outside, crossbow drawn, but Peter did not give the creature the opportunity to shoot. He thought of Edmund, huddled on the ground, shivering as he clung to Peter. Of Lucy, locked away somewhere inside this horrible place, and he shot.

The other eagles, each carrying skilled archers and other fighters, navigated their way through a rain of arrows, many dislodging their own in the mean time, but just as many finding themselves shot down by the dwarfish archers the Witch kept safely within her walls. As they fell through the air, Peter's eyes followed them to where he could see Oreius leading a group of men to the gates of the castle, dragging along a battering ram.

The porcupine fell to the cold floor of the tower roof, blood splattering on blue ice, and Peter could not help the thrill of satisfaction, the feeling of justice, that coursed through him at the sight of blood-and not Edmund's or Lucy's, but a Fell Creature-hitting that ice.

Edmund would have called it revenge, not justice, that tainted Peter's thoughts.

The bow was not his weapon of choice; Susan would have been the far better candidate, but she had seemingly disappeared during the battle, and it was only later that Peter learned she had gone off to be with Edmund from one of the soldiers who had been to see the healers. For a moment, he was jealous of her, jealous that she could be with his little brother while he must fight a war, but he knew that wasn't fair.

All the same, regardless of the fact that most of his time was spent sparring with a sword, and not a bow, Peter was not unskilled when it came to archery. Susan had insisted he learn a few years ago, and now he was thankful.

The eagle beneath him, by the name of Fucius, shuddered, his whole body trembling in disgust and horror, and Peter looked down, ignoring the way his stomach seemed to leap into his mouth at the movement, to see what had troubled Fucius so.

They had passed beyond the castle gates by now, having miraculously made it past the dwarven archers inside unscathed despite the fact that many of Fucius' brothers had fallen. And the sight of the stone statues littered across the front courtyard of the castle saddened the High King, for he knew that Aslan had once cleared this place of all the Witch's victims. That she had made this many more so quickly...

The statues all stood in mock salute, facing the closed gates of the Witch's castle with longing, if a statue could be described in such a way, as if waiting for someone to come and rescue them.

And Peter couldn't help wondering if Lucy was among these statues now. He didn't dare look at them too long.

"Hurry, Fucius," Peter ordered the eagle, not liking the way his voice cracked with the words. Pulling out another arrow, he spotted yet another dwarf, weapon aimed toward Eslania, an eagle that Edmund had become particularly close with over the years, in the courtyard. All the same, he didn't think Fucius was close enough for him to take the shot. Peter closed one eye as he aimed, remembering Susan's constant instructions about using a bow clearly in his head.

"You must be able to feel the target, Peter, not only see it. You have to sense the life you are about to take, to know where it is even blinded. Far too often the eyes deceive."

The arrow soared from his hands, reminding him of the bird set loose during the Battle of Beruna, the one that caused a line of fire to divide the two armies for a brief moment, before the Witch destroyed it with her ice. But this one did not turn into a firebird. It remained an arrow even as it slammed into the dwarf's chest, just above his heart, and he lost his balance, falling back against one of the stone statues and crushing it under his superior weight.

Eslania flew on, oblivious to the danger she had so narrowly escaped.

"Let me down," Peter ordered suddenly, slipping his left leg off the eagle already.

Fucius blinked at him, golden eyes twinkling with worry. "Yes, my liege," and the eagle dropped abruptly, turning straight down, falling through the air at a break neck speed. Peter clung to the eagle, vaguely remembering having faced these heights only once before.

Edmund had laughed at Peter's discomfort the entire time, hands flying out in either direction while Peter's knuckles turned white from the grip he had on that eagle's feathers. Edmund loved to fly.

Peter slid off Fucius, bow discarded, draped over the eagle's back, and Rhindon in hand, only when the eagle was close enough to the icy ground that he would not break a bone if he did so. His boots hit the ground with a loud thud, and he grimaced upon the impact, but grimaced even more so when he realized he was surrounded on all sides by the statues.

The sight of the statues did not affect him as they would have Edmund, Lucy, or even Susan. Mr. Tumnus, frozen with such a look of misery on his face that Lucy had begun crying at the sight of him, had had an impact on them all, he knew. And Peter had only seen the Witch's handiwork during the Battle of Beruna and when the Calormen boy was brought to Cair, not so very long ago.

Fucius was gone by the time Peter turned around, having returned to the sky with silent, elegant wings barely moving. Elsania flew down a moment later, depositing a Narnian dwarf who was good at the bow, and had trained under Susan. The dwarf glanced around suspiciously before letting his arrows fly.

It was then that Peter remembered the battle around him, and did an about-turn, checking his surroundings. The Witch's guards that had been left within the Castle were quickly circling them, faces twisted maliciously.

He grimaced. Fighting the Fell Creatures was always difficult, and not because they were any more or less skilled than giants or Calormene soldiers, but because they were so difficult to tell apart from the Loyal Narnians. It was not as if a specific group of Narnians made up the Fell while the rest were Loyal- plenty of wolves and dwarves had turned from the Witch when the Golden Age began. Just as plenty of those whom Peter would never have suspected to be Fell had joined the Witch's exiled followers.

And now, watching dwarf fight against dwarf, Peter felt a sudden sadness, that it had come to this. Brother fighting against brother.

He had been the one to give the order that every Fell Creature was to be killed on sight, not captured, though it had pained him to do so, knowing what a threat they would be if they were allowed to live. He felt immeasurable guilt about it now, seeing creatures he was supposed to be protecting, even if they had turned against he and his siblings, die.

One of the eagles was suddenly hit by the stray arrow of a Fell minotaur's crossbow, slamming into the ice with an impact large enough to cause the ground to shake. The dwarf beside Peter made quick work of the minotaur who had caused the eagle's demise, even as the rest of the fighters-Archenland archers and swordsmen alongside Narnians-were deposited into the courtyard, dropping from their carriers with ease.

A harpy was suddenly flying towards him, out one of the open windows of the castle. It gave a screeching yell as it descended, and Peter regretted leaving his bow and arrows with Fucius. Yanking Rhindon up in defense, he slashed at the creature, but the angry harpy moved out of the way at the last moment, taunting Peter with a leering grin.

Then he attacked again, swooping down in the High King swiftly, and Peter just managed to duck before the claws of the Fell Creature would have embedded themselves in Peter's neck.

The harpy let out a scream of rage, catapulting himself towards Peter once more, but this time, Peter was ready for him. Rhindon sliced through the air, and the head of the harpy slammed into the snow, body quickly following, blood splattering across Peter and the statues standing nearby. The harpy's soulless eyes stared up at Peter, and he could almost imagine that he still felt the anger in their depths.

Peter did not waste a moment longer. "Find Queen Lucy!" he shouted to the large group, over the sound of flapping wings and stinging arrows. "And find the Witch! Her being loose is a danger to us all!"

He did not have much of a plan beyond that. He was vaguely aware of being gathered along with the generals, Oreius, and King Lune to make battle plans, but his thoughts were a mess, focused only on his siblings. Even so, he remembered enough to know there had been no finalized plan for destroying the Witch herself; only her army, and taking her castle.

