The Dancing Lawn. The Western Glade.
1011.
Christmastime.
Lucy.
The western glade, usually a patch of clover and sun-strengthened grass, was covered with a blanket of snow where an array of tents had been set up, deep violets and rich Narnian-red.
The tent was a haven of warmth and light, its heavy canvas shielding its occupants from the biting frost outside. Braziers burned low, their coals glowing red and filling the space with a gentle heat, while the mingled scents of spiced wine, roasted nuts, and wax from the many candles hung in the air. Richly woven rugs and thick cushions covered the ground, a vivid mosaic of colours and patterns meant to charm their allies.
Faelar was not there.
Susan sat at the centre, her golden circlet of daffodils and mountain ash leaves catching the light as she leaned forward with that easy grace that Lucy had always envied – a goblet of wine in her hand. Her dark green gown, embroidered with silver thread, shimmered softly in the firelight, and her smile never wavered, even as her sharp eyes assessed each guest.
High Queen Susan the Gentle held them all enraptured.
Lucy hesitated at the tent's entrance, the cold wind swirling in behind her as she pulled the flap aside. She had always admired her elder sister's ability to take command of any room, to weave diplomacy from thin air as if it were as natural as breathing. But it also made Lucy feel like an outsider, a shadow in the glow of her sister's brilliance.
Susan's gaze flicked to her, and for a moment, a genuine warmth softened her features. "Lucy," she said, her tone light but tinged with familiarity. "Come in before you let all the cold in."
Lucy stepped inside, brushing the snow from her fur-lined cloak and feeling the welcome embrace of the warmth. Her cheeks stung from the frost, and she let out a small sigh as she stepped onto the soft rugs, the cold seeping away from her boots.
The Calormene delegation turned their heads toward her, their expressions varying from curiosity to mild indifference. They were richly dressed in silks and furs, their accents thick and unfamiliar when they spoke. The drinks flowed freely, the silver flagons on the low tables nearly empty, and the edges of their laughter carried a looseness born of too much wine.
The queen gestured to an empty space beside her, a silent invitation. Lucy hesitated for a heartbeat, then crossed the room and sank onto the cushions. The space was cozy, almost intimate, the air thick with the hum of conversation.
And then Lucy recognised the man sitting directly to Susan's right - Rabadash Tarkaan, the Prince of Calormen. She had not interacted with the man much, but she could very easily see why her sister was drawn to him – he was undeniably one of the most handsome men she had ever laid eyes upon.
He was undeniably striking, with a face that radiated a pleasant charm. His skin was a rich caramel-brown, smooth and warm, a shade deeper than those she was accustomed to seeing in Narnia where the sun did not shine as much as it did in the southern lands. He was dressed in silks of amber and gold, the fabrics shimmering with every subtle movement. The richness of his attire caught the light, creating an almost ethereal glow around him. Golden embroidery adorned the edges of his garments, intricate patterns of vines and stars that hinted at the exquisite craftsmanship of his Empire.
He sat with a calm assurance, his posture relaxed yet commanding, and there was something in the way he inclined his head—a graceful, deliberate gesture—that suggested he was no stranger to admiration.
"They were curious about our customs," the High Queen said with a small smile, turning back to the delegates. "I thought it best to show them a few of our traditions. Comfort, after all, is universal."
Lucy glanced around the room, her gaze lingering on the low tables laden with platters of bread, cheese, and dried fruits. The carpets beneath her were lush, the intricate patterns foreign even to her. Her sister had gone to great lengths to make the guests feel at ease.
"And you've more than succeeded, your Majesty," the Prince of Calormene said with a grin that flashed white again his dark skin.
The queen tilted her head, her smile deepening just enough to show she had heard. "It's Christmastime," she replied. "If we cannot bring warmth and welcome now, when can we?"
