The Faded Portrait of a Bygone Era

Keeper of Dreams

Back in the garden. That was how she passed the time now. Like the stars, the trees here were dead, in the sense of their souls and voices. These petals didn't sing; there was no whisper of wind through their leaves. But at least the garden had color. Bursts of light in the darkness.

Days had passed, upon her return, spent sat in front of the wardrobe, hoping beyond all hope that those carved doors would once again open to reveal the Lamppost near Tumnus' old home. Yet after months of hoping, despair had begun to set in. It was then that Granny had suggested that perhaps the magic had gone from the wardrobe. Margaret had been reluctant to accept the possibility, but ultimately, she relented. That was when she began to seek traces of Narnia elsewhere in the world.

A graphite point traced over the pages of the diary. Gently, at first, but as the image took shape, the strokes became harsher, the color darker, until the tip snapped, leaving behind a jagged mark on the page. Although, the mark was not so out of place, really. It matched the icy darkness of the Witch's Castle, staring out at her.

And she stared back. At least, until she could bear it no longer.

Margaret closed the journal with the pencil inside and tossed it on the ground, beside where she sat in the grass. With a heavy sigh, she lay back in the grass and closed her eyes.

She did this sometimes. Whenever she wanted to pretend she was back there. There in her grandmother's garden, with her hair tangled in the grass beneath her, she could almost believe she were lying in the shade of the Western Wood... The petals of the dryad trees would brush across her face. Of course, she knew she was really in a garden in Bristol, with no canopy to shelter her from the sun, but just then, she could almost imagine the way the Narnian Wood smelled, the way the trees would gracefully extend their branches to bring shade to their beloved queen. In that moment, she could almost hear the River Rush in the distance...

If she imagined hard enough, she could even feel the pleasant sting of magic in the air. The atmosphere was heavy with it, there in Narnia...

Margaret sighed once more, and opened her eyes.

But what she saw was not the washed blue sky above her grandmother's garden, not the sparsely clouded, hot, summer day. No, when she opened her eyes, she saw that gray stone courtyard. The same courtyard she had seen back when she had turned eighteen, and again before the battle in Archenland.

This time, however, rather than observing, she was a part of it. She lay there on the stone, wrapped in that familiar cloak, adorned as the Red Lady. Though she felt no pain, she could see the crossbow bolts protruding from her flesh. She felt cold and numb, staring up at the tumultuous gray clouds above.

And just like that, she started awake. Her pulse was roaring in her ears like the Great Narnian River. A few deep inhales calmed her slightly, and the feeling of the grass beneath her grounded her in the moment. She hadn't dreamt like that since... well, since Narnia. And the only times she dreamt in this world had been just before she returned. A slight thrill came over her at that notion, and a joyous grin spread over her face. If this meant what she thought it did.... Well, Granny would be thrilled for her. She had to tell her right away!

Granny... Just then, the thought struck her.

The grass under her hands was softer now. Alive, in a completely different way. Above her now were tree branches. She was no longer in her grandmother's garden.

Could it be?

The sensation in the air truly had been magic. For somehow, in that moment, through her dream, it had pulled her back.