To be honest, he wasn't sure if there was a way to destroy the Witch. Aslan had been the one to do so in the past, not him, and he knew that he would have died by her hand that day if it had not been for the Lion. Killing her now, without Aslan there to help, seemed like an impossible task now that he thought of it.

It was the first time he had thought of Aslan in a long time, and it rather surprised him. He had been so quick to give up on Aslan earlier, to claim that he had abandoned them after the Witch returned and Edmund was taken, but perhaps he had been wrong to do so.

The Lion had never abandoned them before, and it would certainly be strange for him to do so now. He had only to trust, with Lucy's unshakable faith, that Aslan would come, even if he had not come so far, in this time of desperate need for him.

If he did not, Peter wasn't sure they would live through the week.

The fighters divided into six groups of three, a small task force but Peter did not want to risk more sneaking into the Witch's castle. Besides, there had been twenty-six of them when they started out, only to be shot down by the Witch's archers.

A ram and an Archenlander followed Peter, silent as they trekked into the castle itself. They met with a few soldiers along the way, all of which Peter either dispatched with Rhindon, or the ram and Archenlander dispatched with their crossbows. Luckily, despite the archers in the courtyard, no alarm seemed to have alerted the rest of the castle to their presence. If they had been alerted, he would not have seen the looks of shock on each face of the Fell as they came into contact with him. Peter found this highly suspicious, if the Witch was here, and stayed on his guard.

It could very well be a trap.

The Witch's castle was not a well-known place, and, indeed, had been built like a fortress, but they had enough Narnians who had turned after the Witch's first defeat to have learned the basic outline of the castle.

He figured Lucy would have been moved to the dungeons, if the Witch wanted to keep her from being rescued. However, he also doubted the Witch would leave the throne room, where she could easily give orders, and he further doubted that she would let the young queen from her sight. And so the groups were divided, with the other three groups setting out to lock the castle down as quickly as possible while one group hurried to the dungeon.

Peter's group and the last group headed to the throne room first. Even if Lucy were down in the dungeons, he could not send his men to face the Witch alone. Oreius and King Lune had been quite reluctant when he announced during the planning that this was his intention.

The ram walked confidently behind him, crossbow pressed against his shoulder and neck as he waited for another target to appear. The Archenlander walked before him, not entirely sure where he was going but under strict orders to do anything necessary to protect the High King of Narnia. If a Fell Creature rounded the corner and took a shot before he could be taken care of, the Archenlander insisted on going first, so that the arrow would hit him and not Peter.

The second group, which consisted of a centaur, a hedgehog, and a fox, trudged along in silence behind them.

"When we reach the throne room, if the Queen is there, the two of you will get her out of the castle if possible," Peter ordered suddenly, hand still clenching tightly to the hilt of Rhindon.

The ram and Archenlander glanced at him in surprise. "My lord," the Archenlander spoke up when the ram would not, "Then you will be left to face her with only three to protect you."

The centaur took a step forward, dipping his head. "My lord-"

Peter shook his head. "That is an order. I will stay behind and see to the White Witch."

A hesitant pause. "Yes, my lord."

The ram made quick work of the guard outside the throne room while Peter and the rest made sure no one was following them.

The throne room looked marginally different from when Peter had seen it last, merely hours ago. It appeared even more majestic, icicles hanging down from the walls and ceiling like some rich décor, and the floor was so thick one could no longer see the scuff marks that had been left by the resulting battle when Oreius came to fetch them from the Witch's deals.

"Aslan have mercy," Peter whispered, for he knew that this meant only one thing. The Witch's strength was growing, and was farther along than it had ever been when she had plagued Narnia the first time Peter faced her.

Then he saw his sister, saw the minotaur looming over her, saw the blade of an axe inches from her neck, though she did not appear coherent enough to notice. And then, he saw a thing far stranger. One of the Fell Creatures, a black dwarf, dove between the axe and the youngest Queen of Narnia, taking her hands as the blade came down on him, rather than her.

And Peter ran.

Lucy leaned back against the ice wall behind her, sighing deeply and wishing she were at Dancing Lawn with the dryads, so beautiful this time of year. Even if it were an untimely winter, Dancing Lawn was always beautiful. The fawns playing their tunes, the dryads begging Edmund to dance with them when Lucy had already danced for hours, the joyful laughing and singing filling the night air.

Anywhere but here, really, would be nice. She was even beginning to miss Tashbaan, with its constant warm weather and...

She knew that it was her duty to at least attempt an escape from the Witch's castle, even if there was a rescue being planned for her. She was the Queen, and she owed it to her people not to be put into needless danger.

But she was finding it very difficult to come up with a plan of her own. Especially with the minotaur standing before her, glaring down at her with those beady black eyes, hefting his axe as though he would like nothing more than to behead her with it at this moment.

It had been like this for the last several hours, the only break from the monotony the sounds of war outside the castle. Lucy had not been able to figure out whether the sounds were good tidings or bad until about an hour ago, when she finally managed to learn, from studying the minotaur's almost impassive face, what they meant. Every hour or so, a harpy would fly into the throne room and give a report to the minotaur and the others standing guard, though always too quietly for Lucy to hear.

But she knew from the last report, from the look of fear that quickly passed the minotaur's face, that the Fell Creatures and the Witch were losing.

She could have cheered, if she were not afraid of that axe falling down on her neck if she did so.

She had been a prisoner of war once before, in Calormen, but it had been far more interesting than this. Simply sitting here, waiting. Waiting had never been something Lucy was very good at, as Susan was constantly reminding her.

Waiting and realizing all the incredibly stupid decisions she had made in the last several weeks, all of which now bore down on her, almost tauntingly, and far more terrifyingly, than the axe above her.

Lucy fingered the healing cordial in silence, holding it awkwardly between bound hands. She almost couldn't believe the White Witch had left it with her, but in the end, it was useless anyways, and perhaps the Witch had known that when she threw it back towards Lucy before leaving the castle to face the battle. Perhaps it had been a taunt, for Lucy had no need of the cordial now and it only reminded her how foolish she had been to bring it along. The wolves that had defended her so valiantly were dead, and the cordial would not heal them. And Edmund, wherever he was, could not use the cordial if it was still with Lucy.

Perhaps the Witch's way of saying that, if she lived, the cordial would be of no use to her, for the Witch was planning on killing everyone she loved anyway.

Yes, in the beginning she had brought the cordial because she thought that she would be able to find and rescue Edmund, and then heal whatever the Witch had done to him. But she should have known better, should have known that bringing the cordial with her and not keeping it with the army that was selflessly going to fight against the Witch was a foolish idea. Now Peter had Edmund safely away, or so she hoped, and he could very well still die from his wounds.

She could only hope that he would be all right until she reached him with the cordial.

She shifted against the wall, attempting to scoot away from the bodies of the dead wolves who had so valiantly tried to protect her. The minotaur growled a warning, turning to her once more.

"Stay put," he snapped.

Lucy froze, staring up at him and giving him the ghost of a smile. "I'm not going anywhere," she promised, but the minotaur only glared at her in response.

Then he grunted, turning from her once more to stand at attention in front of her. It was the most he had spoken to her so far, and she took it as a small victory. Better than dying of boredom and worry.

