Fan Fiction/Writing - A Narnia Crisis

fawkes777 · 05-15-2006, 05:36 PM

Hi, here I have posted two parts that I've written about the Chronicles of Narnia. This is about two years after Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy were crowned Kings and Queens of Narnia.

PART 1: SUSAN'S CAPTURE

Susan Pevensie was lost. Her breathing came in shallow, terrified pants as she paused for the fourth time that night, looking wildly about for even the tiniest sign of life. Even a beaver or a tree would have sufficed—that was, if they were on the right side. The dark, looming evergreens around her did not show any sign that they had been blessed with Aslan’s life-giving breath; the young girl scoured each silent tree, hoping, with all her rapidly-beating heart to find one softly treading the soil with its roots or swaying in a nonexistent breeze.

But it was futile. She knew that these dark, concentrated Archenland forests hadn’t been visited by the great Lion for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. Ever since she and her three siblings, Peter, Edmund, and Lucy, had traveled into the Wardrobe and become Kings and Queens of Narnia, most of this land had been devoid of life. There was always the exception of radical, rebellious groups who vainly wished to continue the White Witch’s heartless regime and a few Natives, but other than that, the land had fallen short of the thousands of creatures who now resided in the powerful, ever-prosperous kingdom of Narnia. Susan had been very lucky not to have been intercepted by any ill-wishing Men or creatures by this time, for there was no mistaking her graceful stature and royal attire, which would give her away with the mere flash of an eye. The only questionable characteristic about her at the moment was a slender, yet weathered bow and a quiver of arrows strung over her person, weapons that had seen many battles and training targets in their short-lived existences. They had served, for the past few long and grueling hours, as the only comforting memories she had of her country in this unfamiliar place, which seemed as though it would never be lit with the sun’s warm rays of light.

If only Peter were here, Susan thought regretfully. He would know what to do. He always does.

Peter had been called away from Cair Paravel around a fortnight ago to assist in a battle in the Eastern parts of Narnia, where a small band of Maugrim’s wolfish descendants had formed a deadly alliance against as many Narnians they could sink their yellowed teeth into. Susan had not been informed at the time, for it was clearly established that she had never approved of her brother, nor any of her siblings, getting caught up in wars if they couldn’t be handled by Aslan’s troops alone, and Susan had never understood why Peter would ever be needed. She knew, however, that Peter was very proud of his Kingship, and wished to help his country in any way he could, and for that reason Susan never had the heart to keep him at Cair Paravel, when her brother’s own heart was solely placed in defending what he loved. She sighed, staring up at the silvery, cloud-submerged moon. Deep in regretful though, she made her way over to a patch of moist, glistening moss and sat down upon it, willing her tense limbs to loosen. After a few silent minutes, broken only by soft groans of relief as Susan kneaded sore, tight knots out of her blistering feet, she unfastened her bow and quiver with nimble, practiced fingers and hung them gingerly on a nearby low hanging branch. She stifled a yawn and rubbed as much sleep from her eyes as her worn, exhausted body would permit. Now was the time for hunting, which her gently growling stomach made sure to remind her. The last time she had gone without food for hours and hours on end, which had been during her very first battle against the White Witch herself, she had almost passed out on Aslan’s very back, speeding through the light forests of Narnia toward the cries of Men, creatures, and battle horns. She had been lucky to sneak a bit of bread and cheese before the coronation ceremony in which she and her siblings had been given the titles as Narnia’s rulers.

That wouldn’t have given me great publicity, Susan snorted, imagining herself collapsing to the floor while Aslan announced her with pride and sincerity, and Mr. Tumnus placing the gracefully crafted crown on her unconscious head. But the situation at hand would bear much harsher consequences; if she passed out at the moment, there would be next to no hope for her survival.

With that dismal thought in mind, Susan stood up on shaky legs, brushing a dark lock of fluttering hair out of her eyes. The wind was picking up, and it seemed to be getting, if possible, even darker than before. The moon, she saw, had disappeared completely behind a veil of wispy clouds. If not for her well-trained eyesight, Susan would have been very hard put to be able to see a thing. Fear kneaded her stomach, almost as vigorously as it had just minutes before. What if I can’t find anything to eat? she thought desperately, looking about. She had seen no animals in the forest on the way here, which had been a distance of about ten miles. If there had been none then, why would there be any now?

Stop worrying, Susan commanded herself, trying to remain calm. There’s bound to be animals in a forest, especially one as big as this.

