As Peter walked across the chamber, tracing his fingers over the sketches on the wall, he couldn't help but feel like he was staring at a complete stranger.
Sure, it was him in the images—one of them showed him wearing his crown, resplendent in cobalt and gold, a hand placed on his throne at Cair Paravel. Another depicted him in battle, mid-leap, sword raised at an invisible enemy.
But these were carvings of High King Peter, the Magnificent. The brave, fearless and majestic. The one who won the battles he led, vanquished foes who dared oppose him—that High King was inexorable.
That High King did not let half his army die as he watched, helpless.
Pain shot through Peter's fist when it collided with the wall, but he did not cry out.
A voice echoed through the underground hall, void of emotion. "If you've come to gloat, leave."
Ina had hidden herself so well in the shadows that it took Peter a while to find her. She sat facing the wall, chisel and hammer in each hand, a newly-carved image formed on the rocky surface. Peter saw that it was not as refined as the other drawings, but somehow, its rough edges made it look all the more real, as if the red-haired centaur would leap out of the wall at any moment, charging towards him.
"I'm not here to gloat."
Ina dragged her head up; her face darkened when she saw him. "I thought you were Caspian."
"What would he have to gloat about?"
"Nothing." She gathered her things and got to her feet.
"I know you hate me."
The words tumbled out of Peter's mouth before he could stop them. Ina paused in her tracks, turning sharply. "I don't hate you."
"You don't have to pretend."
"Why didn't you call off the attack?"
Her words felt like a blow to Peter's already hollow chest. But then he felt something creep into the emptiness, making his fingers curl and pulse quicken. It was anger, he realised. Bitter, crude anger—at Ina, at Caspian, at himself. At everything.
"Why don't you ask Caspian what he did?"
"I know what he did," she snapped, "I didn't say he was right."
"Then why aren't you blaming him?"
"I do! I—"
She pushed out an exasperated breath. Her jaw worked furiously, as if biting back a hundred and one things she wanted to yell. "Forget it. Blaming you, or Caspian, or myself—there's no point. It won't bring them back."
When Peter found his voice, all he could say was, "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."
"And for what it's worth, I forgive you."
She dropped to the ground and hugged her knees, her hunched figure soaked with misery. There was pure grief in the eyes that gazed at the centaur's portrait. Suddenly standing was too much for Peter, and he sank to the floor beside Ina. He was grateful when she didn't move away.
"That's Zenya, right?" he asked quietly. He half expected Ina to ignore him, but she didn't.
"Yes. She's part of the reason I'm alive." Then, she dipped her head at the carving beside hers. It showed Peter and his siblings walking into a large wardrobe, faces lit. "Did that really happen? You walked out of a closet into Narnia?"
"Into a wardrobe. And yes, that did happen."
"And what was it like, going back to your world... after all those years?"
The question wrenched Peter's heart, but he tried not to show it. Ina was looking at him intently now, though not with the sourness that he had expected. He knew that the Narnians blamed him and his siblings for the fall of their kingdom, but none of them had chosen to leave. In the days after returning to their world, they'd whispered to ask if Aslan was there, but he never answered. They'd woken up and felt their hearts sink, because their dreams of Narnia had come to an end. They'd knocked relentlessly on the back of the wardrobe, but Narnia kept its doors closed.
None of them ever wanted to leave.
"Overwhelming," Peter managed. "It's like... It's like having the person you love most forget who you are."
Ina's voice grew softer. "That must have been difficult."
"That's life, I guess."
A whisper.
They both heard it at the same time. The words were hushed, grating; they echoed eerily in the cavern.
"...so will we...hates better than us."
Then a male voice, young and familiar. "And you can guarantee...Miraz's death?"
The two shared a nervous look. Caspian.
"Find him." Peter rushed to his feet, cursing internally that he'd left his weapons in the common area. "I'll get the others."
Ina nodded and hurried off, shortsword in hand.
***
The voices had risen to a chant, every word alien and distorted. Whatever it was that Caspian had gotten himself into, it didn't sound good.
When Ina got to the Hall of the Stone Table, she was brought up short by the sight before her.
Caspian was standing before a wall of ice—though Ina had no idea how it was formed. Beside him, two cloaked figures stood, their faces hidden. There was a flicker of movement in the ice wall. It was bright—so bright that Ina couldn't bear to look at it for too long. And yet, even as the light blinded her, she found her eyes drawn towards it involuntarily.
"What are you doing?"
Her voice alerted them, and they turned as one. She tasted bile in her mouth then. The cloaked figures were hideous—there was no other word for them. One was built like a bear but wore rows of canine fangs, tufts of fur sticking out of his head like patches sewn on wrongly.
And the other—Ina shrank back despite herself. It was once an eagle, she could see that. But it was bare of feathers, revealing the frail, shiny skin beneath. Only a mop of slimy hair remained on its head. Its face was grossly misshapen; a graying beak curved downwards from its leathered complexion.
Ina was painfully aware that she hadn't brought her throwing knives.
"What's this?" the not-eagle screeched.
"She's nothing. Get rid of her."
Ina gasped when Nikabrik emerged from behind the Table. But before she could yell, the eagle creature pounced, crooked talons extended.
"Don't hurt her!" Caspian shouted. No one listened.
Ina spun, deflecting the beast's feral attacks, but it moved with inhuman speed. One swoop of its withered wing knocked her to the ground; her blade clattered to the floor. When the creature dragged her up by the hair, she gagged; it reeked like the dead rats in Telmar's sewers.
"Do it," the creature hissed at Caspian, a sharp talon pressing against Ina's throat. "Or your little friend dies."
