Too often, we question the potency of our prayers, unaware that even a forgotten prayer can be answered in unexpected ways, sometimes as a belated benediction.
For Agnes, it all began with a desperate longing to preserve a memory—a hope that flickered faintly in the promised land. And that hope took shape in the form of a fabled sword, its lion-head pommel glinting with the promise of something long lost but never forgotten.
Chapter One
And Thou Shalt Take a Nobler Leave
Fear was brewing wildly inside her chest that caused her heart to almost stop beating. Though her armor and chainmail provided a façade of Narnia's magnanimous regent, the vulnerability was clear as daylight in her eyes. In a fleeting second, if one looked at her closely, the forty-year-old Daughter of Eve was replaced by an adolescent warrior.
She had perpetual fears that she used to strengthen her resolve. It was a relentless companion in this battle for survival. The fear of failing her people—of watching Narnia, and its fragile hope, crumble into dust—had become a shadow that stalked her every step. But another, darker fear clung to her heart: the possibility of never seeing her family again. The thought twisted her insides. They were as much a part of Narnia as the soil beneath her feet. So, she vented every ounce of remorse through the grip of her golden rapier covered in dried blood down to its hilt.
Inhaling sharply, the woman mustered the remaining gallantry she had in her voice. "All hope is not lost if one of us, at least , survives," her eyes scanned the crowd as she spoke, "Look among yourselves. Take in the last glances of our castle. Narnia will live on, even without Cair Paravel, but our duty is to remain here as her last stand while we protect what is left of our stories, our legends, and our beliefs."
She glanced briefly at the thrones that remained empty for centuries and felt another wave of grief. Continuing, she raised her head higher. "Fight! Fight for our dearly beloved, for the Kings and Queens of Old, for what we always believed, for the prophecy, and above all for Narnia."
Her voice rang out, fierce and unyielding, even with a tremor of fear. She had led them through darkness, through losses too great to count. This battle was already a lost cause for their kind. But she would not let it be the end.
Not yet.
Not while there was breath in her body.
The speed of her words made it clear to everyone to what extent they needed to fight with everything they had to secure the evacuation of the other Narnians to a location that even Agnes deliberately did not know of. It was a precaution just in case she was captured and questioned sharply by enemies.
"It is truly an honor to serve all of you," she said with a tired yet incandescent smile, and pride passed over the countenances of her soldiers.
Standing beside her was General Oreius, who was at his fifth centennial age, making him the oldest Narnian centaur who ever lived.
"How many remained?" she asked him.
"Eight regiments, Your Higness." His answer was quick; and her jaw clenched.
The Telmarines outnumbered them by two thousand men. What was worse was the machinery and reinforcements had no standing against the advanced technology of Telmar's trebuchets and ships.
"It's time, Your Highness," Oreius said, his voice gruff but steady. His eyes were indecipherable.
She gave him a deep nod, and the troops were quick to recognize the gesture by resting their free hand above their chest, where their hearts were supposed to be. That was all she needed to see before starting the Oath of Honor. It was a pledge to offer their lives to protect her well-being at all costs reassured that they truly were with her until the end. After all, the remainder of Narnia was currently under her regency, and sometimes ruling beside an elected sovereign, since the disappearances of the Kings and Queens of Old.
She started speaking the first words, then everyone followed., "I solemnly swear my weapon to Cair Paravel—a pledge to the Great Lion's mane and the four rulers of this glorious Kingdom of Narnia, to give my life and blood for this promised land and its kings and queens. Let Aslan bear witness as I give my oath of loyalty to Narnia."
Each word was a vow she would carry to her grave—not just to Narnia, but to the very souls of the people she stood before. Her heart was beating with a feverish intensity, fueled by the fear of failure, knowing what was at stake.
She raised the rapier above towards the cracked glass roof, where the memory of a clear Northern sky should be.
Agnes' grip tightened on her rapier. Her heart pounded in her chest. The thought of dying once more haunted her thoughts and tightened around her chest like a vise. "Make death proud to take us…" Her voice cracked slightly, the rawness of her emotions bleeding through. "For Narnia."
The words that gave a tantalizing chill reverberated across the throne room, followed by the sharp sounds of unsheathing of blades.
"For Narnia!" they shouted in unison and agreement.
The earth trembled beneath their boots as the heavy march of the Telmarines grew louder. Their battle cries swallowed the foundations of the Great Hall.
Upon the sight of shadows growing on the wall, altogether the Narnian troops prepared themselves for their last stand.
She thought of her home, of Hampstead, of her parents and older sister, of Wales where she was evacuated, and of the ongoing World War. Her older brother, a war-torn person like her, could have been proud of her. Then, the thoughts faded upon the realization that wherever she went, there would still be wars that would follow her. However, she chose Narnia because she could dedicate something in tribute to her brother's life who fought for a cause until his last breath.
Heart pounding slowly, she pushed back any inhibitions clouding her head when the Telmarines began to rush in. Time seemed to slow down when she hastened towards them. She poured out all fibers of her being, every crevice filled with pain and anger that reawakened the well-known stories of her wrath. All in one single shout.
