High King Peter Goes on a Side Quest

by orphan_account

Summary:

There are some unverified rumors that partway into the reign of High King Peter, he fell in love with a woman that lived in Calormen and looked like a Calormene but definitely was not a Calormene. Narnians who believe in this account are always quite emphatic about this last part, though they’re not entirely sure why.

It’s just the way the story is always told.

(A Dune inspired account of a side quest undertaken by High King Peter during the Golden Age of Narnia)

Notes:

I was rereading The Horse and His Boy and I was really intrigued by references to rebels fighting against Calormen in the west. I also was really interested in references to people colonized and enslaved by Calormen. So yeah, big TW for slavery and colonization.

Reader’s physical appearance is never explicitly described but it is heavily implied that she is a woc. This was a pretty easy perspective for me to write considering I am a woc, but I understand if it’s not your cup of tea to read that perspective.

Also I really informalized the dialogue of Peter and his siblings in contrast to how C.S. Lewis wrote them speaking during the Golden Age. I tried but I just could not write them speaking that way for long before it got really fucking tedious.

Chapter 1

Of all the mysteries surrounding the legendary High King Peter, one of the most debated by the Narnians is the question of why he never married before vanishing. When he disappeared along with his brother and sisters, he was twenty-eight years old—in the prime of his life and with no shortage of viable prospects. As High King, the duty to produce an heir was upon him. 

If he had just married and left a Queen and an heir behind, perhaps the Golden Age could have been extended. The what ifs of the situation drive the Narnians mad. No one can make sense of this lamentable oversight on the part of their otherwise magnificent King. The whole matter is rehashed over and over at length for years.

There are some unverified rumors that partway into his reign, he fell in love with a woman that lived in Calormen and looked like a Calormene but definitely was not a Calormene. Narnians who believe in this account are always quite emphatic about this last part, though they’re not entirely sure why. 

It’s just the way the story is always told.

But those were just rumors, the naysayers (usually dwarves) will always protest. Everyone knows the King refused to set foot in Calormen! He never even personally received their ambassadors and princes when they would visit Cair Paravel—he always left that responsibility up to his brother and sisters. And when Queen Susan went willingly to Tashbaan to be courted by Rabadash the Ridiculous, the High King was furious.

Yes, but before all of that, someone (usually a Talking Beast like a badger or squirrel) will shoot back knowingly, there were rumors that he spent some time in Calormen and the Southern Waste. That was when he met the woman. For whatever reason, they couldn’t be together, and the High King vowed he would never marry.

The naysayers will simply sneer in response. Your rumors sound like codswallop. I say he just up and left us heir-less for no good reason.

Over the years the tale becomes increasingly distorted. Some Narnians are absolutely adamant that the High King fell in love with a woman that was turned into a snake by some unfortunate curse and that’s why he couldn't marry her. Some claim she was a ghoul or she-demon of the desert who disappeared without a trace after seducing him. Others say that she was just a normal woman that refused to marry him because she didn’t want to leave her homeland. 

Eventually, everyone accepts that whatever the truth is, it does nothing to change the situation of Narnia as it descends further and further into the abyss of a Dark Age. 

But no one can deny that the rumors are intriguing…

Ninth Year of the Reign of High King Peter

“O Inanna, goddess of war, hear my prayer,” you murmur, holding your scimitar out in front of you in both hands. The curved metal blade gleams in the moonlight. “Grant me victory over my enemy tonight.”

Slowly, you rise from your knees and begin the trek from your campsite to that of the Calormenes. It takes you fifteen minutes to reach their sea of tents.

You slither like a snake through the campsite. Your lip curls with disgust at the sight of the sleeping guards that are scattered outside of the tents. Pathetic. Even after years of fighting rebels like yourself, Calormenes still don’t respect the people they’ve subjugated enough to consider them a threat that requires any real sort of vigilance.

You suppose that you’re just going to have to make them keep paying for their complacency. 

You spot the tent you’re looking for almost immediately. All you had to do was find the biggest and most ostentatious tent of the lot. Tarkaans simply can’t do without their luxuries even during a short raiding expedition. Fools.

With a small serrated knife, you cut a hole in the corner of the silken cloth. The thickly-bearded middle-aged Tarkaan is snoring softly when you crawl through the tiny opening. Tilting your head, you gaze around in the darkness and make out the shapes of dozens of pillows and cushions, a plethora of ornate vases, and several huge wooden trunks that are ostensibly full of treasure.

It must take at least thirty slaves to pack and haul these possessions. The thought of it makes your blood boil.

You’re going to enjoy killing him. 

You stalk to the blissfully sleeping Tarkaan and unsheath your scimitar. Without a second thought you do what you came here to do.

Like always, you achieve a silent kill. Your blood is coursing with the thrill of success. By the time the Calormenes awaken in the morning and follow your tracks back to your campsite, you and your fellow rebels will be long gone. Calormenes don’t understand the desert—the real desert of the Southern Waste. Not like your people do.

Still, it is unwise to linger; after removing the Tarkaan’s status-signifying gold armband, you high tail it back to your comrades, who welcome you with their usual praise and adulation.

“Excellent work,” Habanah says. His thick black mustache only partially conceals his proud smile. Habanah is the leader of your small band of rebels. He’s not a part of your tribe, but that matters little. Anyone that isn’t a Calormene is an ally. This means that Akkadians, Gutians, and Chaldeans alike have joined forces to try and oust your brutal conquerors.

Throughout history, the three tribes have lived peaceably but separately, except for when trading and intermarrying. Your societies have always been matriarchal, meaning that the husbands of every bride get absorbed into her tribe. Thus, your tribes have remained distinct in culture while still maintaining a cordial sort of kinship for hundreds of years.

Of course that was long before the Calormenes came seeking slaves and treasure. In return, they brought only death and sorrow. At twenty-one years of age, you’ve never known a world without their subjugation. You’ve been speaking the standard dialect for your entire life because your native language was stamped out long before you were born. And thanks to Calormen’s suppression of your culture, you have only the vaguest notions of your history and gods.

For decades the tribes have done what they can to maintain themselves, but your numbers have been totally decimated by your evil, soulless conquerors. You will never be able to forgive them for what they have done to you and your people. 

As an Akkadian, the tribespeople that live furthest south, you were moderately insulated from the worst cruelty of Calormen. That all changed when you were five years old and a full fighting force of soldiers finally ventured down to where your people resided. The day that they came to your town is burned into your memory. The remembrance is like a red welt from the sun that is never going to go away no matter how many different ointments you apply to it.

As long as you live, you’re never going to forget the chilling sound of the drums they brought with them. Still to this day, the beating of drums signifies death to you.

The soldiers and slavers swept through your town and murdered all the men. Horrified, you had watched as your father was cut down by a ruthless Tarkaan. Your mother refused to go with him as a slave so he killed her too. Too frightened and too young to know how to fight back, you had been trussed and carried north across the border into Calormen.

You were taken to Tashbaan where you lived for two years as a slave to an absolutely vile Tarkheena. Cruelty is taught and she learned it well. In Tashbaan your hatred of Calormen was reinforced even further. You grew to loathe everything about them: their cruel god Tash, their temples and cities, their upper class of Tarkaans and Tarkheenas, their barbaric practice of slavery, their forced child marriages. You even hate their stupid monetary system of crescents. 

If it’s from Calormen, you hate it.

They took everything from you: your parents, your home, your temples, your language. They’re still trying to take your gods and your life—though they haven’t succeeded yet. 

Through a stroke of luck or perhaps divine intervention, you managed to escape your slavery in Tashbaan at the age of seven. For the next ten years, you lived as an orphan on the streets. That was where you learned to hide, to steal, to handle a blade. Survival on the streets of Tashbaan hardened you. By the time you were seventeen and decided to venture out of the city and make the perilous journey back to your homeland, you were already perfectly capable of taking a life.

When you finally reached the Southern Waste, you fell in with the rebels that you now call comrades—a mixed bag of Akkadians, Gutians, and Chaldeans. For four years now, you’ve been roaming the desert and wreaking havoc upon unsuspecting Calormene soldiers. You have no regrets about your lifestyle. If the Calormenes could, they’d sell you into slavery again in a heartbeat. Of course, you’ll die before you let that happen and you intend to take as many of your enemies out with you as you can. That’s why you do the recklessly dangerous things you do.

As your comrades hasten to take down the campsite, you pack away the new gold armband you obtained tonight with the other seven in your possession. You keep them as spoils of war and tokens to remind you that you’re making a difference. Over the last few years, you’ve been responsible for the assassinations of eight Tarkaans. All the stealth you acquired during your years as an orphan has made you deadly. So deadly, in fact, that you have earned a nickname amongst the soldiers of Calormen—the Cobra.

It made you laugh the first time you heard it because you love snakes. In fact, the beasts are lucky in your culture. The Calormenes fear snakes and they fear you . The thought brings you great pleasure. You’re only twenty-one years old and already a mysterious figure of legend. You’re a bringer of death and justice to the wicked tyrants that have butchered and enslaved your people for generations.

Slaying young Tarkaans is satisfying because you know that you’re cutting short a life that would be full of atrocities for many years to come. And killing the older Tarkaans is equally fulfilling because you know perfectly well that they’ve already lived a full life of unfathomable cruelty.

The Tarkaan who killed your father and mother is now living in Tashbaan and has been appointed to the position of Grand Vizier of the Tisroc (may he die a slow and painful death). Of course, you’d love to kill the Tisroc (may he choke on a fish bone) but you know that this is highly unrealistic. You’ll settle for getting the Grand Vizier someday when the opportunity arises. If you die in the attempt, so be it. 

Avenging your parents would be worth it.

For now though, you remain a nomad in the south, only venturing into Calormen for short periods of time before retreating back across the border to regroup after raids. Your fighting force is small, oscillating between eighty and one-hundred men and women. 

Even though your numbers are few, you all make up for it in passion.You’re far from the only one to have experienced the iron fist of Calormen. Habanah, for example, was there when Teebeth fell. The streets of that once-great city of Gutians had run red with blood in one of the worst acts of unspeakably brutal violence that Calormen ever orchestrated.

Everyone you’re with has their own story of loss. That’s why it rankles that the Calormenes don’t take you seriously yet. But you know that someday they will. Perhaps you’re a fool, but you really believe that your tribe and the two others will keep up the fight and liberate the south. Sure, it probably won’t happen until long after you’re dead, but you hold onto your hope all the same.

It’s a well-known fact that there are still countries out there that even Calormen isn’t capable of swallowing.

Thanks to your time in Tashbaan, you know a little about lands far to the north, beyond the Great Northern Desert. From traveling merchants and slavers, you heard that Archenland and Narnia are ruled by fair-skinned barbarians that worship a deity in the form of a lion. You’ve heard that they are powerful enough to keep Calormen far from their borders, though that is in large part due to the Great Northern Desert that separates those nations from Calormen. 

Calormen is powerful but they aren’t yet capable of taking an entire army across that veritable ocean of sand. It’s to the detriment of the tribes in the Southern Wastes that your desert is smaller and that you share a direct border with Calormen.

Envious isn’t even close to covering how you feel about those fortunate northern countries. 

However, you do feel a strange kinship to Narnia, in particular, after hearing that they were ruled by an evil witch for a hundred years until being liberated nine years ago. Or at least you feel a kinship to them if the story is true. There’s a lot about Narnia that is difficult to believe. Growing up in Tashbaan, you heard wild tales of talking beasts as well as beings that are half-men and half-horse or goat. You heard that their trees and rivers are inhabited by spirits. You heard that they are ruled by two Kings and two Queens that are as young or perhaps even younger than you are.

You’d like to believe the stories are true because they give you a tiny bit of hope that throwing off the chains of domination is possible. These stories and your sporadic victories keep you going when you feel like you are sinking into a quicksand pit of hopelessness.

But sadly, for every victory you achieve like the one you had tonight, it seems that even more devastating setbacks are just around the corner.

A few days after you slay the Tarkaan, a scouting expedition is sent to the city of Zalindreh, an important strategic location just inside the border of Calormen. Unfortunately, the expedition ends in tragedy. Like all Calormene cities, the gates close at nightfall and all ten of your scouts are trapped inside and executed by Calormene soldiers.

This abject failure leads to some serious rethinking of your current plans and objectives. Up till this point, you’ve always lived very close to the southern border of Calormen, but it seems that this state of affairs might need to change. 

A council meeting with the fifteen highest-ranking rebels from the three tribes is held. Thirteen people sit in a circle while you and Habanah sit in the middle. Despite your tender age, no one questions that you have earned your position as second in command. No one else has come close to killing as many Tarkaans as you have.

“The southern border is becoming too well guarded. We must move west for a time,” Habanah orders the ring of tribespeople. “They won’t expect it if we attack them from that direction.”

There’s really not much to discuss, but a vote is still held, as is tradition. Everyone agrees with Habanah’s assessment of the situation and so the plans for a move are put into motion. 

But first, you stop at the nearest port city in the south to pick up some more supplies. It’s fortunate that there are some mercenary types out there that don’t care who they sell weapons to as long as they fill their pockets with plenty of crescents.

Habanah sends you and Nishem, a Chaldean woman who is just barely older than you, to find your usual merchant. It’s easier for the two of you to remain undercover because you can veil your faces.

That’s how you end up in a crowded eatery across from your turban-wearing weapons dealer, who is basically trying to rob you with his exorbitant prices. The longer you sit here, the more your head begins to ache. The place positively reeks of artificial flowery perfume. The owners must be trying to make up for the fact that the oily food has such a strong smell that the odor will cling to patrons for days after leaving.

You don’t come here for the food, that’s for sure. You come here because this is where your usual contact, a Calormene merchant named Bashaa, always meets with you. You’ve only been here with him at his usual table at the back of the eatery for half an hour and you’re already bored.

Haggling with Calormenes is more tedious than milking a camel. It can take hours if the merchant is feeling particularly parsimonious. You’ve left it up to Nishem because she’s far better at this than you are. She doesn’t lose her cool quite so easily and she is patient enough to sit for hours, wrangling the price down to something moderately acceptable.

Another half hour passes and Nishem states very firmly, “One hundred crescents, Bashaa. Take it or leave it.”

Bashaa sighs. “I must be getting soft-hearted in my old age. The poets speak of such things happening—”

You’ve got to cut him off now. Anytime a Calormene starts jabbering about “the poets,” they’re liable to spout sanctimonious platitudes for at least five minutes straight.

“Do we have a deal?” you demand curtly.

“Yes, yes,” he says absently. “I’ll take my payment now.”

Nishem slides the hefty burlap sack of crescents across the table into Bashaa’s greedy hands. You’re about to rise from your stool when he speaks again.

“Oh, there is one more thing,” he says in a wheedling manner that fills you with foreboding. Every time he talks like that, he wants some sort of troublesome favor. “There’s a Northern barbarian there in the corner behind you,” Bashaa whispers in a low voice. “He came in a small ship that dropped anchor yesterday. He must have left his men on board because he’s all alone. He’s been sitting there all day.”

You and Nishem swivel your heads slightly and let your gazes wander surreptitiously over in the direction that Bashaa has described. At a small table all alone is a man with eye-catching golden hair. He’s seated with perfect, almost regal posture. Underneath the table, you can see that he’s got a broadsword.

Of course, you would be remiss if you didn’t at least acknowledge to yourself that he’s a sort of handsome you’ve never seen before in your life. It has little to do with his foreign physical features like his fair skin, yellow hair, and blue eyes. It has far more to do with his bearing. He has the look of a fighting man. Not even after a cursory glance could you deny that he has a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“I don’t know how we didn’t notice him when we entered. He’s quite handsome,” Nishem whispers to you, stating the obvious. You ignore this unnecessary statement.

You turn your attention back to Bashaa. “He’s a fool for having his head uncovered and carrying a sword like that. He sticks out like a tree in the desert,” you say disdainfully. “What about him?”

“I think that he’s trying to get in on my market,” Bashaa says conspiratorially. “Selling stolen wares to rebels is enough of a hassle without a foreign competitor swooping in and cutting my profits in half.”

“So what do you want me to do?” you ask, knowing full well that he wants a favor.

“Talk to him,” Bashaa says. “Find out what he wants. If he’s here on other business, let him go. If he is peddling, kill him.”

You sigh with irritation. “Why don’t you just talk to him yourself?”

Bashaa has a very innocent expression as he makes a small noise of surprise. “Me?” he says. “There’s no telling what a Northern barbarian is going to do! I’ve no experience fighting and I don’t want to end up dead in a seedy little place like this.” He gestures to the dimly lit room in all its dingy, filthy glory.

“I thought Calormenes didn’t approve of sending women to do men’s work,” Nishem says.

“Yes, but you’re not Calormene women,” Bashaa points out with a condescending smile. “You’re Southern barbarians. I merely want you to talk to him—barbarian to barbarian.”

“You also said you want us to kill him if he’s peddling,” you remind him. “That’s no small favor.”

Bashaa grins at you. “And running the black market of weapons for your people is no small favor. Besides, every time I request that you kill someone, you complete the task with such efficiency that I hardly think I’m putting you out.”

You roll your eyes. Yes, you do in fact kill people at Bashaa’s request. Usually they’re petty thieves or swindlers that have wronged him somehow. A Northern barbarian is an entirely different matter…

But it seems like you have no choice.

You stand up and push your stool back. “Stay here and keep an eye on him,” you tell Nishem as you jab a finger in Bashaa’s direction.

You glide over to the table of the mysterious Northerner. Unfortunately, up close he is even more attractive. His lips are so full that they are almost perfectly round. His jaw is sharp and strong and his eyes are even more blue than you initially thought when looking at him through the haziness of the perfumed room.

Attractive or not, you are single-minded in your purpose. It might take some lying and cajoling, but you’re determined to extract the truth from him. You lithely take a seat on the stool across from him. “Pardon me,” you say with a high-pitched, saccharine intonation, “I was wondering if you are in Calormen looking for traditional wares to export to your homeland. You see, I make vases and I was hoping perhaps you might like to buy some.”

To your surprise his sky-blue eyes are filled with wonder as he looks at you. “Are you the one they call the Cobra?”

You nearly topple off of your stool. “Wha—what…” you splutter, too taken aback to think of a lie on the spot. “How–?”

“I was told to come here,” he says, eyes still filled with wonder. “I was told that if I sat in this establishment and waited, the first person to come sit across from me and speak with me would be the one I was seeking—the Cobra.”

“Be quiet,” you hiss. “If you keep shouting that name around, I’ll slit your throat. I don’t know who told you that or how they could have known–”

“It was Aslan,” he breathes in awe. “He knew.”

This is, of course, meaningless to you. But something very strange happens. The perfumed stink and greasy smells in the air suddenly dissipate. For a few brief moments, the room smells like the fresh dirt of the desert on the rare occasion that it rains. There’s no scent in the world that is more delightful to you. You close your eyes and breathe deeply. When you open them, you turn around to see if any of the other patrons have noticed. Apparently they haven’t. 

This must be magic. You’ve felt this sort of thing before.

Interest piqued, you scrutinize the man more closely. “Who are you?”

“I am High King Peter of Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands, Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion,” he rattles off these titles as though they’re second nature to him. “I have come seeking the rebels of the Southern Waste.”

You gape at him; his claim is utterly absurd, but somehow, whether it’s through the magic in the room or your own intuition…you know he is telling the truth. He really is the High King of Narnia. After staring at him for a few moments, you manage to compose yourself.

“What do you want?” you ask bluntly.

“I wish to speak to your people,” he says. “I have interest in the fight you are waging upon Calormen.” He gives you such a piercing stare that it feels like he’s trying to see through your face veil by sheer will. “I must say…I did not expect that the Cobra would be a woman. News of your exploits reached me even before Aslan told me that you would meet me here.”

You’re rather flattered, but you refuse to show it. Instead, you jerk your head in the direction of Nishem and Bashaa.  “That man at the table back there is an arms dealer,” you say. “He thinks you’re here to cut in on his market. Is that why you’re here? Are you looking to sell us weapons?”

“Not exactly,” Peter says. “I would like to give you some sort of aid, but it would be free.”

You immediately balk at this. “Free? Nothing is free. People always want something in return. I will tell you right now, we have no interest in becoming Narnian subjects.”

He holds up a placating hand. “And I would never expect that of you. I have no interest in subjugating anyone. I simply wish to observe your fighting force.”

Something about his request rubs you the wrong way. “Hmph,” you scoff bitterly, “Narnia is too peaceful these days from what I’ve heard. You’re getting a bit bored, I suppose.”

Peter looks at you with confusion. “No that’s not—”

“I’ll take you to my people,” you say curtly. “We’re just outside the city. You can tell everyone your request. We’ll see what they make of it.”

Whatever else he’s got to say, he can say to the rest of the rebels. It seems that he’s alone so you don’t have any qualms about taking him to your current hideout. You’ll kill him in a second if he tries anything stupid. 

You return to Bashaa and assure him that the Northern barbarian has no interest in cutting in on his market. The merchant leaves satisfied, but not before giving you instructions on where to find the cache of weapons you just purchased. You take Nimesh over to Peter and make a quick introduction. Her expression becomes sickeningly adoring, but before she can say anything too silly to him, you drag her out of the establishment’s curtained entrance. Peter follows dutifully behind you. 

His conspicuous appearance is really unfortunate. Everything about him, from his broadsword to his height to his fair skin, screams foreign. You’re drawing way too many stares in his company. Luckily, you know some back alleys that are much less frequented and you manage to get through the streets without anyone harassing you.  

Once you’re out of the city, you and Nimesh both remove your face veils. Peter stares very blatantly at your now exposed facial features. His eyes meet yours and then travel down to your nose, your lips, your neck. He has such a discerning gaze that you can’t help wondering what he makes of you.

