1014.
The Fourteenth Year of the Golden Age.
Redhaven, Brenn.
Asura.
Redhaven was a town of fishermen and sailors, only just big enough to be called a city. Torches fluttered in the dark, staying strong despite the heavy rain. A fine mist clung to everything, giving it an otherworldly look as they disembarked the small boat. The few damp souls who were out in the rain hurried along: sticking close to the buildings to avoid getting too wet.
Asura squinted, trying to make out the rickety signs; entirely unfamiliar with the island they had arrived at. The fog rolled throughout the buildings, obscuring her eyesight and clinging to her skin. She exhaled softly, her breath clouding before her. It had been two days since they had been attacked by both shadow-wolves and merpeople, and the downpour had been relentless, beating down continuously upon the group. They had sailed passed Muil, the closest of the Seven Isles to Narnia's shore, and through the straights and still waters until they had reached the port of Redhaven. And she had never been more grateful to have her feet upon solid ground, for she had not realised that her insides could not handle floating upon water rather than be in it.
"Peter?" she kept her voice low, pitching it so only he could hear. She were weary, wanting only a soft warm bed and a fire, hoping to get out of the rain, though within the Guards' earshot she'd never admit as much. There were very few around them, but they were eyed with wary distrust. She did not think they would be recognised, not in their nondescript leathers and without the guards that had bid them farewell at the beach.
"Edmund and Arianna should be back soon," he said, just as softly as she had, is summer blue eyes meeting hers for a moment before he cast them out to the dreary street.
His brother had gone ahead to secure them a room for the night; and he'd instructed Arianna to secure a ship that would take them into the Bight of Calormen. For not every sailor would brave those notoriously dangerous waters.
And for the rest of their small group there was nothing to do but wait, huddled under the roof.
She remembered the day the Pevensies were crowned – the naiads had spoken of the merpeople that had sung in celebration, leaping and diving and laughing in merriment. And she could not reconcile that image with those who had attacked them – with the bloodthirsty race that Arianna claimed them to be.
"I can see your mind racing," Peter said, a small grin tucked into the corner of his mouth as he turned to her – leaning against the moss-covered wall as if he had not a care in the wall. For a moment he looked like he had those years ago, young and carefree. But then it was gone, and his eyes were shadowed once more.
She huffed, warming her hands and blowing into them. "Everyone know merpeople to be kind and joyful."
"Not everything is always so black and white," his voice did not waver. And she knew that voice – it was the High King that was speaking. "We have made that mistake too many times."
She nodded, refraining from answering, biting back the quip that danced on her tongue. Was he speaking of Arianna? He knew that he had grown fond of his brother's wife in the four years that had passed since they'd wed. She did not like, nor trust Arianna, despite their success in the north with the giants. She had grown sick of Peter telling her how he would not have succeeded without Arianna at his side.
She knew, she knew there was nothing untoward between the two of them, but she could not shake the feeling that there was something wrong with Arianna.
Not that she had any claim to the High King of Narnia, no matter how handsome she thought he was. They had never crossed that line. Not truly.
No matter how much she wished she could.
"Peter, I–"
"Pete," It was Arianna's voice that cut her off, the woman appearing as if from the rain itself. Asura frowned – for the rain seemed thicker around the queen, as if the very water that fell from the sky was trying to be closer to her. She looked so very tempting, with the water coalescing on those impossibly long lashes, framing her too-green eyes that always reminded Asura of a cat, both in shape and in the cunning that shone within them. She looked like a water spirit, far more than Asura herself in that moment. "Edmund has found us accommodation."
…
Cair Paravel.
Susan.
Susan stared as the fire burner brighter, higher. A few familiar names jumped out at her, here and there as the dryad read from the scroll. Most of the names though, were unfamiliar. Unremembered faces, passing away in a haze when their lives should have been just beginning.
Iahalae pressed her hand against the queen's shoulder, one of the very few who would offer the queen comfort.
Susan closed her eyes, the blaze slowly spreading numbness through her body as she fixed her gaze on the swirling flames.
Another attack from the shadow-creatures, just beyond the edge of the Cair.
The timing could not be coincidental.
The attack.
The infiltration.
Peter's absence.
Something was afoot.
The rain, a light sprinkle, did not douse the fire that burned brightly. One of the dryads sat to her right, his face turned upwards towards the sky, droplets splattering over his face and the flowers that were part of his hair.
"Even the heaven's weep," his voice, so lost and forlorn, surprised Susan.
And then they began to sing.
The voices rose, a slow soft melody. It was hauntingly beautiful as it washed over them – a song of such sadness and melancholy. A song for the fallen, the brave, those who would not be forgotten.
The melody lifted.
A promise.
That they had not died in vain.
Susan turned from the funeral pyre, her feet taking her the now-familiar path to the dungeons. And down into the dark and down into the cold she went.
The woman stared at her defiantly.
The merwoman.
"Tell me what you know," Susan said, stepping closer. "I have shown you mercy, you will tell me what you know."
"You think this is mercy?" The woman threw her head back and laughed, and Susan saw the strange flaps of skin, two sets of what looked like slashes on either side of her throat. Gills. "Trapped, kept from sunlight and salt. This is not mercy, your Majesty. This is torture."
She paused.
"What is your name?"
"What do you need my name for?"
Susan smiled then. "So, I have something to call you."
"You can call me Dewshine."
