Haveron galloped through the woods with Margaret atop his back, hooves thundering down onto the path below. Her cape fluttered in the wind behind them as they rode along, not with any purpose in mind, but simply for the sake of the rushing wind and the wood-filtered sunlight. The riding dress which she wore was white with an outer skirt layer and corset that both matched the emerald shade of her cloak. She hung tight to Haveron's mane as he leapt over a fallen tree, then splashed through a small creek, making them both laugh in joy. Margaret had long ago learned how to ride without the aid of a saddle, for Narnian horses much preferred that dignity, and she found it much easier to maneuver in battle that way as well.
"Queen Margaret!" called a voice.
Gently, she nudged Haveron's shoulder, signalling him to stop. A second set of hoofbeats came up beside them. It was Oreius.
"Oreius, how many times must I tell you to simply call me Margaret?" she laughed, patting Haveron's neck. After so many years in Narnia, she had fully abandoned the name "Maggie," accepting her role as Margaret the Resilient, but that didn't mean she wanted her friends to be so formal with her.
"Perhaps once more, Margaret," he replied, amused. "Though you know I must maintain propriety in front of the court."
"Well I don't see the court anywhere around," she said.
Oreius nodded. "And yet it is a court matter that I've come to speak with you about..."
Margaret snorted. "Oh I know just what you've come for. I told Peter there was no need, but he insists..."
"It's not every day the Queen turns eighteen," Oreius replied.
"It's happened once before with Susan and it shall happen once more with Lucy," she said, waving dismissively. "I don't need a celebration..."
"Come, Margaret," Oreius said. "Your brother simply wants to do this for you. They all do... and your subjects do as well."
Margaret sighed in good-natured irritation. "For the love of my people, then," she said, "I shall celebrate as never before."
Oreius bowed his head, unable to hide a pleased smirk.
"Haveron, my friend, if you would be so kind as to escort the Queen back to Cair Paravel..."
"And will the General be escorting us?" Margaret asked playfully. "After all, you have a wife and a young son to get back to..."
Oreius' face brightened with pride at the mention of Clemendia and their son, Glenstorm. Once the two centaurs had finally realized (and admitted) their affections, the Kings and Queens had most joyously set about preparing everything for their union. Just a few short years later, they had happily welcomed a young foal into the world.
"But of course," Oreius said, "We shall return at once." The centaur's cool composure would not betray his excitement to any unfamiliar with him, but to Margaret who knew him well, she could tell just how much he wished to see his family again, even after such a brief time apart.
With that said, Oreius led the way back to the castle, with Haveron close behind.
Upon arrival, Margaret noticed the celebratory banners hung in place, and the servants that bustled about. Though she thought it rather over the top, a small, secret part of her still adored the sentiment behind it. Once she dismounted, Haveron trotted off to assist in any way he could, and Oreius took his leave with a bow.
Margaret didn't get far at all before Peter strode up to her. He wore a bright grin, pulling her under his arm.
"There you are, Margaret! Thought you could hide from the celebration, did you?"
"Not at all," she laughed, wrapping her arm around his middle in return. "I simply wished to start the day off in my own way, that's all."
Peter nodded in understanding. "Of course, of course, as you should. But now, dear Margaret, we must all get ready for the feast."
"As you command, dear brother," she teased with a grin and a mock bow.
He rolled his eyes, poorly concealing a grin, then ruffled her hair, which was still messy from her ride.
"Go on now," Peter insisted. "Leave everything to me."
Margaret waved and headed off to her chambers, unclasping her cloak from her shoulders. When she reached her room, she tossed it over the back of her desk chair and sat down at the vanity.
As she began to detangle her curls, trying to tame her wind-wilded hair into something presentable, her mind wandered with thoughts of the stars. They had spoken to her of a time of peace, but still they foretold a dangerous battle to come. Her dreams hadn't yet warned that this time was near, but Margaret had been certain to inform the others. Peter had given orders for the army to be prepared. Oreius, eager to protect his son, had readily agreed.
Still, Margaret thought to herself, shaking off these morbid thoughts, tonight was not the time to dwell on such things. Tonight was a time of happiness and celebration throughout the kingdom. And so it was on the occasion of any of the Kings' or Queens' birthdays. The Narnians loved their rulers, and wanted to show their appreciation any way and any time they were able.
Margaret's dryad maidservant had laid out a beautiful gown for her, one that she had never seen before. The underskirt and bodice were the same shade of blue as the Northern Sky, decorated with silver embroidery, and the gentle gray of the outer layer matched her eyes perfectly.
Once she was ready, the sky had begun to go dark, with just the dusk upon the beach to illuminate the castle. She stepped out of her room to find Peter standing there, ready to escort her to the celebration. He offered his arm, and Margaret took it with a grin. Together, they walked along until they came to their destination.
The grand ballroom had been carefully prepared for a grand feast. As many Narnians as possible had been invited, and even some Archenland allies were present. Peter brought Margaret up to the table at the front of the room and helped to seat her. He remained standing, however, and the room fell silent.
"Narnians," Peter spoke, "And esteemed guests of Archenland... I, King Peter, welcome you here tonight." He took up a golden goblet in his hands, to make toasts no doubt. "We come here tonight to celebrate our dearest Queen Margaret. Today marks her eighteenth year, a great milestone."
Peter turned to her, raising the goblet. All of the guests stood, lifting their goblets as well. Margaret went pink from the attention.
"To Queen Margaret, the Resilient, on this most special day... and may there be many more like it!"
"To the Queen!" the crowd repeated, but no one drank yet.
Margaret took her cue and stood, taking up a goblet in her hand. She looked out over her people with a fond smile.
"My friends," she began, "I am truly blessed by Aslan himself to have governed over such a fine people these last five years. You honor me tonight, just as I hope to serve you honorably and justly. I can only pray that the Great Lion will grant me to stand watch over subjects such as you until the end of my reign... Until the stars rain down from the heavens!"
The people cheered, and all drank together, and their joy seemed to be contagious. Margaret smiled brightly at Peter and the others. It was the best birthday she could possibly have asked for.
Until that night, anyways.
It felt like an age since she'd dreamt, but tonight Margaret felt the full force of her gift. At once when her eyes closed, she was taken up into a prophetic vision.
As far as the eye could see, nothing but cobblestone stretched out to the horizons. The sky above was lined with gray clouds. There before her, what she saw chilled her to the bone.
In these dreams, Margaret had no physical form. It was rather like watching a movie, if it were possible to experience the camera's point of view within the world. That never made the difficult visions easier, and it certainly didn't help now.
A dark, red stain painted the cobblestone beneath a body, impaled by three bolts from a crossbow. The lifeless figure was wrapped in a cloak of the same color as the blood around it, and as Margaret's view came closer, she found herself looking into her own glassy gray eyes. The clouds above were black now, and a peal of thunder split the sky--
Then, she woke with a start.
Her bedsheets clung to her sweat-soaked form, tangling her in a web of cloth. As quickly as she could manage, Margaret freed herself and leapt from the bed, pushing open a set of glass doors to reach her balcony.
Truly, Aslan must have instructed the castle to be built with the unique needs of the five in mind. The tower which held Margaret's bedchambers included a balcony which allotted her the best view of the night sky in all of Cair Paravel.
Desperately, she looked to the heavens, hoping that her subjects above might have reassuring words to whisper to her, but the stars were hard and cold, and their voices were silent. Margaret found no comfort from them that night, for they had nothing to say. The stars knew no more than she, and so they could not help her, or offer her even a little solace.
Unless Aslan himself deigned to speak to her, it seemed that Margaret was truly on her own.