Disclaimer: the promises were written long before I was born. So was Narnia.

Edmund collapsed in his chair, the wooden back digging into his spine, his neck resting on the top, and let his gaze stare blankly at the ceiling. Christmas was over.

Christmas was over, the New Year would come in a few short hours, and Edmund wasn't ready. Christmas had seemed such a welcome break, a lightening of the gloom and tension that held everyone. The Dwarf-made lanterns of coloured glass flooded stone halls with rainbows, wreaths and garlands of pine scented the halls and filled them with living green, and the food had been, if not as elaborate as before years, at least enough. There had been laughter.

Narnians had laughed as they walked the halls. The smiles on the dancing floor had been real. Edmund had walked among his own, and seen them remember joy.

But the lights were out. The garlands and wreaths littered the floor with needles, with the proof that they were not living green at all, but dying. Cair was on half-rations once more, and the smiles were disappearing.

It was only the Four's second year of reigning, and already Narnia struggled. So many Narnians had forgotten how to farm, to care for land every spring and summer, and to store enough for the winter. Christmas was a celebration of joy amid the darkest, coldest, hungriest month, and oh, how Narnia needed it!

Now Christmas was over. Were joy and warmth over as well?

Edmund picked his head off the back of a chair. In front of him, between him and the roaring fire, was the square table. He'd tried to clear it off for Christmas, so it only had three stacks of books and one pile of papers. He reached for the pile, dragging it near. He thought he remembered something in it, something worth reading now—something about Aslan and remembering.

It took him a while to find the right piece of paper, it was third from the bottom, but as he settled back and began reading, the rest of the world fell away.

It was half an hour later that he felt a hand land on his shoulder, and tilted his head back to see his older sister standing behind him.

"The year begins in a candle's time," she said quietly. "Won't you come wait with us?" Edmund started to push his chair back, but stopped when he realised he'd hit her. She hadn't moved, leaning over the back of his chair for a better view of the scroll in his hand. "What were you reading?" she asked curiously.

"Something to give me hope." Edmund looked back at the fire. "Hope for the coming year. I needed it, when I came in."

"And you found it?"

Edmund twisted around in his chair to get a better look at Susan, for her tone told of her own longing. "I did. I think I'll bring the scroll with me, and share it with the rest." He started to get up, but stopped when Susan's hand continued to hold his shoulder. He glanced at her, the question written in his raised eyebrow, only to find her smiling at him with a look of pride lighting her eyes.

"You are becoming such a great king," she told him. She squeezed his shoulder and then stood back, allowing him to get up. He offered her his arm, to escort her out.

He didn't quite know what to say. Her words meant—more than he knew how to express. "Thank," he told her, quietly, hoping his tone told her what his words couldn't. From her smile, he thought it worked.

The rest of their siblings, as well as Mr. Tumnus (who couldn't resist Lucy's pleading), Oreius (who thought they needed supervision), the Robin, an Eagle who was good friends with Peter, Leo, Por, and a few other friends had all gathered in a large room with a tremendous fireplace and several windows. (The Beavers, who said remaining awake to the New Year was a "gadding for the young," stayed in the comfort of their own home.)

Edmund stopped in the doorway when he saw the crowd. He hadn't meant to talk about his thoughts before such a large crowd.

But Leo and Por were already making their way to him on silent paws, Robin had flitted over to land on his arm and stood cocking his head sideways at the scroll, and everyone else had fallen silent.

Susan had told him he was a good king. Even now she held onto his arm and squeezed it in gentle encouragement.

How did he begin? Did he tell everyone about his struggles, the discouragement? Was that unnerving in a leader? Did he tell some of it? Or—

Sometimes the simplest truth was best.

"I found something in the library I wanted to read to my siblings," he said, moving the scroll back and forth, as he did not want to upset the Bird on his arm. "As more people are here, perhaps you'd like to hear it?"

"Come to the fire, my King," Oreius said, moving sideways. "The light is better there."

Edmund thanked him with a smile. Robin hopped to his shoulder as he went, and Edmund turned to face most of the gathering, unrolling the scroll as he did so.

