The High Queen II

Let me go

The dim light of the Stone Table chamber flickered across the old dwarven armour as Eleanor fastened the last piece into place. The suit, forged for her during the Golden Age, bore intricate engravings of vines and roaring lions, a testament to its craftsmanship and her rank as High Queen. Though the years had aged it with scratches and dents, it still gleamed as she tightened the straps and adjusted the breastplate.

Foregoing a helmet, Eleanor stood before a cracked mirror and gathered her thick blonde hair into a high ponytail, securing it with a leather tie. She deftly braided a section, letting it frame her face like a warrior's crown. The braid kept her hair clear of her eyes, a necessity learned from countless battles.

Eleanor strapped her throwing knives to her thighs, their weight familiar and comforting. She checked each one's balance with a practised spin before sheathing them.

Her next stop was the armoury, where her battle axe awaited. The satyr blacksmith glanced up as she entered, his wide eyes betraying a mix of awe and nervousness.

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing deeply, "it's ready."

He handed her the axe, its double-edged blade polished to perfection. The handle was wrapped in dark leather, the runes carved into the steel glowing faintly with enchantments. Eleanor accepted it with a nod, running a bare finger along the edge. Her skin brushed the blade, testing its sharpness. To her satisfaction, it didn't draw blood, but the satyr nearly fainted at her casual gesture.

"Shouldn't you wear gloves?" he stammered, wringing his hands. "Just... just for safety?"

Eleanor raised an amused brow at his concern but decided against arguing. She slid on a pair of leather gloves from a nearby rack, holding them up with a smirk. "Better?"

The satyr exhaled in relief. "Much, Your Majesty. Much."

With her axe slung across her back and her knives securely in place, Eleanor made her way through the quiet halls of Aslan's Howe. The faint clinking of her armor echoed through the stone corridors as she moved toward the tunnel, her thoughts heavy with the weight of the moment. She needed to say goodbye to her sisters before they left.

She reached the tunnel where Susan and Lucy were preparing to mount Caspian's horse. The sight of them, ready to face whatever dangers lay ahead, made Eleanor's heart tighten.Caspian gave the horse a reassuring pat on the neck.

"Destier has always served me well," Caspian said with quiet confidence. "You are in good hands."

Lucy, ever the light-hearted one, flashed a grin despite the tension. "Or hooves," she said, nudging the horse playfully.

Caspian chuckled, his usual solemn demeanor softening just for a moment. It was a brief reprieve before the reality of the coming battle would set in again.

He reached into his satchel and pulled out the horn, its polished surface gleaming faintly in the low light of the tunnel. "Maybe it is time you had this back," he said, offering the horn to Susan.

Susan took it, her fingers brushing the familiar carvings on its surface. It was a connection to Narnia, to Aslan, and to her past. She tucked the horn securely at her side, nodding in silent appreciation. "Thank you," she murmured, the weight of the task ahead settling in her chest.

Eleanor stepped forward, her gaze firm but affectionate as she looked at her sisters. "Be safe," she said, her voice steady, though a quiet undercurrent of worry flowed through her words.

Lucy smiled, her optimism shining through. "We will. Aslan will protect us," she said confidently, her voice full of conviction.

Eleanor's expression softened as she nodded. She took a step back, her eyes lingering on her sisters for a moment longer before she gave Destier's flank a gentle pat, as if sending them off with her blessing.