You respond to his scrutiny with a scorching glare and he doesn’t dare say anything the entire journey to the outcropping of rocks in the desert where the other rebels are hidden. Nimesh is too starstruck to strike up a real conversation so very few words are exchanged by anyone. It’s so silent between the three of you that you can hear the wind rustling the scratchy bushes that litter the dirt and the soft hoots of the little desert owls in their burrows. The Calormenes think that the owls are ghouls, but you know better. The small sounds they make are comforting to you.

When you reach the outcropping, you part ways with Nimesh, who is surely going to start spreading the titillating gossip that you’ve brought back a Northerner who claims to be a barbarian King. You take said King straight to Habanah.

Habanah’s eyes are wide with bewilderment at the sight of this exotic stranger.

“This is Habanah, the leader of our group,” you say to Peter. “Habanah, this is…well, I suppose I’ll let you introduce yourself.”

Once again, Peter recites his lengthy (and pretentious) list of titles. Habanah raises an eyebrow. “Do you bear proof of your identity?”

Peter lifts his hand and displays a thick silver ring. “I bear the royal seal of Narnia,” he says, “if that will help bolster the truth of my claim further.”

Habanah peers at the ring. “It means nothing to us,” he says. “We are too far south to be familiar with your customs and signets.” He turns to you. “What do you think?”

You make a noncommittal grunt.

“Come now,” Habanah coaxes you, “surely you have reached some sort of conclusion…”

“He’s…telling the truth,” you admit somewhat unwillingly. “He is who he says he is.”

As soon as you’ve said it, you know that you’ve made up Habanah’s mind for him; he places a lot of trust in your judgment (most of the time.) Habanah stares shrewdly at you and then at Peter. 

“Why has your royal personage deigned to visit us instead of our more…shall we say… influential northern neighbor? If it is a political alliance you seek, I don’t believe a powerful King such as yourself will find that we have much to offer in comparison to the Calormenes.”

“I am no friend of Calormen. Relations between that empire and my country are neutral at best and that is how I wish it to remain,” Peter says resolutely. “I have come to your people to…make a request, I suppose—one that I hope will be mutually beneficial.”

“I think…” Habanah says, “that this calls for a tribunal.”

With great haste, the council members are gathered in the nearest cave. As Habanah’s second in command, you are seated next to your leader in the middle of the circle. You’re both facing Peter, who is also in the middle. Everyone knows that only you, Habanah, and Peter are going to speak in this tribunal. Then, after all arguments have been heard, a vote will be cast.

“We are here to decide the fate of the barbarian King of Narnia,” Habanah declares. “He has placed himself at our mercy and we will now judge him.” He turns to Peter. “Speak your piece.”

Peter doesn’t say anything immediately. For a long moment, his unwavering gaze moves over the assembled circle of tribespeople. 

“I have heard increasing numbers of stories of the rebels in the Southern Wastes,” he says. “I wished to see these fighters with my own eyes. You have earned quite the reputation, holding your own against a much more powerful empire. I have long desired to express my gratitude to you for your efforts,” Peter declares. “It is no secret that Calormen wishes to conquer us smaller northern countries. By engaging them in skirmishes in the south, you keep Calormen’s fighting forces so divided that they are unable to execute whatever plans they might have for Archenland and Narnia.” 

Against your will, you feel flattered by his sincere compliments.

But that doesn’t mean that you have to like him. “You’ve seen us and you’ve thanked us,” you say somewhat harshly, “so that means that you can go back to your country now and feel grateful that you’re free.”

“What the Cobra is trying to say,” Habanah cuts in to translate, “is that we still are not quite sure what it is that you want. Your gratitude is well-received, but it seems that you must have some other reason for being here.”

Once again, the High King takes his time speaking. Finally, his full lips part. “I know the horrors of invasion and subjugation firsthand,” Peter says and his gaze becomes distant. For some reason you don’t think he’s talking about the years that Narnia spent under the dominion of a witch. His mind is elsewhere. 

“I was hoping,” he says slowly, “that I could stay and help you for a time in an undercover capacity. Narnia is at peace. My brother and sisters will rule well in my stead and now that I have seen what you are doing down here…I want nothing more than to join you in your fight—for a short time, at least. I have brought many crescents with me. Enough to subsidize you for taking me in should you choose to do so. It is the deepest desire of my heart to fight alongside you.”

His face is full of fire and passion when he speaks and you can practically see the distrust melting off the faces of your comrades upon hearing the powerful words of the High King; you, on the other hand, are not fooled. His offer sounds generous, but you know exactly what he is—he’s a glory hog and a thrill-seeker. You’re convinced that your hunch about him being bored is correct.

You’ve got to try to appeal to your people and get them to see things in a rational perspective. 

“How do we know he’s not just scouting out new territory for Narnia?” you argue. “It’s a small country right now, but surely as their power has grown, so has their desire to expand their sphere of influence. I, for one, have no intention of trading out one conqueror for another. Calormen, Narnia, Archenland—they’re all the same.”

The circle murmurs in a disquieted way, but Habanah comes to Peter’s defense. “He came amongst us alone, knowing that we could kill him with ease,” he reasons. “I believe him to be sincere in his offer. I think that it is time we put it to a vote.”

The vote is almost unanimous. You are the only person that does not express support for allowing Peter to stay. He unabashedly stares at you as you sit in front of him with your arms crossed in a sullen manner. There’s no resentment in his stare, but rather a sort of open curiosity. You don’t care though. He can think what he likes about you.

Peter stands and clears his throat. “I am honored by your decision,” he says to the other members of the council. “For six months I will live amongst you and do what I can to aid your cause.” He pauses significantly. “And if it is the will of Aslan, I will die for your cause.”

Everyone—except for you—is looking at him downright rapturously though none of you are quite sure what sort of deity he has just invoked. Possibly it’s the lion you heard about during your days in Tashbaan, but you don’t even care. You’re fuming that he just got his way with very little opposition. Are your comrades really so easily duped by his commanding presence and way with words?

Apparently so because they even acquiesce to his request to be able to return to the port and inform his men of his decision. This is done in spite of your grumblings that it’s high time you make your move to the west.

As the person most familiar with this particular port city (the only port in the Southern Waste, though of course it’s completely under the control of Calormen), it falls upon you to escort Peter back. As you walk beside him, you rant at him with bitter vitriol. What the others decided is of little consequence to you. You don’t like him being here and you intend to let him know it.

“How can you just leave your people behind and put yourself in danger like this? This isn’t a game! If you die here, you wouldn’t even be dying for Narnia! You’d be dying for us!” you say with a raised voice. You’re still not quite in the city yet which means you can yell to your heart’s content. “Why do you even care about what we’re doing down here? This isn’t your fight!”

Peter remains very collected in the face of your ire. “I hate tyrants,” he states plainly. “I hate people that conquer lands to which they have no right. I’ve seen it in this world and…in another.”

“What do you mean another ?” you ask skeptically. “Another what?”

“Another world. I arrived in Narnia nine years ago through magic. My real home is not to be found on any maps that these lands have produced.”

This is a very far-fetched tale; however, much like you knew he was telling the truth of being King of Narnia, you know he’s telling the truth again now. It’s something about the way he imparts it without any trace of guile. Besides, your culture has strange stories that sound very much like his. Magical doors and gates to-and-from other worlds are a recurring motif in Akkadian folklore.

Trying not to sound too interested, you ask, “How old were you when you arrived?”

“Thirteen.”

So he’s twenty-two. One year older than you. He seems like he should be even older for some reason, likely due to the mantle of Kinghood that rests upon his shoulders. “And how long have you been King of Narnia?”

“Since I was thirteen.”

You’re flabbergasted. “Thirteen! And you ruled without a Regent or Vizier pulling the strings?” No wonder he seems so mature.

“I’ve never ruled entirely alone,” he reveals. “I’m the High King, but my brother Edmund is also King and my sisters are Queens. And then there’s Aslan. He gives me advice every so often—when I ask for it.”

“Aslan,” you say pensively, “that’s the third time you’ve invoked that name. Is he one of your deities?”

Peter nods and his eyes brim with indescribable joy as he tells you all about the Great Lion—the true King of Narnia. “He hasn’t been in Narnia physically in several years, but he finds ways to communicate with me,” Peter reveals.

“And he’s the reason you’re here?”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you why?”

Peter shakes his head. “No, he’s a little less…direct than that. Sometimes his purposes aren’t revealed until years after the fact.”

You scoff slightly, but you’ve arrived at the port, and Peter is distracted by the sight of one of his men near the dock. The sun is setting so you imagine the man has been waiting for several very anxious hours for Peter to return.

“Sire!” he exclaims as soon as he sees Peter. “I was growing terribly worried!”

“All is well, Peridan,” Peter says freely. “But now you must listen carefully to my orders.”

You listen impassively as Peter gives his soldier instructions to meet him in this same port again in six months time.

“You may tell the King and Queens where I am, but everyone else is to remain ignorant of the truth.”

The young soldier doesn’t question Peter, but you can see him raising his eyebrows at the news that his King won’t be returning to Narnia for such an extended period of time. When there’s a gap in their exchange, you cut in: “You’re going to need to rid yourself of that sword.”

Peter looks at you with wide eyes. “Oh,” he says with consternation, “but—”

“The first thing you need to understand is that we are the ones doing you a favor. Not the other way around. Do you even know what the Calormenes would do if they found out that we have the High King of Narnia living amongst us?” you demand. “The Tisroc would send his entire army to hunt us to the very ends of the Southern Waste and murder us one by one. As it stands right now, we aren’t taken very seriously. If they knew you were with us, it would change everything. That sword is a dead giveaway”

Your diatribe seems to have had its intended effect. “I apologize for not realizing,” Peter says humbly.

“If you’re really sorry, you won’t question me further,” you say, raising your nose in the air. “You must learn how to fight with our weapons.”

Peter solemnly gives his sheathed sword to his companion. “I am entrusting you with Rhindon. Upon your return to Narnia, take it straightaway to the Treasure Room and there let it await me until I return.” His soldier bows low and gingerly holds the sword.

Then, without you having to even ask, Peter slips his signet ring off and also hands it over to the soldier. You nod approvingly because now, if he actually is killed and his body is stripped for valuables (as you know it would be), the Calormenes won’t have such an easy time identifying him. They’ll just think he was some eccentric Northerner that somehow joined up with the rebels. 

“Good,” you say. “Now we’ve got to get a move on. We’ve lingered too long and we need to start heading west as soon as possible.”

Peter bids one last farewell to his underling and follows you through the winding streets of the city until finally you’re out in the desert again. You go to the outcropping of rocks where your group of rebels is still waiting. After a quick stop at a hidden cave, your group collects the weapons Bashaa promised you and the journey west begins. 

Notes:

This is very much based upon the Chronicles of Narnia books but I was kind of inspired by Dune. I've never read the books but I absolutely loved the recent movies and couldn't help picturing Peter in a Paul Atreides type of role (pre drinking the water of life.)

I read the all of the books three times in a month trying to get Peter’s characterization right and all the details correct so if I fucked anything up…that’s embarrassing and I am so sorry. I scoured The Horse and His Boy and The Last Battle for references to Calormen cities, culture, etc. and tried to incorporate as much as possible.

However, I totally stole my names for the southern tribes, gods, and characters from Middle Eastern fantasy generators or the wikipedia page for ancient Mesopotamian societies, but this doesn't mean that the fic is at all connected to the namesakes. I tried coming up with original words but they sounded stupid so I just used what I found online. What I'm trying to say is that the Akkadians in my fic are not at all related to the Akkadian empire from our world.

On a similar note this is NOT a political statement in any way, shape, or form. Any similarities that this bears to reality are completely coincidental because this sort of thing has been happening since the dawn of time.

Chapter 2

To your annoyance, Peter is very likable.

You’d never admit it aloud, but it’s the truth. He’s helpful and observant in addition to being a very fast learner. He carries far more than his fair share of packs and trudges along the hard ground with no complaints, all the while maintaining his royal bearing.

You watch him like a hawk during meals and eagerly wait for him to make some sort of complaint about the meager food so that you can berate him, but you end up disappointed; he scarfs the stale flatbread and lean rabbit meat like it’s the most delectable feast he’s ever eaten.

His thoughtful nature does not go unnoticed by your comrades. They treat him with a sort of reverence and awe that displeases you greatly.

He’s not your King so you refuse to treat him like one.

You’re not sure how it happened, but the task of teaching him your people’s ways seems to have fallen to you. But, you reason privately to yourself, better you than one of the others who is going to be soft with him due to their inordinate respect for his status.

During your third stop to set up camp and do some hunting, you take the opportunity to give Peter a scimitar and start doing some training with the weapon.

Peter takes the offered scimitar and scrutinizes the curved blade with some fascination. The way he’s holding it like it's a broadsword makes your lips quirk up into a half-smile. He has no clue what he’s doing with this kind of weapon.

This is going to be fun—for you. Maybe not for him.

And it is great fun. At first.

You thrash him over and over and each time that you do so, you’re hopeful that he’s going to express some embarrassment or dismay. Unfortunately, he does not. He maintains a shrewd composure that leaves you wary. He’s analyzing everything you do and mimicking your actions with varying degrees of success.

It takes him a few rounds to regain his sense of balance with his new weapon, but when he does, he’s lethal. It’s obvious that he’s a born swordsman. After five rounds of defeat, he manages to draw you to a stalemate. Then, the next round goes to him fair and square. You’re panting from exertion now. He’s making you pay for every jab and strike that you make. He even smiles at you sheepishly while doing so. It’s infuriating.

But the worst part is how obnoxiously humble he is about the ease with which he replicates your techniques. “You’re a good teacher,” he says with total sincerity after defeating you one last time.

You snort slightly. “Thanks,” you say, sheathing your scimitar. “Perhaps we should call it for tonight. I think you’ve learned more than enough for one lesson.”

Peter still has his blade out and he is looking at it with a newfound respect. “I didn’t realize that an added benefit of integrating with your people for a time would be expanding my knowledge of fighting the Calormenes,” he says. “It certainly can’t hurt to know how to fight them because they’d love to invade Narnia and Archenland if they could.”

“Well, I’m relieved that you’re getting something valuable out of your little jaunt here in the Southern Waste,” you say with a caustic sneer. “And here I thought we were the only ones getting a good deal.”

Peter awkwardly passes his scimitar back and forth between his hands. “Oh,” he says, sounding almost anxious, “I didn’t mean—”

But you’ve already turned around and stalked away to where you set up your bedroll. It’s hard for you to drift off to sleep because you’re still fuming and making excuses to yourself for your poor performance against him. You knew that he would outclass you in outright combat eventually (stealthy killing is much more your expertise), you just didn’t think it would happen so soon.

For another two weeks you travel slowly across the Southern Waste, skirting the border of Calormen. It’s slow-going thanks to your lack of pack animals. You’ve only got two donkeys, four camels, and two horses—not nearly enough to efficiently transport life-sustaining supplies for ninety or so people.

During that time you continue to spend your evenings training with Peter in the use of the scimitar. It’s strictly business. You ask him no personal questions and he follows your lead in keeping that boundary. The only questions he asks you are general ones regarding life amongst the rebels.

On several occasions you have to explain to him the nuanced distinctions between Akkadian, Chaldean, and Gutian. You also find yourself dispensing your vast wealth of knowledge on how one can survive in the desert should one end up separated from the rest of the company. For some reason, you feel sort of responsible for him now. He’s very earnest with all of his questions and he places a great deal of importance on your words.

Very few in this world have what you consider to be the suitable amount for admiration for the subtle diversity of desert landscape. Most people don’t realize that it’s not just beiges and tans and sand and dirt.

When you think of the desert, you think of outcroppings comprised of vivid red and rusty orange rocks. You think of rolling sandy dunes. You think of dusty ground strewn with sun-blackened boulders. You think about the muted green vegetation that spatters the landscape..

Yes there is blistering heat and blazing sunshine but the harshness doesn’t diminish the beauty of the land in the slightest. In fact it enhances it, knowing that life prevails even in these brutal conditions. Only the hardiest animals, plants, and people survive.

You tell Peter all of this as you travel. He follows your gaze as you point out all of these details and lovingly describe them. He always nods solemnly and voices his appreciation for the things you’ve drawn his attention to.

But his eyes always drift back to focus on you. Whether it’s because he thinks you look strange or if it’s because he considers you to be a perplexing mystery—you are the Cobra after all—is irrelevant to you.

You have half a mind to order him to quit with the staring but the other half of you decides you’re better off ignoring it. You already nag him enough as it is. Every time he displays his incompetence in the ways of the desert, you’re sure to make a dig at him. He bears your passive aggressive barbs contritely which (almost) makes you feel bad about your rudeness.

But you can’t seem to stop. You want to egg him on and make him lash out or something. Exactly why you want to comport yourself in this manner is unclear. All you know is that you want Peter to know that he hasn’t earned your respect yet. You’re not a pushover and you won’t be won over easily by his flowery words and apparent sincerity.

At least he is tolerable to be around, mostly due to his lack of whining. If there’s anything you can’t stand, it’s a whiner.

***

Finally, you reach your destination in the west in spite of the punishingly drawn-out trek. For three days, everyone does very little. This time of relaxation is crucial for everyone to recoup their strength.

But on the fourth day, it’s time for action again. A battle plan is drawn out by the council. You go to Peter to inform him that he is going to be allowed to join.

“There’s a raid tonight,” you say. “We’re going to break up a company of slavers that has been terrorizing a village of Chaldeans just below the border.”

Peter looks at you hopefully. His hand has subconsciously drifted to the handle of his scimitar at his waist. This man is itching for a fight.

You break the good news to him. “You’re proficient enough with the scimitar that you will be allowed to join us on this expedition.”

Peter’s eyes glitter like sapphires. “I am honored.”

(If you were being honest, you would tell him that he is the most gifted swordsman you’ve ever seen, but you don’t want to inflate his ego. He’s already a King.)

“The only problem is we don’t want you to stand out amongst the rest of us.” You scrutinize his appearance for a moment. “The sun has already darkened your skin enough that you won’t need to rub any dirt into it. Strangely enough, your hair actually seems to have experienced the opposite effect from the sun—it keeps getting lighter. You’ll have to wear a head-covering. Many of us wear them anyway because they help prevent sunburn and sand getting in our eyes.”

“Where may I obtain one of these head-coverings?” Peter asks.

“I’ll give you one of mine,” you say. You sling your pack off your back and pull out a large scarf. Standing on your tiptoes, you tie it around his head, an act that feels bizarrely intimate. As soon as you’re done, you quickly step away.

“Thank you,” Peter says.

You incline your head politely. “Do you have any more questions?”

“What is the…procedure on taking prisoners?” he asks.

“We don’t. We’re going to kill them all. These aren’t ordinary Calormene citizens (who, by the way, are still complicit in all of this)—these are slavers,” you say very matter-of-factly. “Slavers receive no mercy.”

Peter just nods. Good. If he had questioned you on this, you would have started screaming at him that he has no idea what these monsters are capable of and that this is the only way you can survive. Fortunately, no such outburst takes place thanks to Peter’s easy compliance. Perhaps he really is taking his integration into your culture seriously. He makes no condemnations; he simply does what he is told.

You’ll save your final verdict upon his character when you see how he handles the raid tonight.

A couple of scouts go ahead first into the campsite. When they return, they report that most of the sentries are sleeping (Peter is aghast at this news; he’s still not used to Calormene negligence). However, there is a group of men on the north edge of the campsite sitting around a fire and gambling.

“You’ll be coming with me and ten others to take them out,” you inform Peter. “While we do that, another group of fighters will be freeing the slaves on the opposite side of the camp. We’ll fight our way through to the middle and meet up with them there. The rest of the rebels will be waiting to pick off stragglers that try to escape the campsite.”

“It’s a good plan,” he says, nodding. Quite against your will, you feel a sense of validation that a warrior-King like him is praising your people’s strategizing. For some reason the stakes of this raid feel even higher than normal. You’re oddly compelled to show the King that you’re not just a bunch of peasants; you’re seasoned fighters and what you’re doing matters.

When you’re within sight (but still out of earshot) of the gambling group on the edge, you turn to your rebels. “I’ll go in first with Naazim and Peter, coming from this side. We’ll take care of the gamblers,” you instruct the ten fighters accompanying you as you draw a diagram in the sand. “Then the rest of you will kill any slavers in the surrounding tents who wake during the commotion. Make sure to get them as soon as they emerge, but also be sure that they’re not slaves. From what we’ve seen most of them are on the other side of the camp, but there could still be a few over here.”

It’s no offhand decision on your part to keep Peter close to you. He may be gifted, but he’s still severely lacking in fighting experience against Calormenes.

As you sneak through the shadows with Naazim and Peter, you cringe at Peter’s heavy steps. He still doesn’t know to tread upon the soft sandy parts of the ground as opposed to the rockier areas.

Fortunately, the gamblers are talking so loudly that they cover up all the noise he is producing. You’re able to make it all the way to the men undetected. Within seconds all six of them are dead. Three by your sword and three by your male counterparts though you’re not sure who killed how many.

People in the tents are waking. They stumble through the cloth only to meet their demise at the merciless hands of rebel assailants. The battle erupts into a frenzied mass of violence. You’re quite busy dealing with the neverending slew of Calormenes which doesn’t lend itself to being able to keep an eye on Peter.

But from the little you do manage to see, he really doesn’t need someone to watch out for him. The Northern King fights like a wild beast. Going up against him during practice was one thing. Now that he’s fighting to kill, he is transformed. He wields the scimitar as well as any tribesman. The blade in his hands is as fluid as water.

Knowing that he’s doing just fine gives you the confidence to untether yourself from him. You’re searching keenly for any sign of slaves that could get accidentally caught in the middle of the carnage.

