"A silent artist walks in the shadows of madness."
—Tamrel of the Lyre, a Faun bard of The Age of Winter, Year 918
~O~
"Edmund!" cries Lucy, slamming the door shut as if the hordes of hell were in pursuit.
Edmund does not bother looking up from his book, a tome of Narnian philosophy, and replies with a gentle admonishment, "Quiet down, Lu. Your shouting will alert Oreius and I would rather not have him break through the walls again."
"Sorry," Lucy whispers. "I had forgotten you moved into a new room."
"Yes, the pipe in my old one started leaking again," he drawls, thumbing the next page absentmindedly. "I'll see if I can commission the Dwarves to fix it. If treaties won't sway them to pledge allegiance, perhaps instalments will."
"But plumbing aside," Lucy beams. "The Raven has brought us news!"
Edmund puts down his book and jumps to his feet. "From both?"
Lucy hesitates for a brief second before revealing she had only one letter between her fingers.
The curve in Edmund's smile dropped a little.
"But I'm sure Peter's will arrive any moment," Lucy quickly adds in consolation, knowing well her brother is just as quick to draw assumptions.
Edmund sighs. Unlike Lucy's stark optimism, worry never fails to seize him every second his siblings' whereabouts are out of his radar, especially during war. Especially Peter.
Like the diplomat king that he is, he often wonders why he wasn't the one sent off to the North to negotiate with the Ettinsmoor giants. When travellers brought word of the Ettins deliberately attacking explorers, warriors, and other Narnian settlers along the Northern Frontier, the High King took it upon himself to embark on a formal expedition. Alone.
Peter had a difficult time explaining to Edmund.
"I know you're capable, Ed—" Peter had said.
"Capable?" Edmund had interjected. "If I could broker a detente between the black and red dwarves—"
"I'm sure they would've married each other if you persuaded them—but I fear if we don't play our pieces right, tensions could escalate," Peter insisted.
It took a few more exchanges until Edmund finally relented, owing to the impression that perhaps one monarch is effective, and two are intimidating. Despite their size, giants are easily provoked and are surprisingly superstitious. "Peter, I'm quite certain the sight of your mythical blonde hair is enough to send them running."
Now, it has been two weeks since his brother left Narnia to secure the northern borders and establish the boundary of where the giants may claim absolute their loosely independent state.
He hasn't heard from him since.
Without Peter to steady his undulating emotions, Edmund tries his best to reel in any signs of hysteria and puts on a brave facade, if only for his sister's sake. "Let's open up Susan's then."
Lucy tears the seal of the red lion in haste.
Dearest Lucy and Ed,
I have safely reached Calormen and am being warmly welcomed by the prince and his esteemed courtiers. However, there remains a less than cordial sentiment from the local populace. I do have faith that, with Aslan's grace, a resolution will be reached for the benefit of our countries upon my swift return.
Onto another matter, I cannot help but notice a certain asymmetry in our correspondence. It is vexing to receive but a singular response from you both to my fivefold letters.
One does wonder whether the Ravens are taking a detour.
—Susan
"It's because she keeps sending things like 'the salmon roe we packed her had already gone sour,'" Edmund sneers with an accent Susan only uses around other royalties.
"Well, you know well how swelteringly hot the journey can be. The apples we sent her apparently fermented so quickly it had gotten a stowaway squirrel drunk."
"Then why did she have to travel on horseback in the desert and not through the Calormene ports on a ship?" Edmund wonders. "Even at a full day's gallop, sailing takes half the journey and less toll on the soldiers."
Lucy tucks the letter away in her dresser where the compartment of Susan's is filled to the brim while Peter's stayed empty. "Rabadash insisted she take the way through the desert. Says he plans to escort her halfway."
"What a dapper gent," Edmund mocks, sitting down and placing his arms behind his head. "If he were of real nobility, he'd have the decency to visit Narnia for Susan. Instead, he has the moral backbone of mouldy bread."
"He'd certainly be more palatable with a bit more sugar and a lot less bluster," Lucy shares Edmund's conspiratorial smile. "Susan would have refused if Rabadash didn't command an entire brigade."