She noticed the wound on his right shoulder a few moments after that, a nasty looking injury from the small battle earlier, and the way he kept that shoulder slouched. Lucy glanced down at the cordial clutched tightly in her hands for a moment before coming to a decision and asking, "Does that hurt?" as she nodded towards his injury.

She wasn't sure what made her ask, as he was an enemy and very close to cleaving off her head. But the words were out before she could stop them, and something within her seemed to whisper that it was the right thing to do. She was a healer, after all, or, at least, becoming one, and couldn't stand to see someone in pain when she could put an end to it.

And maybe her worry for Edmund, her inability to do anything to help him, spurred the question. For she could not help Edmund, but perhaps she could help this creature.

The minotaur turned to her once more, the wound practically hidden under his fur when he faced her. "Does what hurt?" he demanded angrily, irritated that she was still talking.

Lucy nodded to his right shoulder once more, and he glanced down at it before grunting and starting to turn away from her.

"Wait!" she cried out, and he paused. "I could...heal you. That wound looks bad. With this," she held up the little bottle between bound wrists, red liquid sloshing inside.

The minotaur glared down at her, then at the cordial, and then back at her again. He stomped forward, heaving the axe over his uninjured shoulder, before demanding icily, "What is this?" he snatched the little bottle from her grip, and Lucy watched it go sadly, unable to stop him.

He stared at the cordial suspiciously, obviously finding it interesting enough to divert his attentions for a few moments. It was not yet time to kill the little Queen, after all. The White Witch had said she was to be killed if the castle was taken, and though the Fell Creatures were clearly losing, they had yet to lose the castle completely.

"It's a healing cordial," Lucy explained, finding it easier to speak than to be trapped in the oppressive silence of the throne room, surrounded by Fell Creatures who had orders to kill her. Speaking somehow made it seem less real, as though she were actually back at Beavers' Dam, safe and sound. "I got it from Father Christmas when my siblings and I first entered Narnia." She smiled at the memory. "One drop can heal any injury."

The minotaur lifted the cordial into the light, inspecting it silently. When he heard her words, he flinched as if the bottle scalded him. "This is the Lion's magic?"

Lucy blinked at him, noting how not even he would say the Lion's name. Did it affect them all then, and not just the Witch? "I...no. No, it's from Father Christmas." A pause. "It won't hurt you."

"I very much doubt that," the minotaur snapped, glowering at the cordial as if his gaze alone would destroy it. "Probably some poison that'll kill me if I drink it."

"It's not," Lucy insisted, wondering why she was even trying to explain this to one of the Witch's Fell. Peter wouldn't have understood it. The minotaur was an enemy, and she should not be befriending him.

But perhaps Edmund would have understood. The minotaur was huge and full of hate, ready to kill her at any moment, and yet Lucy could not bring herself to hate him. Indeed, it would have been the first time she was able to truly hate anyone, and all she felt for him in that moment was pity.

"Then why give it to an enemy?" the minotaur demanded, looming over her.

Lucy swallowed hard. "I...you need it. I thought..."

The minotaur grunted in disgust, tossing the cordial aside carelessly. Lucy let out a cry of indignation as the cordial fell from his fingers, watching it fall through the air and unable to do anything about it in her bound state.

One foolish decision after another, she thought with a sigh. She had only been trying to help him, this minotaur, where she could not help her brother.

It plummeted towards the ice floor, and she could almost see it slamming into the hard ice and shattering, the liquid inside splashing over everything within a certain radius. Lucy breathed a silent prayer, closing her eyes and waiting for the sound that would alert her to the fact that her gift from Father Christmas, arguably the most important of any of the gifts he had given her siblings, was destroyed.

That noise never came, and Lucy tentatively opened one eye.

The black dwarf who had stood guard by the Witch's throne stood between her and the minotaur, cordial held firmly in his left hand. The dwarf was favoring his left leg. He stared down at it with a look of dull curiosity and Lucy held her breath, waiting for him to get bored and cast it aside once more, as the minotaur had.

"It heals any injury?" he repeated dumbly, his voice lower than she would have expected, and Lucy could do nothing but nod. "Why did Her Majesty allow you to keep it then?"

"The Queen said not to speak with the prisoner," the minotaur spoke up suddenly, fully aware that he had spoken to her only a moment earlier but pretending he had just remembered the orders.

The dwarf ignored him, staring hard at Lucy, still waiting for an answer.

"I...don't know," she said, not wanting to explain what she really thought, not wanting to voice her own hopelessness. Aslan, where are you?

"What do you think you're doing?" one of the harpies hanging from the ceiling rasped out, flying down beside the black dwarf and glowering at him. "The minotaur's right. It probably is poison."

They stared at the healing cordial a beat longer, and then the dwarf was holding it out to her. Lucy blinked in surprise, meeting his gaze and startling at what she found there. "Then she'll drink it. This leg wound is giving me pain. If she gets better, then we'll know."

Lucy's hands shook for a reason she could not explain as she took the cordial and uncorked it, bringing the small bottle to her lips and wondering why she hesitated. Perhaps the White Witch had given her the bottle because she had...tainted it somehow.

She drank it anyway, not sensing anything to be wrong with her cordial, and immediately felt the many bruises and scrapes she had acquired during her time as a prisoner to the Witch-and before then, when she was in the forest with the mice-begin to fade and disappear altogether. She felt a renewed strength run through her, a heat filling her belly and expanding down her limbs.

It felt like a cool glass of water after crossing the desert.

She had felt the effects of the cordial many times before, despite Peter's constant warnings to use it sparingly, but each time was different, pleasant in its own way. Often, she would feel displaced for a moment, completely taken in by the effects of the fire-flower juice, and it would make her feel as though she had gone to some pleasant paradise, if only for a moment. This one made her think of summer and swimming in the ocean beside Cair Paravel with her siblings.

It was as if the weight of the last few weeks was gone, and Lucy breathed a small sigh of contentment, though it was short-lived. She was still a captive in the Witch's castle, the Witch's soldiers looming entirely too close to her for comfort, even if it was to see that she was better.

She had not bothered to heal the minor injuries before, when the Witch first handed over the cordial, even with the power of the cordial that could do so. Not when Edmund was out there somewhere, in so much more pain than she. What were a few bruises compared to the lashes Edmund had endured, the pain he even now suffered because she had taken the cordial?

"You see?" She looked up at the Fell Creatures with a smile, and then the black dwarf was ripping the cordial from her grip with a look of greedy glee.

The dwarf gave her a strange look, a look that she could not interpret, before popping off the lid of the cordial and lifting the little bottle to his lips.

"Easy," Lucy whispered. The other Fell Creatures were drawing closer, watching the dwarf as though they thought he would fall over dead at any second, despite the power they had just seen the cordial capable of. The minotaur's axe was now in hand, pointed towards Lucy in a clear threat, though now even he looked doubtful.

The change that came over the black dwarf after taking a gulp of her cordial was astonishing, even to Lucy, who had seen it a thousand times on a thousand different faces. He had not looked ill until the moment he sipped the cordial.

One moment, the dwarf was looking rather green, his body slightly hunched over but clearly not from any fatal injury, and the next, a bit of pink returned to his cheeks. His body straightened and he stood proudly, before reaching down to his leg and feeling it, eyes growing wide with wonder.