Lucy didn't respond. She simply took the goblet of wine handed to her by a servant and let its sweetness bloom on her tongue. Her sister, as always, made it seem effortless—the way she balanced duty and charm, how she could hold an entire room in her grasp while still making one person feel seen. "I fear I've interrupted a deep conversation," Lucy said with a grin.
"We were discussing the renown skill of the Calormene archers," Susan responded with an easy smile.
Of course, Lucy could have laughed.
Her sister loved discussing archery, her passion for the craft shining through in the way her eyes would light up and her voice would gain a rare, animated warmth. It was no great secret that she was one of the best in the kingdom with a bow and arrow—a skill she had honed with relentless determination.
Tales of Queen Susan's precision and mastery with the bow were whispered among the court. It was said she could split a branch no thicker than a finger at fifty paces or fell a moving target with ease, her arrows always finding their mark.
"Give Galen a short-bow and he can outshoot anyone I know," the prince said with an easy smile – it put Lucy in mind of the great cats of Calormene. Dangerous and languid. His voice carried that same familiar ease that Susan's did, the ease of one who was comfortable in any crowd. Of course, for he was to be the Tisroc of Calormene one day.
He motioned toward a tall figure standing just beyond the circle of guests.
"This is my friend, Galen Esfandiyar," Rabadash said, his tone filled with quiet pride.
Galen Esfandiyar stepped forward, his gait confident, almost predatory in its assuredness. He was a man built for battle—muscles taut beneath the ceremonial silks he wore, his dark hair falling in loose waves to his shoulders. His face was sharp, his features striking, yet there was a hardness in his expression that made something in the air shift.
Lucy immediately felt a tightening in her chest, something she couldn't shake. There was something about him—a visceral unease that wrapped itself around her.
He smiled as he approached, the curve of his lips sharp but not entirely friendly. His gaze swept over Lucy, his eyes lingering a moment too long, before they flicked to Susan, and then back to Lucy.
"Ah, the peaceful one," Galen chuckled, his voice loud and brash, filling the space between them. "I've heard of you—the calm sister, the one with no fight in her." His words were like a jab, though he spoke them with a mocking grin that didn't reach his eyes.
Lucy's jaw tightened, the anger simmering beneath her skin, but she refused to react to his provocation. She had no patience for men who thought they could speak of her like that, as if she were something to be dismissed, a mere shadow behind the strength of her siblings. The words stung more than they should have.
But before she could speak, Susan was beside her, a gentle hand landing on her arm. The touch was soothing, grounding, as Susan's calm presence filled the space between them.
"Would you care for a challenge, Esfandiyar?"
Lucy glanced at her sister, her irritation bubbling just below the surface. She did not expect the glint in summer blue eyes.
The moment passed, but the tension lingered in the air like a cloud that refused to dissipate. Galen stood before them, waiting for a response that never came, while Prince Rabadash and the other delegates looked on with an unreadable expression, as if silently assessing the dynamics of the situation.
Galen's gaze flickered to Susan, his expression unreadable for a moment, but the hint of amusement remained in the curve of his mouth. "Is it true, Your Majesty," he asked, his voice dripping with curiosity, "that your bow and arrows are enchanted? That they will always find their mark, no matter the distance?"
A ripple of laughter stirred among the courtiers at the thought. Susan's lips quirked. "That is a story for children," she said with a smile, her voice light yet filled with an unspoken edge. "Are you up for the challenge?"
Her laugh followed, a soft and melodic sound—delicate and playful yet carrying an unshakable confidence that echoed through the tent.
A courtier, dressed in those same fine silks as the prince, with a sneer on his lips, scoffed from across the room. "Surely, Your Majesty jests," he said, his tone dripping with condescension. "The Calormene archers are renowned for their ability, their skill with the bow is unmatched. No one could compare to them."
The room grew quiet for a heartbeat, the air thick with anticipation. Lucy felt a sharp tension at the edge of her chest. She knew where this was heading—another attempt to diminish her sister's prowess, to push her into the shadow of others' grand reputations.