You snarl as a slaver emerges from a tent dragging a young girl by the hair. The man catches sight of you and immediately ascertains that you’re about to target him. Like a coward, he wraps an arm around the trembling girl and places a silver dagger at her throat. You stop in your tracks because you know he won’t hesitate to slit her throat should you step any closer. You’ve seen slavers do such twisted things before.

Your eyes are locked with the black soulless ones of the slaver for what feels like a full minute though you know it must be only seconds. Time during combat is a confused and muddled affair.

Out of nowhere to the left of the slaver, a huge blur slams into the man and knocks him to the ground. The silver dagger falls, uselessly embedded into the sand. Although you’re not entirely sure what happened, you don’t hesitate to rush forward and snatch the little girl, who is now free, into your arms. Shielding her eyes, you turn back to the prostrate slaver just in time to see Peter drive his scimitar into the man’s back. Peter doesn’t linger over his kill. In a flash he’s gone, seeking new opponents further into the campsite.

The slavers are caught so unawares that the whole battle is over quickly. Every one of the fiends is lying dead inside slashed open tents or upon the blood-stained sand. Dusk is encroaching upon the desert. Though you can only see the faint first rays of the emerging sun, the sky is turning from a dark star-encrusted navy to a light cerulean blue. There will be much to accomplish before you are finally able to make up for the lost night of sleep.

The Chaldean girl is so tiny and malnourished that it breaks your heart. She clings weakly to your legs and hides behind you. Apparently, she sees you as safe because you pulled her away from that slaver—though of course the real credit goes to Peter for her rescue.

Speaking of which…Peter has drawn near enough that you can see him up close for the first time since the fighting commenced. The battle lust upon his face has yet to dissipate. His cheeks are still flushed and his eyes burn with an intensity that is almost alluring.

Peter looks at you and declares, “I’m so grateful to be here.” The words seem to rush uncontrollably out of his mouth.

There’s nothing self-serving in his statement. He really means it. The passion on his face reveals that he is genuinely overjoyed to be here, fighting this fight alongside you and your people. It makes you consider (for the very first time) the possibility that perhaps he really is here for reasons that are more noble that you previously attributed to him.

All at once, he notices the small girl hiding behind you as best as she can. You watch with amazement as his face transforms from intimidating indomitability into an expression of total tenderness. He crouches down to her level. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he says in a soft voice.

The girl, who can’t be more than six years old, peeks around you to look at him. She can’t help her curiosity even though she’s understandably skittish. The kindness in his expression makes her feel brave. “Why are they blue?” she asks, looking mildly concerned as she points to his eyes.

“I spent too much time staring at the sky,” he says promptly.

Her eyes dart between his face and the sky as she considers the prospect. “He’s joking,” you say with some amusement. “His eyes are like that because he’s from a different land, one very far away.”

The girl’s lips turn up at the corners ever so slightly, and it’s clear that she would like to question Peter about this far away land, but the task of sorting through the slavers' possessions and digging a mass grave is commencing. All of the rebels must pitch in to do so which means that you have to relinquish the little girl into the care of one of the freed slaves who knows her.

“What will happen to her?” Peter asks with his brow furrowed as he watches a middle-aged Chaldean woman lead the girl to a big group of children. Her face breaks into a full grin at the sight of her friends.

“She’ll be taken back to her village along with all the rest of the slaves we freed. About twenty of our number will escort them.”

“Do you think she’ll be safe there? Will the Calormenes return and attack them again?”

“Probably,” you admit. “But at least they’re free for now.”

Peter is pensive, but he expresses no dismay. He seems to have grasped that this is an uphill battle, one step forward and two steps back. If what you saw during the fight was the real him, he’s not going to be deterred by the hardness of the way.

“You fought well,” you say, giving him an appraising look.

“I had a good teacher.”

You roll your eyes. “I assure you that you don’t need to ingratiate yourself with me.”

You say this with a distinct lack of your usual venom. It’s just a habit at this point for you to push back against anything he says. You’re not quite ready to admit that he has earned your respect.

Before he can answer, you turn and walk away, preparing to help clean up the gruesome remnants of the skirmish. After that’s done, you’re hoping to curl up in your bedroll and catch some sleep in spite of the gradually increasing brightness of the new day.

***

The more time passes, the more it becomes clear that moving west was the right call. Although you’re operating from the Western border of Calormen as opposed to the Southern border, the landscape is almost identical, meaning that you easily fall back into your normal routine. As usual, you move your encampment at least every two weeks in order to prevent being located.

Somehow, the Northern King has made himself a part of your routine as well. He continues to prove himself a valuable asset during your periodic attacks. You should have known that as a King and a warrior, he would be a brilliant strategist. It’s not long before he’s playing a very significant role in the development of your battle plans.

And when you are not planning any attacks, he is extremely useful to you personally as a dueling partner. It’s amusing to recall how you would have laughed if someone had told you that you would eventually be learning things from him.

Life is good at the moment. It rains heavily for a day which is simply wonderful. The real monsoon season is still a month or so away, but this bout of moisture is not resented at all for its premature arrival. It means that no one has to hike to the river for a few days to replenish your store of water. The extra time and manpower can be devoted to other matters like hunting wild beasts and scouting for Calormenes to rout.

Eventually, though, the water from the rain runs out and the rotating task of fetching water has to resume. Everyone must take a turn.

With a set of reins in your hand, you lead one of the donkeys over in the direction of Peter. The animal is all loaded up with empty leather canteens and jugs when you approach Peter, who is determinedly sharpening his scimitar. You’ve noticed that he is extremely diligent with the care of his weapon, never failing to clean it after every use and always ensuring its edge is as deadly sharp as possible.

“Come with me,” you order him, “I’m going to teach you how to fetch water.”

Peter obediently acquiesces, sheaths his scimitar and joins you on the half hour walk; however, he does express some confusion from the get-go.

“Why don’t we just stay closer to the river?” Peter wonders aloud. “If we did, we wouldn’t have to constantly send people out on such a long journey to obtain it.”

You rather enjoy it when he reveals his ignorance like this. It feeds your (slight) superiority complex over him.

“You might have noticed this already, but water is a precious commodity in the desert,” you say dryly. “Anywhere that there’s water is bound to attract people. You’ve also probably noticed that as a rebel cell, we are trying to remain undetected.”

Peter sniffs at your condescending tone. “Well, when you put it that way…”

After that brief exchange you walk for a few more minutes in the midst of a silence that becomes so awkward, it’s unbearable. You can’t cold shoulder him anymore without feeling rude—not after everything he has done.

Swallowing your pride and forcing yourself not to use an accusatory tone of voice, you strike up a conversation. “Is—is Narnia really so free of strife that their ruler can leave for months at a time and the country won’t suffer any negative repercussions?”

Fortunately, Peter seems to realize that you’ve asked this in good faith because he answers you politely. “It has been very peaceful ever since we drove out the last of the Witch’s minions and subdued the Giants on our Northern border. Occasionally, the need arises to drive the Giants off again when they start encroaching on our land every few years, but things have been almost perfect as of late.”

He pauses for a moment as though searching for the right words to say. “I don’t…want you to think that I left Narnia carelessly. I thought it through for a long time and I knew that my brother and sisters would be able to step up in my stead. I would never have left if that weren’t the case.”

His honesty is mollifying. “I’ll admit…at first I had my reservations about you—”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, you go on, “But…I trust you now.”

In order to see how he has reacted to your statement, you glance at him from over the donkey that is trotting between the two of you. Peter is smiling softly in a very genuine manner. There’s not a trace of smugness in his expression.

“I don’t blame you for not trusting me in the beginning,” he says, “though I’m glad things are different now.”

There’s another silence and for the second time today, you surprise yourself by breaking it. “Will you tell me about your brother and sisters that rule under you?”

Now, Peter’s face breaks into a positively radiant grin. You catch your breath because his smile is as blinding as the sun when it's at its peak in the sky.

“Ed is a really stalwart fellow—as reliable as a Badger. He’s grown a great deal as a person during our time in Narnia. Susan is so gentle and charming, our subjects just can’t help loving her. And then there’s Lucy,” his smile becomes so tender that you can practically feel your heart melting, “I shouldn’t say this, but…Lucy is my favorite sister.”

You could listen to him talk like this all day long. It seems incredible to you that this is the first time you’re noticing how nice his voice truly is—it’s low and rich. His cadence is as smooth as sand being blown about by a gentle wind. You’ve always resented the standard dialect of all the developed nations that was forced upon your tribe before you were even born, but hearing it come from Peter’s mouth, you find yourself actually enjoying it.

Soon, Peter’s words turn towards the topic of Narnia more generally. He eagerly imparts all the details you’ve wondered about for years. He tells you about the Talking Beasts, Fauns, Centaurs, the tree and river spirits. It’s extremely satisfying for you to have the veracity of these tales confirmed to you.

“I heard stories in Tashbaan about Narnia, but I didn’t know what to believe. It’s nice to know that they’re actually true,” you say.

Peter gives you a sideways glance as you walk. “Tashbaan? That’s quite far into Calormen, all the way on the northern edge of the Great Desert. What were you doing there?”

“I was a slave to a Tarkheena there from the ages of five to seven.”

“What?!” he exclaims in shock. He has frozen in his tracks so you halt as well.

You nod solemnly. “I escaped and lived on the streets of that city for about ten more years before I moved south again and joined the rebels. I hate Tashbaan more than words can ever describe.”

“I’ve never been,” Peter says. “The Tisroc has sent ambassadors to Narnia before, but I’ve yet to visit his Court myself.”

“I can’t say I recommend the city although I suppose I had a…umm…different experience than you would have if you ever went on royal business.”

“I’ll never set foot in Tashbaan unless I am there to do battle with the Tisroc himself,” Peter declares emphatically.

“Well that’s a little extreme,” you say with a small smile at his passionate outburst. “Don’t go ruining your diplomatic relations with Calormen on my account.”

The donkey brays impatiently (he may not be able to talk, but he is perfectly capable of making himself understood) so you start walking again and Peter joins in step beside you once again. His easy stride has become more of an aggressive stomp as though he’s imagining himself marching off to war with Calormen right now.

“What was it…what was it like?”

“Being a slave?” you ask for clarification and he nods. You hum for a moment. “Truthfully I’ve blocked out much of those years in my mind,” you explain. (You wish that you could do the same with your parents’ deaths.) “I recall…being beaten on many occasions. The Tarkheena would pull my hair viciously when I made a mistake. And if I was really rebellious, I would go without meals for days at a time…That’s about all I remember.”

Even with your lack of detail, Peter is disgusted. “It’s utterly vile, making a child go through all of that,” he says. “How did you manage to escape?”

This part of your story actually is very vivid to you. You can recall it like it was yesterday.

“When I was seven, a little white snake appeared in the slaves’ quarters when I was all alone and my mistress was out in Tashbaan. There was…something magic about the snake. I knew it wanted me to follow it. It led me to a concealed passageway out of the house. Snakes are lucky creatures in Akkadian legends,” you say reflecting pensively. “It was the most comforting thing in the world to know that the gods of my people were watching out for me and sending me aid.”

Peter takes your hand and squeezes it. “I think they still do watch over you,” he says. “The things you’ve accomplished at such a young age are incredible.” He falls quiet for a moment and ponders before saying, “My experiences have been similar. I know that the liberation of Narnia from the White Witch would never have been possible without Aslan’s aid. I’ve always felt bolstered by the fact that there are forces of good out there that far exceed my own limited capacity.”

Aslan. Everything Peter has told you about the Great Lion is too good to be true.

You know that you shouldn’t let your jealousy get the better of you, but you do.

“If Aslan is so amazing, why doesn’t he come to liberate my people?” you ask bitterly. “What makes Narnia more deserving of being saved?”

Peter’s brow furrows. “I–I don’t know. Narnia was under the rule of the White Witch for a hundred years, so Aslan doesn’t just—”

There’s no explanation he can give that is going to satisfy you. “It doesn’t matter,” you say, waving your hand derisively at his excuses. “I don’t want Tash and I don’t want Aslan. I want my gods. I’ve spent my entire life hanging onto the little I know about them and like you said, they haven’t failed me yet,” you declare emphatically. “I pray every time before I go on a mission and I always succeed.”

You’ve reached the river now, so you tie the donkey to the base of a scrubby bush and start removing all the water containers from the packs on the donkey’s back. You hand them off to Peter two at a time and he bends down to fill them with water. The whole process takes about ten minutes. As soon as the last canteen is full, you order Peter to turn his back away from the river.

“Why?” he asks with confusion.

“I’m going to bathe. Then, when I’m done you can have a turn.”

His blue eyes grow quite round. “Oh…all right.”

On a nearby boulder Peter sits motionlessly facing away from you. He’s cross-legged and his back is as straight as an arrow. Feeling satisfied that he is far too proper to try and catch a glimpse of your naked body, you shed your clothing and wade into the shallow water. It feels so good to rinse all the dust and grime off although you know it’ll be a matter of hours before you become desertified again.

For now you emerge from the water feeling exceedingly fresh. The sun dries you in what feels like seconds and you are able to put your clothes back on.

“I’m done,” you tell him and he turns around.

You take Peter’s place on the boulder and resume his vigil, staring off into the distance. Perhaps he is the one that should have been worried about you sneaking a peek because you have the strangest almost uncontrollable urge to turn around and see what the Northerner is hiding beneath the clothes of your people. Not for any lecherous reasons, but out of sheer curiosity. He’s just so different from the men of the tribes and of Calormen.

Somehow, you manage to suppress your urge and turn around only when Peter informs you that he’s decent.

It’s after this experience fetching water together that you find yourself acknowledging something: talking to him is…nice. You no longer tolerate his presence; you actually like having him around.

Chapter 3

Monsoon season arrives. This is your favorite time of the year in the desert. During the monsoon even the air changes; it smells distinctly fresh and invigorating. The normally bare underbrush that blankets the vast expanse of sand and dirt suddenly blossoms.

As a young girl, you were able to see the fireworks during the Tisroc’s birthday celebrations every year. Those are just about the only fond memories you have of Tashbaan. The explosion of color that paints the desert during this brief period of time is reminiscent of the vividly colored light shows of your childhood. 

Most of your comrades eventually tire of the nearly incessant rain, choosing to hole up in tents and caves after a day or two, but you insist upon spending as much time as possible in the open desert. You let the rain pour down on you like you’re a thirsty little flower. Peter joins you every day in your rain-soaked reverie.

“You love it here, don’t you?” he asks, observing the elated expression on your visage (it’s not often that you smile so freely like this). His face is somewhat solemn—not in a grave way, but in a way of reverent understanding.

“Yes,” you say blissfully. “I do. The desert is my home.”

When a magnificent lightning show begins, you allow yourself another few moments to watch it before you finally accept that it’s time to head for shelter lest you end up getting struck. Peter joins you as you meander to one of the caves in the nearby rocky hill that your people currently inhabit. You find a slightly cramped one, but it’s empty which is what you’re most concerned with.

Sopping wet, you sit down and lean back against the stone wall of the small cave. Peter does so as well and you find that he’s much closer than you had expected. His knees are liable to brush against yours at any moment. You stay very still in order to avoid any awkward indiscretions.

Apparently Peter doesn’t feel the same sense of propriety that you do because he makes no pains to maintain a stiff posture. He’s completely relaxed which means that he naturally encroaches upon your personal space. Obviously, it’s not intentional but it still makes you blush.

However, enough time passes and eventually you find yourself loosening up as well; pretty soon, you feel no discomfort at all about the fact that your knees and then your shoulders are touching. He’s a trusted comrade, so why would you feel uncomfortable with something so mundane? 

It was quite silly of you.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Peter speaks.

“Will you tell me more about Akkadian customs?” he asks.

You sigh at this well-intended, but disheartening question. “I really don’t know much about my culture in its purest form because so much of it has been adulterated by Calormen’s traditions,” you say sorrowfully. “But I do know…a little about the marriage rites of our people.”

He tilts his head in a way that signifies his interest. “Really? What are they like?”

“Well, most importantly, the Southern tribes are matriarchal,” you tell him, “so when a man marries a woman, he becomes a part of her tribe, not the other way around.”

Here, Peter interjects. “So if I married you, I would become Akkadian?”

You’re startled. What kind of question is that ? 

Trying not to sound too taken aback, you answer him, “Yes, that is how it would work.” You clear your throat and move on. “Another important aspect of southern nuptials is the time of day. Akkadian couples must marry when the sun is at its highest point. The vows that they exchange are also very important.” 

You sigh forlornly. “I wish I knew them in the native tongue of my people, but I don’t. A rough translation of the phrase is: ‘I will love you even when no more rain falls from the sky, when every desert spring has withered, and all the rivers have run dry.’”

Peter is very quiet. The only sound right now is the periodic crash of thunder and the pounding of the rain outside of the cave.

“That’s very beautiful,” he says.

Suddenly, he feels much much too close. If only you had an inch to scoot away from him, but you don’t. He seems to have absentmindedly leaned into you even further, leaving you pressed tightly between him and the side of the cave.

“Umm…so what about Narnian marriage or marriage in…the other World you came from?” you squeak. You’ll say anything to break this tension—though you have to acknowledge that it’s probably all in your head. It appears that Peter feels quite at ease whereas you’re a blushing mess.

“The ceremonies are actually quite similar in both of those worlds,” he says, as nonchalant as can be. “There’s an officiator and witnesses. There’s also an exchange of vows though they’re more or less left up to the couple…hmm…I’m not sure what else to tell. I’ve never paid too much attention to that sort of thing.”

“Are you…are you married?” you ask. 

You’ve never heard mention of a third Narnian Queen, but you suppose it might have been something that just hasn’t reached your ears so far south.

“No, I’m not.”

“Not even betrothed?” you ask, unable to suppress your curiosity. How a handsome King like him has remained unmarried up till now is a mystery to you. You suspect his adventurous spirit might have something to do with his reticence to settle down.

“No,” he says, sounding slightly ashamed. “I ought to be by now. I’ve been ruling for nine years, but…I’ve yet to meet a woman I wish to marry.”

Apparently, Peter has little interest in marrying for any strategic alliances or mere convenience. You find this very sweet. You sincerely hope that he meets a woman who appreciates him for all his many admirable qualities: his magnificent courage, his stalwart character, and his hatred of tyranny.

***

It’s late afternoon and you’ve been in a council meeting for an hour already. You think, with some exasperation, that your people might be becoming as long-winded as the Calormenes. But today’s topic is very serious and thus requires a great deal of deliberation.

A force of two hundred Calormenes is building a permanent outpost in the western desert, in an attempt to be within closer striking distance to the rebels. They’ve constructed a small makeshift military base that’s obviously intended for habitation by far more than two hundred which can only mean that they intend to receive reinforcements. 

Two hundred is already more than you’ve ever seen them dare to gather in the desert. Up till this point, they’ve struggled to keep companies of more than one hundred alive for long, thanks to their inexperience dealing with the harshness of the desert (and of course the periodic attacks of your group.)

This base is being built in preparation for large-scale invasion and long-term occupation.

“This must be stopped,” Habanah declares. “Already they have gotten too far into their task. Their buildings and walls provide far more cover than tents. I do not know that we have the capability of defeating them as long as they are holed up behind these stringent defenses.”

“Perhaps we could draw them out,” you suggest. “A diversion of some sort to get them out of their base could be quite effective.”

“I do not foresee that being wise,” Habanah says, shaking his head. “They have double our numbers. And the plan relies solely upon their Tarkaan taking the bait. He doesn’t seem like the type to fall for such a ruse.”

“May the gods smite that man,” an Akkadian council member named Ranoor says darkly. “Our scouts have seen him driving slaves to the point of death. When they are unable to go on, he executes them on the spot and demands more slaves be sent by the Tisroc.”

Everyone falls into a mournful and angry silence. You stew for a minute over how to deal with this predicament. Eventually, you reach your conclusion.

“I think…it’s time for me to send this Tarkaan to meet Tash,” you say and your stomach begins to writhe like a small snake. It’s a good feeling, a feeling of anticipation rather than one of fear. “You know how the Calormenes are, with all their superstitions about the desert. If they lose their leader hidden behind such strong fortifications, they will almost certainly abandon their effort.”

Habanah smiles his wonderfully gruff smile. The council votes unanimously that you are to go forth this very same night and slay the troublesome Tarkaan.

There’s no need for you to tell Peter about your mission because he’s already heard from the other rebels by the time the sun is setting. It’s just about time. You’ve got your knife in your pants and your scimitar sheathed when Peter approaches you and he looks undeniably distressed. “Why are you doing this?” he demands. You have the strangest urge to giggle at what you consider to be his inordinate amount of concern.

“Because I’m the best at it.”

He rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I mean. I mean, why do you place yourself in such peril for just one kill? Don’t you think that you accomplish more when you fight alongside the rest of us?”

“Well,” you begin slowly, “of course, I think that we do a great deal of good as a full fighting force: the Calormenes hate when we destroy their companies of soldiers and slavers. But…their numbers are so overwhelming that it’s like we’re merely removing a few grains of sand from an ocean of dunes. The Tisroc just keeps sending more and more,” you say. “Once in a while you have to do something that’s memorable, something that truly frightens them. The idea, that not even Tarkaans are safe while they sleep surrounded by two hundred fighting men, scares them more than anything. They talk about it for months after the fact.” You smile wryly at him. “Hadn’t you heard about the Cobra even all the way in Narnia?”

He looks unconvinced but he knows he’s not going to win this battle. You smile reassuringly at him. “Don’t worry, I’ve done this plenty of times before. I’m not careless.” An idea comes to you—one that you wouldn’t have expected of yourself. “Will it make you feel better to…pray with me?” you ask almost shyly. You’re not sure why you want to share this ritual with him, but you do.

Peter’s face becomes reverent. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose upon you. I know how important—”

“I’m sure.”