"My leg. It's...healed." He turned to Lucy with a look of shock, as if he had not quite believed her cordial capable of the abilities she boasted, despite having already tested them on the young queen, until this moment. "You healed me."

Lucy shook her head, unable to keep the smile from her features. Even if he was a Fell Creature, her heart was too kind to not feel happiness when the cordial worked. "It wasn't I. It was-"

The double doors to the throne room burst open before she could continue, and Lucy suddenly found herself thrown backwards, slamming against the solid ice she had previously been leaning against, letting out a pain-filled scream as agony ripped through her body from the force of the impact. It was a rather had impact, considering how close she was to the wall already.

She could feel wetness on her cheek, traveling down her chin and neck, and knew in that instant from the amount of pain coursing through her that her cheekbone had been shattered. The world was ringing in her ears, spinning uncontrollably despite the fact that her eyes were closed. White lights crisscrossed in Lucy's vision, and she gulped back a sob. The pain was unlike anything she had ever felt before, and her eyes filled almost instantly, after the shock of the moment abated.

Her left eye was sealed shut by the skin around it, though she attempted to open her right, and found that this did not help her in the least. She could not see past the tears welling there.

Lucy breathed a panicked sob once more at her sudden blindness and lifted bound hands to her cheek. She gently prodded at, instantly cringing at the pain this elicited, and removed her hand. But not before she felt the way her cheekbone crunched underneath her hands, seemingly split in two, and the terrible bruise just beginning to form on her jaw. She thought perhaps her nose had been broken by the blow, as well.

Lucy could remember a time when she had been in Archenland, helping care for the civilians that had gotten into a terrible skirmish with the Calormene army after a trade disagreement, and had seen a man, lying near death on the floor, face crushed. The bones on the entire left side of his face seemed nonexistent, the skin sagging horribly into his face.

When she had healed him, it had not appeared to be as kind as usual. The healing itself seemed to hurt the man, terribly, and he cried out until it was over, when he was whole once more.

She had no doubt that the same had happened to her.

Wonderful. And she had handed the cordial off to a Fell Creature. No matter what she thought, no matter that they had been impressed by her cordial's healing abilities, they cared very little for herself. And were the enemy.

Lucy could feel hot tears stinging her eyes, and she let out a small whimper, unable to hold it back despite her desire to do so, to not seem weak in this moment when she needed to be strong.

"Lucy!" she heard someone screaming her name, and tried to turn towards them, knowing that the voice sounded vaguely like Peter, but she could not see beyond her blurry eyes. Could see nothing but the blue and white of the Witch's castle, and perhaps a bit of the brown and black that formed the shape of a minotaur in front of her.

Then she felt the cold blade of something sharp touching her neck, and she froze. It was there for only an instant, and Lucy closed her eyes, preparing for the blow that would sever her head from the rest of her body, but, as with the shattering of the cordial, it never came.

A moment later, the cold blade was gone, and small, hairy hands were pressing the healing cordial into her own, still bound together, but the furry hands did nothing about this. No words passed between them, but then, no words were needed.

In the next second, the axe had found a new victim, and hot blood that was not her own drenched Lucy's clothes and skin. She knew at once that it belonged to the black dwarf that had been healed, who had, in a last act of defiance, given her back her cordial and, just maybe, saved her life. Perhaps he had not even realized that he was taking the blade for her, only thought that he was returning her cordial.

Lucy did not hesitate, popping off the top to the cordial and pressing the glass lid to her lips. Red liquid shot past her teeth and fire coursed through her belly, and she could feel her own blood, though not the dwarf's, beginning to disappear altogether, cuts and gashes closing up, her face repairing itself. She was right. It was painful, and she let out a few small gasps.

When she could properly see again, Peter was kneeling before her, the minotaur lying dead on the ice behind him. Peter pulled Rhindon from the minotaur's stomach, cutting Lucy's bonds. She threw her arms around his neck the moment her hands were free, clinging to him and drenching him in the dwarf's blood as well, but neither seemed to mind.

"I was so worried that I would be too late," Peter confessed softly in her ear, clutching her as tightly as Edmund had clutched him, only a few hours before. "That she would have..."

"I'm all right, Peter," Lucy whispered back, comfortingly. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I thought I saw-" he pulled back from the embrace then, lifting her chin so that he could get a good look at her. Lucy grinned, holding up the cordial he had yet to see in answer. Peter's eyes widened, and he gave her the ghost of a smile before standing once more, pulling the Valiant Queen to her feet.

The battle raging around them quickly tore brother and sister apart, but not before Peter pressed a dagger into Lucy's hands. It was not her dagger, as she had no idea where the weapon given to her by Father Christmas was now, presumably confiscated by the Witch along with Susan's horn, but it was enough for now.

It seemed that the Witch still had forces lying in wait, for, though the guards of the throne room had been quickly disposed of when Peter entered the room, more Fell Creatures replaced them.

Lucy managed to hold her own, plunging her dagger into the harpy who had protested the dwarf using the cordial, and feeling only the tiniest hint of guilt when she did so. Her thoughts focused on Edmund, on where he might be now, if Peter was here without him, on if he was all right. Peter had said nothing of him yet, and a terrible feeling was beginning to sit awkwardly at the pit of Lucy's stomach.

But then the sound that Peter had been waiting for was heard by all, and the remaining Fell Creatures quickly realized their mistake. For the gates of the White Witch's castle were broken by the battering ram that Peter had set Oreius in charge of, a loud crashing noise reverberating through the castle as the gates fell, and then the pounding of hooves and feet alike as the armies of Narnia and Archenland took the White Witch's castle.

The remaining Fell Creatures were quick to surrender. The Giants outside would not fight with the Witch so soundly defeated, not after their last battle alone against the High King of Narnia.

The battle was over. They had won.

Lucy dove into Peter's arms a moment later, and he scooped her off her feet, spinning the young queen around before setting her back down on the ice once more. She was laughing, and he almost wanted to join her, but something he couldn't quite place was holding him back.

"Your Majesty!" Oreius shouted above the din filling the Witch's throne room as he entered, surrounded by Narnians and standing alongside King Lune, who was frowning with a look of worry on his usually jovial features.

Peter glanced up, and, seeing the concern on their faces, realized suddenly what had clawed at the back of his mind, keeping him from feeling the celebration that Lucy so obviously felt.

He turned away from Lu then, turned towards the back of the throne room, where the remaining Fell Creatures were being bound and forced to stand in a highly guarded row. But he was looking beyond that, at the empty throne of the White Witch.

The other groups, sent to secure the castle and sent to the dungeons in case Lucy was there, returned then, and reported what Peter already knew.

The White Witch was not here. She had never been, nor had she been at the battle. And it was not in Jadis' nature to flee when she thought she could gain the upper hand.

Peter's eyes widened as he glanced around, never having thought he would be so desperate to get some glimpse of the White Witch. A terrible fear swept through him, and one word, a name, escaped his lips. "Edmund!"

