The Faded Portrait of a Bygone Era

The Hour of Doom

"Stop it!" he shouted. "This isn't what Margaret would have wanted!"

Lucy pushed herself between them the moment they lowered their swords.

"She knew she was going to her death, she made her choice," she said sternly. "And it's no one's fault! It was a dream she'd had... So just stop it!"

And she left them, staring at each other as the realization set in, to kneel at Trumpkin's side. As she took up her healing cordial, Caspian slipped away. Peter's attention had been drawn, and he needed a moment to himself.

A dream she'd had... That must have been why she had pushed him away. He had seen her true feelings in her eyes that night, had felt it in her sweet kiss. It made sense now. But it didn't hurt any less.

Briefly, the memory crossed his mind of her words that night, her request to be laid to rest on the Stone Table. He had no way to fulfill her wish. His grief only compounded into anger at that notion, but, then, another thought struck him. He remembered, when they had talked, she had mentioned asking that of Peter back in the Golden Age. How long had she known her Fate?

Caspian found himself in the passage that led to the Stone Table's hall, staring at that image of her, before her throne at Cair Paravel. Out of order, she had said... Even so, it was the only thing he had left of her now.

"Are you so glad of that magic horn now, boy?" came Nikabrik's voice. The Dwarf stood at the entrance of the passageway, watching him with a sneer. "Your kings and queens have failed us," he pressed on. "The young woman you loved is dead, along with half your army. And those that aren't will be soon enough."

He thought that the mention of Margaret ought to have made him angry again, but more than anything, he felt tired, so very tired.

"What do you want?" he asked wearily. "Congratulations?"

"You want your uncle's blood," Nikabrik said. "So do we. You want his throne? We can get it for you."

Something deep inside of Caspian told him to be wary; something that sounded dreadfully like Margaret's voice, but he pushed it aside. No one else must die.

When the Dwarf moved past him, further down the passage, he cast one last glance at the carving of her, and then followed.

Nikabrik brought him around behind the Stone Table to stand before the image of Aslan. He faced the Table, that warning in his heart growing stronger.

"You tried one Ancient Power," said the Dwarf. "It failed. But there is a power greater still... One that kept even Aslan at bay for near a hundred years."

A low snarl echoed in the chamber, and Caspian drew his sword.

"Who's there?"

"I am hunger... I am thirst..." snarled a low, slow voice. "I can fast a hundred years... and not die."

A slow, shuffling figure emerged from the darkness to his right. Then, another shambled forwards from the left.

"I can lie a hundred nights on the ice... and not freeze. I can drink... a river of blood.... And not burst. Show... me... your enemies!"

The figure on his right threw back its hood to reveal a snarling Werewolf.

Caspian leveled his sword at it, but the figure on his left began to speak now.

"What you hate, so will we..."

A Hag. Margaret had told him of the night Aslan had died... these kinds of creatures had been present, in the company of the White Witch.