The High Queen II

We need a fresh start

Peter walked out into the crisp night air, his shoulders heavy with the weight of recent events, his heart still pounding from the skirmish they'd barely survived. The moonlight cast a cool glow over the camp, illuminating the aftermath of the battle: wounded soldiers resting on hastily assembled cots, healers moving quickly from one patient to the next, their faces lined with exhaustion and resolve. The whole scene was one of organized chaos, a strange mix of relief and grief hanging thick in the air.

Lucy moved gracefully among the wounded, her gentle touch and healing cordial bringing comfort to many. The soft light from her flask illuminated her face, her expression a mix of hope and sorrow as she soothed those in pain. Beside her, Susan worked diligently, organizing supplies, binding wounds, and whispering words of encouragement. The sight of his sisters offering comfort to those in need gave Peter a momentary sense of peace amid the turmoil.

Nearby, Edmund and Eleanor were deep in conversation with Trumpkin and Trufflehunter, their expressions grave as they discussed the events that had unfolded in the Stone Table chamber. Peter's gaze lingered on Eleanor, marveling at her transformation. Not even an hour ago, she'd been pale, close to collapsing from her injuries, yet now she seemed as strong and lively as ever. She showed no outward sign of her near-death struggle; it was as if the battle had left her unscathed.

Taking a deep breath, he approached the group, hoping to glean some understanding of what had transpired. As he joined their conversation, Eleanor and Edmund suddenly froze, their faces draining of colour, eyes wide with alarm.

"Impossible," they whispered in unison.

Peter's brows knit in confusion. "What's wrong?" he asked, glancing between them. "What are you two on about?"

Eleanor's gaze darted around the camp, her expression tense as she scanned the crowd, searching for someone. "Where are Caspian and Nikabrik?" she demanded, her voice edged with urgency.

"Why?" Peter's question was almost drowned out by the uneasy feeling beginning to creep over him, a sense of dread that chilled him to the bone.

Edmund's face darkened. "Trufflehunter," he said urgently, "you mentioned something earlier about Nikabrik knowing... a ritual."

Trufflehunter and Trumpkin exchanged a wary glance, their hesitation telling Eleanor and Edmund all they needed to know. Realization dawned in their eyes, and without a second's pause, both took off sprinting toward the entrance of the Howe, their footsteps echoing against the stone. Peter followed close behind, his heart racing as they wove through the corridors, Trumpkin struggling to keep up.

The walls of the Howe loomed around them, the flickering torchlight casting long, ominous shadows. As they drew closer to the chamber of the Stone Table, an eerie chill seemed to settle over the air. When Eleanor finally burst into the chamber, a sharp, icy pain flared through her side, nearly stealing her breath. She gritted her teeth and swallowed down the pain, refusing to let it stop her now. Her eyes widened in horror as she took in the scene before her.

Through a wall of ice, the figure of Jadis loomed, her beauty twisted and ghostly within the frosty prison. Her pale hand reached from the ice, beckoning to Caspian, who stood mere steps away, his arm extended, blood pooling in his palm.

"Stop!" Peter's voice rang out, his command sharp as he and the others charged into the room. In an instant, two creatures leapt at them, intent on blocking their path. Lucy held back, her face stricken with shock, while Trumpkin darted toward Nikabrik, his face a mask of fury. Edmund and Eleanor found themselves face-to-face with a snarling werewolf, its eyes glinting with malice. Peter took on a vulture-like creature, its talons extended in a vicious swipe.

Eleanor, ignoring the pain that raged through her side, gripped her silver axe and struck at the werewolf as it lunged for her. She ducked and slashed upward, catching its leg with a brutal swipe. The creature howled, blood darkening its fur, but it turned on her again, teeth bared in a feral snarl.

"Stop Caspian!" Edmund yelled as he struggled with the werewolf, throwing himself between it and Eleanor, shielding her from the creature's wrath.

"But Ed—" she began, her voice strained from the effort.

"Go!" he shouted, determination hardening his features.

With a final, reluctant glance at her brother, Eleanor turned and bolted toward the Stone Table, ignoring the agony radiating from her wound. She leapt onto the table just as Trumpkin plunged a knife into Nikabrik's back, halting his advance on Lucy. Peter grappled with the vulture-creature, his face a picture of fierce resolve.

"Come closer. Come to me," Jadis's voice cooed to Caspian, her tone sweet yet venomous, luring him into her trap. He took another step toward her, his expression dazed, as though caught in her spell. Without a moment's hesitation, Eleanor hurled herself at him, tackling him to the ground and breaking the enchantment's hold.

"Get away from him!" Peter's voice cut through the chaos, cold with fury as he positioned himself between Caspian and the ice.

Eleanor rolled off Caspian, catching her breath as she steadied herself. "Are you alright?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

"I'm fine," Caspian muttered, pressing a hand to the back of his head, where he'd hit the stone floor.

As she stood with effort, a sharp pang reminded her of the pain she was in, but she forced herself to stay focused, watching as Peter raised his sword. In a swift movement, Edmund lunged forward, his blade piercing Jadis's icy form, sending a web of cracks spidering across the ice wall. Jadis shrieked, her face contorting in a fury, the fractures spreading rapidly until, with a final, ear-splitting scream, the ice exploded. Peter dropped to the ground, shielding his head, while Caspian instinctively threw himself over Eleanor, protecting her from the razor-sharp shards that filled the room.

When the silence returned, Eleanor looked up, dazed, to see Edmund standing over the fragments of shattered ice, his sword still drawn. 

"I know," Edmund said, a faint smile breaking through his stoic expression. "You had it sorted."

A quiet laugh escaped Eleanor, easing the tension that had wound so tightly within her.

"Are you hurt?" Caspian asked, his brow furrowing with worry. Eleanor managed a small, reassuring smile. Thankfully, when Jadis had vanished so had the pain. Dead for over a thousand years and still tormenting her.

"I'm alright," she replied and turned to Peter. "You?"

Peter nodded, catching his breath, his gaze fixed on the carving of Aslan that lay behind the shards of ice. A strange calm settled over him as he extended his hand to Caspian, who stood nearby, wary yet grateful.

"Ellie made me realize something," Peter began, his voice steady and resolute. "We can't win this war if we're fighting each other. If we can't work together, then things like this... they'll keep happening." He glanced at the scattered remnants of ice. "Let's start over. Let's make decisions together."

For a moment, Caspian hesitated, eyeing Peter's hand, then smirked, lifting his bloodied palm. "I'd shake your hand... but..."

Eleanor laughed softly as Peter switched hands, and the two clasped hands in a firm shake.

"A fresh start. For Narnia," Caspian agreed.

"Let's get that hand cleaned up," Eleanor offered, her voice warm despite her lingering pain, and she gently guided Caspian from the room, the weight of the battle finally beginning to lift.

Peter lingered behind, his gaze locked on the carving of Aslan. Closing his eyes, he whispered a silent prayer, a fervent hope that the lion would return to guide them. Because if anyone knew how much they needed him, it was Peter.