"Written in the year of the missing king, six.

We were beaten back today. It seems every entry I make tells of nothing but defeat, defeat, defeat. And I know the cost of these defeats—the homes burned, the Narnians captured, and the firmer hold this winter takes on our land.

I used to go back to the writings of other generals, Aslan's own who fought and rested, lost and won—but I cannot read them now. I do not feel I deserve to, when all I bring the Lion is defeat.

We ask Aslan's blessing every time we go out, and still, still—

Christmas stopped as well. Aslan, can I not even bring some victory to the few Naranians who are left?

Written in the year of the missing king, seven.

We lost more ground. Another defeat. But I did not come to write about that.

I rescued a little Hedgehog today. The winter had frozen the entrance to her home, and so she and her family had fled. They fled, but ran straight into a battleground. I do not know what happened to her parents, not yet, but her—her I saved.

And she saved me. For I brought her home, huddled in my large Centaur hands against the cold. I heard her crying. I told her I was sorry, I was so sorry, and she wiped her tiny nose with those clever paws, and looked up at me—those dark, small eyes, full of sorrow and yet of faith.

She told me she was crying because she'd never seen so many people in pain. But that my sorry reminded her of something. Because it's what she tells Aslan, over and over, when she's afraid. And then she does what her father tells her, and remembers all the times Aslan saved them. And now she'll have a strong, large memory to add to that, of Him sending me.

If I had not stopped my tears long ago, I would have been crying with her.

All I can tell are tales of defeats. But—Aslan is not defeated. He keeps the faithful. He takes them home. He won me to His side long ago, and that is a victory this Witch can never defeat.

He saved me from a landslide as a Foal.

He saved me in my first battle, when I dropped my sword, by sending reinforcements.

I will remember all the times He won.

And I will remember He will win in the end."

Edmund finished, hands shaking very slightly. Because he knew that wasn't the end. He looked up, rolling up the scroll with gentle movements. "Aslan did win," he added. "The Witch is dead. Aslan's victories go on. I—wanted to remember all the times Aslan won this year. He won over winter. He saved me from the hands of the Witch. He brought me to the camp. He won my heart, and my place among His own. He won when He brought reinforcements against the White Witch." Edmund stood a little straighter. "He will win this coming year as well. No matter our struggles."

There was a pause, but Edmund let it rest. He knew sometimes the words weren't easy to reply.

"I wonder what happened to that general," Lucy asked in a thoughtful voice.

Oreius cleared his throat. "I think I know that general—Stormcloud. He was in my grandfather's herd." He paused. "He lost all ground over the course of that year. He rallied the last of the army and led the attack on the Witch's castle the next year. He died outside the walls, and his death inspired his troops to breach the gate."

Edmund thought suddenly of the cold courtyard, the stone Lion crouching near the Dwarf, the way he had once mocked them until he saw their sadness, and shivered.

Oreius noticed.

"Aslan won another victory for all those in the courtyard," he reminded the King. Edmund could suddenly hear the non-stop chatter of the Lion, and smiled. "Instead of falling to the weapons of the enemy, they were turned to stone—and Aslan saved them. It is another victory He won."

"And they will live to see this new year, and the spring it will bring," Peter said, coming up beside Edmund.

"But General Stormcloud still died," Susan said softly, her eyes sad.

"He went to Aslan's country, my Queen, and they know nothing of defeat there."

Peter turned suddenly and walked to the crystal pitcher of water. He began pouring glasses and handing them around, many hands joining to help him as the Narnians clustered around. Then he raised his glass and held it high. "To following Aslan through every victory and defeat, and joining Him in His own country one day!"

"To following Aslan and joining Him!" the Narnians cried, and drank.

Edmund, looking around at the people he led, the people he loved, felt warmer and more hopeful than he had in many months.

The new year would come, and Aslan would lead the way.

A/N: Written for those who had Christmas's hopes and found them empty, and who are looking forward to a year where it doesn't seem to offer anything better.