"If Rabadash didn't have the compulsory power of a dictator, I never would have let him win the tournament," Edmund says through gritted teeth.
"You're still not over the tournament? It's been what—three years ago?"
"My contempt only grows everyday," he sighs. "For now, only his poppet downstairs will feel my wrath," Edmund glares at the straw-filled mannequin posted at the mid-field of the castle manors where he goes to blow off steam, as do many of the soldiers who love spilling the imaginary innards of the arrogant prince.
Rabadash was only royalty by blood but never by honour. The Pevensies were the opposite. Edmund suspects it is the crux of the prince's grievance on his family; they will always be a reminder of the respect and admiration he was denied. And such proudness was compensated by an inexhaustible panache for showing off skills that weren't really there, and sending threats he probably never had the stomach to execute.
"Still, do you suppose there's even the slightest possibility of Rabadash declaring war upon our beloved Narnia?" Lucy prods at the idea, hoping her brother will dismantle her uneasiness. Edmund always knows how to calm Lucy down.
"Under our reign? He wouldn't dream of it." Edmund says easily, soothing as ever.
"Yet, even considering that," he continues, standing up to walk towards Lucy. He takes her hands in his. "I would never let anything happen to you." He says, more hush in tone. "This is why we must exercise caution, Lu, and temper our trust." As Peter told him.
"Are we truly safe here?" Lucy looks up at her brother, an entire foot taller than her.
Edmund wraps his arms around his sister's shoulders, his chin on top of her head in protective embrace. "In these walls, Lucy, no one will ever harm you, not with me on the watch."
~O~
That night, the moon shines bright and clear. Guards are patrolling every nook and cranny of the castle fortress where the two monarchs—usually four—slept. But repeat a routine a thousand times, some of them are bound to miss a shadow moving in stealth.
At the foot of Cair Paravel, where moss grows on the damp floors of a cave-like tunnel, two soldiers are afoot, guarding its entrance.
There is a slight rustle of noise that distracts the two, making them pay a particular brand of attention to an inanimate shrub that seems to have gained motor sentience.
As they unsheath their swords, they barely register the sound of two darts hurling towards them at lightning speed, latching on their necks where the joint of their armour failed to protect them. They collapse with a thud when something emerges from the shadows.
"I told you not to use the sedatives, Calla!" a fox snaps, "Do you think poppies bloom the whole bloody year? Those are for dire situations!"
"They get the job done faster, Bane" a woman hovering behind his tail reasons. She takes the blowdart hanging around her neck and tucks it into her tunic.
"You're pulling a Narnian heist and you expect not to lift a finger?" The fox rolls his eyes. She ignores him to pocket the keys from the guards. "The map I gave you should point to where the Queen sleeps." He instructs as Calla begins to roll out a scroll.
"East Wing for the Valiant Queen, directly facing the Eastern Sea." She outlines.
"And West Wing to the Western Wood, for the Just." Bane affirms.
"Make sure the boy doesn't interrupt." Calla reminds him, which only makes Bane laugh.
"And when it comes down to it, do I kill him as well?"
"No." She says after some thought. "Let him live. When he sees his sister, he might just do it himself."
"Less work for us, then." Bane winks.
They gesture goodbye to each other before going through separate tunnels for separate missions.
Blinking in the dark, Calla turns to follow the directional change of the tunnel where she encounters the ruddy glow of a torch in an iron sconce. The tunnel curved again, pitching sharply upward.
Only one chance to do this right, she thinks. Keeping the image of the map fresh in her head, she tries to piece together where the Valiant Queen is sleeping.
~O~
Edmund leaves Lucy's room with a tip toe, careful not to wake her up. Peter had always kissed her goodnight, and he made no secret of it. It was a sacred ritual that started their first night in Cair Paravel. So Edmund thought that while Peter was away, he could help ease his sister's separation anxiety by staying by her fireplace until she drifts.
Closing the door, he catches a glimpse of her smiling with her eyes closed.
Sweet Lucy always dreams of good things. Edmund has anything but. And he's not sure what to make of it.