He follows you out into the desert away from everyone else. You walk to the other side of a rocky hill where you’ll be secluded from any prying eyes. Dropping to your knees, you unsheath your scimitar and hold it out in front of you with your palms upturned. Peter kneels beside you.

“O, Inanna, goddess of war, hear my prayer. Grant me safe passage through the camp of my enemy. Grant me victory tonight.”

You sheath your scimitar again. Just as you’re about to rise, Peter surprises you by taking your hand and applying a gentle pressure to it. “May Aslan watch over you.”

As though under some spell, you lock eyes for a long moment. Sharing your gods with each other is something so momentous that you don’t have the words to describe the way it makes you feel. The desert is so alive right now; the air is tingling with magic and power and the intense emotion that you and Peter are shrouded in.

“Thank you,” you breathe. Peter releases your hand and the two of you walk back to the camp where he stays and watches you as you leave to fulfill your duty.

It takes you twenty minutes or so to reach the Calormen outpost. There's a crudely constructed wooden wall enclosing their huts. This poses no problem to you. With the litheness of a tiny sand cat, you scale it and leap silently to the ground on the other side. Every move you make is systematic and meticulous. You hadn’t been lying to Peter when you told him you’re not careless.

You slink from shadow to shadow of the boxy-looking buildings. It’s not much of a base to speak of yet, but if given enough time, it will turn into something far more threatening. You’re more determined than ever to accomplish this mission. 

This Tarkaan is obviously smarter than some of the others you’ve slain because his living quarters aren’t immediately identifiable. Usually, the conspicuous lavishness is a dead giveaway and this time there is none of that. Peering through windows and holding your breath at every sound, it takes you far longer than you would like to find him.

But find him you do. The fifth dwelling that you peek through the window of is his. You can tell from some very subtle signs like the presence of a door that’s already installed on its hinges instead of a makeshift curtain. He’s also got several large trunks inside that none of the other buildings had.

He’s all alone, fast asleep in his cot while a half-melted candle flickers weakly on his desk. The window is not yet completed. Only one shutter has been put into place. This makes it easy for you to climb through it without having to break any latches or pick any locks. It’s a tight squeeze through the window but you manage it as noiselessly as ever.

As you land on the dirt floor, you freeze when the Tarkaan opens his mouth and says something in his sleep. 

“To hear is to obey,” he mumbles and you roll your eyes. Even in dreams Calormenes cannot escape their stringently hierarchical society.

Obviously, his sleep is not very deep at the moment. The sooner you get this done the better. You waste no more time before sending him to meet Tash.

After it’s done, it’s a small task to sneak back over the wall and to your comrades. When you arrive back at the rebel encampment, the first to greet you is Peter. He strides right up to you and shocks you by wrapping you up in a brief, but firm embrace. He doesn’t hesitate to press you close to him even with the blood that splatters your pants and robes.

 His genuine relief in response to your safe return touches your heart. You feel something warm spreading through your entire body as you realize that he actually cares about you beyond the normal sort of concern that all the rebels feel for one another. 

Somehow, without you even realizing it, he has become your friend.

But the reunion must be brief. It’s time to move. After hastily changing locations, the company is able to breathe freely. When you’re able to settle in for the night, you kneel beside your bedroll and set your pack on the ground. Peter watches curiously as you inspect the gold armband that you just obtained.

“Is that the Tarkaan’s?” he asks.

“Yes. It’s my ninth one.” 

You pull out a piece of cloth from your pack and unfold it. In the middle sits the stack of shining golden circles. You add this most recent one to the top and refold the cloth over them, sticking the bundle in your pack.

Peter lies down and stretches out in his bed roll, sliding his hands underneath his head as he contemplatively looks up at the stars. “There’s a poem I learned in school when I was a young boy…before I ever came to Narnia,” he says thoughtfully as though he’s remembering something from a past life. Slowly, he begins to recite some lines:

“ To every man upon this earth

Death cometh soon or late.

And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his fathers,

And the temples of his Gods . ”

The words of the poem stir your heart. You’re glad Peter shared it with you.

“It makes me think of you,” he says. "Even though it only says men.”

“It’s good as it is,” you shrug, “and I don’t think it matters much. Most people don’t send their women into war. The only reason we do so is out of necessity.”

***

Time passes and as you had hoped, the Calormenes abandon their outpost. They fall back into their usual pattern of venturing into the desert whenever they need slaves and terrorizing the tribes before retreating back to Calormen with their captives. 

And your people go on with your usual pattern of vengeful retaliation, aided by one very determined outsider.

Peter feels less and less like an acolyte every day and more of an equal. He has killed more Calormenes than you could ever have imagined. Sometimes you wonder what the unfortunate victims of his scimitar think if they manage to see his eyes before they die. For those brief moments when they gaze upon his impassive face, do they wonder why their killer’s irises are a startlingly clear and vivid shade of blue?

None of them survive in order for you to ask them, so you’ll never know.

As you ponder these things, you find yourself realizing that you think about Peter all the time . You justify it to yourself, saying that it’s only natural considering you spend most of your waking hours with each other. You even sleep mere feet apart from each other in your bedrolls. His face is the last one you see when you lie down at night and the first when you rise.

So yes, thinking about him is normal. What isn’t normal is the way you’re starting to think about him.

During one ordinary practice duel with him, you find yourself…feeling bothered by something. You don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you can’t seem to stop fixating on some very mundane things about Peter: The way his shirt lifts up and exposes a sliver of his stomach when he raises his scimitar. The way he sweeps his hair out of his eyes in a way that is almost graceful. The way his body becomes one with his weapon.

You can’t help noticing how defined the veins on his arms look, how exceptionally blue his eyes are, and how very tall he is. You find yourself appreciating the fact that he is always clean-shaven, in contrast to all the Calormene men and Southern tribesmen who keep beards of varying lengths. Peter’s bare face accentuates the sharpness of his jaw in a manner that is beyond enticing.

It’s like you’ve never seen him before today.

You’re so distracted by these little details that you perform very poorly with your scimitar. Usually, you don’t get outright disarmed, but today you do. Your weapon goes flying from your hands and lands near Peter’s feet. As he passes the handle off to you, your fingers brush his and you flinch very blatantly.

At the end of the useless session, Peter parts ways with you and he looks puzzled by how out of sorts you had seemed. As you wander through the campsite alone, you try to figure out what is causing your malaise. 

Was Peter behaving differently? No, he was the same as always. 

Was he perhaps wearing new clothes? No, his clothes were the same as always. 

Are you dehydrated? No, you had plenty of water today.

Then, an epiphany hits you like a bolt of lightning during a violent monsoon rainstorm. You know what is wrong with you. You’ve become painfully aware of something that you had been choosing to ignore before:

Peter is a man.

Such an obvious realization. Of course , he’s a man.

He’s a man and you’re a woman.

And yet…thanks to your hard lifestyle, you rarely feel like one. For the first time in your entire life, you find yourself wishing you were more like a Tarkheena and less like yourself—the Cobra, the famed assassin of the southern rebels. 

You would like to feel like a woman for once in your life. You would like to see how Peter would react to you if you wore silk dresses instead of roughly constructed pants and shirts, beaded slippers instead of sturdy leather sandals, and red paint made of crushed beetles on your cheeks and lips.

You would like him to find you beautiful.

But your silly desires bring you shame. How can you possibly be thinking about something so frivolous when you’re caught in the midst of a years-long rebellion? There are things far more important than your attraction to someone that is laughably unattainable. 

Unfortunately, keeping your thoughts in check proves to be difficult when you’re forced to be in such close proximity to the man every single day.

Whenever any of the rebels are intimate with each other, married or not, they always pitch their tents a sizable distance from the rest of the campsite. You wonder what it would be like to set up a tent with Peter—far away from all the rest. You wonder what he looks like without his shirt on…

You’ve got to stop. He has never given you any sort of inking that he sees you as anything other than a mentor or at best, a friend. If he ever does desire to sleep with anyone, he has his pick of all of the most beautiful women in the company. He is well-liked and admired by all.

Already your rebel companions are lamenting the fact that his allotted time has dwindled so that he only has three more months left. 

It’s around the three month mark of Peter’s time with your group that an interesting rumor reaches your ears: The Grand Vizier is in Tehishbaan. Currently, your band of rebels is camped only thirty miles westward from that city. Perhaps…perhaps now is the time you’ve been fantasizing about for so long.

For several years, you haven’t had a nightmare in which you see your parents cut down by that evil man. That’s why you take it as a sign when you wake up with tears streaming down your face after reliving the abominable act for the first time in ages.

You’re going to Tehishbaan and you’re going to kill the Grand Vizier or die trying.

You’re not going to ask permission from anyone, not even Habanah. You’re going to steal away in the night before anyone tries to dissuade you, as you know perfectly well that they would; they would consider something like this too risky even for you. It’s very unfortunate that you have acquired a very devoted shadow these last few months. Shaking Peter off is going to be difficult.

But there’s no need to overcomplicate it. You’ll just have to wait for him to fall asleep along with all the others. And then, the only obstacle you’ll have to get past will be the sentries of the camp. Somehow you don’t foresee that being a problem, not with your hard-earned covertness. Still, you make sure to set up your sleeping spot at the very edge of the camp in the darkest part of the shadowy cliffside where you are residing at the moment.

When night falls, you snuggle up in your bedroll and yawn widely as you watch Peter slide into his bedroll a few feet away from yours. There are at least ten low conversations going on amongst various people in tents or bedrolls. Patience is key here. You wait and wait for each bit of chatter to dwindle and then cease entirely while also keeping an eye on Peter through your eyelashes. He’s breathing so soft and slow that you’re convinced sleep has taken him.

At last everything is silent. You open your eyes wide and look up at the moon. It’s a crescent right now, very much like a scimitar. Every part of you is wide awake and tingling. You can’t wait any longer.

You draw yourself upright and out of your bedroll. Next, you gather several knives in a very efficient manner and slip on your shoes. You mournfully grasp your scimitar before leaving it where it is next to your bedroll; it’s too conspicuous for a woman like you to carry such a weapon into a city—you’ll have to make do with your knives. The desert is already cold even though the night is young, so you slip a set of robes over your pants and shirt. 

Now you’re ready.

“Where are you going?”

You jump slightly and turn around. Peter is sitting up and his eyes are gleaming through the darkness.

“I thought I heard some jackals a ways off. I figured I should go scatter them before they can cause any nuisance in camp,” you say in a hushed voice. It’s not a very good lie, but it’s the best you’ve got.

“You’re lying.”

You bristle at this. “So what if I am?” you ask nastily. “It’s none of your business where I’m going.”

“It is now,” he says, matching your stubbornness. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going straight to Habanah and waking him up.”

You practically growl at him in response to this threat. “Peter—”

“Just tell me.”

It seems that you’ve got no choice. “I’m going to Tehishbaan.”

“Why?”

“The Grand Vizier is in Tehishbaan,” you answer. 

“So?”

“He–” your voice breaks slightly. “Before he became the Vizier…when he was a lower-ranking Tarkaan, he—he murdered my parents.”

Peter is quiet for a moment. “I could tell you had something on your mind. That’s why I stayed up but pretended to be asleep.”

How bothersome. 

You wrinkle your nose with annoyance. “Well, I hope you’re happy now that you know the truth. Anyways, I’ve got to be off now. The journey is going to take most of the night and the next morning too.”

“I’m not letting you go alone,” he says. His perfectly full lips are shaped in an obstinate pout.

Even though his sulky expression is incredibly charming, you have to keep your wits about you. “Absolutely not. If we got caught doing this, you would be complicit in a direct act of war against Calormen (assuming they figured out who you are). Don’t you think they’ll jump at any pretext to invade Narnia?”

“Maybe so, but they wouldn’t be successful unless they got very very lucky,” he posits. “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about you .”

“Well, you shouldn’t be. Don’t you know by now that I can take care of myself?”

“Of course I do, but even you can’t plan for all unforeseen dangers. This is much more serious than your average mission.” 

Peter is already standing and ready to go. He has thrown a set of robes over his broad shoulders and he has even tied a pouch of crescents around his neck and tucked it under his shirt. You scowl and curse at him, but he doesn't budge. Without acknowledging him again, you start walking and he, of course, follows.

When you’re far enough away, you can talk as loud as you want to. But you have nothing to say to your absolutely infuriating companion. He’s humming in a bit of an anxious way to himself as he walks. He knows perfectly well that you’re angry at him so he doesn’t dare attempt to break the tension with anything other than his innocent humming.

For at least two hours neither of you says even one word. You cross the border into Calormen with no exchanges.

But enough time passes that you’re feeling considerably mellowed out. You even find yourself appreciating his company on this arduous journey. There’s still hours and hours of traversing through a very flat and uneventful part of Calormen.

Apparently, Peter can sense somehow that you’re at least a little more calm because he speaks up for the first time. “When we get to Tehishbaan…How will you know where to find the Grand Vizier?” 

You’re a bit gruff when you answer. “It’s easy really. Calormene cities are all laid out in a very similar way. They’re almost…conical. The higher up you go the more important and wealthy the inhabitants get. Someone as important as the Vizier will be staying almost at the highest point of the city—just below the temple of Tash. That’s always where the palaces of the most important people are.”

“And what do you want me to do while you…umm…kill him?”

“You will be hiding somewhere in the city and I’ll meet up with you when I’m done,” you say in a no-nonsense way. “This is my mission and I have to do it alone.”

Peter shoots a furtive look at you and says in a cautious voice, “I know you said that he killed your parents, but…do you really think that if they were alive they would want you to risk your life like this? Do you think that getting caught and executed is really going to help defeat the Calormenes?” 

His question makes you fly off the handle once again and forget your appreciation for his companionship. 

Who is he to be asking you what your parents might or might not have wanted? You’ve been fighting with the rebels for four years and he just showed up a few months ago. What does he know about the rebellion?

“I didn’t bring you here to try and talk me out of this,” you snap. “In fact, I didn’t bring you here at all. You followed me. If you don’t have anything useful to say, don’t say anything.”

Peter follows your instructions and keeps his mouth shut. The only sound is the crunching of sand and rocks beneath your feet and the occasionally hooting of the burrowing owls. 

You take several deep breaths and attempt to explain yourself in a controlled manner. 

“I’m under no illusion that this is going to bring about any meaningful change. Grand Viziers come and go constantly. The Tisroc executes one and then selects another equally horrible replacement and so on. This isn’t about…the rebellion,” you admit. It feels almost shameful to say such a thing after devoting the last four years of your life to the cause. “This is personal. I have to do this.”

“All right,” Peter says. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

He begins to point out the constellations in the sky and tells you their Narnian names and the accompanying tales and myths. In return, you tell him the Southern names (as best you know them) and the little bits and pieces you’ve learned of the stories behind them.

After hours of weary trudging, you finally see Tehishbaan in the distance. You’re still so far away that it looks like a miniature of a city but it’s there. The sun is cresting over the mountains behind it. It’s a long flat walk from here, still several hours away, but soon…soon.

By the time you finally arrive, the gates are open. Both of you cover your heads and faces up to your eyes and join in behind the long line of carts, soldiers, and slaves bearing palanquins. You look like ordinary peasants, so long as people don’t look too closely at Peter’s eyes. Soon enough you’ve passed through the gates along with the unwashed masses with whom you blend in so well.

While navigating through Calormen cities is incredibly tedious thanks to their stupidly hierarchical concept of right-of-way (if you’re a peasant or slave you have to be quick on your feet lest you get trampled by someone more important than you), you’re very experienced at it thanks to your time in Tashbaan.

“I hate cities,” you groan under your breath.

“Well I can’t honestly say I’m having the best time here either,” Peter agrees, narrowly avoiding being run over by a crimson-bearded officer on a war horse.

“Here,” you say, offering him your hand with a touch of amusement. “We’ll get through easier if you stick close to me.”

He takes your hand and lets you lead. You take him to the huge open air market on the north side of the city. While you meander through the streets, you begrudgingly admit that there are plenty of parts of Calormene cities that are quite lovely. 

As a people they are renowned for their gardens, but you never got to see such things, not even when you were a slave. The Tarkheena kept you locked inside her house most of the time, seeming to realize that you had a rebellious streak that made you liable to dart away from her if given the chance.

It doesn’t seem likely that you’re going to get to visit the gardens today either. Someone like you still has no business being in the upper echelons and lovely corners of a Calormene city. No, the only place that you’ll really be able to blend in is the market. 

You wrinkle your nose at the smell as you get closer to the bustling bazaar. People are jammed so closely together in the hazy heat that the pervasive stench of sweat inevitably invades your nostrils.

Holding Peter’s hand in this scenario isn’t quite what you’ve been imagining over these last few weeks as your attraction to him has developed. Your palms are embarrassingly sweaty and you find yourself getting jostled around violently as passersby threaten to break the grip you have on his hand. If you were a rich Tarkheena, you would take him to a banquet or a garden party instead of this chaotic dive.  

As it is, the market is the best you can do. Tehishbaan’s market is quite a bit smaller than the one you used to haunt in Tashbaan as an adolescent looking for food to steal, but it’s still large enough for you to blend in unobtrusively. 

The place is teeming with all sorts of scintillating sights like beckoning fortune-tellers on cushioned pillows and enthusiastic performers doing sword tricks (Peter watches these with great interest.) There’s an abundance of caged animals from chittering monkeys and squawking parrots to exotic cats (Peter frowns at the sight of a dispirited-looking lion behind bars.)

The place is so busy that it takes you half an hour to find a food stall with a couple of empty seats that you can idle away a couple of hours in. Thank goodness Peter brought some money with him because you’ll be able to purchase a steady stream of assorted snacks in order to justify your presence to the owner of the stall, a young Calormene man wearing bright orange robes.

Peter buys you both a couple of things to start with and sits across from you at the teeny tiny table you managed to procure. He hands you a skewer of grilled fish and you munch on it eagerly. It’s a bit oily, but all things considered, not unpleasant. 

The one thing you tolerate from Calormene culture is the food, though that might be because your years as an orphan and then a nomad have divested you of any fussiness regarding what you consume. 

Never having quite enough to eat will do that to a person.

It makes you wonder about Peter who is every bit as unfussy as you are. As a King he has surely had only the best to eat for the last nine years. Perhaps there were times during his childhood when he wanted for basic necessities. That would be the only explanation for why he handles the stringent rationing of the rebels without a whisper of a gripe.

You ask him about this and he tells you about his time in his other World (not Narnia). He tells you about economic upheaval, food rationing, and a war so terrible that children are taken out of cities and sent to locations that are sparsely inhabited for their own safety.

You hum thoughtfully. “The kids probably enjoy the freedom of being in the rural areas. I know I do,” you muse. “I said it once already, but I cannot reiterate enough how much I hate cities,” you say again, leaning back in your chair and shuddering as you take in the suffocatingly crowded market. 

“Not all cities are bad. Cair Paravel isn’t anything like this,” Peter says. “I think you’d like it there better. The streets are much wider and there’s no traffic like there is here. It’s very clean too. And the best part is how near the sea it is.” 

His voice has an intense note of longing that makes you feel very enamored. It hasn’t occurred to you before now how much he must miss his homeland. By now you realize perfectly well that when he leaves you are going to miss him a great deal. Rather than mourning his going prematurely, you resolve to enjoy what little time you have left.

(If you die tonight, your time with him is going to end even sooner than you really want it to. But it’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make.)

The rest of the afternoon is spent wandering from stall to stall and enjoying the variety of sights in the market. As soon as it seems to be early evening, you decide that it’s time. You turn to Peter who is lounging casually against the wall of the alleyway you’ve been killing time in for the last half hour or so.

“Wait for me here,” you instruct Peter. “I intend to have accomplished my task before night falls. If I’m not back in five hours, I want you to leave Tehishbaan. Make sure you get out before the gates close for the night.”

Peter looks like he would very much like to argue about this, but you give him no room to do so. “You’re not coming with me,” you say with an edge as sharp as one of your knives. “I have to do this alone.”

He takes a prolonged deep breath. Acceptance has settled upon his face.

 “You’re not alone,” he says. “You have divine aid. I know this to be true.”

Peter’s eyes are blazing with something , but you don’t have time to wonder what before he is wrapping his arms around you. Every part of your body tingles with excitement at being pressed up against him like this. He has hugged you before, but it had been so brief that you didn’t have time to enjoy it. This time he doesn’t just hug you, he holds you. He cradles you in a way that makes you feel safe. 

When he finally releases you after what feels like an eternity of bliss, you have to resist the urge to beg him to take you back into the safety of his arms—to tell him to stop you from going on this borderline suicidal mission.

“Thank you, Peter,” you breathe. He nods tightly.

Your heart is still beating rapidly because of his embrace but as soon as you’ve turned your back and walked away from him, you shove your feelings down into the recesses of your mind. Any sort of distraction to you right now is a liability.

Focus is everything. You’re no longer you. You’re the Cobra.

The winding dusty streets of Tehishbaan grow steadily nicer as you work your way upward to the palace of the city’s highest-ranking Tarkaan where you know the Vizier will be staying as a guest. You know you’re getting close because eventually, the road is even paved although it’s still far too narrow. 

When you reach the palace, you eschew using the main entrance and instead wander around until you find the slaves’ door. You lurk behind a stone column and watch for a suitable opportunity.

After about fifteen minutes, a substantial group of slaves returns from the market carrying loaves of bread, bushels of lobster, and other such purchases. This could be your best chance. 

Without overthinking it, you dash from your hiding spot and join the crowd of about thirty or forty. No one even notices or if they do they don’t care. Having been a slave yourself, you can recognize a beat down look when you see it. People in that position learn quickly not to question things.

There must be hundreds and hundreds of slaves in this palace which means no one is going to realize that you are an unfamiliar face—not to mention you’re veiled like many of the other female slaves.

Still, you keep your head low and as soon as you're inside, you break off from the group and plunge into the shadows of an empty darkened hall filled with grand statues.

