A/n: This story serves two purposes. One: It's a sequel to Images—my debut in the Adventures in Narnia writing challenges. Two: It's something to preoccupy myself with, just to stop thinking about my ongoing battle with COVID-19. Hopefully, though, this will be more than a writing exercise and a distraction in a tough season of life; with any luck, it'll become a story worth the name.

Also: As I wrote last year, I'm an agnostic, an atheist, and someone who's growing increasingly frustrated with religion. A year later, that hasn't changed. But that won't stop me from writing a fic that even C.S. Lewis might have respected. I like The Chronicles of Narnia, and I like writing canon-compliant fiction; I don't need to be a Christian for that. (Then again, who said I had to?)

Prompt 1: Tell of a time when music changed things in Narnia—either because it changed hearts or because it held magic.

† A Coronation Song †

18 OCTOBER 1016
365 DAYS SINCE THE BANISHMENT...

The courthouse of Beruna (which stopped being a courthouse a long time ago to become a dance hall) was filled with Talking Beasts filling the candlelit air with grumbles. The tables and everything on them were barren and dull, and everyone's stomachs ached at the sight of the naked plates and empty glasses.

The double doors swung in without warning, and a wave of autumn air ushered in a leopard, muscular and majestic and turning aside for no one. The crowd grumbled and bayed at him, but he trotted on and twitched his tail without turning his gaze.

"When are we gonna get the food?" said a badger. "Or am I gonna face the horrors of a home-cooked meal?"

"At least give us a beer," said a horse. "We need something to tide us over."

"I didn't walk all the way from Glasswater to be treated to a plate of air!" said a tiger. "Are we eating or not?!"

A loud wave of jeers and brays filled the air as paws stamped on the stone floor. The swollen mass of Talking Beasts made its way across the room, the jeers getting louder and stronger—

But then Juma leapt up onto a table, and all fell quiet. He looked out over the crowd, transfixing them with his dignified gaze, and when he had their attention, he sat on his haunches and picked up a hollowed-out rock. He lifted it to his face and drew in a breath, and when he put his clawed toes over the uppermost holes, a long low note went forth into the hall.

The leopard's toes rose and fell over the instrument, weaving a melody that ebbed and flowed like a tide. And as he let out his deepest breath and his toes danced over the woodwind, the melody made haste, dancing like a waltz and turning into a jig as flawless notes filled the air, and the Talking Beasts lost all signs of hunger and grew stern.

The last, long note rang across the hall, and the leopard showed his dour face once more as he set the woodwind aside. "And here I was thinking you all had forgotten," he said. "For the last year you've been sitting on your arses and begging Aslan to come back."

No one gave a reply. Their eyes were fixed on his face, their ears swiveling forward for every word.

"You all know what that song is. It's a coronation song. What began as a song of joy became an omen of doom. Aslan brought four children here from another world, and to their credit, they did things well...at the start. But when they grew up, they signed a treaty with warlords and pirates, ignoring the protests of the Lion. They wanted the company of beautiful faces, they wanted to crawl into the beds of murderers and whores, and nothing would make them listen to reason. Eventually, Aslan put a stop to that—and my compliments, he did it very well—but now, the leaders of Archenland are plotting to resume talks with these murderers. Lord Peridan is supposed to be our next King of Narnia, and instead of thinking of our welfare, he's talking about trying to fall in with these people. I wrote to him for the last year, and his response was the same: 'I must do what is best for Narnia, not for you.' For the last nine months, I have begged Aslan to turn Narnia over to the Talking Beasts; I have pleaded with him not to hand our futures over to bunglers and idiots. But what does he do? Nothing. He turns the thrones over to the humans of Archenland, giving his old refrain of 'Sons of Adam before animals.' And now his precious humans are about to foul things up...again.

"Well, let me tell you: We won't let that happen. When that song is played at Cair Paravel, it will not be a coronation song. As soon as Lord Peridan steps into the Great Hall and walks toward the throne of Narnia, that song will be the last thing he ever hears. He will fall dead at our feet, and Narnia and the North will know our might. The humans will not step a toe in Narnia, not for any reason, not with any blessing, not at any price, not even with their precious Aslan marching into battle. Our goal is a humanless land, and we will not be denied. We have one objective: freedom. We have one path: swift and sudden terror. Let that song carry you on into the fields of battle, for there is only one price to pay for our freedom, and it will be blood. And I swear to you: That blood will not be ours. It will be theirs! The blood of Aslan's friends will be shed, and the whole of the world will hear our cry!"

And he went up majestically onto all fours and roared, "NARNIA FOR NARNIANS! NOW AND FOREVER!"

And with all the fury of primeval Narnian blood burning in their veins, the crowd pumped their fists into the air and said, "NARNIA FOR NARNIANS! NOW AND FOREVER!"

"And now," said Juma with a smile—"we dine."

A mighty roar shook the walls of the hall, and an explosion of cheers and shouts rattled the windows, andthe centaurs brought in the platters and rolled the barrels of ale along the floor.