Waiting was the hardest.

It shouldn't be. My older brother fought with sword and shield, short though they were, and the few times he'd returned (the wounded get better care at home), I saw each scar. The three on his arm from a Wolf's claws, the scoring on his side from a mace, the shattered knee only the most skillful hidden healers had been able to put together enough for him to run and fight again. I'd seen how steep his cost, how hard to pay, though he tried to hide from a brother seven years younger.

My mother worked, the stubbornness of the Dwarfish race ran so strong in her I thought she could take on the Witch's army by herself. Mining, refining, forging—her hammer struck earth and metal with equal skill. It seemed her worship was the only warm place left in Narnia sometimes, made equally warm by its fire and her spirit, strong and splendid as the weapons she made. General Orieus himself wore one of her helms, gifted when my brother joined his army. But the glory meant nothing to her; with each grumble at the length of the Witch's winter, she made it clear the only thing she truly wanted was victory.

I could do nothing to bring it, except wait.

I'd been born the younger son, my older brother already the talk of his group for his skill with a sword, and everyone hoped for another fighter. But my right arm ended in a stump instead of a hand, and my right leg stayed a good finger shorter than my left.

I could carry things under one arm, but I could not forge, for both legs must be braced to let the hammer fall with full strength. I etched sometimes, my only hand clenched around the chisel, but most of the time the weapons mother made were gone the next morning, undecorated and sturdy.

I made her food. I made the orphans food, and taught them their letters and to recite their ancestry, but once they grew large enough to hold a sword or hammer, they left. Many of them never came back.

Waiting felt so cold.

Mother told me I'd inherited her stubbornness, that any other Dwarf child would have given up doing anything by the time two years had passed, but what good is stubbornness that doesn't do anything but wait?

Only two places felt warm; the forge, where I threw coal or fetched tools or swept out the fires, where I did something—and the dawn.

Each morning I went out. Mother's grandfather dug the forge into a knoll, deep under it, and a small door led to it, almost always hidden by a boulder. (Only something Dwarf size or smaller could enter.) Every morning, before the dawn, I'd walk to the top of the hill and watch the sun, the fire that never went out, that even Jadis couldn't conquer.

There were things she couldn't touch. Light she couldn't put out.* Goodness she couldn't quash.

Sometimes the clouds hid it, but even with it hidden, the world still changed when it came.

The dawn was a promise, even to cripples.

Perhaps I had a bit of my mother's stubbornness after all.

But then the Witch found out.

We were never sure how—if a neighbour needed food, and informed on us. I still hope it wasn't that. Perhaps a soldier with extra-sharp ears heard my mother's pounding, despite the layers of earth. They were always looking for rebel forges. Disarm an army and you've defeated it, if it's got smaller numbers; even the silliest knew that.

But the rebels had their own spies, and a Robin saw the troop coming. It told a Kestrel, one of the fastest in the forest, and the Kestrel sped to the forge. Mother and I had minutes to throw food and clothing into a bag, then we left—straight onto the ice of the river. Ice doesn't hold scent.

I walked, limped, as fast as I could, determined not to slow her down—but I had to. I couldn't keep the pace long.

I wanted her to leave me, but have I mentioned, my mother is stubborn? She just took her hand-held axe, marched to the edge of the ice, cut down a low branch, shook off the snow, and handed it to me.

We went on.

All that day and all that night, we went on.

It didn't hit me till an hour before the dawn: I wouldn't be able to see it from my knoll again. Our home was gone.

But mother still stumped onward, face fierce, and I knew she wouldn't look back. I think the only time I'd heard her speak about the past was when she told me about her wedding day, and about what my father had been like. How he'd been so brave, organising troops against the Witch from a separate house, till the Secret Police had taken him.

She wasn't looking back now, so I stiffened my good arm, leaned more on my stick, and went on.

Dawn broke just as we reached my brother's camp.

The lookouts must have seen us, because he came running out, hugging my mother, hugging me. I shoved him away—he was too strong for my aching muscles—but followed him gladly to his tent and collapsed on the floor.

I think he must have been gentler when he put me in his bed, because I didn't wake up for it.

I woke the next morning to an empty tent, but Mother had put out some of our food on a rough wooden plate next to me. I ate it—I was hungry—melted some snow over the nearest fire while nodding to the soldiers, most with bandages, and then sought out the kitchen tent.

There was at least something I could help with, three times a day.

And inbetween, once they found out I knew the winter herbs, I was sent hunting, or helping mother gather wood for the fires, when she wasn't given axe lessons to warriors. My legs ached every night, my hand shook with the cold, but it was good to be doing something.

Better than waiting.