If this palace layout is anything like what you were used to in Tashbaan, you know exactly where the guest quarters are going to be. You slink through the halls and up some stairs leading to a long narrow corridor lined with doors on each side. Cautiously, you open one of them and peer inside. 

At once you know that you’ve found what you’re looking for. It has the look of guest quarters. Everything is very fine and elegant but looks distinctly unlived in. 

One of these rooms down this hall is the Vizier’s. It’s just a matter of finding the one that looks like someone is staying there.

You begin testing doors, moving quickly and closing each door when you find them empty and in pristine condition. The blood pumps in your veins rapidly and yet you feel no fear at all despite the fact that at any moment you could be caught by someone and brutally executed. 

You signed up for this danger and you’re not backing down now.

Finally, at the very end of the long hallway, you find a room that is clean and tidy, but obviously occupied by a guest based upon the vast array of trunks and parchment strewn upon the desk. 

Just to make sure, you walk to the desk and pick up one of the scrolls and unfurl it slightly. It’s a letter to the Vizier from the Tisroc himself. You make sure to roll it back up and place it exactly the way it was.

Now that you’re certain you’re in the right spot, you zero in on a set of thick purple curtains drawn over one of the windows. It’s the perfect hiding spot. You situate yourself behind them and prepare yourself for what you expect will be a long wait.

It takes at least four hours, though you aren’t entirely sure how accurate your estimation is, before anything happens. 

During that time you don’t dare move. You stand like a statue and say periodic prayers in your head. Sometimes you get lost in thoughts of Peter and what he must be thinking right now.

Finally, your boredom is shattered by the bang of the massive doors being flung open.

“In the name of the Tisroc (may he live forever), leave me be for the rest of the night or I shall have you flayed and then boiled alive,” an authoritative, cruel voice snaps. “I shall be sure to tell Azrooh that the slaves in his palace are so useless that they do not warrant the generous food and abode that they are currently being given.”

What a delightful house guest this man is. 

The sound of the scurrying feet of the slaves is drowned out by the Vizier slamming the door to his chambers. Apparently he has had a long day and some poor slaves managed to get on his bad side.

Your lips curl into a smile. Perfect. He’s all alone. And even better, he has asked that no one disturb him for the rest of the night. His body won’t be found for hours. 

The gods are smiling upon you.

From the slit in the curtains, you can see the Vizier’s every move. You watch with loathing as he cracks his knuckles and paces the room, obviously still seething. After about ten minutes of this, his blood appears to have cooled because he takes a seat at his desk. His back is towards you.

This is it.

You have no delusions of grandeur. Not once do you even consider giving the man the chance to see your face before you kill him. It doesn’t matter if he knows who is responsible for his death. He wouldn’t recognize you anyways; you’re just one of hundreds—if not thousands—of victims of his inhumane brutality.

A noiseless, uncredited kill is always superior. You have many character defects but hubris isn’t one of them. The only thing that matters is that your parents are avenged. 

And so you emerge from the curtains and glide to him. You’re more silent than a snake—more silent than even the ghost of a snake. The Vizier doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t give any indication that he’s aware that his doom is nigh at hand.

It’s quick work. He’s dead in seconds, head slumped forward lifelessly over his desk. You watch impassively as his blood gushes from his neck and onto an intricately woven rug with dozens of tassels.

The Grand Vizier does not bear the typical gold armband of a Tarkaan. Instead, his robes and turbans are bedecked with other status-signifiers such as baubles, jewels, and chains. He looks absolutely ridiculous. Apparently his inflated self-importance has gone to his head and caused him to develop a laughable fashion sense. 

For a brief moment you consider taking something from his turban or robes, but you immediately realize that his death is more than enough. Nothing amongst his adornments is calling to you. You don’t have any desire to take any trophies this time. Everything about him is repulsive to you. 

So you leave his body as it is.

Feeling overjoyed at your success, you leave the same way that you came. However, your elation is short-lived. 

As the fresh evening air washes over you outside of the slaves’ entrance, it occurs to you that the gates of the city will be closing shortly. You break into a brisk walk and head to where Peter is ostensibly awaiting you. If you could run without drawing attention to yourself, you’d be sprinting.

By the time you reunite with Peter, you realize that you have less than ten minutes to make it to the western gate all the way across the city. You babble in an almost incoherent manner as you yank him along behind you.

“You did it then? Are you being chased?” Peter tries to ask you, but you just shake your head.

“Yes I did it. No, I'm not being chased, but there’s no time to talk! The gates are going to close any minute!”

But you don’t even make it halfway before Peter pulls you to a grinding halt and orders you to stop your frantic attempt at an exodus because it’s too late. Even from this far away, you can hear the tell-tale sign of the blowing horns that signal the closing of the gates.

You are locked inside Tehishbaan. 

Perhaps it has something to do with just barely seeing the man who kidnapped you at five years old, but in that moment you find yourself reverting back to the small scared little girl you were when you lived alone on the streets of Tashbaan, too frightened to venture outside of the city gates and make your way in the wilderness. 

You recall long, dreadful nights during which you spent every minute convinced that you were about to be captured and taken to the temple of Tash to be sacrificed to the cruel god like so many of your people. 

You furiously curse this evil fate. The worst part of all is that with every second that passes and the darker it gets, the more the bustling crowds dwindle. The fewer people there are on the streets, the more horribly exposed you are. 

Oh, if only you had reached the gates in time! Being stuck here in the city at this time is like being caged. You’re jumpy at every little noise or bit of chatter that carries through the increasingly quiet night.

You realize that for the first time on a mission like this, you have been careless. Emotion clouded your judgment and caused you to neglect the necessity of a real plan. Everything in your mind had been solely fixated upon one task and one task only: killing the Grand Vizier.

Now he’s dead and you have no way out of the city and no plan. A paralyzing thought occurs to you. What if Peter’s identity is exposed somehow? 

You should never have let him come with you. This is disastrous.

Peter is keeping his demeanor very calm and rational, trying to assuage your fear. “Surely we can just hide somewhere in the streets until morning. Perhaps, a darkened alleyway or somewhere else that’s obscure—”

You’re on the verge of descending into a full-on panic. “You don’t understand! Soldiers patrol the city all night long. They’ll find us. Anyone that’s wandering after dark is bound to be stopped and questioned. People like us aren’t supposed to be out freely like this.”

Peter is silent for several long moments. You can almost see his analytical brain grinding away like a stonemason chiseling a piece of granite. His mouth suddenly twists into a grimace of displeasure. Your heart sinks; this can only mean one thing. Even Peter’s brilliant mind can’t think of a way out of your predicament.

Then he opens his mouth and speaks. “I’ve thought of a way that we can obtain lodging for the night.”

“Really?” you ask, amazed. Why does he look so disturbed then?

“Yes,” he says and he sounds reluctant for some strange reason. “I…don’t like it…but I think that it’s our only option.”

“Go on.”

“It’s simple really. I’m going to remove my head-covering and walk into an inn and ask for a room. I won’t be suspected of being a rebel because I’m obviously a ‘white barbarian.’ They’ll think I’m just some traveling merchant or something…especially if you pretend to be my slave.” He says this last part very unwillingly.

“Oh…” you say, mulling his plan over. “I—I think it might just work.”

It really is so simple that you feel stupid for not thinking of it yourself. Thank goodness Peter is so gifted at maintaining a cool head.

Obviously, he hates the idea of you pretending to be his slave as much as you do, but there’s nothing else for it. 

Peter removes his head-covering and you veil your face again. You trail timidly behind him as he strides into the nearest inn and heads straight for the owner behind the counter. The man is so busy scribbling on a piece of parchment that he doesn’t even look up.  

“I come seeking lodgings for the night,” Peter announces in an authoritative voice.

Now, the innkeeper, a stooped old man with a turban that’s twice the size of his head, looks up at the two of you. His quill freezes halfway to his ink bottle.

You stand deferentially and keep your eyes fixed on the ground. You hunch your back slightly so that you look less proud and defiant than normal. Oh how you loathe being a slave again even if it’s just for show. 

But you give it your all, playing your part so well that it only takes the innkeeper one fleeting glance to ascertain your status. His attention is now entirely devoted to Peter.

“Where do you hark from stranger?” the innkeeper asks, eyes burning with curiosity.

“Most recently I was in Tashbaan,” Peter lies smoothly, “but I assume you are not referring to that. My homeland is in the North.”

“You’re swarthy for a Northerner,” the innkeeper says, giving him a dubious onceover.

“I’ve been living in these lands for some time,” Peter says simply. He is playing his part well, being just forthcoming enough while still maintaining an aura of mystique. Calormenes really set a lot of store by that sort of thing.

“Well, there’s no denying…the hair and those eyes…” he trails off muttering to himself. He purses his lips and looks shrewdly into Peter’s face again. “You’ve gone native, I suppose?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Peter responds. The twinkle in his eyes isn’t a part of his act.

The innkeeper nods knowingly. “Yes, I’ve heard of such things before…rare occurrences…but all the same…You may have lodgings tonight. Ten crescents for you and five for your slave.”

Praise be to the gods that Peter had the foresight to bring along crescents because you certainly didn’t. After being paid, the innkeeper gives you a key and directs you up the stairs where your room is on the second floor. 

At first glance, it’s quite small and barely furnished, but there’s a pleasant little window through which the starlight penetrates the glass, giving the room a more inviting look than it would otherwise have. 

You exhale with relief; you’re safe for the rest of the night.

“I am so deeply sorry,” Peter blurts out as soon as the door is closed. “You having to pretend to be a slave after everything you’ve been through is intolerable. I should have thought of something better. Perhaps—”

“We had no other choice. It was a good plan. And look how well it turned out,” you gesture to the room he obtained for you, “we even have a bed.”

Peter shifts uncomfortably. He stares meaningfully at the two-person bed. “Yes, I suppose it is good that you’ll have a bed for tonight.”

The way he says you’ll instead of we’ll gives you pause. You would’ve thought that given his ease around physical closeness, he would be fine with sharing a bed. While you’re not thrilled with the situation (thanks to your very impure thoughts you’ve been having about him recently), you know that there’s only one practical sleeping arrangement.

“Do you intend to sleep on the floor?” you ask him.

“Naturally,” he says. “I couldn’t possibly take the bed and leave you on the floor. It would be highly unchivalrous of me.”

You snort. “Neither of us needs to sleep on the floor, Peter. It only makes sense that we should share.”

He nervously wets his lips with his tongue. The tiny act makes your stomach feel as though it’s got a lizard skittering around inside of it. “Are you sure?” he asks, his brow furrowed with concern. “I’m fine with it, I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but if you are comfortable then–”

“Of course, I’m comfortable with it. I trust you and it’s not like we’re going to…I mean to say that we won’t….” 

Unable to complete a coherent thought, you abruptly shut your mouth. To combat your awkwardness, you busy yourself with removing your robes, leaving only your loose pants and shirt on. Peter follows suit and without further ado, you both slide underneath the covers.

Peter lies flat on his back and stares up at the ceiling while you are turned slightly on your side, facing him. 

“This is my first time sleeping in a bed in…” you strain your mind trying to recall, “actually I can’t remember how many years it’s been.”

“ Years ,” Peter echoes, exhaling with frustration. “Years since you slept in a bed.”

“It’s not so bad really. Haven’t you gotten used to the lifestyle of a nomad during these last few months?”

“It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the lifestyle. To tell the truth, I quite enjoy it for the most part. It’s just that…you deserve to sleep in the finest beds this world has to offer. I wish you could visit Cair Paravel.”

You merely hum in response to this. The chances of you seeing Cair Paravel are as great as the chances of the Tisroc selecting an Akkadian to be his next Grand Vizier.

Peter is as wide awake as you are, so you decide you might as well continue to make conversation. “Tell me what you heard about the Cobra when you were in your country,” you request plaintively. 

Who cares if you sound self-absorbed, you’re genuinely curious as to what kind of hearsay managed to reach the ears of the High King all the way in Narnia.

“I heard rumors about a ghoul of the desert who steals into Calormen campsites and butchers Tarkaans,” he says.

“So not too far off the truth then.”

Peter chuckles. “I suppose not…although I must admit, I still wasn’t prepared for when I actually met you.” He pauses and you wait for him to explain. “I told you before that I didn’t expect you to be a woman. And when you removed your veil and I saw your face for the first time…I was even more surprised.” 

Even by the gentle light of the stars filtered through the window, you can see that his cheeks have gone quite rosy.

“Why?” you ask and you’re embarrassed by how high-pitched your voice is.

“Because…because that was when I realized that not only was the Cobra a woman, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

His statement makes you go completely mute. All rationality has gone out of your head. What are words? Apparently, they are simply tools in the hands of someone like Peter to make you feel like you’re floating through the air, completely free of thoughts.

“That’s—that’s absurd,” you finally manage to stutter.

Peter looks exasperated at your contradiction. “I wouldn’t lie about something like that. I can’t possibly be the first man to acknowledge your beauty.”

“You’re quite wrong.”

“Even with so many men in the company?” he demands. “Surely someone has expressed interest in you that way.”

Thinking about your isolated position amongst the rebels due to your high-ranking status, you laugh softly. “No, never. You see, people respect me because I’m the Cobra, but also…I think sometimes that they’re a little scared of me,” you sigh. “That’s the price one pays, I suppose, for taking on the mantle of leadership.”

“I understand that completely," Peter says. “I wouldn’t say my subjects are scared of me…but there’s inherently a bit of distance because of my role. My brother may be King and my sisters may be Queens, but I’m the only High King. It can be lonely sometimes. ”

It sinks in that you’re having a very special moment right now. You’ve never felt so understood by anyone in your life and you can tell by his earnest confession that he feels the same. Both of you are too young for the burdens you’ve had to bear, but sharing them with each other makes them feel a little lighter.

You’re not sure where you get your brazeness from, but you find yourself outstretching your hand to touch him for the very first time in a manner that is not merely friendly. You run your fingers over his jaw, reveling in the smoothness of it. You’ve always liked his clean-shaven look. And now, you’re positively dying to press your lips all over his face.

Peter is quite still in response to the light brushes of your fingertips. But then, you begin to trace his lips and his throat produces a guttural noise. Your hair stands on end and you feel something hot building in the lower part of your body. 

As a woman of the desert, you’re no stranger to heat. In fact, sometimes you find yourself being far too familiar with the sensation. Heat is to be endured, tolerated, and mitigated by whatever means possible. This is a different kind of heat. It's a fiery sort of pleasure that you want to let consume you.

Peter rolls over onto his side to face you and lean into your touch. “Have you ever slept with someone?” 

It’s obvious from the intent way he awaits your answer that he’s not just asking if you’ve slept beside someone like you’re about to do tonight.

“No, I’ve never done…that,” you say, pulling your hand away from his face. You blush even though you know he could have deduced your virginal status thanks to your previous assertion that no one has ever told you you’re beautiful.

Peter purses his lips. “I have. Once.” He looks slightly haunted. “I slept with a barmaid I met during a voyage to the Lone Islands when I was seventeen. It wasn’t…how I thought it would be. I never even knew her name and she didn’t know who I was either. The entire time when I should have been enjoying myself, I couldn’t stop wishing that—that we actually knew each other and that…she cared for me.”

“I care for you.” 

The words come out of your lips in a whisper so quiet you wonder if you actually said them or if it was in your imagination.

Apparently, you did indeed speak aloud because Peter’s face goes from morose to hopeful. “You do?” he asks in a longing manner that makes your heart ache.

“I—yes,” you admit a bit more loudly this time. “Of course I do.”

“As a friend or…something more?”

With your voice back to a whisper, you say, “Something more.”

Peter’s eyes gleam. Before you can process what’s happening, his lips are a mere inch away from yours. But instead of closing the gap completely, he waits. For a split second you hesitate. And then you lean in. 

Having another pair of lips upon your own is brand new to you so at first, you’re quite unsure of yourself; however, it doesn’t take long for you to start appreciating the fact that you’re finally tasting his voluptuous lips like you’ve been fantasizing about for some time. They’re even softer than you imagined. He kisses you the same way that he eats—with palpable relish. 

His hands are in your hair as he rolls on top of you. By instinct you spread your legs apart and allow him to settle between them. All the while his lips are fused to yours. Soon his hips start to move and you sigh into his mouth at the pleasurable sensation.

You’re slightly relieved that Peter has at least somewhat of an idea of what to do because you feel hopelessly lost. The only thing you’re quite certain of is that the hard thing between your legs is supposed to go inside of your body, but you’re finding it hard to believe that this is possible. It feels too big.

Before you can worry about it too much, Peter sits up and kneels between your legs. You look up at him as he grabs his shirt from behind his neck and pulls it over his head. This is your very first time seeing him partially naked. Somehow, the sight makes your heart race even faster. Your desire intensifies. His upper body is extra lean after months of hard rations, but this makes him no less beautiful to you. 

Peter takes your hands and gently pulls you up into a seated position as well. He begins to press his lips all over your neck. This is when you really start to feel your body reacting in an ardent manner to his passionate ministrations. You produce some wordless sighs and moans, but you try to keep your sounds low out of embarrassment.

“I know you’re very adept in the art of silence, but…” Peter says between nipping at your neck, “you don’t have to be quiet here. In fact, I’d very much prefer it if you weren’t.”  

He doubles down on his efforts to get you to be louder. Even if you weren’t inclined to submit to his request, you wouldn’t be able to stop the moans from spilling out of your lips. “Peter,” you sigh. “Peter…oh…don’t stop.”

You need more. More of this feeling. More of him . But just when you’re attempting to pull him in tighter, to force his body to envelop yours in pursuit of greater closeness, he draws back.

Peter’s hand migrates to the waistband of your pants. “May I…” he says hesitantly. You nod in a frantic manner that you no longer have it in you to feel embarrassed by. His fingers deftly slide your pants and undergarments off of your lower body while you shift yourself compliantly to aid him in his task. Next to go is your shirt. And then he removes his pants.

This is really happening.

Both of you are completely naked and the gravitas of this is not lost upon you. Tamping down your fear, you lie back down on the threadbare pillows. Then, Peter’s hands are between your legs, touching you where no one has ever touched before. There’s something wet coming out of your body as Peter strokes and caresses the sensitive flesh. You gasp when he slides a finger inside of you and because of the wetness it goes in easily.

Peter groans watching his finger go in and out of your body with no resistance. It’s overwhelming to say the least and yet not nearly enough. You need more.

“Peter, I’m—I’m ready,”  you breathe.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He pushes in slowly, very understanding of the fact that your body isn’t used to this. When he reaches halfway, he pauses. “Do you feel all right?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“Yes. Keep going,” you moan. 

Peter doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s been doing everything he can to hold back in order to make the experience comfortable for you. Now that he has the go ahead, he pushes all the way in. 

As you had expected, it’s a tight fit. For a few seconds you keep your eyes squeezed shut very tight, trying to adjust to this new sensation. Very soon, you find yourself enjoying it quite a lot.

The feel of him inside of you and the weight of his body on top of yours is the most comforting thing you’ve ever experienced. Your whole life has been spent keeping people who want to hurt you as far away from you as possible. 

And now you find yourself in the most vulnerable position you’ve ever been in and you love it.

Trust, vulnerability, succumbing—none of these words were a part of your vocabulary until he came into your life. For the very first time, you feel that you are defined by something other than the things that you hate and fear.

You are deliriously happy.

Peter is yours and you are his. Even if it’s just for this brief moment in time.

He begins to push in and out of your body and your hips rise to meet his as he thrusts. A steady rhythm ensues. Peter moans your name periodically and kisses you between each utterance. Your hands roam his body restlessly, clinging to his arms then pressing against his chest then burying in his hair.

When you think it can’t get better than this, he slides his hand between your bodies and rubs you in such a way that you cry out from how good it feels. Then, he does it again and your thighs shake. You feel like you’re losing control of your limbs. He thrusts a few more times and your vision goes white. 

Soon after, his body shakes and he lets out a deep groan before stilling. As his body relaxes, he remains inside of you. Your face is pressed into his neck. You press your lips against it and begin to kiss it. His pulse is throbbing beneath your lips. His blood pounds as violently as he fights. 

He shivers at the sensation of your gentle caress to such a sensitive area. He props himself up and looks down. 

Peter smiles at you. If you weren’t already breathless from what you just did, you would be now. His smile is incredible .

Words are unnecessary. He kisses you again. At that moment in the very heart of a Calormene city, you feel completely safe because you’re in Peter’s arms.

Just before you fall asleep, you acknowledge to yourself that developing such an intense bond during such a short period of time was probably inevitable. You’ve been training together and fighting beside each other for months now. Knowing that you can die at any moment accelerated your unlikely attachment.

Still…bonding as comrades didn’t necessarily have to lead to this , you think, as you glance at the naked man in whose arms you are wrapped up. 

He’s completely and totally out of it right now. You wonder if he’s going to be able to wake up in the morning without any trouble.

Of course, when the morning comes, your concern about this proves unwarranted. Like any true warrior, Peter can wake up at any time even after a night like the one you just had. You both get dressed quickly, neither of you wanting to linger in Tehishbaan for longer than necessary.

Leaving is much less straightforward than entering was. The city is in an absolute uproar thanks to the murder of the Grand Vizier last night. No one is going in or out of the gates without being questioned or scrutinized by the guards. 

It’s going to take some real ingenuity to get out of here without detection.

This time you come up with the idea that saves your necks. After observing the pandemonium around the western gate, you decide that your best bet is going to be stealing into the back of a cart. The most viable option is a covered one that’s part of a long procession. There’s so many of them that the soldiers are only perfunctorily checking every few carts in the line.

You’re very proud of Peter, who nearly matches your stealth as you pick an unobtrusive cart carrying what appears to be fruit of some kind. When the coast is clear, you both dive underneath the tarp and carve out a space amongst the vast array of melons. Your heart beats as your cart inches up the line. Wheels clatter and a clamor of voices gets closer and closer.

