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Chapter Text

If you asked most Narinas who ruled the continent they called home they would instinctively respond with Aslan. A good solid answer. 8/10. The correct answer really. Others would say King Peter. A few of the women would say the woman they admired even before the High King, for her strong confidence, for her grace. Queen Susan, they would say. Never were the silver crowns brought up in this hypothetical conversation. No, the only people who would answer the question with Lucy would be those with intimate knowledge of Cair Paravel and the intricacies of the castle. Every twist and turn. Those who took the time to observe. .

See, Narnia was Lucy’s home. A home she had fought for from the bitter start. She had wielded a dagger and sword from the age of 8. Seen death and the lowest points of the world hours before. On returning she had crawled into the medical tent, warm blood still clinging to her clothes, torn away from her brother for a job that the people meant to protect her couldn’t handle. Lucy sat with the dryad that wouldn’t make it through to dawn, yet alone to spring. A centaur who would remain limp, back legs carved off in one jagged swoop. But yet Lucy had also seen the pure good. Seen Aslan breathe life into a place she loved with a child like abundance. Seen as Beavers risk hide and tail for a group of children, all due a prophecy they scarcely believed in after so many years and the kindness of their hearts. Seen the nymphs laugh, and giggle. Seen the sun rise. Seen flowers bloom. Felt heard. So, yes, Lucy would do whatever was required to keep her home together.

As the crowns were handed out Lucy sat to the side. Let her brother take the mantle, but yet deep down she knew that he would always see Narnia as a holiday. He could never appreciate the way it glowed like she did. It was a break. They just had to return to England. Ma was waiting. Lucy couldn’t give two pence. She was already home, and if Peter couldn’t lead in the way that was required then she would quietly pick up the slack. She was the Valiant. The determined. A Queen. Besides, she preferred the simple circlet to the ostentatious crown.

People came to see Susan as the diplomat. The one with a smile. She was the one who sat with the school children and read them their little story book. The Soft hearted. The Gentle.

“The people’s queen” the trees muttered.

“I wanna be queen Susan when I grow up!” chirped one young rabbit as Lucy walked past. She paid it little mind.

Yet Susan was not a diplomat. The closest she got was organising the balls and events that foreign dignitaries attended. That and shooting her award winning smiles as she sat on the arm of the High King. Lucy did admit she was a good archer though, but yet once again always on the side lines. The one rule of Susan, she never got her fingers dirty if it could be helped.

Edmund became the Diplomat. The Just. The Truthful. The Wise. He knew forgiveness. Knew the price and the consequences. After all there is no better teacher than experience and a box of traumatic Turkish delight.

So, Edmund sat in his quiet portion of the castle and drafted laws. Prepared speeches. Boarded ships. Delivered said speeches and discussed said laws. Reported back to his baby sister, who already knew. He Negotiated. Won. Parried. Utilised sharp wit, dancing around those who wished to use Narnia, ignorant of those she housed?. And Edmund too felt some of the love for Narnia that Lucy felt in her bones. A place of acceptance. How could he not give back to a country that had seen him at his worst and accepted, forgiven. How could he not love a place that was so open and free. One that let him grow out of being the spiteful hate filled soul who craved his brother’s acceptance. A good thing too, because if he still lived for Peter’s praise then he would be miserable.

In the wake of the battle Peter became a symbol. A sign. Gold and shining. Aslan’s chosen one. She didn’t bother to correct the masses and tell them who was the real chosen one. Instead she smiled and planned out the battle for Peter to lead. For the figurehead king to rise. Rise for a country he didn’t understand or love. The crown sat above Peter’s head and yet she knew he saw it as a prop. A costume. A game. One day they would wake up and…

Lucy didn’t want it to end. To crumble. To regress. She didn’t want to be shoved back into the innocent body of a child while the land she adored was left struggling. So the youngest queen fought. Tooth and Nail. Queen Lucy they would mutter, unable to look past the facade and innocent face. Unable to see the blood and war that had brought her here. That had brought them all here. She was in many ways their saviour, yet they remained unaware.