And I thought that was my part, to help in the kitchens, hunt for food and medicine, and to watch the sunrise every morning from the ice of the river—it was cold, but I couldn't give it up, that promise was what kept my stubbornness going—until.

Until spring came.

We'd had no warning; we were a camp of wounded, and news only trickled to us as the wounded came in, so we hadn't heard He had come to Narnia.

But I stood on the ice in the morning, for once not shivering, watching the orange sphere turn to gold as it rose. Just after the last part cleared the treetops, the ice cracked.

A warning, a loud pop, and I made for the shore right away, but then I turned and watched, stunned. I'd thought a stone had fallen on it, or something like that, but no, I could see the crack—just as another appeared, another sound. It brought the few healthy out of their tents, all of us watching the river and standing like a group of fools.

It was then that someone exclaimed that the snow was melting. And we all turned and looked, and sure enough, it was lower, slushier, and the air was warmer.

It felt like a promise as great and deep as the dawn.

No one worked that day, except the kitchens and the healers. Even the healers spent most of their time shooing their patients out of doors, sending them to see flowers—none of us had seen flowers before—and then grass, springing up amidst the mud—and then the river when the ice finally rushed away, water pouring over the banks and making so much music it seemed spring had its own herald.

It was night before someone brought the news that Aslan had come. Come to Narnia; that He camped at the Stone Table, and all the rebels were making their way to Him.

The healers talked about it all evening; we could still hear them when we laid down in my brother's tent. We whispered among ourselves, or at least my brother and I did. Mother never said a word. I wondered if her hope was too deep to speak of. Oftentimes, the most stubborn people are the ones who don't know what to do, when they don't have to go on hope anymore. When it isn't stubbornness.

The next morning, the healers told us they thought all of us were well enough to march, if we went together and took it easy.

I'd never needed to slow down for others before, but I didn't mind. It gave me time to see the flowers. Mother was more preoccupied with what wood looked like once the snow was off, how much easier it was to separate good wood from bad, and my brother liked the freedom of walking without snow, but what caught my eyes were the flowers. They were everywhere, in so many colours; I hadn't known the world could be so varied. It was as cluttered as a hoarder's hall, but somehow—somehow not. Openness rather than oppression.

I bet the White Witch hated it. The thought made me smile.

It took a few days, but we reached it. We'd been close anyway. And that last day, when we reached the bottom of the hill, a few groaned and looked at it with weary eyes—but those who were already there, the well, the soldiers, the faithful, poured down the hill and carried the wounded. Comrades in arms met again, exclaimed over how well the wounded were healing. I, who was not wounded, was swept up into the arms of a scary Centaur. I began to protest—a Son of Earth belongs on the earth—but a single look from him silenced me.

Plus, he wore a helm of mother's making; I saw her mark, and that made it a little easier to accept his help. He set me down once the road grew flat.

And then—there He was.

I'd thought spring a fulfilment of promise, only because I had not seen Him. Every hope I'd ever believed came true in His face, His voice.

He welcomed us. Every single weak person, who had to be carried to His camp.

About to fight a war, against a long-enthroned ruler—who else would welcome the crippled and the wounded, the drains on resources, into His camp? But He and His own welcomed us.

I went to the kitchens again, but there was a special kind of joy in cooking when He was in the camp. I was there when the three arrived, so I didn't see them at first. But I served breakfast to them, once their brother arrived, and I thought they didn't look like much. Maybe they needed some Dwarf stubbornness, to get them through this.

Still, few people listen to a cripple. I didn't say anything.

And what they were like didn't matter, as long as we had Aslan.

Aslan left.

He left, and I didn't know why. The two Sons of Adam took charge, and the warriors listened to them, but I couldn't get over the fact that Aslan was gone.

I didn't go to greet the dawn. The sun had no comfort for me anymore.

But a bit of my mother's stubbornness still existed. I didn't want any more hope, once I'd seen it fulfilled and betrayed, but I did still want victory. The Witch's army outnumbered our own. My legs had grown a little steadier, walking so much, and there was no longer any ice to slip on.

So I went to my mother and asked her for help.

She didn't cry, not in my memory, and she didn't cry then, but her forehead fell into wrinkles, her eyes shone with pain, and she couldn't speak, but she gave a jerky nod. She spent the night in the forge.

I did too. It still felt warm, overwarm, now that winter was gone, but I took overwarm. My heart still felt chilled.

She forged two suits of armour that night, one with a closed sleeve and knives braced to it, a length of metal running down the arm to keep it stiff.

I hadn't thought about that second set. But of course she would go with her sons. She would go with Aslan's own.

Why would He let us make that last stand without Him?