Edmund was barely lucid as they dragged him forward, head hanging against his chest. He vaguely understood that the arms gripping his so tightly; the bodies pressing in around him, forcing his injured feet forward even as they stumbled over anything and everything in their path, were not friendly. He struggled weakly against them, making the tripping all the more likely, but somehow, even in his feverish state, he knew that escape would be near impossible.

Before he understood what he wanted to say, the word slipped between Edmund's teeth, "Stop..." He didn't think he would be able to go much farther.

Where was Peter? He remembered Peter, earlier, arms wrapped around him comfortingly, telling him that all would be well, that Peter would never let anything happen to Edmund again. So why wasn't he here? Had that just been a dream? A product of Edmund's imagination after so long alone in the Witch's dungeons? Was he going mad?

But no. He remembered Susan, too, her soft hands carding through his hair as they sat in a tent together, and then... He didn't know what then after that.

Through blistered lips, Edmund called out softly, in a voice between a whisper and a cry, "Peter..."

His muscles throbbed all over, his heart beating wildly in his chest as his body was forced into a near-jog in its dilapidated state. His back, covered in nasty scars, felt as though it were on fire. He couldn't feel his legs; only that whatever was below his waist hurt. It was also soaked; soaked through the boots he did not remember donning, and the pants that weren't even his, as his feet sludged through deep snow. He wanted to lie down and sleep for a long time in that welcoming snow, wanted to...

His thoughts ricocheted off each other in tired confusion, bearing down on him heavily. He could barely keep hold of one before another arrived and stole its place, unmerciful in its intensity.

The creatures who had captured his arms ignored the feverish pleas; if anything, they only pushed him forward faster, wicked intent in their yellow eyes.

Without warning, his left foot slammed into a heavy, slick stone, dislodging it and causing his knees to buckle. He could suddenly feel his legs again, though he wished they were still blissfully numb. His arms, still held firmly, were the only things holding him up at all.

Someone muttered a curse that Lucy would have blushed at, and then the heavy weights on his arms were gone. Edmund dropped to his knees in relief, body swaying forward like a leaf in the wind. He suspected it would not take much more than a small gust of wind at that moment to knock him over. He almost wished it would.

He bent until he could feel his sweaty, pale forehead pressed against the packed down snow below him, startled at how calming the feel of wet snow was in that moment. It had never felt so before, not since dealing with Her, and perhaps not even before then.

Though he had only just regained consciousness, the thought of sleep and rest was beautifully at the forefront of his mind, and the snow felt like a kind pillow.

"Get up, Son of Adam."

Edmund's eyes shot open. For he knew that voice, knew it well despite his inability to remember anything more of it than the fact that it was, somehow, the embodiment of pure evil.

The woman standing before him was beautiful and terrifying at once. His fevered mind quickly supplied a name for this being: the White Witch.

Edmund shied back in horror and she laughed; a musical, wretched sound that at the same time grated on his eardrums and soothed them.

He blinked at her, eyes still adjusting to the darkness.

The smile she rewarded him with was one made of ice. "So you are awake. Good. I had wanted you to witness these, your last moments."

Then rough, furry hands were hauling him to his feet once more. He ignored the way his knees locked at the prospect of standing and glanced around in a desperate attempt to find out where he was and how he had gotten there. The Witch's words hardly made sense to him until his fevered mind made the connection, and he gulped, his throat dry.

The Stone Table stood before them, only a few paces away, tall and proud, despite its cracked and vine-covered appearance, in the starry night sky. Overhead twinkled hundreds of beautiful, bright stars, and Edmund tried to focus on these rather than the harbinger of death looming before him. He had never been to the Stone Table at night, and the darkness added a decidedly terrifying aspect to the scene before him. And so he stared at the stars.

Unbidden, thoughts of Alambil, stories told him by Oreius and his brothers, entered his mind, and he wondered if she was watching over him from above.

He had only ever prayed to Aslan before, but in that moment, he sent desperate thoughts to the Lady of Peace.

For that was all he wanted: peace. Peace from all the fighting, from the torment of the White Witch. It didn't matter to him how that peace was received, only that he did receive it. For if this was a dream, then he wanted to wake and never be treated with such a nightmare again.

Unbeknownst to him, that peace would be granted soon enough. Or perhaps Edmund did know; knew more than he was willing to believe he did in that moment.

The White Witch eyed her prisoner in silence, and Edmund squirmed underneath that gaze, glancing away. Then came the soft command of, "Bind him."

It was all a dream. Only a dream. Soon enough, he would wake up, safe in Peter's arms, and everything would be fine. He would have peace. Peter would be there, and they would be in Cair Paravel, and Peter would tell him that everything was all right, that it was only another wretched nightmare. Because what else could it possibly be?

The bindings, where they cut into his arms and sides, felt all too real for this to be a simple dream.

Edmund swallowed hard as his captors, whom he now recognized as Fell Creatures, finished binding him and proceeded to drag him forward, towards that infernal, broken stone. He did not want this. He could not be here. He needed to run, to get out of here...

Edmund struggled against them as best he could, though he knew it was useless. A paw slapped his cheek, and he dug his heels into the snow, planting himself firmly.

The White Witch rolled her eyes. "We do not have the time for this," she snapped, and one of the Fell; a minotaur, picked him up, dragging Edmund forward and throwing him face down on the side of the now broken table that was still flat enough to hold him.

His face smashed against the cold stone, the rest of his body following soon after, and pain shot down Edmund's spine. His hair flew up into the air and smacked back down against his forehead. Rough, greasy hands manhandled him, pulling him to his knees and forcing his eyes towards the stars once more.

A scream wrenched its way past Edmund's throat, and he was surprised when he was not quickly punished for it. Turning so he could see the Witch, he realized why. She was smirking down at him, wand in hand, unconcerned by his scream. In fact, she even looked as though she were enjoying it immensely.

He did not dare look at her Fell, to see their reaction, for he knew it would be the same.

Bending down so that she was nearly at eye level with the young king, the Witch whispered, so that only he could hear, "There's no one to hear." Her pale hand ran through his hair, as Susan's had done not hours ago, a mockery. Had it been hours? Or years?

It took a moment for her words to sink in, exhausted and confused as he was. But when they did, his eyes widened in terror and, despite his bound hands, he managed to push away her mocking hand.

The White Witch's words made him cringe, blind with horror. Where was Peter? Where were the rest of his siblings? Why was there no one to hear him?

Had she killed them?

The thought was too difficult to bear, and Edmund pushed it aside in light of more pressing matters. Namely, the long, jagged knife the Witch now held in her left hand. The wand had disappeared, but this wasn't the same knife that had once killed Aslan.

Edmund swallowed hard. He shouldn't be afraid; he knew that. Nothing the Witch could do could harm him; he had learned that lesson long ago. Not even death, for though it might be painful-would most definitely be painful, he figured now- he would soon find himself in Aslan's country.

Edmund lifted his chin defiantly, and the Witch's eyebrows lifted in surprise at something she saw in his face. She took a step back, holding her knife out towards him as if he were the threat here.

He was a King of Narnia. He wasn't going to die like this, bound and at the mercy of the one who haunted his nightmares. He had to fight back. He had to defeat her, or he would wake up and suffer her the next night, and every night after.

Unless he was wrong, and this wasn't a dream. What, then?

