A/N: This chapter looks at all four siblings, respectively (Su and Lu's are together, as one): Peter first, then Ed, then the girls.
I just revamped all of these (minor changes; corrections to dialogue - after months of teaching myself, I've finally got it down! - smoothing things out, etc.), by the way! Not very noticeable, but I thought I'd let you know anyway!
Normally, of course, ice is not so firm, so hidden that one does not know it from snow, but the frozen white flakes fall daily in this chilled Narnia, and as such every source of solid water is thickly blanketed in the stuff.
What's more, the place where Peter's fallen is not random. It is a Naiad's Pool, unusual in its placing and unmarked on any map, but a blessing in itself. An even brighter one, however, is that the future High King of Narnia is alive at all.
These things, as well as all past and future, come to pass by naught but the Lion's will.
What He commands will be.
As it is, a blue-green head—a girl's, deep green water plants behaving as hair as they splay down her back—pokes out from a water-level ice cave carved into the cliff-side, curious at and slightly afraid of the Wolves' howls in the distance.
Upon spying the boy's crumpled form, she gasps, leaving her shelter to rush over to him. Because she knows nothing of Human anatomy, considering there hasn't been one in Narnia for one hundred years, she gently, yet haphazardly flips him over onto his back.
Flailing in her nil knowledge, she grabs hold of his wrist by chance—or fate, rather—and pauses, two of her webbed fingers picking up a queer throbbing on the underneath side. She puts the wrist to her ear inquisitively and hears nothing…but she does feel.
Confusedly, she takes the appendage away and focuses on the heat she suddenly notices radiating from the boy, though her investigation is impaired because of the heavy fur coat he wears. From it, she removes the arm she holds and his other shoulder, centering in on the heat and soon finding its source.
Being a woman of water, this is particularly easy, and she lowers her head to a gradually pulsing, quietly beating organ to the right side of his chest. Perceiving the sound's slower-than-steady rhythm after a moment, she cannot help feeling it will benefit them both to get under cover.
Struggling at first, she takes him under the arms and drags him all the way into the back of her cave—thankfully, one kept from sight by a low protruding ledge—where she carefully lays him down in the warmest spot she knows.
For a minute, she knows not what to do with him. She has none of the supplies—or the ability, unquestionably—to make a fire, something she recalls is used to keep non-water Narnians warm. She also has no way of leaving this pool of hers; she has been trapped here since a short time after the Hundred-Year Winter began.
Wondering what she can do to help him, she looks at Peter again. Studying him, she brushes hesitant, tender fingers through his golden bangs, and there she feels strangely happy. She knows the reason.
Her time in this inescapable prison has been quite lonely. No other Creature knows of her presence here, for none poke around anymore, and the others of her Kind…
She remembers the day well—the day the Winter began.
She had been a child then, her friends all children as well. They had been playing together in what would become known as her Pool.
Laughing as they had splashed each other, they hadn't thought anything of the frosty wind that had come over them; it was early spring, after all, and some of the chilly winter wisps didn't wish for their fun to end just yet.
They only grew worried when it hadn't stopped blowing for a good five seconds, intensifying by the second.
With wide, frightened eyes, they'd watched as the green of the Trees on the cliff-sides above them had turned a pure white in moments, snow rapidly covering the ground as it fell from the sky in drifts. A number of them had screamed when the water began freezing on the far side, and they had only precious seconds before the ice froze their exit: a tiny waterfall enclosed in a circle of earth.
The rest of them shot through the water, up the waterfall and through the hole. She, however, had been searching the bottom of the Pool on the far side for a shiny stone, planning to use it as a birthday present for her Mother. She knew nothing of the danger.
The only thing to tip her off had been the teal-white hue coming over the water and the shadow it had cast over the Pool's floor. Looking up bemusedly, she had panicked at what was happening and made to swim toward the egress as swiftly as she could. She hadn't been quick enough, though, for the outer areas seemed to freeze faster than the middle, and her exit was gone before she had gotten even one-fourth of the way across.
Breathing through her hysteria, she'd somehow managed to grapple onto the oncoming ice and pulled herself up to be sprawled on top of it. She had stayed in that position until the entire lake was frozen, and her cave had been there when she'd opened her eyes.
Her later efforts to escape the Pool have been futile: pounding away at the unbreakable ice that encases her waterfall with her bare hands, sometimes until they bleed, and she has tried to scale the snow on the cliffs' ledges, which have proven to be untamable as her hands and feet are ever unable to gain traction.
Her people can only live fully if directly connected to water, frozen or not.
This ice is the only thing keeping her alive.
She cannot leave it.