I thought about that in the forge, all through that long, long night. All appearances argued that He was worse than the Witch; she never pretended to be gracious to the Narnians.

But I remembered the love in His look. Greater than my mother's, greater than the warmth of my father's arms that I barely remembered, greater than my brother's protective anger—I had never seen or known a love as full as that. If He left, it was for a reason, and a good one. I still wanted to fight for Him.

So. Two suits of armour.

I'd thought the dark night with the questions, with His absence, would be the worst I had to go through. The worst waiting.

I was wrong.

The Kings—they were Kings now, and in their tones I heard the heaviness of what they were bearing, heavier than the metal that closed around me—gave orders. We obeyed. They put me as a sentry, not near the heat of the battle. I stalked back and forth. Maybe I muttered about how a sentry should be able to run fast to bring news.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

That wait was the worst. Waiting to die. Waiting to fight. Waiting for hope. Waiting for death.

When the army came, screams and gibbers and jeers, it was almost a relief. I stabbed two other Dwarfs with my mother's work before a Minotaur hit me down, a blow to the head, and pinned my arm to the ground with a broken arrow.

It hurt. I couldn't breathe, couldn't see, was sure I was dying.

Dying can take a long, long time, especially when pain stretches moments. All I could do was wait.

And listen. Because anything, anything, to get my mind off the pain; breathing took one part of my brain; I gave the rest to my ears.

The sounds of battle, metal on metal, screams, rage cries, shouts of loss—I hated it. Especially the Witch's voice, shouting commands. Until that stopped, after a cry of horrible rage. I wondered if she'd died. I hoped. That would make it worth it.

The sounds changed. A ROAR, echoing from the trees, the rocks, a roar in a voice I would always know. Followed by the cries of Aslan's own, their cheering, and squeals of horror from the horrible side.

Aslan. He'd come back. He'd gone to get more of His own.

He won.

I breathed out.

In.

Out.

The sounds didn't change.

In.

Out.

That—even dying, this victory felt as beautiful as the dawn to me. Love fulfilled, faithful, as sure as the grass underneath me.

I heard my brother. He called my name, called it with fear and pain and everything else in his voice. I heard his footsteps. I couldn't call back. Then rough hands jerked at me, at the armour, shedding it, pulling the arrow from my arm, and pressing hard against my aching head.

My mother next, she must have heard my brother, her voice—it was harder to hear her, the sounds growing fuzzy. Maybe a plea for help. Something about staying, stubborn.

Something fell on my tongue.

I'd never thought of what the sun tasted like. I'd smelled the flowers, and it felt a little like tasting them. This tasted of both, that blazing fire and warmth, that haunting scent. My head felt suddenly fine, and I blinked, and there were my mother's and brother's faces—and one of the Queen's, though hers was leaving.

My arm felt fine too.** I could move it, reach up and pull my mother into a hug, whack my brother on the shoulder with my elbow.

"Too stubborn to die," my brother sobbed, both arms around my shoulders. It made it hard to breathe. "Thank Aslan you're too stubborn to die."

"And I feel fine now," I croaked out, and he laughed through the tears and let me go.

"It is you," a strange voice—an almost familiar voice, like the voice from a dream—said behind us. I didn't pay it much attention, not till my mother went stiff, her face white.

I looked behind me.

A Dwarf with my brother's big nose and my wild hair stood there, a huge battleaxe resting on the ground.

I looked back at my mother.

She rose slowly, like a mountain rumbling before erupting, and then she was running, running faster than I ever could, towards her husband.

"Where have you been?!" she yelled, one hand punching his shoulder even as the other grabbed him to pull him closer. "It's been years—I was alone—you were gone—"

"Turned to stone," the Dwarf said, in that almost-familiar voice, grabbing his wife and pulling her close. "Aslan breathed me back to life. I should have known I'd find you on a battlefield."

"I waited, I waited so long, I thought I'd have to die before seeing you again—"

"Hush, hush. I'm back. Are these our sons?"

I hated that moment, hated it fiercely. There stood my brother, whole, sword in hand, right next to me—and then my brother put his around me and pulled me forward, and somehow it became a family hug where I couldn't tell which arm was which, but—those were my mother's tears, falling on my face, and my father's, falling on my shoulder.

My father.

I had never, ever imagined a promise like this. But it was here at last. The night and the waiting were over.

Dawn had come to stay.

Amnesty Prompt 2: Though the dawn always comes, the nights are sometimes very dark, and very long.

*"Above all shadows rides the sun / the stars forever dwell. / I will not say the day is done / nor bid the stars farewell." ~ Tolkien

**I thought about the cordial healing his arm and leg, but since it didn't grow Reepicheep's tail back…