Caspian blanched as the bear and Nikabrik clasped both of his arms. A knife flashed across his open palm, and blood bloomed from it. Caspian struggled, but the creature was far too strong. His face was a picture of fear: I never wanted this.
Appalled, Ina watched as the bear forced Caspian's bloodied hand towards the ice. Another palm emerged from the light, and suddenly she saw what lay behind it. No, not behind, inside.
A woman painted in white, from her skin to her hair and clothes. She was a vision of sharp beauty; if ice could take on human form, it would look like this. And yet, unnerving as she was, the lady was magnificent. Once again, Ina felt that same power drawing her eyes towards the ice.
And then it hit her—this was the White Witch, the one who froze Narnia for over a hundred years.
Her eyes were hungry as she reached for Caspian's hand. "One drop of Adam's blood," the Witch crooned, "and I am yours to command."
But she never reached him, for just then, a streak of red slammed into her hand. With a howl of agony she recoiled.
Susan's arrow. All the Pevensies were here now, charging into the room like avenging angels. The creature flung Ina to the side and hurtled towards the new threat. When she found her sword and looked up, pure chaos greeted her.
Peter's attacks were vicious, but they only made nicks in the bear creature's pelt. The eagle dove for Edmund, and he ducked, arcing his blade upwards. Susan was firing rapidly, yet none of her arrows took the creatures down. Even when Lucy's dagger struck the eagle, it did not falter.
And further behind, Caspian was still gazing at the Witch in a trance, hand outstretched. The woman had recovered, her skin unmarked as if Susan's arrow had never hit her. Their fingers were almost touching.
Ina ran, but before she could reach Caspian, a blade clashed against hers, forcing her backwards. It drew a cut across her forearm and she tripped.
Nikabrik faced her with twisted rage. "You!" His attacks were a barrage of violence; Ina held him off with difficulty. "I knew you were trouble from the start!"
"Nikabrik, stop this!"
"No!" His blade stung her leg and she yelped. "I won't let you! Her Majesty will rise again!"
Ina cried out. She swung her blade with a force she did not know she possessed, crashing it against the dwarf's until it flew out of his hand. He lost his balance and fell, panting. Only her blade on his chest gave him pause. His weapon lay on the ground, out of reach.
"Do it." His teeth were stained red when he sneered. "You've always wanted to, anyway."
"That's not true."
A loud, terrible boom filled their ears, shaking the walls of the hall and the ground beneath their feet.
Ina looked up and saw that the ice panel had broken; its shards came tumbling down in a silver storm. To her relief, she saw that the creatures lay in unmoving heaps on the floor. Peter was standing where she'd seen Caspian earlier, dazed, as if he'd been ripped from a wonderful dream. And behind the stone archway where the ice had formed, Edmund was panting, his sword raised. He was the one who shattered the wall.
"I know," he said to his brother, weariness colouring his voice. "You had it sorted."
Silence.
Then, Ina's sword juddered.
When she looked back at it, she couldn't understand at first. Nikabrik was smiling at her, staring on with cold, glassy eyes. Blood filled his mouth and flowed down to his chin. Something silver protruded from his chest, flat and hard and unyielding. Only then did Ina realise that it was her sword.
The words spilled from his mouth in a scarlet gurgle. "Long live the queen."
And then he died.
"No..." She let go of her sword and the dwarf fell on his back, the blade still stuck in his torso. She scrambled forward to pull it out.
"Lucy!"
She heard their footsteps when the others came running to her, but she didn't look at them. She couldn't tear her eyes from Nikabrik and the pool of blood spreading around him.
"The medicine..." She caught at Lucy's hand blindly. "Please, I didn't—"
"Ina." Susan's face loomed. She clutched Ina tightly. "He's gone."
Ina spun to Lucy. "There must be something you can do."
A tear rolled down the young queen's cheek. Her voice was brittle as she said, "I'm sorry."
Though it wasn't cold, Ina started shivering. She clasped her hands together tightly, but they still trembled. Salt prickled the backs of her eyes, and she swallowed once, hard. "I... Give me a moment, please."
Distantly, she felt Susan's hand slide from her back. The others left without a word, and Ina was alone with the dwarf's motionless body. His eyes were closed—at some point someone had come over to shut them, but she couldn't recall who.
Ina wasn't staring at Nikabrik anymore; she couldn't bear to. Instead, she looked down at her hands. They were covered in blood. Nikabrik's blood. She knew that no matter how many times she washed them, she would still see the crimson stains of what she'd done.
No. She didn't kill Nikabrik. He chose to die. But the words sounded false even as she said it in her head.
Something pressed against her shoulder lightly, bleeding warmth through her torn sleeve. Caspian.
"I know he hated me." The words cracked as they left her mouth, each syllable falling apart. "But he was... He's... I never wanted him to die."
Caspian inched closer. "I know. I'm sorry." He hesitated before adding, "For everything."
"It's not your fault."
"I meant—"
She waved this off. "Yeah, I know about Miraz, and I don't blame you." Shrugging, she said, "I would've done the same."
"No, I mean... before. When I said all you cared about was the gold."
Ina was no longer stung by the memory, but a shiver still passed over her skin. Quietly, Caspian continued, "Whatever reasons you're fighting for, they're not selfish. Anyone could've seen that. I should have."
She could feel him growing restless as the quiet became solid in the space between them. Ina wasn't struggling for words to say; rather, she was stunned by her own lack of bitterness. It was then that she realised she'd already forgiven Caspian a long time ago.
"Thank you," she said at last. "But just so you know, I still want that gold."
His chuckle was weak but genuine. "Don't worry. I'm not one to break my promises."
When Caspian held out a hand to her, palm facing upwards, she was glad to slide her own blood-stained one into it.