Was he always doomed to suffer the aftermath of one betrayal? Being forgiven, even by Aslan, isn't like magic. There are loose ends to be dealt with. Just because something was resolved doesn't mean it has all dissolved.
The nightmares were only proof of it. So like always, Edmund refuses to sleep.
He thinks of Peter, off in the mountains, defending the helpless like the fearless knight he was always meant to be. He usually disagrees that Peter is Magnificent; mostly because Peter is more than that. He charges in the front lines. He takes the first watch. He eats the rations last. Peter is selfless, and kind… and always writes back.
What reason could his perfect brother have for not writing back?
The night was quieter than usual, he observed.
Edmund tries to make sense of his surroundings. Where were the guards that patrolled the hallways outside his sister's room? A sharp glint of light from his periphery grabs his attention.
He only has a split second to react to a knife hurling towards him, but it was enough for his reflexes to kick in and dive to the ground. The knife hisses right by his ear by a hair's breadth, and sticks its landing on a faraway pillar. His attacker emerges from the wall, deeply camouflaged, and unsheathes a sword.
Edmund didn't have weapons, but he could tell—by the way his attacker held their weapon—that they were far less experienced. An untrained wielder with a sword is about as threatening as the Rabadash poppet in the manor.
They lunge forward, with harsh and broad swipes that Edmund only manages to keep dodging. When they lift their arms to strike once more, Edmund dives towards their unguarded flank and tackles them to the ground, knocking the greatsword out of their hands in the process. They both roll back to their feet, putting as much distance between them as they could. In a defensive stance, they lock eyes with each other, then on the sword not too far away.
In the heat of the moment, Edmund decides to make a break for the sword, and doesn't notice the intruder's hand reaching for the crease of their tunic.
Edmund's hand reaches for the hilt on time, before feeling a sharp pain swelling from his neck, blurring his vision, and making him collapse with a grunt.
-O-
The distant bellow of a horn erupts and it choruses to several more horns blowing in unison to signal an attack.
The Just King lies unconscious on his chest, limbs splayed to the ground in awkward positions. Calla is more angered than alarmed about the bells when Bane appears.
"Bane! You were supposed to be on the lookout for the King!"
"He wasn't where he was supposed to be! How is that my doing?"
"It's too late," Calla ties the last knot on the King's wrist with a sharp pull. "The guards are on their way and we have no time to get to the Queen."
"Then take her brother instead."
Reluctantly, Calla picks up the king and drapes his arms over her shoulders, never minding that his feet are dragging behind them. "The Queen would have been much easier to carry."
Calla is struggling to carry Edmund's weight as they weave through the halls and slip into the vents of the walls where the tunnel had brought them.
"To the stables," she says. "Hurry, we need to chase the moonlight."
The low, distant bellow of a massive horn erupts from within Cair Paravel, sending Bane and Calla's horse leaping into the glen and out of the castle within moments.
"Well, that was not the plan at all!" Calla remarks, briefly looking at the unconscious monarch draped over face down on the hip of the horse.
He's sedated so deeply that even when Calla gives the horse more rein and the canter gives away to a gallop, the young King remains unfazed by the turbulence of the ride.
"Could've given us more time if you hadn't spent an extra minute toying with him!" Bane interjects as he runs beside them, careful not to get too close to the stomping hooves.
"I had it under control!"
They find themselves at the foot of Narnian territory, where the forest of Owlwood stood in all of its menacing glory at midnight. Calla and Bane look at each other, hesitant to enter.
"The woods, Bane! Come on!"
Calla doesn't kick the horse into motion yet when she sees Bane frozen on the ground. He is shaking his head. "We'd sooner die if we set foot in there."
From afar, the bridge of Cair Paravel is ablaze with flickering torches, carried by a throng of armoured centaurs charging towards their direction. Calla gives him one look.
"If the sun claims it has power over the moon, let it follow in the night."
Bane lowers his ears, looking back once more at the imminent threat, and deciding the one in front posed less risks.
He turns to Calla, who nods reassuringly, and they both speed into the void of the forest, unbeknownst to them that they have chosen a worse fate.