Susan's eyes, cool and unblinking, met Lucy's. There was no anger in her gaze, only a quiet understanding, as if to say, when will they ever learn?
The weight of those words seemed to settle between them, like an old refrain—Susan had been dealing with this same condescension for years. She had long since stopped explaining herself to people who wouldn't believe her without proof.
Lucy felt a small, rebellious spark inside her, but she said nothing, letting her sister handle it.
Susan's smile softened, almost imperceptibly, as she addressed the courtier again, her voice smooth but carrying the weight of truth.
"Calormene archers are indeed skilled," she said, "but a true archer knows that skill can be taught, while precision is earned with dedication. The bow may bend, the arrows may fly, but the mark... the mark is something else entirely."
The room remained silent for a moment, her words hanging in the air.
"A challenge, you say," Rabadash stood, clapping Galen's shoulder. "Indeed, it would be a welcome entertainment."
With a casual wave of her hand, she gestured toward one of the nearby dryads, whose delicate, ethereal presence seemed to glide effortlessly through the room, her gossamer gown shimmering like moonlight on a forest lake.
"Fetch me a bow," Susan said, her voice calm, yet laced with a quiet authority that brooked no refusal.
The dryad, with a graceful nod, disappeared from the tent, her footsteps soundless on the carpets, vanishing behind a partition to retrieve the bow. Meanwhile, Susan sat back with an air of patience, her posture composed, yet there was a glint in her eyes—a promise of something more to come.
Lucy, however, could feel the tension in the air tightening like a noose. There was no need to stick around for the Calormene's comeuppance. Her sister had everything under control. Lucy's smile was small but knowing, her steps quick and purposeful as she left the tent to find Faelar.
…
The Dancing Lawn. The Eastern Entrance.
Faelar.
He'd travelled so far to see her, driven by a yearning that had lingered since they last parted, and now, here he was in the midst of the grand celebration, his heart heavy with anticipation. Yet, as he looked around, there was no sign of her.
With a soft exhale, Faelar reached for a piece of marzipan, the sweet taste of almonds grounding him for a moment as he mulled over his options. The night had unfolded into a blur of unfamiliar faces and distant chatter, and he was more than ready to feel the warmth of Lucy's presence again. He had missed her so much—the way she laughed, the way her deep auburn hair shimmered in the candlelight, the feel of her hand in his.
But she wasn't here.
He ate another piece of the marzipan, his mind turning over possibilities. She was always elusive in the midst of these crowds, slipping away when she needed space, as she sometimes did. Perhaps she'd wandered out into the woods for some quiet. Or maybe, he thought with a small frown, she had slipped away to find refuge in the alcoves where so many others had disappeared to.
It didn't matter.
What mattered was finding her.
After a few moments more, Faelar stood, casting one last glance over the sea of guests. He didn't want to waste the time they could have together. His gaze flicked to the dancers, then back to the empty space where Lucy should have been. He had come to this place for one reason: to hold her again.
To see the smile that had haunted his thoughts, to feel the weight of her in his arms.
He wasn't one for dancing—never had been. The thought of spinning through the crowded dancers without the grace of the other couples made him uncomfortable, but that night, the thought of moving with her, guiding her through the rhythm of the music, sounded more inviting than anything else.
Determination crossed his features as he left the table, passing through the dancers, weaving between the long tables and guests who didn't seem to notice him at all. His focus was fixed—his eyes narrowing as he stepped towards the tents that had been set up in the western glade, hoping to find her in some corner where she had gone to escape the noise.
Her absence, in this moment, felt like an ache deep in his chest.
He needed to hold her. To look into her beautiful blue eyes and see that she was as happy to be near him as he was to be near her. He needed to feel the warmth of her smile, not just in words but in that pure, unspoken connection they shared.
No more waiting. He would find her.
He wasn't sure if he would ever be able to leave her side again.