Peter holds your hand during those anxious moments as the soldiers deliberate with the merchant over the wares he is transporting. Neither of you breathe until they’ve finally given the go ahead. The horses trot forward and there is no search done.

Once you’re out of the gates, it’s a simple matter of slipping out of the cart the moment that the driver pauses to water his horse at the river. 

Escaping so neatly after such a monumentally successful night (on multiple accounts) has made both you and Peter feel euphoric. The hours-long walk back to the rebels feels like nothing. You practically skip the whole way, exchanging sly grins with Peter.

Chapter 4

Upon returning to camp and explaining your disappearance (you receive far more praise than hostility for your rashness), things are quite different from how they were before—for obvious reasons. 

You no longer sleep out amongst the rest of the non-couples in bedrolls. Peter procures a tent which is where you sleep together during nights not spent attacking the Calormenes. 

There’s an omnipresent tension between the two of you that has nothing to do with the danger and everything to do with the new passion in your changed relationship. Even when you go on scouting expeditions, you find yourselves struggling to keep your hands off of each other.

But both of you are smart enough to keep your wits about you.

On one particular scouting excursion, you traipse through a part of the desert that is made up of massive sand dunes. You recount to Peter about how you used to slide down the dunes on a wooden board as a child. 

“If we determine that the coast is clear in this area, maybe we could try it out,” he suggests.

You like the idea and you especially enjoy the eager, boyish smile upon his face as he contemplates it. You’re about to tell him you’re game when his smile suddenly vanishes. 

But as you open your mouth to ask what’s wrong, he shoves you to the ground. Fortunately, the sand makes for a relatively soft landing. The weight of his body rests upon yours but not suffocatingly so. He clamps his hand over your mouth to keep you from uttering any sort of exclamation at his unexpected and rough handling of you.

“ Shh ,” he breathes softly into your ear. 

It’s an unnecessary admonition since you couldn’t say anything if you tried when he’s got his hand pressed so forcefully against your mouth like this.

The feeling of helplessness you have underneath him makes you ache for him to have his way with you. You squirm slightly beneath him, but Peter just grits his teeth.

“Calormenes,” he whispers. “Listen.”

You strain your ears and hear the loud voices of maybe ten to fifteen soldiers or slavers. The sound brings you back to reality and you realize that you probably shouldn’t be enjoying the situation as much as you are.

From what you can tell, they’re on the other side of this dune. Hopefully, they won’t come over here, but you’ve got to be quiet otherwise they certainly will.

For at least ten minutes, you wait for the voices to grow distant. Eventually, they do and Peter moves to get off of you.

“Wait for a moment,” you implore. You place your hands at the nape of his neck and pull his head to meet yours.

Peter makes no complaints about your request for a hasty kiss. His lips are fervent and passionate. It’s only with great reluctance that you finally push him away.

“We ought to finish scouting,” you say regretfully and Peter nods in agreement. The two of you stand and brush the sand off of your clothes.

“If we found their campsite…maybe I could get their Tarkaan sometime in the next few days” you say, humming thoughtfully. 

For some reason, you’re extra anxious to accomplish something. Perhaps it’s your residual feeling of success from killing the Grand Vizier or perhaps it’s the exhilaration you feel because of your infatuation with Peter. You feel like you can do anything .

Already you’ve constructed a rough outline of a plan in your mind.

Peter’s eyes narrow with disapproval. “Don’t push your luck. You just barely killed the Vizier,” he says in an uncharacteristically cold voice. “I think you need a break from any further reckless courses of action.”

You roll your eyes, but you relent and drop the subject. It’s been obvious for a long time that he really worries about your safety and you get it because you feel the same way about him now.

When you take the time to think it over, you find yourself acknowledging the bizarreness of your situation. The High King of Narnia is the lover of an Akkadian peasant—and not just any peasant: a former slave turned subversive. What a strange world this is.

However, you are so deep in the throes of desire that you don’t dwell too long upon the strangeness of it all. 

Instead, you succumb to the revelry of love and passion. There’s nothing like returning to camp after a successful expedition and stumbling into a cave or a tent together. Bloodied clothes are torn off in a rush. Your bodies intertwine and clash and writhe in a manner that reminds you of a violent sandstorm.

None of your people have anything to say about your close relationship with the Northern King although you hear the occasional innocuous titter when you walk through camp with him. Everyone likes him and they seem to think that perhaps he’ll want to stay longer in order to be with you. This would be seen as a great blessing to most.

Habanah, however, sees things differently. 

He pulls you aside one day and takes you out into the desert away from camp where he can speak to you privately. 

“You know that I lost four beautiful daughters when the Calormenes sacked Teebeth,” Habanah says. His black eyes are impassive. By now he’s cried every tear a person can cry over such a tragedy. “You have become like another daughter to me over these years that we have fought together.”

His words have touched your very soul. You listen solemnly as he goes on. “I see you as a daughter and thus do not wish for harm to come to you. If I may speak to you as a father, I would advise you not to become too attached to the Narnian King.”

Your heart sinks. “Habanah…” you begin to say, but he cuts you off.

“I know that you are a wise young woman,” Habanah says. “I will not censure you. I merely warn you that the more involved you become with him, the harder it will be for you when he leaves.”

When. 

You know that he’s right. It’s not a matter of if , it’s a matter of when . The rebels may hope and pray for Peter to stay, but you know that he can’t. Sooner rather than later, he must return to his people. They need him even more than you do. Habanah’s advice is prudent and you resolve to follow his instructions

But you strongly suspect that stopping the fire that blazes in your veins is going to be easier said than done. 

After a successful raid on a Calormen outpost, you see Peter wandering by himself into the desert. For whatever reason he’s choosing to forgo the typical celebrations and division of spoils. You follow him under the guise of making sure he doesn’t get lost or cornered by jackals, but really you’re following him to be alone with him. 

You know that you shouldn’t but you can’t help yourself.

When you catch up to him, he’s sitting very still on a flat rock with his back to you. You aren’t called the Cobra for nothing; it’s easy to reach him without detection. You silently place a hand on his shoulder and he jumps slightly. 

He turns his head to look back at you. “I hoped you’d follow me,” he says in an almost wistful voice.

“You should be more careful about getting caught unawares,” you bend down and whisper into his ear. “What if I was an enemy?” You can see goosebumps rising on the back of his neck.

“I would consider myself fortunate to have an enemy as formidable as you,” Peter says. “How many people are out there that can say they survived an encounter with the Cobra?”

“Well, many of my victims have been asleep,” you remark dryly. “So it’s not all that impressive.”

You remove your hand from his shoulder and sit beside him on the flat rock, keeping a full foot of space between you.

“Did Habanah talk to you too?” Peter asks glumly, noting your distance.

“Yes.”

He stares at you. “And?”

You sigh. “And he’s right.”

“So you think we should stop?” he asks sorrowfully.

“I don’t want to,” you tell him in full honesty. “But we probably should. We both know it can’t last.”

Peter does not contradict this indisputable fact. He’s no fool. He knows that your duty is to your people so it’s quite impossible for you to run off to Narnia with him. And he is just as duty bound to Narnia so there’s no chance of him staying once the time he has allotted himself here has run out. It already feels too soon; the grains of sand in the top of the hourglass have fallen too quickly.

Instead of trying to fight the truth, Peter says something that surprises you but at the same time sounds completely normal coming out of his mouth. “I love you,” he says. “Do you love me?”

“Does it matter?” you ask.

His voice is hollow. “It matters to me.”

“Even though you’re going to leave whether I say yes or no?”

Peter’s hands ball into fists. “Fine. Don’t say it.”

You scoot close to him, pressing yourself against his side and wrapping your arm around his waist. He immediately reciprocates your closeness and throws his arm over your shoulders.

“I love you,” you say very simply.

Peter presses a kiss to the top of your head. There with your bodies fused together and the truth of your love for each other released into the world, nothing else seems to matter.

“Let’s not think about me leaving,” he says resolutely. “We still have each other right now.”

“All right,” you say in a small voice. “Let’s not think about it.”

A light bit of rain begins to fall—the first time in weeks that this has happened. Peter kisses you and as he forces your mouth open, the taste of the rain hits your tongue.

***

But only a week after you’ve decided not to worry about Peter’s impending departure in a month, life takes a cruel turn.

During a routine scouting expedition, you collapse unexpectedly. The only reason you don’t bash your head against any rocks is because Peter, your constant companion, manages to catch you in the nick of time. He carries you all the way back to camp, not an insignificant journey with a catatonic fully grown woman in his arms, and straight to the healer’s tent. As Peter sets you onto the cot, you open your eyes and see that his face is quite pale.

He watches intensely as a healer with a gray beard down to his knees bends over and examines you. Even through the beard you can see his lips press together. The verdict is not good.

“You have…sand fever.”

You close your eyes and process this unwelcome news. No one is quite sure what causes this particular illness. If old wives’ tales are to be believed, it comes from inhaling impure sand and dust. What is meant by “impure" is not entirely clear.

The only two things that are certain are that sand fever is not contagious and that once it is contracted, the afflicted has a very short time to live. Every year a handful of rebel soldiers fall victim to the malady and there’s nothing that can be done about it. It’s just how things go.

What poets and bards don’t tell people about war is that very few are lucky enough to have a glorious death in battle. Most soldiers end up starving or dying of some pitiful disease. It seems you, like so many others throughout history, are doomed to die in an ignominious way. 

This isn’t how you would have chosen to go, but in the end, you suppose, it doesn’t really matter. Fate never exactly dealt you a fair hand (except for when she sent you Peter.)

“What does it mean?” Peter asks. He knows it’s bad based on your reaction, but he doesn’t know just how abysmal it really is.

“It is fatal,” the healer says sadly. “There is no cure.”

Peter’s face transforms into something so heart wrenching you can’t bear to look at him. His devastation is even more terrible to you than the physical discomfort you’re currently experiencing.

More than anything you want to comfort him so you put on a rueful smile and quote the poem he once shared with you back to him. “To every man upon this earth, death cometh soon or late,” you say. “I suppose that for me it’s sooner rather than later.”

“You’re not dying. I won’t let you.”

“I don’t think you have a say in the matter.”

Peter turns to the healer. “How long does she have?” he asks urgently.

The healer avoids the piercing blue eyes of the High King. “She has a strong constitution. Perhaps she can last another month.”

That’s all that Peter needs to hear. 

“I’m taking her to Narnia,” he announces. His eyes are gleaming with stubborn determination. “The journey only takes a few weeks if the winds are good. Queen Lucy, my sister, will be able to heal her there.”

You try to talk him out of this drastic (probably futile) plan but in your weakened state, you can’t do much. No one else tries to stop him either. Habanah and the other rebels simply shake their heads with pity, not believing that Peter is actually going to succeed in his task though they do bequeath him one of the precious camels as a token of appreciation for his valiant effort to save you. 

Your comrades bid you farewell and you know that they all believe it’s the final goodbye; you believe it too. Peter’s promises are far too good to be true. Even if his sister could heal you, there’s a slim chance you’ll survive the journey to the only southern port city and from there the ocean voyage to Cair Paravel.

Ordinarily the trip from the west to the port takes two weeks. Peter manages it in a week through sheer will. He also manages to finagle his way onto a merchant ship headed for Narnia. Not that you remember much of any of this. You’re so out of it that you don’t even realize you’ve boarded a ship until hours after the fact when the rocking of the hammock you’ve been placed in awakens you.

For two weeks Peter dutifully places water-saturated rags on your scalding brow and pours water down your perpetually dry throat. Several times you hear him curse indistinctly the fact that there’s no ice to be found in a place like this. Every day he feeds you sea biscuits that he mashes and turns into gruel, but you don’t keep much of anything down.

By the end of the journey, you’re spending the vast majority of your time unconscious. This means that you entirely miss the deboarding of the ship.

But then you’re getting jostled around so much that it actually manages to pull you out of your dreamlike stupor although you still don’t have enough strength to open your eyes. There are a couple of people around you and Peter and they’re making loud vehement noises of surprise.

“My goodness, Peter!” a woman exclaims. “You’ve gotten so dark! I almost didn’t recognize you.”

He ignores this statement and marches on. Then, the jostling motion of his walk ceases and he sets you down with the utmost care upon an exquisitely soft mattress. If you weren’t feeling so dreadful, you’d be able to appreciate how wonderful this bed really is.

“Who is that?” an unidentified male voice says. “She almost looks like she could be a Calormene.”

Peter’s voice is cold and downright tyrannical when he responds. “If you make any such remark again, I’ll have you flogged.”

“Peter!” the lovely tinkling female voice says, sounding scandalized. “What a dreadful thing to say!”

“I’m the High King so I’ll jolly well say what I want to say,” Peter blusters. “Where in the blazes is Lucy?”

“Come on Ed,” the woman says anxiously. “Let’s go fetch her. I think she is out with the Beavers right now.”

A door opens and closes. You know that you’re alone with Peter now. You open your eyes a smidge to look at him. He’s analyzing every breath you take and every twitch of your body.

“Who were you talking to?” you mumble.

“My sister Susan and my brother Edmund,” Peter says, leaning over you and pressing a cool hand to your forehead.

“You shouldn’t have threatened to flog your brother.”

A half smile cracks onto Peter’s face. “Ed knows I didn’t actually mean it.” 

“Still…” you say with great effort. Even talking is exhausting.

“Don’t worry, I’ll apologize later,” Peter says in a very soothing voice. “All I want you to think about right now is relaxing. My sister Lucy will be here any minute and she’s going to heal you.”

You force a grateful smile. “All right.”

Peter sits next to you on the bed and you close your eyes under his watchful gaze. Time has no significance to you in your delirious state. It could be five minutes or five hours before you hear another voice.

This new voice is girlish, soft, and full of compassion. “I brought my cordial,” the girl whispers.

The next thing you know is the feel of glass pressed against your lips. A drop of something falls upon your tongue. Even though it was a mere drop, the taste of something sweet and almost spicy floods your mouth. You swallow with difficulty.

Suddenly, your body is no longer flushed with heat. You feel cool and alert. Your eyes fly wide open. Peter and a girl who resembles him very closely are leaning over you from opposite sides of the bed. This must be Lucy.

“How do you feel?” Lucy asks sympathetically.

“Wonderful,” you answer, unable to repress a euphoric smile.

Peter’s expression goes from grave to overjoyed. “Thanks be to the Lion,” he says with a sigh of relief.

“Oh, I’m so glad!” Lucy cries out, clapping her hands together. “We simply must have a proper welcome feast for you as soon as possible!”

“All in good time, Lu,” Peter says, smiling fondly at his little sister. “Could you and Susan arrange her chambers for her?”

“Of course! We’ll put ever so many nice things and clothes out,” Lucy promises you. You give her a quick thanks and she prances happily out of the room.

Once again, you’re alone with Peter.

“Peter…I–” You’re at a loss for words. Finally, you settle upon the most obvious response. “Thank you.”

“It wasn’t me,” he deflects your gratitude like you knew he would. “It was Aslan and Lucy. I’m just so relieved you didn’t die before our arrival.”

You take stock of your surroundings. “Is this Cair Paravel then?” you ask, gazing around at the room and really seeing it for the first time. The room is spacious and filled with natural light from a huge window that leads out to a balcony.

“Yes,” Peter says. “This is Cair Paravel.” His voice is full of unabashed pride.

“Narnia,” you whisper. 

You never thought you’d ever make it to one of these northern lands. A cool sea breeze is fluttering through the balconied window. The air smells and feels almost as rich as that of a rainy desert. As a matter of fact, everything in this room has a richness to it, not in an overdone way, but in a tasteful way. 

All of the furnishings are simple but subtly imbued with small detailed enhancements. The silky crimson sheets are embroidered with golden thread. The desk is made of a shiny red-brown wood that just looks expensive. The silvery blue window curtains are elongated from the ceiling to the floor, closely resembling a rushing waterfall. The ceiling is domed and lined with carved ornamental panels and trim.

“These are my chambers,” Peter says, noting the curious manner in which you’re looking around at the elegantly decorated room.

This is his bed that you’re lying in? You balk slightly though you know your modesty is misplaced (you’ve done far more intimate things with him than simply being in his bed).

It’s just that there’s something…different about being in his royal chambers. Even though it’s understated, the opulence is something you don’t associate with Peter who so neatly fit into your atavistic way of life. 

His bed here is so massive you feel like you could roll ten times in a row and not fall off. It’s a far cry from a thin bedroll and tent you’re accustomed to seeing him in.

“It’s…very nice,” you say. “I like it.”

“Good,” Peter says very simply. 

He sits down on the bed and leans over you. He presses his lips against yours. Both of you sigh with relief into the kiss. It has been far too long since you were able to do this. At first the kiss is fairly restrained, but it quickly becomes heated and dizzyingly passionate.

He is just moving to lie down on top of you when his door opens quite suddenly. Lucy and Susan flounce in. They stop in their tracks at the sight of Peter leaping away from the bed.

Lucy coughs to hide a laugh. Susan’s eyes are wide. Her long dark eyelashes flutter as she blinks several times in rapid succession.

“Sorry for barging in like that,” Lucy says with a merry grin. She turns to you. “If you’re feeling up to it, we’re going to show you to the room you’ll be staying in.”

“Of course!” you say in an overly enthusiastic manner to hide your mortification.

Peter presses his lips together with a bit of resentment that his shrewd sisters can’t miss.

 “You ought to clean up for the feast,” Susan instructs him with a hint of a smile. “You’ll see each other then.”

You get off the bed and follow behind his smiling sisters. The room they escort you to is nearly as nice as Peter’s albeit a bit smaller. They show you that you have a private bathroom attached to your room and then they fling open the doors of a bewilderingly large closet.

“These are your clothes,” Susan says, gliding her fingers along the row of colorful dresses. “You can pick whatever you like for your welcome feast in an hour.”

Lucy points to a box on the vanity next to the closet. “We selected lots of gold jewelry for you!” she exclaims enthusiastically. “You’re going to look simply divine!”

“Oh yes,” Susan agrees. “And we just knew the exact cut of dress that would look perfect on you! Whatever you choose is going to be lovely.”

Their love of feminine bits and bobs is very reminiscent of your Tarkheena mistress as a child. And yet, they are also nothing like her. Their kindness is genuine. You thank them shyly and they leave the room in a swish of skirts and a flurry of happy giggles.

After a quick bath, you wander over to the closet to look at the assortment of clothes. You wish you could wear every dress all at once. It’s nearly impossible to just pick a single thing to wear, but eventually after trying on five or six, you settle on a favorite.

The dress you end up picking for tonight looks absolutely wonderful. And when you put it on, it feels wonderful too. It melds perfectly to your body like a cascade of water. The material is more smooth and sumptuous than anything you’ve ever even come near. The Tarkheena’s clothing had been much more restrictive in the name of fashion than this.

Putting on the jewelry is when you start to feel like a fraud. It’s almost shameful to wear something so ornate and valuable merely for show. People in your land are starving and here you are adorning yourself with something worth a month’s supply of food for an entire village. 

The only reason you don’t tear the jewelry off of your neck and wrists is because you don’t want to disappoint Lucy and Susan. They were so excited to share these things with you…

Pushing down your misgivings, you wander in the direction of the banqueting hall as instructed by one of the palace workers, an exceedingly polite hedgehog.

When you reach the hall, there’s a tall and handsome man standing at the door as though awaiting someone.

You do a double-take.

It’s Peter, but he’s almost unrecognizable. He takes your breath away in his formal Kingly garb. His crown gleams in his golden locks of hair and his waistcoat is a vibrant shade of burgundy embroidered with elegant symbols.

No longer attired in the clothes of your people, he looks like a different man than the one who you wandered the desert with. He has his sword, Rhindon, hanging in its sheath at his side. It looks strange when you’re so used to seeing him carry a scimitar.

You feel like you don’t even know him.

But then he smiles that blinding smile and you feel relieved at this assurance that he is still the same man you fell in love with.

It appears that your changed appearance is having a similarly bewildering effect upon him because he’s looking at you like he doesn’t quite recognize you. He kisses your hand and says, “You look wonderful .” 

The adoration in his voice is terribly flattering.

“Thank you. So do you.”

Without further ado, Peter escorts you into the great hall of the palace for a welcome feast.

The banquet thrown in your honor is quite small. There is a Faun named Tumnus and all three of Peter’s siblings. You’re seated at Peter’s right and across from you is Edmund on his left. Next to you sits Lucy. Edmund has Susan and Tumnus on his side. 

It’s quite difficult to not express any sort of shock when Tumnus stands and you catch sight of his cloven hooves. But you refrain because you know it would be extremely rude to do so.

“We tried to invite more guests, but Peter wouldn’t let us,” Lucy says and she sounds a bit petulant, though not in a bratty manner. You just don’t think she’s in the habit of having Peter deny many requests from her.

Although you vocalize faux disappointment for Lucy’s benefit, you surreptitiously shoot Peter a grateful smile. This is one of those moments when you couldn’t be more appreciative that he understands you so well. You’ve known this for quite some time but it doesn’t make it any less amazing to you when he does something that so blatantly demonstrates it. Oh how sweet it is to be understood.

For the most part Peter leads the conversation, allowing his siblings and friend to catch him up to speed on the various events that have taken place during his absence. This means that you don’t have to say much. Again, you’re quite grateful for this. 

First of all, you’re still feeling quite shy and are perfectly content to just listen.

Second of all (and perhaps more importantly), it gives you time to devote all your attention to the absolutely glorious food. You can see Peter watching you from the corner of his eye as you devour every dish with relish and he has a distinctly pleased look on his face.

At one point he slides a small platter with a small soft-looking golden brick—is how you can best describe it—over to you and along with a plate of sliced bread.

“Here,” he says. “Try this.”