And she was quite right. No sooner had she gone ten more steps than a soft, nearby cooing broke the silence. Susan looked up immediately and found, perched on a branch not ten feet above her head, a large, dark bird, furrowing its wings and getting ready to sleep. She sighed and muttered, Praise Aslan, with a relieved, almost sheepish smile. How could she have believed that no animals lived in a forest? Not only was this a lesser, hunt-able creature, but it promised a large and satisfying meal, something Susan had been looking forward to for quite a few days now. Of course it didn’t come near to the grand, luxurious feasts held for her and her siblings in the banquet hall at Cair Paravel, but, in such a desperate predicament, she wasn’t complaining one bit. Susan readied her bow, pulling a slender, red-feathered arrow over her shoulder and nocking it into place on the string. She pulled it back in a graceful arch, caressing the feathers softly between her thumb and middle finger, drew the bow skyward, locked on her unsuspecting target with skilled precision, and prepared to fire.

“Wait! WAIT!”

The bird jerked awake and flew, squawking, from the branch. Susan turned on the spot, bow and arrow drawn and ready, to find a small, panicked Dwarf not feet from where she stood, waving its arms fervently.

“What do you think this, Man, target practice?” it said in a small, squeaky voice that seemed to be shouting to its fullest extent. “Those are my birds! They are what I use to bring home to my family at night! Go hunt some animals in your own forest and leave mine alone!”

Susan lowered the bow slowly, realizing that her opponent didn’t happen to be any taller than her hip. The Dwarf, apparently, had quite a bit of trouble seeing things clearly, firstly because she was certainly not a man, and secondly because this forest did not at all belong him. She supposed giving away her true identity couldn’t possibly do any harm; if the Dwarf decided to attack her, a good kick would send it flying.

“I apologize, sir,” Susan replied coldly. “I had no idea that a creature of your size and attitude would have the potential to run such a vast place. I don’t suppose you’ve paid for it, seeing as I was just rudely informed that your family happens to be lower on the economic chain.”

The Dwarf was silent for a moment. “I—I didn’t…I’m sorry…I didn't know..." There was another pause, and then a gasp escaped the small creature. "You are a Daughter of Eve! Susan Pevensie, I-I am terribly sorry, please forgive me, Your Majesty, I had no idea that a figure of your royalty would...venture into these parts."

"So you are telling me that if I were, say a Faun, you would treat me with less respect?"

"Well..." The Dwarf was apparently searching for a quick, pleasing answer. For a moment his voice quivered under pressure, and then died away entirely. Susan's amused smile, hidden in the darkness, slowly slipped from her face as she saw the short figure waver dangerously where he stood, then fell, face forward, onto muddy earth.

Before it had even hit the ground, Susan surged forward and knelt down, casting her bow aside. She felt for the creature's short, beefy neck, and was nastily shocked to find that it did not pulse with blood or breath. Now in a confused, frightened frenzy, she felt the small childlike body for a sign of injury or abnormality of any kind. As her fingers caressed its diminutive, bony back, she felt the large wooden shaft of an arrow protruding through it, near the region of the heart. Fear gripped her like icy fingers, closing around her own heart and tingling it with a mixture of repulsion and frightened misunderstanding. She pulled away swiftly, groping for her ivory bow in desperation--but the problem was, someone was already standing on it. She was on the verge of spilling the fear from her body in a prolonged, bloodcurdling scream when a very real, gloved hand closed over her mouth. Tendrils of leather were thrown over her outstretched arms and laced together violently, while the same thing was done to her legs. Before a rough, damp animal skin had been fitted over her eyes, which were livid with pain and a silent, terrified scream, she caught a glimpse of two darkly-clad Men, holding a small, crying girl in their powerful arms. Susan froze as darkness closed around her sight--it was Lucy.

PART 2: ISOLATION

Sir Avongale of the Royal Order, Archenland,

It has come to my attention that Your Majesty has called upon Queen Susan, my beloved sister, to confront you with an issue entailing Narnia’s ambush of a small herd of single-horned stags on the night of spring Solstice. I was sorry to find that, in the process, three of your Fauns were slaughtered by the four unidentified dwarves that attacked the animals. I have sent out a force to search your forests and find the culprits as soon as is possible.

The scratching of the quill stopped suddenly. Edmund looked up from his desk, staring into the ominous darkness that flooded his study with glazed, thought-immersed eyes. A man, seated quietly in a tall, throne-like chair to Edmund’s left, quite disproportionate to his picayune size, cleared his throat loudly so that the boy was forced to turn and acknowledge him, however reluctantly.

“Yes, sir?”

