1014.
The Fourteenth Year of the Golden Age.
Cair Paravel.
Asura.
The sun was rising, gleaming through the clouds and lighting the courtyard with its brilliant glow and it seemed to Asura as if the entirety of Cair Paravel had assembled to watch, from the servants who she passed day by day in the halls to the grey-eyed northmen. So many eyes on her, where she stood across from their High King, her blade drawn.
The knights, she knew by face though not name, lined up in front of the stands, cloaked in the colours of autumn. Red and burnt umber – each adorned lavishly with golden thread. The magic that rippled from them tickled across her skin, like the warm glow from a fire she was standing an inch too close too.
She was flattered, she supposed, that they thought she may be able to hurt their High King, though their unblinking gazes caused a prickle at the base of her neck.
But friendly eyes watched her also she reminded herself, casting her gaze to the Royal Guard, to Folia the dryad. Folia had shed her cream-coloured servant's gown, donning instead a skirt of vibrant blue. It was the colour of Asura's eyes she had said that morning with a wide smile, her short leaf-green curls twined with ribbon of the same hue. And Asura could easily see her watching, her hand gripping the rails, her small face a mix betwixt pride and nervousness.
Asura shifted her footing slightly, uneasy on the hard packed ground of the courtyard, but offered Folia a smile nonetheless, though the dryad's eyesight would easily see the strain. Her knuckles were white on the short sword's hilt. She swung it in an easy circle, testing it.
It felt good to be holding a weapon once more. She rolled back on her heels, centring herself. It had been too long, too long since she had held a blade.
And she felt herself swell as she glanced along the blades edge.
She would beat him.
She had to.
His blade was beautiful, as if fashioned from brilliant rays of light, Aslan's likeness adorning the pommel. Rhindon. The weapon of a king; the like of which she'd never seen, nor would she again. A gift from the great Lion himself.
"I will not go easy on you, Captain," a low murmur as summer-blue eyes watched her own. Both piercing and warming both. It was easy to forget his skill with a blade, behind that charming smile and boyish humour.
"My title would not be worth much if you did." And she flashed him a grin as she twirled her blade.
A single dark brow, marred by a scar, rose.
No fight had ever meant to much to her.
She would be the first of her kind to hold the title.
Let the rest of Cair Paravel see beyond the frivolities and dancing they associated with the maiden spirits of the water.
She exhaled softly.
With his reach and the length of his blade, she needed to get within his guard. His eyes burned into hers as adrenaline coursed through her veins, unable to keep that grin from her face. His expression was stoic (he was trying very hard, she was sure), but his eyes, those summer blue eyes were wild with excitement.
It was Edmund, the Just King, who stood between them, his face hiding whatever emotion it was behind those dark orbs. His armour and cape were different to those he usually wore – ceremonial, she deduced, from the curlicue marks along the hem, and from the ornate patterns etched into his armour, which was more silk than silver, more blue than the black he normally wore.
The dark king; the only brother of the man she would soon cross blades with.
"First to force their opponent to concede will be declared victor."
She wasn't sure what she expected, but it was silence that greeted the king's words. A wariness hung in the air, it prickled along her skin as he stepped back, nodding to his brother and High King. And she waited, her eyes never leaving Peter's. But that was it, no more preamble, no flowery words of encouragement. Nothing that explained to those watching how much that fight meant for her.
Focus.
But a split second after she'd thought it, Peter attacked in a series of down chopping blows with nothing to alert her save for the slight shift of his footing.
Asura darted backwards, ducking under the blade, and rolling to the side.
Fuck.
His speed.
What even was that?
She breathed in through her nose, the crisp, sharp air clearing her head. She rolled again as one the blade moved towards her.
Move.
Shit.
She rolled again.
Watching him spar with his knights had not prepared her for that.
Roll. Move. Keep moving. If you stop, he'll catch you.
He leaned back and grinned, his blade twirling in those big hands; a blade that could easily cleave her in two. "I thought this was a challenge, captain. Not an exhibition on how to tumble."
He was taunting her.
She darted forwards. She would not be able to defend.
She could not defend.
Move.
Offense was her only option.