Whatever it is, it must not be common in Calormen or the Southern Waste. You scrutinize the yellow substance suspiciously. “What is it?”

“It’s called butter. You put it on the bread. Like this.” He grabs a dull-looking knife and proceeds to slather one side of the bread with the “butter.” He hands you the bread and watches as you take a bite.

You inhale sharply as the delightful food overwhelms your taste buds. The butter has oozed into the holes and crevices in the bread in a way that is incredibly satisfying. It’s salty and savory and altogether delectable.

“It’s delicious,” you say in a muffled way. 

Even you, with your backwards ways, know that it’s wrong to talk when your mouth is full, but you’re so busy trying to shove in more bread and butter that you don’t care about your uncouthness.

After that, Peter continues to supply you with more bread and butter for the rest of the dinner, never once ignoring you even as the conversation continues to flow along in a natural manner. Lucy and Susan are definitely the liveliest along with Tumnus. Edmund is fairly quiet throughout dinner, though not as quiet as you; his briefness of speech is more born out of pensiveness. 

However, he does speak to you directly once. “I’m very glad that everything turned out well for you, as far as your illness. I haven’t seen Peter so worked up in ages,” Edmund says leaning across the table towards you conspiratorially. “He hasn’t threatened to have me flogged since he was fifteen.”

“ Ed !” Peter admonishes his brother with an amusing amount of belligerence. 

Edmund is quite unbothered. He just smiles and sips on his wine. 

Everyone talks about all sorts of exciting things that you’ve never even dreamed about. Upcoming voyages upon the sea, visits to Archenland, dwarvish mines, festivals, picnics in the forest, hunting parties and so on.

It makes you wish you could stay longer.

There’s a brief interlude during which a blind poet enters and serenades your banqueting group with a Narnian poem about the King Gale who slew a dragon and became the first Emperor of the Lone Islands. 

As you listen raptly to the captivating words, you feel very strongly that this is so much more enjoyable than Calormene poetry with all its supposedly useful but ultimately witless maxims. 

This poem contains no platitudes whatsoever. Instead, it is full of love, war, and heroism—the only things that make life worth living. No wonder the Calormenes hate Narnian culture and art so much.

The poet bows as everyone applauds and then he leaves. The feast begins to wane; you’re feeling a bit drowsy thanks to the massive amount of food you’ve inhaled, but you’ve definitely still got room for dessert. As the last course arrives, a pillowy yellow cake decked with strawberries and cream, Edmund speaks again, this time to Peter.

“Peter, we canceled the ship that was meant to pick you up in the south,” Edmund says. “Since of course it’s no longer necessary.”

You are startled by this news, having assumed that you would be returning on it by yourself. It made perfect sense in your head, but apparently not to Peter and his siblings. You try to catch Peter’s eye but he is determinedly engaging in a conversation with Tumnus.

“Thanks, Ed,” Peter says airily before giving all his attention back to the Faun.

You intend to talk to Peter alone as soon as you get the chance. He can’t seriously think that your stay here is going to be permanent. 

But the feast ends and Peter leaves before you can properly have this difficult conversation. 

With your mind racing, you go back to the room that Lucy and Susan arranged for you. You sit on the bed which is large but not quite as big as Peter’s and you wring your hands a bit. You don’t want to put this talk off.

But you’ve only been there about ten minutes when a knock sounds. You open it and see another Faun, obviously a part of the palace staff. He smiles and gives you a slight bow. It’s very strange to be treated this way. Although you’re a respected leader in your land, formality isn’t prevalent outside of council meetings and tribunals.

“The High King requests your presence in his chambers,” the Faun says. After you thank him for passing the message along, he trots away.

This is good. You’ll be able to make your request tonight instead of waiting till morning. 

You’re only going to his chambers to make your request. You’re only going to his chambers to make your request. You’re only going to his chambers to make your request.

Perhaps if you keep repeating it to yourself, you’ll start to believe it.

Even though you were just in his room this morning, the palace is so extensive that you get quite turned around. Fortunately, a very friendly hedgehog points you in the right direction and you find yourself standing in front of an extremely ornate wooden door. 

It’s carved with all sorts of symbols and pictures. A plethora of lion faces are the most prominent, but there’s also plenty of leaves and flowers and woodland creatures. But you can only stare for so long before you acknowledge that it’s time.

You take a deep breath and knock.

“Come in,” Peter’s voice says from the other side. 

You push open the door and walk in. Peter is standing in front of the door to his balcony with his hands behind his back. “I’m very glad you summoned me,” you say in a falsely bright voice. “I was hoping I could talk to you and make a request.”

“Make it,” Peter says at once in his authoritative Kingly voice.

You fiddle with the gold bangles on your wrist, feeling very much like a subject presenting a petition to a royal sovereign. “Umm…I was…hoping you could arrange a ship for me to return home. The sooner the better.”

Peter’s composed demeanor cracks. His face loses its almost austere regal expression. His look of devastation makes you feel like the most heartless woman in the world. “But you only just arrived!” he protests.

“I know but I can’t leave my people alone for a second longer than necessary.”

“Please stay for just a while longer,” Peter pleads. “You were ill for such a long time and you need to rest.”

“I assure you I have made a full recovery.”

“Well, then…stay…for me ,” he says with a nervous swallow. “I’m not asking for forever. Just a while longer. I want to show my country to you…like you showed yours to me.”

His earnest request moves your very soul. 

Peter brought you here and saved your life. The least you can do is fulfill this request.

Against your better judgment, you hear yourself say, “All right. I’ll stay for just a while longer.”

This can only end one way, but you’re going to steal just a little more time. If the gods punish you for your greediness, so be it. 

Peter is worth it. 

As you make to leave for your chambers, he snags your hand with his quick reflexes. “Don’t go. Sleep here with me instead. That’s why I summoned you here.”

“After all the work your sisters did to prepare a room for me?” you complain, but only in jest. You already know you’re going to accept Peter’s offer. In fact, you had been secretly waiting for him to extend it.

“They’ll get over it,” he says with a grin.

“Well, at least I’ll wear the dresses they picked for me while I’m here so that they don’t feel all their efforts were in vain.”

Peter’s eyes gleam. He steps towards you and reaches out for you to pull you into him. “This is a very nice dress,” he says, running his hands up and down your sides. “Though I think, at the moment, I’d prefer it off of you.”

Peter turns you around so that your back is pressed against him and you’re no longer facing each other, softly kissing your neck as he does so. He subtly adjusts your skirts so that he can move his large thigh between them. The sensation makes you sigh. Unconsciously, you begin to squirm against his leg. Peter’s hands cup your breasts as you move.

You can already feel yourself getting wetter by the second from what his hands are doing to you and from his leg shifting between yours. All of these sensations are just too overwhelming and you whimper in response to the stimulation.

Peter’s hands get even rougher in response to your small noises. You find yourself being forced to walk forward to his obscenely large bed. Before you even know what’s happening, your dress is on the floor along with all of his clothes and he’s got you on your knees facing down at the smooth crimson sheets.

It was one thing for you to have him in primal tents or lonely caves in the desert. The act of physical intimacy was different when he was simply Peter, a stranger who you taught the ways of your people to. A stranger who became a comrade who became a friend who became a lover. During those times you could almost forget that he belongs to another people, a citizenry that depends upon and trusts in him. 

Now for him to have his way with you in his country that he rules over, in his grand palace, in his bed, it’s impossible to forget who he really is. He’s not just Peter (your Peter) making you cling helplessly to his sheets and drawing forth sounds that are almost embarrassing. He’s High King Peter.

But when all is said and done that night and you’re both smiling blissfully in the afterglow, you find it hard to care very much about anything other than the immediate pleasure of it all.

“This bed is just too wonderful,” you sigh dreamily as you rub your face against the silken sheets.

Peter is very pleased. “It’s yours for as long as you’re here,” he says immediately. 

And so you never do end up staying even one night in the room that Lucy and Susan arranged for you.

You eat dinner every evening with Peter and his siblings; it’s always a pleasant affair, but you can’t help noticing how curiously they look at you. They are amongst the few who know where Peter has been for the last six months, but you have no idea what he has told them about your…relationship with him. For all you know, they think you’re a beggar he picked up off the streets of Tashbaan. 

Surely they know that you sleep in his room with him (though not one of them gives even a hint to suggest that they are aware of this arrangement.)

The other inhabitants of the palace must be even more confused. From their perspective the High King disappeared for six months to a location known to only a select group of trusted insiders. Then, he suddenly reappeared one day with a foreign woman in his arms who appeared to be on death’s door. The whole thing couldn’t be more mysterious to them. You’re positive that all sorts of wild rumors are running rampant in the palace and trickling out to the rest of Cair Paravel and from there to all of Narnia.

It doesn’t help that you are frequently seen out and about with Peter. He often takes you out riding in the lush forests and meadows outside of Cair Paravel. He shows you all of his favorite establishments in the royal city. You drink the finest wines and eat the richest, heartiest food you’ve ever consumed. And no matter how many times you tell him not to, he buys you every single little trinket you touch for even a second in any shop.

You consider it a great privilege to have this chance to witness Peter rule his country.

One of the first things you observe is that he is very eloquent. Every so often, you watch him hold court and dictate letters in regal, persuasive language. You watch him talk to his subjects and assuage any of their concerns with just a few sentences and with a warm smile.

You’re not the only being to melt upon being blessed with the sight of one of Peter’s grins.

Narnia couldn’t ask for a better High King. There’s no trace of arrogance in the way he rules. He does not rely upon his judgment alone. Instead, he seeks counsel from many sources so that he can weigh all options in his mind.

He relies particularly upon his siblings. His relationship with each of them is very unique and you find your heart growing even more fond of all of them with each passing day.

Edmund is a quiet, calming presence for Peter. Susan reminds him to be gentle with himself and always is sure to push him to take breaks when he is overworking himself. Lucy makes Peter laugh and smile like a small boy. He has a particular kind of merriment that only she can draw forth from him.

You wish you could live with them all forever like this.

As one week turns into two and then three, you find it harder and harder to want to leave Narnia. Living here is a luxury you never imagined in your wildest dreams. In Tashbaan you had scorned the stuffiness and confinement that the nobility considered luxury. Now that you are in Narnia, you understand the true meaning of the word. 

The palace is full of light and windows that are always open, leaving all rooms smelling like the fresh ocean air. The clothes you are given to wear are soft and loose. After years of making due with whatever coarse fabrics you could get your hands on, it feels like you’re swimming in silk.

And the baths…oh, the baths. You could drone on longer than a Calormene poet as you extol the virtues of the baths in this place. 

Calormene baths are famed for their lavish intricateness and you had prepared at least a dozen for the Tarkheena during your time as a slave. 

But despite the high praise which these baths garner amongst those wealthy enough to enjoy them, you never felt attracted to them in the slightest. Calormene baths are far too perfumed—so much so that you always left the steam-filled room with a pounding headache. 

Their style of bathing also requires all sorts of tools and instruments for scrubbing and exfoliating one’s body. The Tarkheena always looked like a raw, plucked chicken after these supposedly relaxing washes.

Narnian baths are better. Much much better and it’s not even close. Part of this is of course due to the fact that you often have Peter with you which is…well, it definitely makes the experience extra pleasurable to put it mildly. 

But even when he’s not there, you still delight in the simplicity of the ritual. Here, the soaps and creams are lightly scented with a fresh, woodsy sort of aroma. The water isn’t perfumed at all. It’s just the warmest purest water you’ve ever submerged your body in. To perfume it would be a crime.

Yes, you could certainly get used to the baths in this place.

Narnia is green and gold as springtime reaches its peak. You’ve never experienced seasons before—only hot and hotter. This is a land of bubbling brooks, moonlight dances, and a delightfully quaint citizenry. 

Of all the luxuries of this peaceful land, what leaves the strongest impression upon you is how happy the Narnians are. The Talking Beasts, Men, Fauns, Dryads, and Dwarves laugh and smile with no reservations. You’ve never seen such carefree expressions on the faces of your people. It breaks your heart to recall them looking so worn and beaten down even though they maintain a definite spark of defiance in their eyes. Until they are liberated, you cannot be happy either.

That’s when you know.

You have to go back. As soon as possible.

But you see no point in spoiling your last day together with the bad news of your impending departure. It can wait until evening. You readily acquiesce to Peter’s request that you spend the morning out riding in the forests and meadows of this beautiful country.

In spite of your heartache, you even manage to put on a good front. Peter happily remarks as he often does that it brings him joy to see you smile and laugh like this—so carefree and easily.

If he knew what you were planning, he wouldn’t be nearly so cheerful.

You part ways with him during late afternoon so that he can attend to royal business and you go to his chambers to await his arrival as has been your evening routine for the last month. 

And what a wonderful routine it has been. Usually you laze about on his bed or stand on his balcony as you stare down at the beautiful sea. Even after a month you still find it very bizarre to just do nothing. Your whole life has been go, go, go. There has always been work to do. Not a moment to waste on something so frivolous as relaxation. 

You hope that you find it easy to break out of this habit you’ve acquired when you return to your homeland.

But the best part of your routine always comes after the sun has set when Peter arrives; he always walks through the door and beams at you. Seeing his breathtaking smile and sleeping beside him have been the greatest luxuries of all during your time in Narnia.

Tonight is going to go differently. What you’re about to do has already broken your heart and you haven’t yet gone through with it. You’d rather be stung by a thousand scorpions than endure this.

But unfortunately, that’s not an option for you. You are left with only one recourse.

As you wait for Peter to retire from his duties, you pace the length of his room. The clock ticks and you know he could show up at any time now.

The second Peter enters his chambers and closes his door, you blurt out your spiel before you can succumb to cowardice. “I have to go back. Tomorrow, if possible. As long as my people are still enslaved, I can’t stay here.”

There’s a beat of silence as Peter processes your declaration.

“I’m coming with you. I’ll bring the entire Narnian army and fleet,” he says. “I don’t care if it means total war against Calormen. I won’t rest until your land is freed.”

You knew he’d offer. And you also know what your answer will be.

“No,” you say very simply. “The Southern Waste must be liberated by the Southern tribes. If you win our war for us, we will essentially be Narnian subjects. You can deny it all you want, but it’s the truth.” You inhale sharply. “I don’t want to be Narnian. I’m Akkadian.”

His hands are balled into fists and he opens his mouth to protest, but you let the rest of your prepared speech rush out of your mouth first. 

“And all of that aside, you can’t take your army and leave your country undefended for however long it takes to drive the Calormenes out of the south. Peter…it could be decades. I know that you said the Giants on your northern border have been subdued, but that might not always be the case. Narnia needs its army and it needs—it needs you . You’re their King. You belong to Narnia and I belong to the desert.”

You watch sadly as bitter acceptance encroaches upon his handsome face. Peter slams a fist against the door. “This is a cruel and unjust world,” he says in an agonized voice.

You give him a weak smile. “You and I know that better than anyone. We’ve always borne more injustice than was right for our ages,” you surmise. “I think that our time together was always meant to be brief. Even so…I wouldn’t change anything.”

“Neither would I.”

There’s nothing else to be said. 

Peter walks to you and pulls you into him. You let him do so without any misgivings. Even this cruel and unjust world must allow you to have one more night with him. 

Tonight, the High King of Narnia will be yours for the last time. 

He seals his lips over yours and kisses you so slowly and deeply that you feel your knees giving way. Just when you think you’re about to crumple to the floor, he lifts you up and carries you to his bed where he gently sets you on the edge. 

He stands between your parted knees as you lift your arms; he readily helps you slip your dress and chemise over your head. He tosses your clothing to the side and you sit there completely bare to him, watching mesmerized as he methodically unbuttons his waistcoat and takes his tunic off. Now his torso is exposed and you instinctively reach out to trace the deep lines of his stomach as he unbuttons his pants and slides them off.

Then, he pushes you flat against the bed and climbs on top of you. You spread your legs wide, inviting him to have you however he wants. As he moves his head down the length of your body, he stops here and there to suck marks upon your skin. By the time he reaches your inner thighs, you’re squirming and taking labored breaths. He puts his tongue on you and makes you cry out and squirm from how good it feels.

But you don't allow him to remain between your legs for long. The need to have him inside of you is too urgent. Peter lets you gently coax him onto his back. He groans when you climb on top of him. Straddling him with your legs spread wide, you sigh as he fills you up.

Having him underneath you like this, at your mercy and at the behest of your desire, makes you feel very powerful. Here is a man who has led armies in countless battles. Here is a man who rules a nation. And he bends to your will like a tumbleweed succumbs to the force of a hot desert wind.

As you lean down over him and take his luscious bottom lip between your teeth, he groans. At the sound of his pleasure, you tighten around him. You steady yourself against his hard chest and move your hips in a more frantic and erratic way. You’re close, so close. 

Peter is flexing and straining beneath you, obviously struggling to contain himself. His hands are desperately exploring every inch of your flesh that he can reach. Just when you’re about to come, he opens his mouth. 

“I’ll never marry anyone else,” he vows in a tightly controlled voice. “Not in this world or any other.”

“Peter,” you moan, “you can’t promise…you shouldn’t—”

“I mean it.”

You lean down once again and kiss him as you fall apart not just from the waves of pleasure that are washing over you, but also from the overwhelming emotion you’re feeling in response to his words.

Later that night, you whisper into his ear. “I’m glad I got to see it…Cair Paravel, I mean. When you told me that you wished I could visit, I never thought I would actually get to.”

Peter says nothing. His arms spasm slightly as he holds you even tighter to his chest. You’ve been sleeping very well these last few weeks in Cair Paravel. It has nothing to do with his glorious bed and everything to do with being intertwined with his body like this.

As you revel in the warmth of his body and the suppleness of his flesh, you wonder how you’re ever going to sleep again when you’re back in the desert; when the space next to your bedroll is conspicuously empty, when you no longer have someone to share a tent with. You haven’t even left yet and already you’re imagining how it’s going to feel when you mourn his absence.

It’s going to be excruciating.

However, you do manage to fall asleep in spite of your premature mourning. You have a fortuitously deep sleep, free of sorrow and the sickening thought of tomorrow .

In the morning he gently shakes you awake. He’s already dressed in his formal attire and apparently he’s been busy because the first thing he says is, “I’ve arranged a ship for you to return to the south. It leaves this afternoon.”

“Thank you.”

“I could…I could come with you,” he says hopefully.

“Peter…”

“Not to stay, just to ensure the voyage goes smoothly,” he insists.

As badly as you want to say yes, you know what you have to tell him. You’ve already stolen more time than you should have. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Peter nods stiffly and changes the topic quite abruptly. “I’ll have one of the dryads bring your breakfast here.” He strides out of the room without looking back. You don’t feel any sort of resentment towards him for his curtness; he’s only acting this way because he’s hurting.

This is better for him in the long run, you try to convince yourself. The sooner you have some distance between you the better. 

You spend the rest of the morning methodically preparing for your impending journey. After washing one last time in Peter’s lavish bath, you put away all the dresses and finery that were yours during your stay and replace them with your desert garb. With your loose pants and shirt on your body again, you feel like you remember who you are. 

You resolve not to bring any of the trinkets Peter bought you during your time here; you won’t need them where you’re going. They’re too frivolous and they take up too much space in your trusty old pack that contains every possession that you’ve acquired over four years of fighting. 

But just because you’re not taking his gifts to you doesn’t mean you can’t leave something for him.

From your pack you remove the cloth wrapped around the gold armbands of all the Tarkaans you’ve slain and give it to a dryad with the instructions to place them in Peter’s chambers for him to find when you’re gone. For some reason you want to leave him something to remember you by.

During all of this Peter makes no more appearances—a fact that you’re still trying to put a positive spin on. 

Unfortunately, you can’t fully rid yourself of your selfish hope that he’s going to say an actual goodbye to you; you are dying to see him just one more time, pain be damned. 

But it seems that your ill-advised desire is going to go unfulfilled because afternoon has arrived and you’ve made it all the way to the dock with still no sign of him. You trudge up the gangway and onto the deck. 

The ship he arranged for you is truly marvelous; it’s so massive that you feel like you’re on a floating castle. It’s jam packed with the creatures and men that make up the crew. You could easily get lost amongst all the commotion on deck. A kind badger escorts you to your private room in the stern cabin and the ship is about to set off, which you can tell based on the indicative shouts of the captain and crew members.

Peter doesn’t want to say goodbye. 

Though you’d love to explore every inch of this ship further at some point, you simply cannot right now; instead you’re about to collapse onto the bed and cry yourself into a hopefully dreamless sleep when there's a commotion on deck; you can hear everything perfectly from your cabin.

“Lower the gangway again!” a crewmember bellows. “Lower the gangway for the High King!”

Your heart leaps. You jump from your bed and race to the deck. Peter is running up the wooden gangway that the crew has lowered for him. In plain sight of the gaping crowd of Dwarves, Men, Fauns, and Talking Beasts, you fly into his arms. He catches you and kisses you for the very last time. Both of you pour every ounce of feeling you have into the kiss, knowing that this is it.

The noonday sun is at its peak in the sky when Peter moves his lips to your ear and whispers so that only you can hear: “I will love you even when no more rain falls from the sky, when every desert spring has withered, and all the rivers have run dry.”

The sob that escapes you is nearly inhuman. Everything about this is heart-wrenching beyond what you could ever have believed possible. You’re no stranger to pain, but this is…something else.

Maybe in another life or a perfect world, you could have been together. 

But not this one.

Between your sobs, you manage to repeat the words back to him. Peter kisses you once more and then releases you like a man under duress. He turns and strides back down the gangway with his shoulders squared and his crowned head held high. Not one word of explanation is given to the crew. They’re all stricken with silence.

Finally, the captain, a Faun with a booming voice, begins to bellow orders once again. “Back to your stations! Up with the gangway! Man the oars! Prepare to raise anchor!”