The squat man smiled, revealing two rows of bright white teeth, almost as brilliant as the wavy beard streaming from his chin. “As your tutor, Your Highness, I am here to help you with grammar and dilemmas with sentence structure. Are you in need of assistance?”

Edmund would have been more than ready to refuse this offer (he was rather disfavoring of his new tutor, whom Aslan had not been able to approve for the time being), yet, with a glance down at the formal, lion-crested parchment on his desk, he knew that help was necessary for such an important message. It was essential to sound impressive and prepared, especially at such a dubious time in Narnia’s history.

“Sir,” Edmund replied, not bothering to suppress his grudging tone, “I was attempting to remember the way to begin a new paragraph without sounding—off-topic.”

The small man, Mr. Harvingnon, leaned forward to read Edmund’s angled handwriting through squinted eyes. Edmund did not move to push the paper closer. Mr. Harvingnon finished in a matter of seconds, and then looked up at Edmund, still squinting, though this time out of suspicion rather than strain.
“What would be the purpose of changing the subject, Your Highness?”
Edmund was on the verge of dishing out a rude reply when there came a deafening clang and chamber door burst open, slamming unceremoniously against the oak-paneled wall on its right. Edmund spun in his chair to see a man, dressed in shining, many-jointed armor, sprint into the room—he saw Edmund, hurried over to his desk, brandished a roll of crimson-sealed parchment from his sword sheath, and handed it to the young King with a shaking, exhausted hand.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Your Highness,” the soldier apologized breathlessly, giving Edmund a quick, sharp nod, “this message was to be sent to you—urgent—from the King of Archenland—he demands a response as soon as possible.”

Mr. Harvingnon gave a disapproving grunt from the corner, though it went unheeded. Edmund slit open the roll of parchment with nimble fingers, unfurled it, and placed two leaden figurines of his siblings, Susan and Peter, on each end so that it would lie flat. Without hesitation, he leaned forward with bated breath, and began to read the spiky, hastened script on the page.

Sir Edmund of the Royal Order, Narnia,

It gives me great sorrow to inform you that your fellow Queen and sister, Her Majesty Susan Pevensie, has apparently found it a harrowing business to meet me here at Castle Alvara. The infamous court case involving four Narnians and a herd of stags, of which you have no doubt been informed, occurred last night, and by the time you have received this message, perhaps two or three more days will have passed. I am hoping you have already heard from your sister, or have some idea of her whereabouts. It may very well be that she has encountered unwanted company along the way, and it has been brought to my attention that she had been traveling with very few bodyguards.

With all due respect and the best of wishes,

Sir Avongale of the Royal Order, Archenland.

Post-Statement: Enclosed in this parchment is a map, detailing Queen Susan’s presumable journeying route—please take this into account in your attempts to recover her again.

Edmund stared down at the paper, speechless with shock. After a few passive moments of silence, he managed to wrench his eyes from the parchment, then looked up at the panting soldier before him. Wordlessly, the man handed him a wad of frayed, yellowing paper, which had been folded numerous times into a rectangular stack. Edmund took it mutely, pushing his siblings’ miniature statues and the parchment to the edge of the polished oak desk, then hastily unfolded the newly-presented wad of paper. He found the loose seam at the bottom, then pulled it outward with such impatience that he nearly tore it down the middle. Edmund pulled the parchment out to its full extent, so that it covered his desk with a creamy, wrinkled layer of Narnia, Archenland, and their outlying lands. The pen strokes on the parchment were precise and artistic, illustrating the main arteries leading to and from Narnia, flecks of forested areas, and landmarks such as the Stone Table and The Battleground, where Edmund and his siblings had assisted in the momentous, world-changing battle that had conquered not only the White Witch and her ingeniously cruel Hundred-Year-Winter spell, but her vile minions as well. The only remaining creatures Edmund could think of were the vicious wolves in the East that Peter had been currently dispatched to wage war against, and a few groupings of uncivilized ogres and dwarves in the deep forests of Archenland. That was why, when Edmund took note of his sister’s path, which was marked by a long, bold pen stroke that began at the castle drawing marked ‘Cair Paravel’ and the forest-submerged, fortressed Courtroom labeled ‘Avongale Citadel’, he couldn’t help but gasp in shocked realization.

“She’s—she’s gone right through the woods,” Edmund muttered to no one in particular, staring down at the paper. He looked back up at the soldier, and, without a moment to lose, whipped a sheet of formal, lion-crested parchment from a small stack on the desk’s far left side. He slipped a crimson-colored quill from its inkbottle in the same fashion, spraying blotches of dark ink over the map and accidentally deleting the Great Lake, then began to write with as much haste as was possible without reducing his handwriting to a grade-school-worthy scrawl.