"Why..." he whispered, the words seeping painfully past his swollen lips. She bent down to hear, a surprisingly gentle look on her face. "Why...didn't you just...kill me when you first...saw me in Narnia? Would have been...easier."

It was the question that had plagued him since she had killed Aslan upon the Stone Table. And if this was real, if it wasn't a dream, then he wanted to know the answer before she killed him this time.

The Witch answered anyway, knife roaming down his neck as if she were choosing the perfect place to stab him. He sucked in a breath as it pressed tightly against his jugular, the veins on his neck sticking out in an obvious display of the fear he tried so desperately to quench.

"It was a foolish mistake. At first, I could not understand why he would do such a thing. I would merely kill you in battle the next day, anyway, and he would no longer be there to protect you. But I did not think long on the matter. I thought that, if I killed him, nothing could stand in my way. Narnia would be mine. And perhaps the thought of killing him was too strong for me to ignore."

She looked almost sad as the knife ran down Edmund's chest, the crimson line trailing behind it making his skin even paler in the moonlight.

Her words made little sense to him as they seeped through his befuddled mind, a mind screaming for help, for Peter...She had Edmund at an unfair advantage. At least she knew what was going on here.

Hadn't he been safe in Susan's arms, in the Narnian camp? Surely, that proved that this was just a nightmare, and, with that in mind, he began his struggle with renewed fervor.

If this was a nightmare, then he was not truly injured, not here, though he might still be when he awoke. He could beat this.

"I underestimated the Deep Magic that night, and for that I paid a most terrible price. Just as you, Edmund, have underestimated it. Did you think you could escape your fate forever, Son of Adam? For this was always your destiny, from the moment you ate that Turkish Delight and promised me your siblings. It was your fault that Aslan died that night, on the Stone Table, and yet you were never punished. The time has come to rectify that."

Edmund stared at her through the haze that was slowly settling over his mind once again. The bonds at his wrists cut deeply, and he could feel blood beginning to trickle down into his palms as he considered her words, her accusation.

Once, her words might have rung true. Several years ago, he might have believed them. That he was the one in the wrong here, and that this was his restitution, however unwilling.

"You are a traitor, Edmund, and all traitors belong to me. It is long past the time for you to pay that price."

In truth, in a very small way, he had been punished, though it was truly a punishment of his own making, fueled by guilt. It was not for some time that he had realized how false his thoughts were, and how false the Witch's were now; until the third year of the Pevensies' reign in Narnia...

Lucy's crusade to convince Edmund to come with her to the Stone Table that year had been unrelenting, as she continued it every spring despite Edmund's constant refusal to follow her. She was not one to give up easily, his younger sister.

The youngest queen had already taken Peter to the Stone Table, twice, within the first year that they became the leaders of Narnia. Susan usually went as well on Lucy's sojourns to this place, but lately she had been so caught up in affairs of state that there simply wasn't the time. But Lucy went more than once every year, without fail, as if paying homage, and every time she asked that Ed come with her. To the Stone Table.

"Ed, please come with me," she'd beg, hanging on his arm as he thought desperately of an excuse. "I..." an almost shy look would cross her features. "I think it would be good for you to see it."

And Edmund, who engaged in fierce battles with more eagerness, declined to go each time, thinking up some excuse for why it was a terrible idea that month. And he pretended not to see the look of sadness on Lucy's face as she turned away from him.

He knew what she was thinking. He knew that his siblings felt almost burdened by his guilt, an overwhelming guilt, that, despite Aslan's forgiveness, as well as Narnia's, threatened to overwhelm him. For they knew what Narnia did not.

Edmund had not yet forgiven himself, though the world over may have forgiven him, after everything he had done to make up for past mistakes.

Peter said nothing of it, seemed to think that if Edmund fought hard enough for Narnia, he would eventually see reason. That no one blamed him and that it was in the past, as Aslan had once said. That he should no longer blame himself. Susan looked upon his guilt with sad eyes and said nothing.

But Lucy, dear, sweet Lucy, felt that, if he could only go to the place where Aslan had been sacrificed, where he still felt that he should have been sacrificed, he would find true absolution in his heart.

And so she continued to ask, despite the annoyed looks Susan would flash her for the persistence when it was clear that any hope of Edmund's going was dead, or the rejection Edmund would give each time her question reached his ears.

But it was the one time that she didn't push him towards that decision, the fifth time she went that year, when she had given up hope on his ever coming with her, that he asked her if he could go with her of his own accord. She announced that she was going at breakfast, and Susan seemed to brace herself for what would come next. But Lucy had gone silent after that, picking at her food.

"Lu..." Edmund spoke up then, licking dry lips until she turned those hopeful, wide eyes upon him. "Do you...Do you think that I can come with you, this time?"

To this day, he still wasn't quite sure what had made him do so. Perhaps it was the Deep Magic, or perhaps it was something else. But he would never forget the way her face lit up at the question, nor the way she stood from the table and ran around it, grinning as she stood before him.

"Why, of course, Ed!" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "Of course you can come. Shall we leave this evening?"

They ignored the identical looks of shock on the faces of Susan and Mr. Tumnus, which would have been quite comical but for the unexplained feeling of dread in Edmund's gut.

And so it had been settled. Edmund and Lucy had left Cair in the capable hands of Queen Susan (Peter was fighting the giants to the North) and had gone to the Stone Table, with an entourage of twelve or so guardsmen following them for protection. Lucy always took guards with her, though she felt them unneeded, especially now that Edmund was going with her, but Susan threatened not to let them go at all without the guards present.

The journey to what had once been the most feared relic in all of Narnia took a few days, but only because Lucy insisted on making a few stops along the way. A visit to the Foxes, who lived near to Cair, who offered to let them spend the night and have dinner in a way that could not be refused. A stop by a lazy river to meet one of the naiads who had stubbornly refused to care for her river recently.

It turned out to be a good thing King Edmund had come along, in that way, at least. The naiad was quite taken with him and hurriedly agreed with Lucy, all the while staring at him in a way that made the young king blush.

Then there had been the run-in with the deer, who wouldn't let the two youngest monarchs of Narnia out of his sight for quite some time and Lucy, though not wanting to be rude, did not want the deer following them on this private affair to the Table. She'd had to think up a clever way to be rid of the beast, as Edmund, busy brooding, was no help.

Edmund, for his part, had been very quiet in that journey, though he had traveled to these places many times before and not felt the uncertain melancholy that trapped him now. But in these days before reaching the Stone Table, everything felt so different from any of the times he had trekked here before. He could feel a weighty oppression in the air, bearing down on him, trying to force him back to Cair, where it was safe. Where he didn't have to see this.

The woods that he enjoyed listening to now held a foreboding of evil to come. The Foxes' home reminded him of the Beavers' Dam, and was a reminder of his betrayal, of his long journey to the Witch's castle. And the Stone Table...

They reached the ruins of the Stone Table sometime in the early morning of their eighth day of traveling, the sun still splitting through the horizon. It filled the sky with a dull pink that reminded Edmund of blood.

The Stone Table was not as he remembered it. Though Lucy did not know, he had been here once before, after everything, and that visit was the reason her constant begging that he came with her had such little effect on him. Aslan knew that no one could resist her pouting face for very long, and yet he had managed for three long years.

