Chapter Text
A son of Adam had taken the throne, almost as the prophecy had foretold.
The White Witch's eternal winter had not ended, though the White Witch herself had. At least, she had "gone away", not exactly dead but not present in the physical way. With a son of Adam ruling Narnia in her name, she didn't have to manifest physically, any more than Aslan would under the rule of his chosen "heroes". (None of whom had stayed in Narnia. Eventually, they'd given up on trying to sway their brother. There hadn't been much of a choice.)
You knew nothing of Narnia, of course. All that you knew was that there wasn't supposed to be an icy forest at the back of this vintage wardrobe. You wandered deeper, mainly because you expected to find a wall, or at least an explanation as to how this trick was being done.
But the farther you walked from the opening of the wardrobe, the more it seemed like this was a real forest, and real snow, and a real...lamppost.
You didn't plan to stay long, so you didn't bring a coat.
It didn't feel that cold, anyway.
At first.
By the time you got to the point of both 'No, there are no walls, this is in fact a forest' and 'Yes, the snowy woods are, in fact, cold', you had trouble finding your way back to the lamppost and the wardrobe.
You didn't think it was entirely your fault, either; you had walked in pretty much a straight line, but somehow all of the trees you'd passed seemed to be elsewhere on the way back, and making sure that you passed the same trees only drove you deeper into the woods.
Eventually, you heard the faint sound of sleigh bells.
You moved in the direction of the sound and shortly crossed paths with a large, white sleigh pulled by large, white horses. You stumbled out of the way, but the vehicle merely pulled to a stop.
Riding the sleigh (or driving it, you supposed) was a lean young man who looked as though the sun's rays hadn't touched his skin in years. In stark contrast to his pallor, dark-brown locks framed his face, streaked and tipped though they were (in places) with frost. He wore extravagant furs, and under them, a tunic and sash like a fairy tale prince. He even had a white crown on his head, though it was as difficult to look at as snow in bright daylight.
It seemed that you ought to ask him for help getting back to your home, or at least tell him that you were lost, but something made you hesitate. His eyes were a pleasant shade of brown, but they seemed sharp, and wickedly intelligent, and dancing with mirth. He hadn't reacted to finding you in his path. Not with surprise or concern or anything. Just a smooth expression and that sharp, mirthful gaze.
Your shivering won out, however.
"I'm lost," you said, lamely, your breath visible in front of your face as you spoke.
The princely young man tilted his head, and for a second it seemed he might say nothing. Then a silvery voice left his mouth: "How dreadful."
You could have sworn that the forest itself quieted when he spoke. No creature moved. No tree swayed with the breeze. No snowflake dared to touch down. The wind held its breath.
"You must be freezing." The young man smiled, but it was very slight; barely a muscle moved in his face. If anything, it contributed to the general look of lofty amusement. "Come here; I can get you warm."
You hesitated. This was all so surreal. A man in a sleigh in a wardrobe. And the way he waited; he didn't move towards you, didn't ask you any questions or offer any information. He just presented his offer and waited.
You succumbed, because you were cold and couldn't find your home.
As you climbed up into the sleigh, the young man's smile grew and then softened, and he wrapped his furs around you, and pressed a silver chalice of something warm and sweet-smelling into your hands. You didn't drink it; it felt good enough just to hold.
"The trees told me that someone new had entered my woods," he intimated. There were flecks of snow in his dark eyelashes, which seemed not to bother him. "Narnia hasn't seen a daughter of Eve in many moons." He raised his hand a bit, to nudge the chalice to your lips. He wore a ring on almost every finger; they were as bright as his crown.
Before you fully processed it, you were drinking the warm beverage. It was like hot chocolate, but not quite. Hot chocolate, but a little to the left. Warmth passed down your throat, to your stomach, and then radiated out to your skin all at once.
"My wardrobe wasn't supposed to have a forest in it," you said.
His smile grew still more, now baring his rows of pearly teeth. "You should rest, now."
"No, I'm...supposed to go home," you said. Then: "Can I have some more hot chocolate?"
He poured you more.
(You weren't sure why he didn't correct you about what this drink was called. You knew that it wasn't really hot chocolate, but he didn't correct you.)
The stranger raised his hand, and the horses started to walk, despite the fact that they were facing the opposite direction and the stranger hadn't made any sound.
"I'm supposed to go back to the wardrobe," you repeated. "I don't know why all of this was here, to begin with..."
He didn't answer. He listened to your rambling.
"Where am I?" you finally asked.
"You're in Narnia. The magical realm of which I am king."
"King?" you echoed. A shift in the lighting drew your attention to your surroundings; there was less shade, because there were fewer trees. That wasn't right. You weren't supposed to be leaving the forest; the wardrobe was in the forest, and the wardrobe was your way home.