Sir Avongale of the Royal Order, Archenland,

I have received Your Majesty’s letter, and would like to tell you that I will do all that is possible to relocate my sister, and keep you informed as time progresses. Please do all you can to find her.

Sir Edmund of the Royal Order

Edmund blew on the fresh, glinting ink with vigor, then folded it into squares before his tutor could complain that he had forgotten—

Too late. Mr. Harvingnon saw everything. Before Edmund could so much as motion the paper towards the waiting soldier, the little man had whisked it out of his hands and opened it with nimble fingers.

“I cannot allow you to send this message, Your Highness,” Mr. Harvingnon said, tutting as he looked down at the parchment. “Is this the way you would speak to your fellow Royalties? And this letter is so unsubstantial—there is hardly any useful information on this page—things like this need thinking over, Your Highness—and look, you’ve even forgotten to complete your title—”

Edmund could not believe it. He reached forward to seize the paper back, but Mr. Harvingnon swept it away in a rapid flourish, his face lit with smug stubbornness.

“Give me that!” Edmund shouted, incensed. “Mr. Harvingnon, my sister’s in trouble and that could be the only thing that will save her! Don’t you realize what has happened? She’s been lost in the forests for days—Archenland forests—look, we don’t have time for this! We have to look for her!”

“You can do just that after a quick lesson on formal addressing—and perhaps a bit of anger maintenance,” he added as Edmund snatched for the paper furiously.

“We don’t have time for stupid lessons, Susan’s in danger!” he bellowed at his tutor, who had stood up from his chair (it hardly made a difference) and stared back at Edmund through passive, unyielding eyes.

“After your lesson.”

Edmund stood from his chair, seething. He glared at Mr. Harvingnon for a few moments in a vain attempt to re-obtain the message, then turned on the spot and faced the soldier in a much more calm, businesslike manner.

“Send for Queen Lucy immediately,” he ordered the man, who nodded sharply and sprinted from the room, looking quite eager to escape the argument.

“Now sit back down, Your Highness, and let us—”

But Edmund wasn’t listening. He glanced down at the map once more, created the best mental image he could of Susan’s route in his mind, then ran from the spot, surging through the open door and into the hallway before his tutor could utter a word. He caught a glimpse of the flash of armor at the far end of the stone, torch-lined hallway as the soldier hurried to carry out his order—Edmund followed, racing along the carpet, making arbitrary turns along the curving halls, passing the quiet sanctity of the library, the soft clank of silverware and plates as hundreds of creatures ate their supper in the Dining Hall, where Edmund and his siblings had been crowned Kings and Queens, and broad rooms filled with portraits of Narnia’s past leaders, until he finally saw the faint glow emanating from his younger sister’s quarters at the end of a long hall lined with yawning, mullioned windows.

Standing just outside the door, which was ajar, was the soldier, accompanied by a young, frail-looking woman with an apron. Even from such a distance, Edmund could see that her face was livid with terror, her eyes sneaking rapid, petrified glances into Queen Lucy’s candlelit room. Without hesitation, Edmund sprinted down the hallway, making straight for his sister’s open doorway. Seeing him, the young woman, who Edmund recognized as Lucy’s servant, gasped in surprise and backed out of the way. Without glancing at her, Edmund pushed the door open with the violent momentum of his run, and looked about the room through bouts of wheezing. And then he froze, icy tendrils of shock springing up and down his legs and arms. Before him lay the worst scene he had ever laid eyes on. Papers had been strewn all over the carpeted floor, some torn and frayed with page-splitting wrinkles—the blankets on Lucy’s small, sea-green bed had been thrown into a mound of ripples—a shredded stuffed bear lay in sad pieces over the bedspread—and, to the paramount of Edmund’s surprise, a dark red liquid layered his sister’s study desk. At first he believed it to be blood, but then, with a closer look, he saw a shattered, crystal vial near its crimson tendrils, and realized immediately that Lucy’s Fire Flower Cordial, the sacred gift he had been given from Father Christmas nearly three years before, had been brutally smashed over the polished mahogany.

And then it hit him: Lucy was gone.

Catalinay · 05-16-2006, 06:29 AM

Fawkes777, this is a wonderful fic! Very well written. Can't wait for more!

Parallax · 05-16-2006, 09:09 AM

I agree. Bravo!