He'd come alone, wanting to atone, wanting to see exactly what Aslan had done for him. His siblings had been at a ball, one of their first, and so he hadn't been missed. He'd even managed to sneak past his own guard.

He hadn't been ready for the sight. Hadn't been ready for the dried blood still staining the cracked table, nor the pieces of a lion's mane that the Witch had forgotten. Hadn't been ready for... And King Edmund the Just had cried, deep, wrenching sobs that wracked his whole body until there were no tears left.

He had left that night, weighed down with more guilt than ever, knowing that he could never be forgiven, for Aslan had done all of this for him; all of this was his fault. And he had never returned to the Table, not until Lucy finally stopped begging him to.

But the Table was different now. Dirt had filled in some of the cracks, though not the main one. Vines had grown around it. That awful bloodstain was gone. Edmund knew that the Talking Mice, who had been given the gift of speech by Aslan for their care of him after he was sacrificed on the Stone Table, maintained it now.

And the day he went with Lucy was different as well, different from when he had gone alone. She held onto his hand, tightly, as if afraid he would melt away as they drew nearer to the Table, staying silent. He couldn't really remember a time when she had been so quiet. It almost felt as if she were not even there, and he would have thought so if not for the death-grip she kept on his hand.

But they hadn't been entirely alone. The dawn stretched into late afternoon, and that into evening, but Edmund did not leave his spot by the Stone Table, and Lucy would not let go of his hand. They knelt on the ground in front of it for hours, and Edmund was reminded of the Calormenes, kneeling before their gods in the temples of Tashbaan.

Aslan arrived when the evening was beginning to dissolve into night, the sky a dull red and the world starting to go quiet. One moment he was not there, and the next he was, standing on the opposite side of the Stone Table and watching them with sad eyes.

Lucy broke her silent vigil then, rushing forward and throwing her arms around the Lion. She let loose a laugh that did not seem to match their environment, snuggling her face into his fur and hiding her grin of excitement.

But Aslan did not speak to her. He turned his sad eyes upon Edmund, and they seemed to see into the very depths of his soul, searching for something, though Edmund could not have said what. The Just King felt tears stinging at his eyes, and he quickly looked away, not wanting the Lion to see them.

"Why do you cry, child?" Aslan's gentle voice broke through his melancholy, and Edmund blinked up at him, wiping his hands under his eyes in embarrassment. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that Lucy was still there, but he could no longer see nor sense her. Now, it was just he and Aslan.

"I..." he could not bring himself to answer. The words he would say were lodged in his throat, stuck behind more tears threatening to fall.

"I am ashamed," he said finally, staring at Aslan's great paws rather than at the Lion himself. "This was my fault. It was my fault that you were taken to the Stone Table. I was a traitor. I betrayed my siblings and all of Narnia and...I never made up for it. You did, instead. Everyone else completely forgot, as though I had never done anything. The Narnians and my siblings have forgiven me, but...I don't understand why. I can't even forgive myself."

Aslan's eyes softened, and his gentle paws padded softly through the grass until he had walked around the Table and now stood before Edmund, gazing down at him. "Edmund," he spoke softly, and in that one simple word, his name, everything that the Lion might continue to say was conveyed. Edmund shook like a leaf in the wind, still kneeling in the grass before the Table, a small whimper escaping his throat. But the rest came anyway. "I have forgiven you. Everything that was done was in the past, and effects us no longer. Why can you not lay it aside?"

It was not phrased like a question, for Edmund had the feeling that Aslan already knew the answer, but he found himself responding anyway.

"I don't deserve it."

"Do any, truly? I told your siblings once that the past is in the past, and there was no need to speak of it any longer. I do not think you took my words to heart, as they did."

Edmund looked up then. "But why?" he demanded, shocked to find himself shouting. "Why?" that second time came out like a broken sob, and he was suddenly aware of Lucy's presence once again. He wasn't even quite certain of what he was asking.

And Aslan smiled. "Because I love you, and there was no act that you performed to make it so. Because your siblings love you. Because Narnia loves you, King Edmund the Just. Now, remember my title for you, and grant yourself mercy."

Edmund gasped awake, fully expecting to find Susan's arms wrapped tightly around him in comfort, but she was not there.

The events of only a few minutes prior flashed before him, and he sagged in his bonds against the Table. So, this had not been the dream. That was...unexpected. He must have passed out for a few minutes, but the Witch seemed to want him very much awake for this, her retribution.

Edmund felt, rather than saw, the White Witch getting closer, and forced himself to open his eyes, to look her in the face and remember the words that Aslan had spoken to him, not so very long ago. Yet it felt like an eternity has passed between then and now.

"I don't need to," Edmund hissed through clenched teeth, as the Witch raised her knife above his head, preparing to bring it down on his chest. He could hardly force out the words, but he did anyway, because, though he knew that she never could, he wanted her to understand. His body was racked with pain, and he knew that she was winning, but it didn't matter. So long as he said the words, that would somehow make them all the more true. "I don't need to pay that price."

The Witch stared down at him, unmoved by his words.

"Aslan already has."

A lion's roar, loud and powerful, split through the night, shaking the ground and the very foundations of the earth, as if summoned by Edmund's words. The Witch cringed at the sound, her grip on the knife loosening as she glanced around for the source of that roar.

A sudden hope surged through Edmund, and he found himself smiling despite the painful tug at his skin that this produced.

The few members of the Witch's Fell Creatures that had followed her to the Stone Table shrieked and lifted their claws to their ears in the hopes of lessening the sound, but even this did not seem to bring them the slightest bit of relief. As the Witch locked eyes with Edmund, he could see the real fear reflected in those cold orbs. He could not remember a time when he had seen her look so afraid, not even when he had revealed to her that Aslan was in Narnia, when he was her captive the first time, so long ago.

Edmund was not sure whether he should feel sick satisfaction at her fear, or pity her for what she would now face.

The White Witch, however, did not give him long to ponder. The knife, still raised above both of their heads, shook in her hands as she brought it down. Slicing through the air like a whip, the blade glinted in the moonlight, and Edmund could not stop the small mewling sound that hissed through his teeth.

He wanted to look away, did not want to witness his own death, but found that he could not stop staring. His eyes would not leave the awful, jagged blade, even as the space between it and his chest rapidly vanished.

Edmund did not feel the pain of a blade entering his chest, nor did he flinch as dark blood splattered across his body and the Stone Table. He did not see the Witch, looming above him, still breathing deeply and anticipating Aslan. He did not see the look of confusion in her eyes when Aslan did not appear to rescue his young, Just King.

The stone pillars behind him, and, behind that, the Fell Creatures and even the woods, seemed to fall away like a mist, replaced instead with great, tall waves that stood like a wall behind the Lion. Yet a small opening had appeared in that wall of waves, an opening just large enough for Edmund to step through, and, curiously, he found that he wanted to, desperately.

It was beautiful, what lay through that gateway. And though Edmund could hardly see it, he could feel it, calling to him, begging him to join in on the music filtering through that wall of waves.

This, he thought with no small amount of awe, was Aslan's country, and it was the most beautiful place Edmund had ever seen.