By now, there is no telling whether her people—her friends, her family—are still alive…
Sighing, the Naiad watches the Human she's rescued…and just dares to fancy he might wish to be her friend, to return the favor by rescuing her from this lonely darkness.
Dear Aslan, does she dare.
Hugging his knees to his chest, feeling so cold that he no longer shivers, that he is numb to the impossibly biting cold of the dungeon, Edmund cannot believe what he has done.
He has sold his family to the White Witch, and—and all for Turkish Delight? How could he have been so heartless?
Burying his face in his knees, he strives to keep back the tears pushing to leave his eyes. He should not be crying now, not for himself, at least. He should be praying…but to whom? He hadn't gone to church since before his Father went off to war, and he isn't even sure he's worthy of God's mercy anymore, no matter what the scriptures say.
The tears fall then, a choked sob escaping his mouth with a gasp, and he decides to let himself go. No one is here to hear him anyway.
Or so he thinks.
"Hey, hey, hey…"
Edmund jerks up, furiously rubbing his eyes. It doesn't matter that he's humiliating himself, but just that he wants to have some sense of propriety in the presence of… Wait, who is that? He'd heard that phrase before…but only from—
"How do you know Lucy?" he cries, whipping around as far as he can with the shackles around his ankles. His face and eyes flash protectively—something he had felt for his sister long ago, but had shoved away for fear of being thought weak in front of his school friends—but they calm a bit in shock and shamed pity as his vision adjusts to the dim light and sudden change of scenery speed.
Before him is a Faun: a red-haired, red-faced, wide-eyed…beaten…Faun…!
Edmund closes his eyes tightly in the sudden torment his disgusting realization brings: this is Mr. Tumnus! This is Lucy's friend, the one that…that had saved her at the expense of…well, his legs and face, to start!
The poor Narnian... His legs have been bloodied and very nearly broken, it seems, and his face has numerous gashes and bruises all over it. Edmund feels he will soon see what remains of his now nonexistent appetite.
"Are you all right?" he asks uselessly; he can't remember if another question has ever burned his throat so much.
Giving a wry laugh, the Creature gazes at him with afflicted eyes. Beneath the pain, Edmund can see that the blue eyes are kind, and they serve as an agonizing reminder of what he's done. And yet…he doesn't look away. He deserves this, warrants this horrid dawning of the pain he's caused, and he cannot understand how this Faun can stand to acknowledge him so sweetly.
Then…he realizes: he doesn't know!
This forces more tears from his eyes, more sobs from his throat, and he begins to cry heavily when he suddenly feels the slightest pressure on his foot. He snaps open his eyes and gives a tiny yelp, frightened at being disturbed in his misery, but he sees through his tears that the hand bears the red shade of the Faun.
Glancing up, he locks eyes with Mr. Tumnus, whose lips have turned up into a tiny grin, and Edmund doesn't know what to do or think or say.
"It—it'll be all right. This place…you get used to it." He offers an ironic chuckle, but abruptly the Faun's eyes widen, and his face seemingly cannot decide between beaming and crumbling. "You're—you're Lucy Pevensie's brother, aren't you?"
If possible, Edmund pales even more, and his breath leaves him immediately.
Oh…oh, no…not this...!
All the same, this is his punishment…
"Y-yes."
The Faun freezes at his stutter, at the almost inaudible quiver in his voice, and blankly stares. The young boy panics, terrified that the Narnian will see, and he averts his eyes, backing as far backward as he can until his back collides with the ice. He stiffens at the frigid contact, but it doesn't matter.
Mr. Tumnus's face alone and eyes are worse than anything. The only thing comparable by a far stretch is Jadis…or…or himself...
"Is your sister all right?" As he had been lost in thought, Edmund cannot fight the feeling of alarm at the sudden sharpness of the Faun's tone, never mind that it is derived from protective instinct. He shudders. "Is she safe?"
The words are harsher, more desperate, this time, and it nearly destroys Edmund when he cannot do a thing except answer truthfully.
"I don't know."
He remembers the howls of the Wolves last night, how vicious She had sounded in sending them after his siblings, how his heart had nearly frozen to follow Hers in realization, but he cannot speak aloud these fears. He cannot bear to bring down anyone else.
Tumnus's eyes darken, his damaged face blank as he shrinks back. Despite his well-intentioned efforts, Edmund has the distinct feeling the Humanoid can see straight through him, and he cannot control it when his shoulders slump a little.
His throat hurts.
His stomach hurts.
His body hurts.
His heart hurts.
For he has hurt again.