So Lucy fought. She watched. She planned. She schemed. And eventually, she saw it all.

She saw those in power being unworthy of the cost of the metal that adorned their very brow. She saw the importance of knowledge. How it allowed her to build up a defence like no other. She called the birds that served the castle and those in the trees. She called the ants out of the walls. And she built a web. Meticulous, posed. Unstrikable. Narnia's last defence. A plan for when the battle strategies she devised failed. A concrete barricade against assassins.

When she wasn’t keeping court over a spy network even Edmund only knew the basics of, Lucy ordered the strategies of politics. The reforms for implementing. The puzzles that needed solving. She read the proposals from Edmund. Travelled across her seas. Meet with the dignitaries Peter didn't want to meet, or who were now too much for a fake symbol of a king to understand.

The whole dynamic was represented rather well through the numerous battles, Lucy thought as she planned out yet another one for her brother. He was probably off drinking with some of the fawns. His advisors had been coming to her for years. Not that he knew.

In the heat of battle, Peter led the charge. Commanded. He wasn’t self aware enough to realise that no one of importance followed, and yet… He stood at the helm. He carved people in two, shining bright. A beacon of hope. Yet even beacons are useless without a full army to carry them.

Susan stood on the cliffs. Watched the carnage unfold. Added her two pence without getting her hands dirty. Without marring her consciousness. Always too far off to see the arrow hit its mark. A mark it did admittedly hit. But the sound of the bodies falling. The dripping of blood. That was not for Dear Susan’s ears.

Edmund took the rear. Ushering people forward, holding the ranks together while his brother charged ahead. He stood and let the tears roll down his face while still keeping to his duty as the stragglers fell around them. Watched as the citizens he loved fell and were left behind. Grew through the pain of forced maturity. He had a job, and a sister to report too. Edmund knew his position to be important, but yet on occasion the guilt of not being at the centre welled up, merging with the trauma of his first battle. Phantom pain laced his lower side. Edmund knew that this position was the best he could manage with old wounds that cut deeper than the physical, so he did what he could and he did it well.

Lucy stood in the very midst of the action. She watched as her friends fell. Surrounded herself in the gore and the pain, knowing that here she could make a difference. Knew that for every one of theirs it would be one less of hers. Let the blood slide down her dagger. Watched the life dribble out of the telmarine’s eyes. Because the country was hers to the bitter last. Narnia was her and she was Narnia. She would stay longer than any other monarch. She would tend to her wounded, simple circlet missing from her brow and yet a crown of gold far heavier sat. Edmund would await his queen and sister before they parted for their tents, sorrow on their brows. Peter and Susan would indulge in a tankard of ale while their siblings failed for air, bittersweet memories of youth tainting their still bright eyes. Then they would get up and do it all again.

So if anyone asked, there was only one true queen of Narnia. Only Aslan knew her love for the land and just how deep it flowed. Because here, here she was home.

Chapter Text

She had been the one to feel the light post’s pull. To recognise it for what it was, even if it was only subconsciously. Peter had wanted to go on, ignore the oddity, pushing forward in favour of the wish and riches. Susan had parroted him, ever the dutiful queen and sister. Edmund had looked up at the metal monstrosity, a glint of recognition in his eyes. A shadow of jingling bells and soft-spoken voices seemed to wander across his face, clawing its way to the surface but failing to break the surface. Lucy had felt similar. Had felt the fantom rustle of fur coats against her skin. Had felt the warm notes of Mister Tumnus’s flute in her ears. But most importantly, felt Alsan’s pull. Felt it tug at her skin and soul, drowning her in its inevitability. Now she just wanted to scream. But in the moment she had listened. After all, who was she to go against the real high king? The Creator. The Maker.