A vicious slash and she pivoted and pivoted again, dancing out of his reach. He swung and she rolled, low to the ground and slashing at his legs, glancing across the hard leather the protected them. He leapt backwards and she sprang to her feet.
Her blood sung, pounding its glorious rhythm in her veins.
She twirled her blade again with a grin.
The king swept his sword in a crescent moon and Asura blocked, bringing them body to body, hilt to hilt. Fuck. Her eyes widened as he pressed down on her. No.
She broke away, twirling, eyeing him.
But in the time she had blinked Peter had moved, darted in and caught her short sword with his own and jerked it out of her hands.
Her gaze darted to her blade, too far away; his sword would arch down across her middle if she attempted to roll towards it. And those blue eyes were laughing at her. Smug.
She would not concede.
She could not concede.
She tucked her chin and launched herself at him, inside his guard. Her leg hooked around his knee, a manoeuvre she'd taught Folia but two days before. His blade fell as he grasped her with a snarl and threw her.
Asura rolled, pain lancing through her side, crouching as she stilled.
And snarled back at him.
Adrenaline spiked, like lightning inside her veins. She traced her fingers over her ribs, inhaling sharply as pain shot through her. Fuck. She narrowed her eyes at his form, crouched low. His hair, golden in the sunlight, ruffled in the wind, his face focused on hers.
Her skin flushed warm and then cold.
That was the High King she had thought she would be facing.
He growled and panic reverberated through her mind and stomach. Panic dug its claws into her chest.
She swung at his face – he caught her fist in his hand, and twisting her arm he whirled her around and slammed her into the wall. She growled and brought her elbow back, hard, into his stomach.
She dropped and rolled.
Her breath came in short gasps as a jolt of pain shot through her.
He was too fast. He gripped her braid with one hand, pulling her head back, the other hand on her chin, the length of her body pressed against his. With one movement he could snap her neck.
His warmth simmered over her skin. But he wasn't moving.
Rage boiled within her. It wasn't over yet. She was no simpering lady. She would not concede. Not to that.
Edmund's words echoed through her mind.
It was a battle of blades.
She let her body go limp.
His grip relaxed slightly, loosening on her chin and braid.
Fool.
And she dropped to the ground and rolled beneath his reach.
She skidded along the ground on her knees.
Her heart thudded.
Too close.
And he was fast approaching, challenge burning in his gaze.
Fuck.
Shit.
Fuck.
Her other blade.
She had another blade.
She ducked under his swing once more, behind him again.
Keep him moving.
She rolled backwards.
She just needed time to reach that blade.
His frustration was mounting. She could feel it. She had to keep moving. Move, move, move. Roll. And roll again. Under blade and under armour. heart pounded. Her blood raced. And she was sure there was some mockery of a smile ghosting across her lips, just as a thin layer of sweat beaded across her brow and the back of her neck.
And he surged forward again, she twirled the blade blocking his blow as her teeth jarred, bending forward to avoid the swing and she pulled the other from its sheath in one fluid motion as she moved, catching it in her other hand, bringing it around to rest against his throat.
Chest to chest and breathless, Asura blinked.
Peter blinked.
And summer blue eyes darted down to the blade that kissed his neck.
A thin line of red appeared, blood welling.
He blinked again. "I yield." A shaky breath, a startled inhalation that pressed the blade deeper into his neck. He released his blade, letting it fall unceremoniously into the eagerly-awaiting snow. "I concede, Captain Asura."
The courtyard was silent, his soft words louder than they should have been as he stepped back. And she could not read the emotions that swirled in his eyes as she sheathed her blade, her breath coming heavy, blinking away the stars that darted across her vision.
She'd won.
She had won.
There was silence, everything suspended between them, the courtyard and spectators fading to nothing as their eyes met again. One pair disbelieving, the other pair not-quite-surprised. Naiad and human, both breathing heavily, both hesitant to tear their gaze from the other.
The High King grinned.
High King Peter, the Magnificent.
She had bested him.
"Asura–"
"YES! ASURA!" Folia's voice, breathless and full of excitement screeched through the heavy silence, and from the corner of her eye she saw her friend launch herself over the railing.