Minutes pass, but neither the girls nor the Beavers slow their run. Though they do not hear the fear-instilling yowls in the distance, they cannot shake the paranoia. Their rewards are labored breathing and exhausted limbs, but there is nothing else for it. If they stop or slow down, they're dead; the only way to survive is to keep running, no matter that they feel they could collapse at any moment and never get up again.
They're so tired…
But Peter hadn't led the predators off for that, hadn't run blindly—and stupidly, Susan adds in retrospect—for that. He wants them safe, and his sister, only a year his junior, will do anything in her power to make sure that happens.
"Come on, Lucy! We have to keep moving!" the eldest Human calls breathlessly to the youngest, Susan's pale countenance a dreadful shade of crimson, eyes wild as terror drives her to quite literally dragging the small girl by the hand.
Lucy, meanwhile, is going as quickly as she can an arm's length behind her, cheeks cherry-red and breath coming in gasps as she struggles and fails to hold pace with her elder sister.
Really, for all intents and purposes, eight cannot compete with twelve.
"I'm coming, Susan! I'm—I'm trying, I am!"
Pity for her little sister surges through the black-haired girl, and she wishes they could just stop already. She knows Lucy cannot last much longer, certainly not nearly as long as she, and she is immensely proud of her sister for keeping on as long as she has.
"I'm sorry, Lu. I know. You're faring brilliantly, dear." She prays her sister doesn't hear the tears in her voice, suspecting she doesn't when the young one smiles bravely, forgivingly.
"It's all right—!" The voice cuts off again due to shortness of breath, and Susan squeezes her sister's hand just as Lucy does hers. Such has been a thing of theirs since they were little, but they hadn't enacted it in years; Susan is touched that Lucy even remembers it, young as she was when they started, and Lucy's loving face appears to convey the same.
"Hurry! We've found somewhere—!" The sudden wind sucks away the rest of the words from Mrs. Beaver's mouth, but what is heard is enough. Susan and Lucy run with a renewed vigor, regained hope and resolve, and they follow the Beavers to a small hill to their right.
Susan watching skeptically while Lucy seems delighted, Mr. Beaver enters a burrow through some kind of tunnel, one low to the ground and about Peter's size around.
"It's all right! We'll be a bit cramped, but it's warm and dry! Better than bein' Wolf bait or freezing' our tails off, anyhow!"
At the last part, the three women laugh, Susan with less humor than the others, but she can't be blamed, not while her brothers' well beings are on her mind. Letting Lucy go before her as Mrs. Beaver gestures them both forward, she gives a minute, distracted smile while waiting, and then crawls through; she uncharacteristically doesn't notice when a good bit of dirt—as the inside of the abandoned burrow's entrance hasn't been touched by the white curse known as snow—smudges her cheek.
Settling down inside the cave beside her sister, the little girl grabs hold of her hand and squeezes. She understands. She's worried about them, too. Even then, she pushes her anxieties aside and chooses to listen intently to Mr. Beaver as he begins to tell a story to keep them all entertained.
Susan, try as she might, cannot pay attention.
Peter and Edmund… Are they all right?
Peter had sacri—given of himself to see them in good health at his own expense, and she tries to push down the sensations of helplessness and self-doubt coursing through her veins. Without her brother here, her ever-constant confidant, she feels…out of place, out of touch.
And she hates it.
Suppressing the shiver seeking to travel up her back, she reflects on Edmund now. Ever since his first time at boarding school last year at the age of nine, he's never been the same. He's become paler, started coming home for holidays with bruises and cuts littering his body, and behaving worse than he has since he was a mere toddler. Sure, he'd been rude and picked on Lucy prior to going away to school, but this year, he's gotten progressively worse.
And now…
What he's done hasn't entirely settled in yet—from the Beavers' and Lucy's reactions, it's pretty terrible, though (and even this seems to be an understatement)—and she is afraid she won't be able to accept it when it does. Betrayal of friends is bad enough, but of family, of a brother…
Being an enormously practical girl, she can't stand such irrational thinking, but it would make her a hypocrite if she were to say she weren't breaking her own rule for a reason. A very good, very important one, at that.
She loves her brother dearly—both of them, she amends—and though one of them has committed himself to protecting and the other to exacting revenge, she loves them.
Glancing to her left, she gazes into the wonder-wide, exhilarated face of her sister, hand still clasped in the child's now warm palm, and she loves her, too.
Pulling Lucy into her lap, the eight-year-old situates herself to rest mostly against Susan's chest, her head underneath the older girl's chin, legs stretched out before them as Susan's are properly tucked beneath her.
Lucy's body heat enlivening her still-cool skin, Susan is finally able to let go of her reservations, if only for a while, and listen to the story that has her youngest sibling so enraptured.
A/N: Thanks for reading, as always!