Also you were out of hot chocolate again.
"Can I have some more hot chocolate?"
"Later," the king said.
You found that, without the beverage to keep you warm, the wind seemed to bite at you harder and harder, the farther you sat from the king. You leaned as closely against his side as your modesty allowed, and he kept his furs around you, and the cold was bearable, but your nose was already starting to feel congested.
The king trailed his fingertips over the curve of your wrist. He stared at the site of contact as though fascinated. "I've not touched another human since my siblings left," he mused. Each time he spoke, it seemed as though he were making a weighty decision. As if he didn't usually speak aloud but was choosing to make an exception just this once. As if his very words were indulgences that he was offering you, the value of which could not be matched in gold. "I've not asked anyone's name for longer still. Everything and everyone in Narnia, I have the power to name myself. When I am bored, I name the snowflakes."
"Is that a castle?" you asked, sitting forward to squint at the horizon, and then recoiling back into the king's arms when the chill of winter hit you all at once.
"My castle," the king replied. "There is more hot chocolate inside."
You sighed at the thought.
For a while, the king silently moved his lips, as though framing a word that was so impossibly important that he refused to say it aloud without rehearsal. At last it left him: "Edmund. I was called Edmund, before I was called the king."
"Edmund?" you repeated. "That's a nice name. My name is-"
"Don't you listen?" The king smirked impishly. "It's been such a while since I've had to repeat myself. Everything and everyone in Narnia, I have the power to name myself. I will give you your name."
You frowned a bit, at this, but you felt viscerally that you shouldn't argue until you knew a bit more. As mild-tempered as the king seemed, you were getting the impression that he wielded a dangerous amount of power. Something about the wind going quiet when he spoke gave you a healthy wariness.
"The door to Narnia was opened to you," he continued, pensively. "This land always delivers me just what I want."
This comment made you particularly uncomfortable. As the king showed no signs that he planned to elaborate on this or the naming thing, you turned to look again in the direction of the castle.
"Oh!" you exclaimed. "That's a lot of statues."
It was a veritable forest of them. Some were humanoid with some animal features, and others were animals in their entirety. All were incredibly detailed and posed in different ways. They lined the path to the palace on both sides.
The king lifted a scepter that you hadn't noticed was propped at his other side and laid it across his lap and yours. "Do you like them?" he asked.
They were sort of eerie. Most of them were posed like they were fearful, or in pain. "They're nice," you said politely.
"I can make more. I've heard that there's meant to be a huge lion somewhere. I'd like to have a statue of him." The king's fingertips trailed over his scepter fondly.
The castle was beginning to loom above. Looking out at your surroundings again, you spotted the first sign of life since the forest: a man was out polishing one of the statues, with an air of tenderness and misery more commonly displayed at the sickbed of a loved one. When he spotted the sleigh, however, he dropped into a hasty bow, and his expression just as quickly morphed into a bright, forced-looking smile that reminded you all the more that something was terribly wrong here.
(One more glass of hot chocolate, and then you had to find a way home.)
The sleigh passed the man, and you had to do a double-take when his whole body came into view, because he wore no shirt in the freezing cold, and his lower body appeared to be that of a goat, as did the lower body of the statue he'd been polishing. You gaped at him until the cold was too unpleasant and you had to huddle against the king again.
Edmund looked as entertained as ever, by your reaction, and he gave no explanation.
The sleigh entered a tunnel underneath the castle and came to a stop.
A little man in a long, drooping hat ran up and unrolled what looked like a large wolf pelt for the king to step out onto. "Welcome home, sire," the little man said, smiling just as hugely and with just as much clear desperation (almost pained) as the half-goat creature had. "Dinner is ready, and a room has been prepared for your..." He trailed off, waiting for the king to supply him with a word to call you.
The king eyed his servant archly before saying, "My Delight, for now," he decided. "But you will not speak of her."
"Of course, sire." The little man bowed low. "Did the horses behave to your liking?"
"Yes, they may go," the king allowed, and his servant went to quickly untie the horses from the sleigh.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," two voices said in unison, and it sounded startlingly as if they were coming from the horses, but that was...
Impossible? Could anything really be considered impossible, today? Either this was a dream, or the word 'impossible' was losing meaning.
Still, you eyed the horses warily as they trotted away.
The little man stood before the king again, still with his pinned-on smile.
Edmund stared down at his servant for his second, and then twirled his scepter idly between his fingers. The little man winced as if the king had raised a sword, and Edmund let out a laugh. "You may go, as well."
"Thank you, and a thousand blessings, sire." The little man half-ran in the same direction the horses had gone.
Edmund turned toward you, offering a ring-covered hand and a seemingly all-knowing grin. "Come, My Delight," he said. "I'll show you around."