"CHARGE!"
With Oreius tailing behind her, Agnes led Narnia's last army, screaming a battle cry that would forever resonate with the souls of the people who dedicated their lives for this night.
The clash of metal on metal rang out like the grim toll of a bell, followed by the screams of the wounded, the stench of blood and sweat. Agnes' readjusted her grip on the rapier before sending quick slashes, followed by strong thrusts with her parrying dagger.
It was a downpour of the struggle between chaos and triumph. Bodies that came from either of the opposing battalions collapsed or bled throughout the hard floor of the same ground that Aslan and the kings and queens of their country had walked upon.
Somewhere in the fight, Agnes was losing the upper hand to a Telmarine who surpassed her both in weight and height. She was thrown out of balance when he socked her square on the jaw, then suddenly, his sword almost pierced her head. Luckily, she quickly managed to roll towards the opposite side, retrieving her parrying dagger to plunge it into his throat with a loud groan.
Oreius' voice rang out from the far end of the hall. "Lady Agnes!" he called.
Kicking the body away as she pulled out her parrying dagger, she whipped her head towards Oreius who had his swords pierced through three Telmarines. He signaled for her to look up, and she saw a dwarf riding a gryphon beckoning to follow them before making a turnaround towards the exit. Knowing already what they had in mind, she dashed out of the Great Hall, sending swift flurries of thrusts at Telmarines crossing her path using her rapier.
The clash of steel rang in her ears, the bitter taste of sweat and blood mingling on her tongue. Every strike she made was fueled by the desperation, but her body was already beginning to feel the toll of the battle. Each movement felt slower, the weight of the fight pressing on her shoulders like a hundred unseen hands.
Soon, she passed corridors littered with piles of rubble, broken statues, and torn-down paintings. All of what was left of the Golden Age's glory was desecrated. Nevertheless, she was barreling her way down the grand staircase and finally outside the ruined courtyard. The echoes of battlement from the Great Hall decreased from her earshot as she made distance away from it.
Trotwood, a faun relative of Tumnus, shoved a wall aside at the end of the courtyard's dais. The regent immediately recognized King Frank I's statue, which now had its torso broken off.
"In here, Your Highness!" the dwarf shouted from above and entered the Treasure Room with Trotwood lighting the way using a torch.
Chest burning, she made a loud huff and crossed the dais in a few strides before making her way down the sixteen steps of the Treasure Room. There were a few stones of various sizes and shapes from catapult attacks, crushing some artifacts and gifts that were collected and earned from the Narnia's previous trades and conquests.
Her gaze lingered on the statues of the four rulers, behind their corresponding chests. The rulers that had protected Narnia and brought them the Golden Age, but now they were nothing more than cold marble figures. Agnes lost count of how many times she had found herself ending up in this treasure room to stare at these four statues.
What would they say if they saw her now? She had promised to carry their legacy, but the weight of the promise felt heavier now than ever.
Sometimes, she dedicated prayers and offerings to seek guidance and strength. To Queen Lucy the Valiant, she sought guidance on how to be brave when everyone lost hope. Battle after battle, she asked Queen Susan how to console the grieving people. She would vent to King Edmund the Just whenever challenged with diplomatic negotiations. While for High King Peter the Magnificent, she sought his example to strengthen her resolve.
"Milady?" Trotwood urged politely.
Agnes stood before the statue of High King Peter. It was as if she could feel his presence, his strength, and the weight of this kingdom from his stony likeness. But only the empty eyes of the statue stared back at her, cold and unyielding. She exhaled sharply before shaking herself from the reverie.
She moved across the room towards the second chest from the left. The ornate lid creaked under her hands as she lifted it, and the dim glow of the flickering torchlight caught on the ivory surface of a familiar object inside. Her fingers traced the delicate curves of the Horn—it was the Horn of Queen Susan, the remaining symbol of Narnia's hope.
A wave of longing and grief hit her all at once. Memories of stories flooded her—of the days before the wars when they had tried to blow this horn to call their beloved rulers' home. Only to wait for nothing, and sometimes it felt like relic. Still, it had been the promise of their return, a beacon of hope that had kept her going through countless dark days.
After all, the prophecy stated that the rightful ruler of Narnia would be the only one to summon them home with this horn.
Suddenly, Trotwood's ears pricked. He glanced towards up the stairs. The sounds of battled had reached them. She caught the tension in his stance and followed his gaze, her breath catching in her chest. Without a word, they both sprang into action, racing toward the stairwell. Her rapier was already drawn, but Trotwood halted abruptly, his expression grim.
Agnes skidded to a stop; her voice icy with impatience. "What is it?"
The faun's voice was low, filled with unease. "The High King's sword, Your Grace. Rhindon..."
Her heart skipped a beat, the weight of his words sinking like a stone. She had hoped to leave it behind, to not think of it—of him. But it was impossible to ignore. Rhindon, the sword of High King Peter, was more than just a weapon. It was also a symbol of Narnia's greatness. A piece of the kingdom's heart that no one, not even her or a Telmarine, could possess.
