Pure Heart // Aslan x OC Reader // Chronicles of Narnia

The Meeting

Marigold's POV

As soon as I stepped beyond the edge of the tent, the air changed. The cold, crisp wind that had whispered through the trees all day shifted, suddenly carrying with it a fragrance so rich, so sweet, it wrapped around me like a forgotten lullaby. I paused, letting it wash over me. It wasn't a scent I could name—wildflowers, fresh earth, something older still—but it was unmistakably calling to me. Beckoning.

And I followed.

Third POV

At the same moment, Aslan emerged from the trees, his golden mane gilded by the fading light. He had been searching all day—through the woods, across hills, through silence and song—for the lioness whispered of by wind and water. But now, as the horn sounded behind him, announcing his return to camp, something deep stirred within him.

He halted. The Deep Magic pulled tight around his heart like a golden thread.

His General approached but said nothing, only nodded—he confirmed what Aslan was thinking. Neither needed to speak.

The air shimmered with an ancient rhythm, a harmony that hummed in their bones. Drawn forward, both Aslan and Mari followed the invisible current. Each step was guided not by sight, but by instinct, by scent, by soul.

Their paths—two silent streams—converged at a rise just beyond the edge of camp. A hill crowned in wildflowers, green peeking through the last dustings of snow. They climbed, silently, paws pressing into rock and earth, hearts thundering in synchrony.

Mari reached the summit first.

From the top, the camp below seemed far away, the tents like scattered stones in a quiet valley. She inhaled deeply. The breeze carried green life on it. Renewal. Home.

Moments later, Aslan crested the hill. His breath caught.

She stood at the edge, gold against gold—her coat sun-kissed. He had imagined her. Dreamed her. But reality surpassed every vision. The lioness glowed, not with magic, but with meaning. The moment he saw her, he knew.

And for the first time in all his endless years, Aslan felt afraid.

He stepped forward, hesitant, reverent.

"...It's you," he breathed.

Mari turned.

The voice, deep and warm, swept over her like thunder rolling through spring air. And the eyes—those eyes—green and gold like fractured sunlight through leaves. Power coiled in every curve of his frame, but it was his gaze that made her tremble.

She bowed her head low. "Your Majesty."

Her voice was music, and even the petals seemed to pause in the air to hear it.

"You do not need to bow, Lioness," he said, stepping closer.

She rose, meeting his eyes once more. A hush fell between them. The world held its breath.

"I heard you in the forest," he said, quietly. "I went looking."

"And I came looking for you," Mari replied, just as softly.

The words weren't loud, but they echoed—two halves of the same story finding each other at last.

"I'm Aslan," he offered.

"Mari." She smiled faintly.

"Mari..." He repeated it like a prayer. Her name on his lips stirred the wind, which picked up and spun through the flowers, sending them dancing. His mane swayed with it, radiant and wild.