"Fuck me sideways, that wasn't what I was expecting." Her ears rang, and she was only dimly aware of the cheers that erupted from the sidelines. Had they been wanting her to win?
"What?" Peter snorted, and the amusement that curled up the corner of his lips, she recognised. "What were you expecting?"
Asura grinned up at him. "That wasn't an invitation." She crinkled her nose, not quite able to hide the mirth that bubbled within her, elation lightening her mood and her tongue. And she could not drag her eyes from him; she could not have wiped the grin from her face for all the wares in the Cair Paravel's storerooms.
His cheeks darkened beneath his beard, and he stepped back, eyeing her blade almost warily as he touched two of his fingers to his neck. To the thin line of quickly darkening red blood. "You didn't use your magic."
An observation. And a question. And at that she had to laugh at herself, at her foolishness. "That would simply be unfair of me."
He blinked and chuckled. Chuckled. "I told you I would not go easy on you. Let's just say you caught me unawares." Of course. "But you fight well. Edmund was right in choosing you for the position."
You fought well. Not for a naiad. He did not say she fought well for a female. He had simply said she fought well. And for some unfathomable, stupid reason, that made all the difference. She smiled, unable to stop it and the High King blinked at her, seemingly stunned for a sparse moment. She had won.
She had officially earned her title.
Captain of Narnia's Royal Guard.
A role she'd been filling for three years passed whilst King Edmund traipsed about with his new wife.
Giddiness shot through her and she was naught but a girl of two and ten again, winning her first match against her stream-sister. Folia had once told her that excitement was an inner sunshine that brightened the eyes and soul; and in that moment she was sure her eyes were the same bright summer as the man before her. And try as she might, she could not wipe the grin form her face.
"I'm sure you could hold your own against near anyone now," and then he stepped back from her, putting space between them. As if he were worried about hurting her, as if he'd not just thrown her across the courtyard.
She snorted, laughter bubbling from her. "We'll just hope that it doesn't come to that," she grinned at him, fluttering her lashes in what she hoped was a good imitation of the ladies of the court. "And if I can't fight them, I'll just have to dazzle them with my beautiful blue eyes."
And then to her surprise Peter chuckled again.
And then the warmth enveloped her; and she knew it was Folia not by the deep green curls that covered her vision, nor the soft scent of lavender and spice, but for the stillness that came to her heart. A comforting presence that seemed to melt away any and all worries she may have, and she hugged the dryad back just as fiercely.
"That was amazing-incredible-wild," the dryad's words tumbled from her mouth in a jumble, from somewhere just below Anya's ear. "I did not think thee would be so swift-fast-stunning," Folia pulled back, holding her at arms-length and looking up at her with those impossibly wide eyes. Scrutinising, like a mother would their child. And Asura laughed, the feeling bubbling from deep within her. And Folia looked at her as if she had lost her wits, her gaze then fastening upon her High King. "You didn't hit her on the head, did you?"
Another rather undignified snort from the High King and Asura thought perhaps she had been struck upon her head.
And then it was as if Folia's approach had broken some kind of spell and she was surrounded by bodies, some she recognised and others she was sure she had never seen before in her life. All congratulating her.
The audience was a sea of smiles, a chorus of approval. She could see the happiness, the eagerness in those faces. Not that she'd beat him, no, it was something far deeper than that.
A change in Narnia.
"Peter."
Both she and her liege turned at the voice and Asura had to bite back the snide remark that nearly fell from her lips.
Edmund's wife – Queen Arianna. Clothed in dark leathers that did not befit her station nor the occasion. Her deep green eyes were hard and cold, and in her hand she clutched a roll of heavy parchment.
Peter grinned. As if he were happy to see her. "What is it Ari?"
Ari.
He'd begun calling her Ari.
Emerald eyes darted around. For the woman, she was sure, saw shadows everywhere. "Not here."
…
Peter.
He stared at the parchment in shock.
An invitation to the Kingdom of the Merpeople, to make a treaty.
The royal parlour was silent, everyone awaiting his words. He turned his gaze to his brother's wife. "You've had dealings with them before? What do you make of this?"