Edmund fought against the bonds once more, suddenly aware of them, but they would not budge. Aslan gave him a sad smile.

Edmund let out a mewl of frustration, and the waves vanished like they had never been, the Lion going with them. The stone pillars that stood guard returned, the Witch's Fell with them, and then he was staring up at the Witch herself. She was leaning over him, knife in hand, though she had looked considerably shaken.

Blood trickled from the Just King's lips, clogging his lungs. He couldn't breathe, pain lacing his entire body, and yet his only thought was for Aslan's Country.

Unlike Edmund, the White Witch had seen nothing, only heard. But it had been enough to strike fear in her heart, and she had not come this far to lose again. The boy was dying, but the blade had not killed him. She would not make the mistake of leaving him here to gasp out his final breaths with the risk that the little Queen might come and heal him again. She had meant the return of the little Queen's cordial as a torment, not a chance at hope.

And the cordial could not cure death.

The knife lifted high once more, and then she was bringing it down while her Fell began their chant again, though the eerie sound it evoked was this time unimagined. Edmund could see a flash of light as the knife glinted against the stars, and then it was moving too fast for him to see much of anything, his eyes filling with unshed tears and his legs beginning to convulse painfully.

"You have done well, my Son," a comforting and familiar voice whispered into the windy night, and then Edmund fell back, into darkness.

"Oh, I've been such a fool," Peter muttered aloud. Of course the Witch would want to join the battle. Of course her not being present during the fighting should have set off warning bells in Peter's head. For what did she want so badly that she would be willing to sacrifice winning for it?

"It's not your fault, Peter," Lucy said from behind him, her arms wrapped tightly around his midsection. The blood on her face had dried now, forming a thin, reddish brown stain down her face and neck. They had not had the time to clean it off, nor would Lucy have let them if her brother's life was in danger.

Oreius had taken them on his back when Peter announced they needed to go and find Edmund as quickly as possible. Centaurs did not take riders on their backs, finding it to be an affront, except in times of war, or when it was absolutely necessary. Still, this was the first time that Peter had ever ridden Oreius, and he felt extremely uncomfortable doing so.

"You couldn't have known she would plan something like this. Besides, Susan was with..." she trailed off then, face paling.

Her arms, pressed so tightly against his ribs, making it almost difficult to breathe, began to tremble with this new knowledge.

But then, with her unshakable faith in Aslan, something Peter loved so much about his little sister but could not bring himself to replicate, she said confidently, "Susan will be all right. And so will Edmund. Aslan will not abandon us."

Peter wanted to point out the obvious then, that Aslan had abandoned them at the beginning of this whole debacle, but wisely held his tongue. "I hope so," he said instead.

They reached the tent where Peter had left Edmund, thinking he would be safe, as quickly as was possible after leaving the Witch's castle, and Peter gulped at the sight awaiting them. Lucy's hand, clenched tightly in his own, tightened its grip until he could feel her fingernails breaking the skin of his palm.

The two centaurs that he had sent to guard the tent lay slain in the snow, one covered in blood from head to toe, face up. His body was barely visible beneath, and the stench that accompanied him made Peter lift a gloved hand to his nose and mouth. The Narnian's left eye had been brutally ripped out and revealed only a hollow cave within, long legs cut open and dismembered. His sword was a few paces away, not even bloodied.

The second centaur had fared even worse than the first, if it were possible. Lucy turned away at the sight, tears blurring her eyes.

There was a dog beside these, turned to stone with one paw outstretched in supplication, face a mask of pain.

With a sickening feeling of dread, he turned upon the last body lying outside the tent where he had ordered Edmund be taken care of.

Philip.

The sight of him made Peter's blood run cold. The Talking Horse lay on his side, long legs stretched out in front of him and stained with rapidly darkening blood, one clearly broken. He glanced up with wide, yellow eyes as they neared, jumping down from Oreius and rushing forward. There was pain in those eyes, pain and an intense sadness that chilled Peter to the bone.

Lucy knelt down beside the Talking Horse, her hands shaking as they struggled with the cordial.

Philip pulled back, barking out a sound of irritation. "I'm fine, Your Majesties. There is no time for that. Edmund...Queen Susan..."

"Shh," Lucy whispered, placing one hand under the Horse's jaw and tilting it up as a drop of the fireflower juice slipped between stubbornly clenched teeth. "Don't try to talk just yet. Please, Philip."

The Horse sighed, swallowing the cordial quickly and hurriedly continuing, "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I...could not save them."

"Tell us what happened," Peter demanded, voice quiet but firm.

"I...inside," Philip rasped, nodding towards the tent.

Lucy gave Peter a small nod to convey that she would stay with Philip, hands still carting through Philip's mane in a vain attempt to soothe him. He was clearly unsettled; a state in which it was rare to see the Horse, and that fact only made Peter all the more terrified.

The young king stood, one hand on the hilt of his sword as he stepped cautiously around Philip's prone form and into the dark tent. He was almost afraid to walk in; his feet trudged sluggishly, and he wanted more than anything to turn around while he still had the chance.

Images of Edmund and Susan, lying in their own blood on the ground, flashed through his mind, and Peter flinched, rushing the rest of the way into the tent.

Edmund was not there.

It was the first thing Peter noticed as his eyes did a careful sweep of the room. The hammock, stained with a bit of blood, lay empty, pressed against the tent flaps. There was a bowl of soup lying upturned on the ground beside it, the liquid spilling out into the dirt.

Peter suspected it would not be the only thing to stain the dirt of this battlefield after today.

Then he saw Susan.

She was sprawled across the dirt, arms thrown out in front of her as if she were shielding off an invisible enemy. A trickle of blood ran down her face from a gash at her temple. The only sign that she was alive the slow rise and fall of her chest.

Peter ran forward, squatting down beside her and shaking her gently. "Susan? Susan!" He turned towards the tent entrance. "Lucy, get in here!"

Susan moaned, eyes fluttering. "Peter?" she asked, voice too slow for his liking. "What...?"

Peter took Susan's hand, gently helping her to sit up. She moaned again, lifting a hand to her blood-stained forehead, and turned bleary eyes to Peter.

"What...?" she tried again, glancing towards Lucy, just entering the tent, and then back to Peter with the same look of confusion. Then she attacked, rushing forward and throwing her arms tightly around Peter with a desperation that could have rivalled Edmund after a particularly bad nightmare.

Peter hugged her awkwardly, a hand rubbing her back in gentle circles. She was shaking in his arms.

Susan hated war. She hated being put into battles, preferring instead to handle the more diplomatic missions. Hated the responses the carnage elicited from her. But they did not have time for this.

"Susan, you must tell me what happened," Peter demanded, ignoring the glare Lucy sent his way for it.

Susan stared at him for a few moments in confusion, squinting as if she didn't recognize her own brother, before her eyes took on a suddenly wild look, and she leapt to her feet without Peter's assistance. He stood as well, watching the way she swayed after standing, and reached out a hand to her.

"Susan, where is Edmund?" he demanded, a bit more insistent this time.

Susan reached for her bow and arrows, strewn across the ground, with a determination that was admirable; a determination that often took over her emotions when she was defending her siblings. "She...she took him. Peter, she took Edmund!"