Fearless • P. Pevensie

Edmund

"Rose, Rose? Rosemary!" Peter calls my attention from beside me, but I keep staring at the image. "What is it?" He asks me.

"So she does remember." Mr. Beaver mumbles to his wife, seeing my expression. A single tear streaks down the side of my face as my fingers brush over the illustration.

"It's- he's my father."

Nothing makes sense. Yet, simultaneously, everything makes sense. Worlds crashing together like an unforgiving tide.

"King Percival, The Fearless. The First King of Narnia." Mrs. Beaver announces his title. My head comes up, looking at her with a million emotions.

"His- his name was Percy."

There's a bit of a silence that hangs in the air. I look over the image again and again, trying to make sense of it all in my head.

"King Percival came to Narnia with a girl. A girl he later married, who became Queen Ariadne. The first Queen of Narnia." Mr. Beaver tells me, flipping the page to a depiction of my mother and my father. She's got the same beautiful golden hair as I do, and I can see my own eyes reflected in the dancing image of my father.

"Arianna. Her- I was told her name was Arianna." I recount one of the few things I was told as a child.

I flip through the pages, scanning for answers within the confines of a mere children's book. I get more and more hasty as time goes on, until I fall upon one of the last pages.

It's an illustration. Fire surrounds a king and queen, my father and my mother, as they clutch a young child between them. A child who bears my resemblance. She couldn't be older than five or six. Her golden hair, the same as my mother's golden hair, hangs nearly around her waist. A golden crown sits atop her head. Her eyes, a lovey grey, the spitting image of her father's.

"Is...is that...you?" Lucy asks me, looking up at me.

"Princess Rosemary, the First Princess of Narnia." Mr. Beaver looks up at me, but I still don't understand. How is this even possible?

I stare down at the words.

The King and Queen of Narnia, along with the rightful Princess of Narnia, were enveloped in the raging fire. There was nothing that could have saved them.

I flip the page. My hand hovers over the parchment for a moment, looking over the illustration in horror.

Two large gravestones, sitting under a blossoming tree.

The King and Queen were buried side by side, together, forever, for all eternity.

Every year on the first day of summer, Narnians bring flowers and offerings to the headstones as a reminder of their undying loyalty to the first Great King and Queen of Narnia. Long live their reign, even if their mortal vessels were torn from this world far too soon.

Their only child, Princess Rosemary of Narnia, heiress to the throne, was forever lost to the flames.

Some say that she's still out there. Loyal prophets to the throne claim that she will one day return, bringing about a golden age of Narnia as her parents before once her had. Wielding the sword of her father, with all the dignity and grace of her mother, she will prevail over even the darkest of evils.

Prevailing over evil. Like what was foretold in the prophecy about the Pevensies.

"Everyone in Narnia's heard the story. A lost Princess, prophesied to return and bring about a golden age." Mrs. Beaver looks up at me, her voice soft and careful. "Only, after over fifty years passed, the story became folklore. A myth. We...there was no reason to believe you'd ever return. As time passed, you became a symbol. No one ever thought you'd actually come back. If you were...well, you'd be nearly 700 years old by now."