The Faded Portrait of a Bygone Era

A Revelation in Archenland - One Shot

"I must speak with King Nain at once."

The King was most understanding, and wholly congratulatory, but they both realized what this meant. If a battle did come, Margaret could not fight. The success of diplomacy became all the more imperative.

The war council gathered for many days of many weeks, drafting letters and treaties and agreements, sending word by messengers, hoping to come to some accord with the Calormen. Aslan's blessing must have been upon them, for they were fortunate enough to at least remain at a standstill for the time being; no armies marched, and no troops were moved on either account.

And all the while time passed, Margaret worried for her child, and for her husband, so far away, who knew not what he had gained.

At last, at long last, the Calormenes agreed to a temporary truce, just long enough to attempt negotiations. The message was clear: This would be their last chance to avoid war.

So Margaret donned her red cloak and her armor, thanking Aslan that the signs of her child weren't yet noticeable to any but herself, and she and King Nain rode out into neutral territory, a small oasis in the west of the Great Desert, where a tent had been set up to host the proceedings of the would-be accords with the current Tisroc.

"We have no quarrel with you," Margaret told him, setting aside her worry to conjure the image of the graceful Queen. "We only wish for peace between our kingdoms."

"You say this, and yet you come here, dressed in the garb of war," he sneered, gesturing to her red cloak. "You can intimidate us with the reputation of the Red Lady no longer, for you are not your ancestor, girl, and you hold no power over us."

Margaret drew herself up a little fuller, making use of all the height that she had.

"You forget your history, Tisroc," she said sternly. "This cloak of blood red was given to me, not as a symbol of death and war, but as a gift, to honor my skill in battle. For I am the Red Lady, not some impersonating descendant. I have been brought here through the centuries by Aslan Himself. There is only one impostor here, and if you intend to fill the role of Rabadash, you ought to remember that doom follows the footsteps of those shoes."

From outside the tent, a peal of thunder split the sky, and lightning flashed so brightly that it could be seen from within. And yet, if one were to look, they would find no clouds in the sky above that little oasis meeting place.

The Tisroc paled, as if his mind were conjuring images of the "demon" Aslan punctuating the Queen's words, and the realization seemed to wash over him that he was, indeed, speaking face to face with Calormen's feared Red Lady.

"I'm certain there is some agreement to be found, my Lady..."

And certainly, there was.

-

A month and a half after their arrival, the Narnian envoy set out home from Archenland, peace with Calormen secured; at least for a little while longer.

The journey back took longer than Margaret would have liked. She had no way of knowing if Caspian had even returned yet, though she suspected not, judging by lack of word from him. So she sent an avian messenger to where he had last been seen, hoping to find him safely journeying home.

But when they reached the castle on the coast, still no sign of her husband could be found.

Again travel had made her ill, and the dryads all but ordered her to bedrest, where she could do nothing but wait, and plead with Aslan for Caspian's return.

At last, the messenger Bird returned, heralding the King's return. Alas, he regretfully informed the Queen, her husband was badly injured while defeating the last of those who wished to see the Witch resurrected, and that had been the cause of the delay.