The coats had felt like a bad dream. The wooden boards a nightmare. The high-pitched voice of her now young brothers a torment. Lucy hated this. She wanted to scream. Wanted to shout. Wanted to act like the child she had been forced into. Her small fingers mocked her. The woollen cardigan and top rubbed up against her skin. She longed for the flowing pants she wore around the castle, or even the dryad-made dresses she forced herself into for formal events. This, This was nothing but yet another reminder of the constraints. This was not her home. It hadn’t been since the age of eight. In that moment Lucy burned with a hatred for Aslan. For the Lion she had ridden. For her father in all but blood.

Yet she bottled it. Shuffled the anger around and into the box marked for later. Put on the face marked for court. The face of a Queen. The face of The Valiant. And if she cursed Aslan as she fell asleep that night, only to beg for his forgiveness minutes later then no one was listening attentively enough to hear her. The great spy network of Narnia was no more in this land. The whispers and sorrows would never be heard here. Chin up. Eyes forward.

Peter broke her reprieve, forcing her emotions deeper still. Here Peter was not a figurehead king deserving of no respect but her older brother, a boy whom she was meant to worship. She would play their games. Follow and learn. Fall into the old patterns.

“Thank God we’re back, hey! No more boring council meetings!” Lucy felt the emotions swell to the surface, threatening and thrashing against the carefully crafted box. He couldn’t understand it. How was Peter able to brush 15 years to the side like it was nothing? How was he able to abandon a kingdom he was supposed to protect? Had sworn to. It would be left to the Lord Protector, she knew that. But also knew that their departure would rock the country. All four pillars just up and gone. It would be left in utter turmoil. She wanted to succumb to the childish whims and fall down crying all over again, in ways he hadn't since they left for her homeland.

She let Edmund pull her in close, succumbing to a need she had never forsaken even as she grew. The need for comfort. He too felt like his heart was being torn in two. The place of acceptance ripped from him. She knew he was aware of the stretch of her anguish. Narina was hers. Looking back she failed to see a day where it hadn’t been. From the moment she had led them through the snowy forest, smiling at the trees, before breaking down at the loss of a dear friend. It had all been hers. A gift from Alsan to his treasured child. A home for them both. Gone. She clung onto her brother, willing the tears inward as Susan and Peter stood smiling from above, glad to be home after a holiday. Staring down like they expected her to copy their grins.

She could understand their happiness, she just failed to comprehend how they could feel that way. Sure Susan was glad to be done with her hordes of suitors, regardless of how she enjoyed the attention. Glad to be done with the creepy eyes of foreign prices. But how could she feel that joy when so much love and laughter was left behind?

That night she stood in front of the wooden cupboard while Edmund lay restless in his own bed. She had invited him to come only to be met with sad eyes. Not a hint of the learned and diplomatic schooler he had become lay in them. Now, the intricate carvings that reminded her so much of the dryads mocked her as the wardrobe towered above. The apples acted as a harsh and indisputable reminder of Narinan culture, and the fables she had grown up with. The creation stories that she had first heard from Ms Beaver in the harsh winter of the White Witch, and then again encircled by nymphs and mermaids in the stores of Cair Paravel lived in those apples, drawing her back with a bittersweet stab. She placed her hands on the old doors, willing Alslan to hear her call. To draw her across time. To bring her home. The oak remained silent and unforgiving to her pleas.

As the professor walked in she let herself break down, hating the pity in his eyes. He knew nothing. All he was aware of was what Peter and Susan had conveyed. The holiday. The joy. No. He had no accurate way to conceive her loss. Her grief. Her pain. Even if he had been there before, like he not so subtly hinted at, he could never love it with the care she had grown for it. The old man appreciated Narnia. Was glad for all it had done for him. For the gifts it had provided. But he, unlike her was not a part of it. Narnia filled her bones now. She could scarcely remember a time before. She wrapped the pink dressing gown tighter around herself as if trying to ward off the self-pity. She was a Queen, Aslan willing! Instead, she was stuck in clothing that she had found in the crevices of a room she barely remembered. A room she immediately hated with a visceral passion.

“Will we ever go back?” she asked the old man, hating herself for being weak enough to pose the question and the young pleading voice in which it was spoken.

The reply was patronizing and yet hopeful, holding the idea that one day she would be home.

“I expect so”