Agnes' jaw tightened. An old wound on her shoulder, unhealed by time, felt cold. She had always sworn that no one, not a single soul, would wield Rhindon but a rightful Narnian. The thought of enemies defiling it was anathema to everything she had fought for.
The tension in her chest grew, threatening to suffocate her. There was no time for hesitation now. She had to leave it behind. The horn and the fabled sword could not be in the same place at the same time, especially in case Trotwood's journey would not make it to wherever he would have chosen to hide the Horn.
Her heart clenched painfully. She pressed the Horn gently to her forehead, whispering a prayer she could no longer make sense of. She asked for guidance, for strength, and for a better future, despite seemingly impossible.
With a sharp intake of breath, Agnes turned to Trotwood, her face hardening. "Take this far away from here," she said. "Protect it above all things. This may be the last battle, so don't come back."
She could not bear the thought of letting it go, but she had no choice. The horn had to come first.
He nodded in understanding the gravity of her command, but his expression was soft. He took the horn in his hands and replied, "With all my life."
Trotwood turned and spoke to the gryphon quickly, before he passed the horn to the dwarf and climbed unto the giant winged creature. As the gryphon lifted off the ground with the dwarf in the grip of its large talons, Agnes watched them all disappear into the night, the weight of her decision pressing down on her chest.
Her gaze lingered once more to the treasure room. She left too much behind. Still, she managed to turn back to the stairwell as a pang of regret sliced through her. She needed to protect the sword, but she also knew she could not risk more lives over it.
The vulnerability returned, and for a brief moment, she felt the rawness of her grief and fear. The phantom pain on her shoulder shot a pang of chill down her spine. She was alone now once again to decide.
As she was about to step forward, the world around her shuddered, as if reality itself was cracking. One moment, she was standing in the crumbling ruins of Cair Paravel. The next felt as though she were falling through a thousand layers of existence.
The heavy air of battle was replaced by a familiar sterile quiet, and she slammed into the cold metal gates of the treasure room with a jarring crash. Pain exploded through her body, but it was nothing compared to the terror of knowing what this disorienting shift was.
"Ms. Beckett! What was that bloody noise out there?" said a familiar nasal voice which had her immediately recovering from her sprawled form.
Another chill ran down her spine, creeping like a shadow of dread. Her senses screamed that something was wrong, terribly wrong. The world around her felt off, too quiet, too familiar in a way that made her skin crawl. The sound of battle had vanished.
She was no longer in Cair Paravel.
Both of her hands were devoid of her blades and dried blood. The reassuring weight of her rapier was fading away from memory. Arms pristine from what she thought were filled with gashes and bruises. Her Narnian red and silver armor was gone, replaced with a gray dress from a lifetime ago. Her heart stuttered when her reflection flickered in the window.
'No… It couldn't be.' The face staring back at her was too young—far too young—yet it was unmistakably hers.
She staggered to her feet and her hands trembled. The reality was impossible to ignore. She was no longer a warrior, but a stranger vulnerable to a body that was long gone from her memory. The weight of the transformation pressed on her chest like a suffocating fog.
Ms. Amelia, ever the stern matriarch of the house, towered over her frowning, her arms crossed in disapproval. "What in heaven's name are you doing lying there like some dirty mop?"
Agnes blinked, disoriented.
This woman in front of her and this world felt like a dream. A shadow of the reality she had just been fighting for. Ms. Amelia's infernal shouting forced Agnes' reverie back to the present, and for a moment, it was like nothing had ever happened.
No war.
No battle.
Just this. Whatever this was.
She was back in Wales.
Now, instead of the grim clang of steel, the sound of Ms. Amelia's shrill voice pierced through the fog of her confusion.
"Get up this instant, girl!" she snapped at Agnes, eyes narrowing as she stood in the doorway.
It took a moment for her brain to process everything—the pain from the fall, the emptiness of her hands, the limp fabric of her dress. Her reflection in the window was the last straw, telling her this was not her reality anymore.
Refusing to glance, Agnes looked down at the soft, familiar fabric her dress. Her body had not worn this in years, and the cut of it was almost foreign to her now. As if, it belonged to another lifetime. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the hem, so painfully ordinary. She gripped the hem of her skirt until her knuckles turned white. She fought all urges to shout again or even cry. A fierce, desperate yearning rose in her chest.
Aslan had returned her to England, not just to a time and place she had expected. She was already used to returning here under unpredictable circumstances, but she could not comprehend why now when she was needed there the most. What was she supposed to do now? Everything she had worked for was ripped from her grasp. It was as if He had pulled her back, not just from impending death or doom, but from her very purpose.
The world that had once been her battlefield, the one she had bled and fought for, faded away like the morning fog. In its place, she has nothing but confusion, loss, and pain. The dread of this realization—this cruel twist of fate—pressed on her chest like an iron vice.
Narnia felt like a distant dream. She was just Agnes again.
No warrior.
No regent.
Just a girl standing in a world that no longer made sense.