He remembered her commenting as much, in their campaign in the north, when she had ridden with him against the giants. She'd told him much of her past, beneath the starlight, before campfires as they'd camped in the snow.
"Do not trust them," her words were curt, but he could see that something shimmering in her gaze. "They are a ruthless, merciless people."
Asura snorted.
His official Captain of the Royal Guard.
She had never made secret of her dislike of his brother's wife, and he was a little bit surprised that she'd not met her death at the end of Arianna's daggers. Especially considering the ease in which she could do so.
"Why did they not join you then? All those years ago?" Peter had once likened Asura's eyes to a frosted lake, an almost deep blue, reflecting the sky above. And in that moment, looking at Arianna, they had never been colder.
"They trade with but one currency – blood," Arianna shrugged, taking from Edmund a small piece of fruit. She did not look at Asura, but Peter knew her well enough now to assume that was so the naiad did not see the hurt there. "They were my allies, briefly. But it did not last long. Our…visions…did not align."
Asura stiffened. "What did you do, kill them?"
"Yes."
Emerald met winter blue and the air in the parlour was heavy.
"I think it would do us well to hear them out," Edmund, ever the diplomat, intervened. And Peter was grateful for his brother, for he honestly had no idea what to say.
He would take with him all three of them – for Lucy was away, somewhere near the mountainous border of Archenland. And Susan would remain in the Cair as the ruling monarch in their absence, for one of them must always remain.
…
Asura.
Of course Arianna had to go with them.
A dark chuckle left her as she hunched her shoulders, as her eyelids fluttered closed, seeking a moment of respite as the raucousness of the mess hall carried on about her. She held her tankard of mead in two hands, a small comfort as annoyance stirred within her.
Though in the deepest part of her, she could admit that it was more than annoyance.
She did not trust Arianna, though everyone around her seemed to be completely taken by the White Witch's daughter. How did they not see that she had fooled them?
And then in the darkness behind her closed eyes, it was as if something fluttered against her senses. It felt as if she'd stepped into a thick fog. And it consumed her, swiftly and completely.
A drop of blood. Golden bars. A knife.
A deep, dark abyss.
She gasped, clutching her head with a groan as she forced her eyes open.
She wanted them to go away.
The dreams.
Though she could no longer claim it a dream when she was awake.
She didn't want to wonder if they were real or not. If they were past or present or future. She didn't want to see people dying. She didn't want to keep seeing Peter's lifeless eyes over and over again.
As a child, trapped in her small rivulet, she'd dreamt of her mother's death, over and over. As so when spring had finally come and her mother was nowhere to be found, her riverbed run dry, it had been no surprise to young Asura. She'd not understood properly, perhaps, but she'd not been surprised.
It was part of the reason she had fled to north, terrified of the Everwinter and the death it wrought.
Strange, Peter had called her when he'd first met her.
Cursed, she had thought of herself.
If she could pretend the images were little more than dreams, she could move on. No king or queen wanted a damaged soldier who could not tell reality from the world of dreams.
There was a sudden shadow before her; a presence that had not been there a moment passed. "Are you okay, Captain?" Folia was grinning, though there was concern in her tree-green eyes.
She didn't answer immediately; would she be able to tell if she lied? Even after the four years passed.
She was saved from answering when the mess hall door banged open, and she looked up into the dark pits of Arianna's green eyes. Unbidden a shudder ran through her. She felt those empty eyes rake over her. Probing. Searching. As if she could see into her mind like a witch of the lantern wastes.
She is not what she presents herself to be, the thought ran though her mind. Over and over. She could not dispel the image of Arianna standing over Edmund, the daggers in her grip, dripping with red, red blood.
Asura pulled her cloak tighter about her body.
"Captain?" Folia repeated, and she turned her attention back to the dryad.
"I just need some fresh air, but thank you Lieutenant ." She could not be in the same room as Arianna and her dark eyes. And she could not quite banish the image of Peter's lifeless eyes, and the little snowflakes that fell onto his deathly pale skin.
She would have to protect him from Arianna.
She would have to protect them all; no matter where they went.