His words jostle everyone back to their senses. The deck is soon bustling with activity again and a few minutes later, the ship is out of the harbor. You take one last look at the Narnian coast and return to your cabin.

Chapter 5

The Narnian ship leaves you in the exact same port city that you first met Peter in. You head west again to meet up with your rebel cell and resume your previous lifestyle. Everyone treats you like you’ve come back from the dead, but once the amazement at your reappearance diminishes, you fall back into the old routine. It’s almost like Peter never lived amongst your people. You don’t have a single scrap of evidence that the High King of Narnia once fought alongside you and once loved you. 

This makes it easy to pretend that you made it all up so that you don’t have to deal with the pain of the loss. You make a good attempt to convince yourself that your memories are as real as a mirage of shimmering water far out in the distance on a day when the sun is shining exceptionally brightly and the very air is vibrating with heat.

But you can only pretend for so long. Perhaps you don’t have physical evidence, but love is indelible. It permanently alters the soul in a way that can’t be seen but is no less real because of that. Peter made your world…too big. By taking you to Narnia and showing you a place you can never return to, you can never go back to being who you were before. By loving you he turned you into an entirely different woman.

You cling to every scrap of news you hear of Narnia and of Peter, who seems to be as magnificent as ever. You hear nothing but great things about him and his reign. What else could anyone ever have to say about such a man as him?

You can’t help smiling wryly when you first hear rumors that the Tisroc is extremely vexed by the High King’s commitment to spurning Calormen’s ambassadors and nobles. It becomes common knowledge that Peter allows them to visit every so often, but he flat out refuses to meet with them himself. He delegates that particular task to King Edmund and the Queens Susan and Lucy. The Tisroc has no choice but to tolerate this personal slight.

But if Peter’s actions irk the Tisroc, it’s nothing on the headache that you and your people cause the supposedly divine leader on a daily basis. The fight against the Calormenes in the western desert and the Southern Waste is more savage than ever.

That’s why you’ve found yourself once again in need of replenishing your cache of weapons. This means meeting Bashaa in your usual spot.

You arrive at the eatery first and as you sit languidly awaiting the merchant, you do everything in your power not to look back at the corner that Peter haunts—the table he was sitting at the very first time you saw him.

Unfortunately, you weren’t able to bring anyone with you which means that the extremely tiresome job of haggling with Bashaa has fallen upon you alone. You can’t afford to let yourself get distracted during what you assume is going to be several long, dull hours of bartering. An increase in the number of rebels in your company has made money tight which means you really need to strike a good deal.

Bashaa finally arrives in his pointed wooden shoes, turban, and robes. He looks the same as ever (though perhaps his beard is a bit longer), but so much about you has changed since you last saw him.

“Hello, Bashaa,” you say as a bland perfunctory greeting. It’s nearly impossible not to think about Peter in this place and with this merchant who is responsible for you meeting him.

Bashaa smiles in his usual sycophantic way and tuts slightly. “Your lack of enthusiasm is disappointing, particularly on a day like today. A most fortuitous day, one might even call it. The poets once said that good fortune for one is good fortune for all when the gods send their messengers to the worthy and deserving.”

You blink at his nonsensical banality. What is he going on about? He seems to be in a good mood, which is all very well, but you can’t help feeling uneasy because of his smugness. “What do you mean?” you ask dubiously.

He waits a few seconds for dramatic effect before saying, “Your weapons are bought and paid for.”

Your jaw drops. “What?!”

His eyes light up in anticipation of such a captive audience. So perplexed are you by Bashaa’s assertion that you don’t even feel aggravated about the loquacious Calormene story-telling you know you’re about to be subjected to.

 “Earlier this week in this very establishment, I struck a very fruitful and prosperous deal with a Tarkaan of Mezreel. He desired a team of horses for his chariot and I had—only days before—procured several very fine and noble steeds,” (they were probably stolen, but Bashaa’s not going to include that part), “The man was very impressed with the caliber of the animals and of course spent a great deal of time praising their astonishingly majestic qualities. It took very little time to broker a deal that was suitable to both parties. Soon after, the man left and I treated myself to a fine celebratory feast here in this eatery—lobster and salad upon a bed of rice. With several accompanying flagons of wine, of course.”

You’re itching to tell him to get to the point but you already know that doing so will only seal your fate and cause him to turn his story into a lecture about what the poets have to say regarding interrupting one’s betters.

Bashaa leans forward. “I was exiting the eatery while marveling over the providential turn the night had taken when very suddenly, I felt a knife digging into my back. A gruff, dangerous voice spoke and said, ‘Keep your mouth shut, Calormene, and you’ll be rewarded handsomely. Cry out and you’ll meet your god, Tash.’ What choice did I have but to comply?” 

He sighs forlornly. “A sack was thrown over my head and I was escorted to the cabin of a small ship bearing no flags or insignia of any kind. There I sat facing a very strange-looking man, not Calormene nor Southerner. He was red-bearded and ruddy in complexion. Even while he was seated, it was clear to me that he was exceptionally short in stature. He told me that he knows of my dealings with the southern rebels. When I tried to deny this allegation out of fear for my safety, he pulled a knife from his belt and stuck it into the wooden table. Seeing no point in denying the truth any further, I confessed to my transactions with you and your people. The man then informed me that you have an anonymous benefactor who wishes to pay for your rebels’ weapons from here on out.”

At this point, a strangled sort of sob emerges from your throat.

Peter.

Your eyes well with tears and you sniffle as you realize what he has done for you. Exceptionally pleased with your visceral reactions, Bashaa goes on.

“I was deposited back on the dock with a promise of payment in three days' time. By the great benevolence of the gods, the man kept his word. I received a delivery of several trunks full of gold and crescents—enough to pay for your weapons several times over,.” he says with an aura of great mystique. “I was threatened with hanging if I tried to withhold this information and extract a second payment from you.” (He only looks slightly miffed by this.)

You take a moment to collect yourself. As soon as you know you will be able to speak without bursting into a fit of sobs, you say,  “Well…that’s good news. I appreciate that you didn’t attempt to double your profits. Your honesty is well-received.” (In spite of the fact that it is received under the threat of force.)

Bashaa is pleased with your uncharacteristic praise and he inclines his head respectfully. There doesn’t seem to be much else to say.

But when you twitch as though you’re going to stand and leave, he opens his mouth once again.

“Before you go…” Bashaa begins and you sigh heavily. He probably wants some sort of inconvenient favor as usual. And you just gave him a compliment too. “I have a more…personal question.”

“We don’t exactly have that kind of relationship,” you say bluntly.

Bashaa dramatically presses his hand to his heart. “You wound me! After all of our years of knowing each other, you still only see ours as a business relationship.” 

“Yes.”

His eyes twinkle. “Well, then allow me to make one indiscretion. You should be in a good enough mood for it considering you just had all your weapons paid for.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. Ask your question.”

Bashaa leans forwards and strokes his beard. “I heard rumors about a white barbarian living amongst your people. According to the whispers of Calormene soldiers, this mysterious man fought on the side of the rebels. I am simply burning with curiosity. Was there such a man?”

You sit silently for a moment. Your heartbeat has quickened at the mere mention of Peter. Not because you’re scared that Bashaa knows the truth, but because you hate hearing Peter brought up so casually. This is tangible proof to you that he wasn’t a dream. 

Keeping your gaze and voice indifferent, you shrug. “Many strange rumors come out of the desert.”

“A proverb worthy of a Calormene poet,” Bashaa says slyly and you scoff at his assertion.

In order to make it clear that you don’t have anything further to say on the matter, you stand up and bid him goodbye. 

As you leave the eatery, you find your heart is breaking all over again.

From that point on, you have no choice but to think of Peter longingly every time you obtain more weapons from Bashaa. Peter’s magnanimous gift to you is just one more reminder of the great love you shared with each other. You’ll never be able to forget him.

Five years pass in this manner. 

When you hear rumors of a royal visit by a Narnian retinue to Tashbaan, you wonder and wonder. No one is able to give you a straight answer as to who exactly is visiting. The most detailed response you get is that it is a King and a Queen along with a few of their attendants. 

Could the King be him or is it his brother?

Even your traumatizing childhood memories can’t dissuade you from sneaking to the city for the first time since you were seventeen to get a glimpse of the foreign entourage and perhaps see him. It’s been five years since you last gazed upon his face and you’ll do anything, even traversing through Calormen all the way to Tashbaan, on the off chance that he might be there.

And so you make the dangerous journey north, stealing food from farms and hiding in caves, copses of trees, and fields. 

When you finally enter the gates of Tashbaan, you find that your hatred of the place has not diminished in the nearly decade of time that has passed since you were last here.

But you remain determined. You listen for every furtive whisper you hear about the whereabouts of the barbarian King and Queen. Through your obsessive sleuthing you find out the location they are staying at—a small royal guest house in the middle tier of the city. If you wait outside long enough, you’ll see them eventually.

Others apparently have the same idea because the street where their royal apartment is is completely packed. As a necessary precaution, you’re veiled as you loiter amongst the hordes of peasants, slaves, and nobles, all of them hoping to see the mysterious fair barbarians. 

It takes an hour of waiting but finally, a group of smiling men emerges and the masses of onlookers begin to murmur excitedly. These are Narnians, no doubt about it. They carry broadswords and wear brightly-colored tunics that only reach their knees. There are no turbans amongst them, only a few silver helmets. 

At once you recognize several of the figures as soldiers and Lords from the court of Cair Paravel; each of them is attired in their comfortable Narnian finery. There’s Peridan, who you met the first night that you met Peter. He had been a common soldier at the time, but if his manner of dress is any indication, it looks like he has been promoted to Lordship.

You vigorously scan the crowd and your eyes settle upon a familiar young man with a crown atop his head—Edmund. You’re pleased to see him, but you can’t help the way your heart falters.

He’s not there. 

Peter has kept his vow that he would never visit Tashbaan except as an act of war. 

Though you’re obviously crestfallen, you still linger for a moment to watch the retinue pass as their accompanying Calormene herald announces in a booming voice, “Way! Way! Way! Way for the White Barbarian King, the guest of the Tisroc (may he live forever)! Way for the Narnian Lords!” 

Over the cries of the herald, you hear some of the female onlookers tittering about how handsome the Narnian men are. While you don’t disagree, you also can’t help thinking a bit smugly that they don’t know what true masculine perfection is because they haven’t seen Peter.

From your eavesdropping, you also come to understand that Susan is the visiting Queen and that she is here to be courted by the Tisroc’s son, Rabadash. You wonder what Peter thinks of this. Certainly, he can’t be thrilled by the development.

You leave the city as soon as possible, feeling both touched and disappointed.

Within a month of that royal visit to Tashbaan, the Battle of Anvard between Calormen and Archenland takes place. From what you understand, Narnian forces were also present at the skirmish. 

During the battle, the Tisroc’s son, Rabadash, is made to look like a complete and utter fool. In fact, it doesn’t take long for the truth to be revealed that he was cursed by the Northerners’ Great Lion to turn into a donkey any time he is more than ten miles away from the temple of Tash in Tashbaan.

The Battle of Anvard severely diminishes Calormen’s credibility. Things in the Southern waste get marginally better over the next few years. However, it’s when Rabadash the Peacemaker or Ridiculous, depending upon who you ask, becomes Tisroc after his father dies (despite all the dearest wishes of his people) that the political landscape of Calormen and the Southern Waste really shifts. 

Suddenly, there’s no more zeal behind the Calormen occupation of your lands. Within two years, the last of the soldiers and slavers have been driven out, never to return—at least in your lifetime. No doubt another savagely interfering Tisroc will take over eventually, but until then you are able to live in peace, something you had only ever dreamed would happen long after your death.

There’s nothing particularly noble about Rabadash’s reticence to send soldiers to the Southern Waste; everyone knows that it’s only because he is so closely tethered to the temple of Tash and doesn’t want any Tarkaans to gain too much fame and glory in battle without him.

Noble intentions or not, the Southern Waste is finally free. Not one celebration, festival, or party of the Southern tribes goes by without someone making a humorous toast in Rabadash’s honor. 

He’s the best Tisroc that Calormen has ever had.

But the peace comes too late for you to ever even have a shred of hope of rekindling your relationship with Peter in this improved world.

Approximately a year after the Battle of Anvard, the mysterious weapons payments stop coming for reasons unknown to you. Bashaa is disappointed by this, but he is perfectly willing to continue supplying your people so long as you resume paying his rates from your own pockets.

Soon after this development, you hear rumors that the four Kings and Queen of Narnia have vanished.

You wonder in vain what happened, not because of the money, but because of your concern for Peter. You can only speculate, but you suspect that either some sort of terrible accident happened or he was returned to his mysterious other World. Whatever the case, Narnia is left in a state of great upheaval.

During your lifetime the country manages to hang on to its sovereignty, but you’ve no doubt that as time passes, it will grow weaker without any legitimate monarchs. If it weren’t for Rabadash’s anti-interventionist tendencies, Calormen would surely have conquered it by now. If they don't do it someday when Rabadash isn’t Tisroc any more, someone else will, but it doesn’t happen while you’re alive. 

You’re grateful that you never have to see Peter’s country fall under the thumb of a conqueror.

You grow very old, devoting all your life to strengthening your tribe and resurrecting the old Akkadian ways. Temples are rebuilt. Histories are compiled after tracking down every Akkadian elder you can possibly find in the Southern Waste. Songs and poems are relearned. Children are taught about the gods.

None of this work is easy, but it keeps you busy even until the twilight of your life, which is exactly what you need.

You climb into your bed after a long day of wedding festivities, celebrating the union of an Akkadian girl and Gutian boy. The memory of how in love the young couple had looked is very bittersweet for you. 

As you close your eyes to try and go to sleep, your mind travels to another life. You can see a different version of yourself—the version that was in love, just like the two you saw today. You can see a golden-haired young man in the prime of his life. You wonder where he is now.

These are the thoughts on your mind as you drift into unconsciousness.

You’re dreaming a very lovely dream right now. When you look at your hands, you see them completely free of all sunspots and wrinkles. You have no aches in your joints at all and the stiffness in your fingers from wielding a scimitar for years is gone. 

You’re young again and you’re in what you consider to be the most beautiful place in the world—the desert after a rainstorm. The dirt smells so fresh and clean that you want to scoop it in your hands and bring it straight up to your nose. All the typically scraggly bushes are adorned with a veritable explosion of vibrant pinks, purples, oranges, and yellows. You’ve never seen them bloom like this before.

You hear something soft padding behind you and you turn around in the direction of the sound. A glorious lion, bigger than a horse or an elephant, is standing only feet away from you.

That’s when you realize this is no dream. You’ve died and gone on.

“Welcome to my world,” Aslan says in a voice that is wonderfully melodious and terrifyingly powerful at the same time.

Your mouth drops open with surprise and confusion. “How am I—why am I here?” you ask. “I never worshiped the Lion. I mean…I–I never worshiped you.”

“One does not have to worship me in order to be a true Believer,” Aslan says in his beautiful intonation. “Your life was one of faith and good works, whether done in my name or not. Well done, daughter. Here you may begin your real life—the life you always deserved.”

You sniffle and think to yourself that this is simply too good to be true.

Aslan must be able to read minds because he smiles at you and says in a gentle voice, “I promise you that this is a world of peace and freedom as you have never known even during the later years of your life.”

“Really?” you ask in a very small voice. “So you mean I really never have to go back to…that other place?”

Before you know what’s happening, his big velvet pink tongue has emerged from his mouth and kissed your forehead. 

Something lovely happens all at once; every bit of fear and trauma and pain that you had built up over the course of your hard life vanishes. You bury your arms around his mane and cry, not from sadness, but from pure, unadulterated joy.

After a few blissful moments, you lift your face out of his mane and look into his powerful, kindly eyes.

“Aslan…” you feel emboldened by his benevolence to ask him a question. “Were my gods...the gods of my people...not real?”

His eyes fill with compassionate understanding. “I am them and they are me. I am Everything. I am the Beginning and the End.”

You lose yourself in thought for a moment. “Oh…so the white snake—the one that showed me how to escape from the palace where I was a slave…Was that you?"

“Yes. I have my forms and many purposes,” he explains patiently. “While you are here, you will see me in different forms. Yet I am eternally unchanging.”

“I don’t quite understand,” you admit shyly.

Aslan’s melodic voice rings out clear into the desert, assuaging all your lingering uncertainties. “You have forever to learn, dear one.”

Thus, your life, as it should have been if you had not lived in such a cruel world, commences. Aslan’s Country is bigger and bigger and more beautiful the further you explore. You spend blissful days in your beloved desert and in the True Narnia. You even visit the perfected version of Tashbaan and experience that great city as it should have been. 

You have an endlessly wonderful time meeting the other inhabitants of Aslan’s Country, those that are already here and those that continue to arrive day after day. There’s one arrival though that you long for above all others.

The wait feels like an eternity; but then again, it feels like no time at all.

One day you feel something inside of you that prompts you to go to the walled Garden in the West. You just have a feeling that it’s the place to be today. Apparently many others had the same feeling because the Garden is already bustling with happy people and Talking Beasts when you arrive. 

You pass the time talking to another Akkadian, who came to Aslan’s country decades before you ever did, when you are distracted by a commotion. Something is going on. A great deal of people and creatures are gathering and peering over the wall. They are chatting excitedly about something so you hasten over to get a look at what’s going on.

Here, inside the golden gates where so many of the great heroes of Narnia, Calormen, Archenland, the Southern Waste, and all other lands are waiting, you are able to see far greater distances than you could when you were once a resident of a World that was imperfect.

This is a perfect World so with no effort at all, you can see all the way down into the real Narnia, the real Calormen, the real Archenland, etc.

“Oh look! Look!” Tumnus the Faun points in the direction of a positively gargantuan door all the way at the edge of the real Narnia of Aslan’s country. Your vision is so enhanced up here that you can even see what’s going on inside of the door.

Hordes of people and creatures are streaming through the door and meeting Aslan who is just inside the door accompanied by a group of regal looking figures. The more beings that race inside, the better a view you get of what’s going on.

Destruction. Apocalypse. It is the end of all things. You watch with amazement as a great Giant stretches its arm into the sky and closes its hand onto the dying sun. The world inside the doorway is now totally dark.

“Oh,” you gasp softly. 

Now you understand. Night has fallen on the other Narnia and the countries that surrounded it. After thousands of years, the end of that World has arrived.

Then, Aslan opens his mouth as if to speak. Oh, you do wish you could hear as well as you can see. Then, you remember—this is a perfect World. If you wish to be able to hear Aslan, you will be able to. Your ears suddenly feel so potent that you can hear the rustle of a butterfly's wings.

“Peter, High King of Narnia,” Aslan’s powerful voice reaches you across hundreds and hundreds of miles. “Shut the Door.”

A wonderfully familiar man steps forth from the group of regal figures at Aslan’s side. He leans into the darkness and pulls the door closed. He takes out a golden key and locks it. A beautiful feeling swells in your body. You feel like you’re going to explode from sheer joy. 

It’s him. Your wait is almost over. 

The hordes of creatures and people are now racing West. Your heart is beating as fast as they are running.

“I do believe they’re coming this way!” Aravis exclaims.

“I shall meet them at the gate,” Reepicheep announces at once and he marches off importantly to usher them in when they arrive. You don’t know how it’s possible but your excitement continues to mount. They’re coming.

He is coming.

In no time at all (what is time here anyways?), Reepicheep, the noble Narnian mouse, is ascending further into the garden and is urging the others behind him to follow. There are so many of them that one might think that the orchard is liable to get overcrowded, but of course, that is impossible in this place.

The newcomers are nearly overwhelmed by a welcoming deluge of those of you that have been here for so long awaiting them. Trying not to bump into any embracing friends and kissing couples, you work your way over to Peter. When you’re about ten feet away, he spots you. He quickly shakes the hand of the Beaver he is greeting and then strides over to you.

Peter stands before you as magnificent as you remembered (he had already been perfect to you in the other world) and he beams down at you.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” you say with a happy sigh.

He takes you into his arms and kisses you for what might be twenty seconds or twenty years (time means nothing). When he finally takes his lips off of yours, he still keeps his arms around you and looks into your face. “I hope it wasn’t too long of a wait,” he says, smiling that same beautiful, blinding smile you fell in love with.

Now everything is truly complete and perfect. 

You listen nostalgically as everything is explained to the new crowd, who is gazing down in awe at the indescribably beautiful lands they only ever knew as a shadow of their true glory. You tilt your head up to see how Peter is taking all of this. 

To your surprise, a strange look is upon his face. It’s been so long since you’ve seen a look like that, that you don’t even know how to categorize it in the vaguest terms. What was that sort of expression called? You reach back into the recesses of your mind and it comes to you.

Worry. That is the look on his face.

You have to suppress a laugh. What could he possibly be worrying about in a place like this? Doesn’t he know that nothing bad ever happens here?

Obviously he doesn’t. Not yet. 

Peter voices his concern to you in a hushed whisper, “Do you think he’s going to send us—Lucy and Edmund and the rest, I mean—back to our world?”

You grin as you recall your first conversation with Aslan when you arrived here. “Why don’t you ask him?”

But it’s Lucy that speaks first. “We’re so afraid of being sent away, Aslan. And you have sent us back into our own world so often.”

“No fear of that,” Aslan says. “Have you not guessed?” He pauses for a moment. “There was a real railway accident. Your mother and father and all of you are—as you used to call it in the Shadowlands—dead. The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: This is the morning.”

And with that your story proceeds and it's the sort of perfect you only ever dreamed about in your previous life.

Notes:

The Last Battle is my favorite Narnia installment so I just knew I had to incorporate the Death of Narnia into my fic. Whenever I read the part where Peter closes the door on the old Narnia, I cry like a baby. That might be my favorite part in the entire series.