Chapter Text
Aslan asked me once if I remembered when he formed me. I tried to recall it. Here’s what I came up with.
There was a moment before I opened my eyes, where all I did was smell the scent of the pine trees above me and feel the dark earth beneath my body. Breathing air for the first time hurt. Harsh and burning and raw until, with my second breath, the pain withdrew. I opened my eyes and (this part Aslan tells me all the time), I saw Aslan, and I smiled like I’d known him for years upon years. He smiled back at me, the kind that made his eyes crinkle.
“Delilah.”
I already knew his name, “Aslan.”
I reached for his face and pressed my hand into his mane, because I didn’t know better. I snatched my hand back when a horrifying sizzling sound rose to my ears, and he winced lowly.
Bringing my hands back to my chest, I look at him, “W-”
“Careful, child. I made you of this earth, the rising sun, and my breath. You’re still warm.” He still smiled at me, I was already forgiven.
But I knew I’d hurt him. I looked down at my traitorous hands and saw the shimming waves of heat in the air above them.
“Come,” he said, “I made this for you.” And then he showed me my cottage, the porch, the thick-paned windows, the soft bed. The stone floor, the fireplace, the table. He barely fit inside, so he stuck his head through the door and watched me wander the house. My home.
In the months following, he stayed with me. Many of the first nights I slept with him on the porch, too jittery to part from him. We ventured out into the woods surrounding my glade, into the thick trees that dappled the ground with shadow. He spent hours showing me which berries were safe to eat. How to forage for nuts and mushrooms in the damp soil. And despite my wary disapproval, he showed me how to set a simple trap to catch rabbits.
Most days I ran around the glade, the grass tickling under my soles, with a dull wooden sword. Aslan would call out the defensive and offensive stances and attacks he’d shown me. I would duck, roll, swipe, stab, fighting against an imaginary enemy. Once he was satisfied with my technique, he would reward me with a story and a jam cake. I would sit on the porch, shins covered in tiny bruises from imbalanced swings of my sword. He would speak in that steady voice of his as I licked my fingers, sucking off each drop of spilled jam.
He would always tell me strange stories. Of magic, always. Of deep woods and secrets. And deep water, covered in so many flowers it appeared to be a field. He told me about crowns and battles and castles. And even when I was scared, covering my eyes, I knew it would be alright. Aslan’s stories always had happy endings.
He gave me my first knife when he was certain I could handle my wooden one even in my sleep. It was almost as long as my forearm, and I loved the heft to it, the way the sun would shift across the iron. I loved to run my fingernail across the leather of its hilt. I’d press the flat of my thumb against the etched flower at its base when I was scared. It was the most precious thing in the world to me
Together we planned out my garden so that I would have some food readily available. He would carefully watch me from the porch, or in a patch of sunlight as I walked along the rows, sowing the dry little seeds.
When the sun would begin to set, he would sit me down and explain to me the basics of his language by the light of a fire. I would roast nuts for us and repeat the words after him. I took up the language quickly, and eventually, much of our conversations became a mix of Narnian and his tongue. It was low and musical, at some points almost raspy, and at others airy. I loved the feel of it in my mouth, but I loved the warmth in his eyes more.
I learned history, science, reading and writing, mathematics and calligraphy. And he left books for me in subjects he knew I was curious about. Herbs and flowers, maps of Archenland, descriptions of mermaids and eagles, Calormen poetry, diaries from sea captains and generals. I would spend quiet hours with Aslan as he napped, pouring over the thick volumes, with rich covers and gold leaf lettering that made my fingers shaky to touch the onion-skin pages.
In the evenings, he would sit with me underneath a rich navy sky. There, curling up against his side, he would tell me the names of each constellation, teaching me the corresponding myths simply to entertain me. It was there when he broke the news to me. He couldn’t stay.
I stood up from where I was sitting, my hand leaving its spot in his fur.
“You can’t leave me!” I argued, stomping my foot, even as I looked down and met his solemn eyes.
“I have work to do, little one.” He replied, with a finality.
Scowling disbelievingly, I whispered, “That’s more important than me?”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you make me if you’re just going to leave me out here!?” I flushed hot, wanting to argue and punch his side with my small fist. I didn’t.
“Because Narnia was missing you, Delilah. Narnia will need you.”
“I don’t want to be here alone,” I whined, desperate. I’d missed the point of what he was saying, childishly flitting to the real reason I didn’t want him to go.
“Come here, Delilah.” I crouched back down where he was lying. “You won’t be alone. Never alone. I’ll always be here.” He presses a heavy paw against my chest.
“I’m scared,” I leaned into his touch. The heat had left my body weeks ago, but I’d always be warmer than anyone I’d ever met.
“It’s alright to be scared.” He paused for a heavy moment, “But I wouldn’t leave you unless I knew you’d be alright without me. I’ll be back soon, once my work is finished. Lay down. Let’s enjoy this night. Tell me about Cassiopeia, child.”
I wiped my tears and began, “Well, Cassiopeia was...”
I should’ve argued with him, I should’ve asked him questions. Looking back, this was my first mistake.
I sweep the grass off my porch with my broom, careful not to push anything onto my bare feet. The wind changed recently, promising a storm. I don’t like them. Slivers of wind would slip through from underneath my door and whisper around my cottage. I would dive underneath the covers, huddling in my bed, begging that each crack of thunder will be the last. Aslan used to chuckle at the faces I’d pull. The smell of his fur used to be all it took to calm my racing heart.
It’s been a couple of years since I first met Aslan when I was seven. Now I’m ten, two numbers together, much more mature than just one. Aslan visits every month or so, bringing gifts. Ribbons to tie in my hair, to trail behind me in the wind. Soft summer dresses, cool shifts. Thick paper and small jars of pigment to paint with. A leather-bound shield.
On my birthday, he seemed sad, which I’d never seen before. I tried to shrug off the big bags under his eyes. He’d brought me a twin knife to the first one he gave me. I immediately grabbed the two and raced to the clearing to practice against the dummy he’d brought me months before. Later, he’d showed me how to sharpen it and made me promise to be careful. I’d laughed, running my finger over the blade but he didn’t.
He seemed slow to leave that night. I’d tucked myself into his side, pressing a kiss onto his muzzle. He’d smiled, but it took a lot of effort. Something was in his eyes that I hadn’t been able to interpret.
It’s been three months since I’ve seen him.
It’s gotten steadily colder since. And sometimes when I’m sleeping, I hear the shrieking of the trees, the clash of weapons, or the burning of...something. But when I get out of bed to investigate, the sounds drift away. I’m left with prickly goosebumps and dread in my stomach. So, I’ve started tucking my knife under the mattress. I touch the edge of it on nights when I’m scared and stare at the ruby drop that beads on my fingertip.
I know there are other people, possibly ones that could help. Aslan said there are. But I’m so far out; my world mostly consists of nymphs, fauns, trees, and sky. I don’t know who I’d even tell. I don’t even know what I would say.
The storm finally blew in that night, bringing snow, piles of it. I noticed it while taking my rabbit off the fire for supper. The pale flakes swirled through the air outside my window. It’s too early for snow. Two weeks ago was the stifling height of summer.
I leave the rabbit still steaming at the table and step outside. With the snow comes the wind. It blows me around as I stand in the open, damp slush under my bare feet, grey sky above me. The dread I’d been feeling spikes. Something is wrong. Very, very wrong.
Under my breath, I murmur, “Aslan, where are you?”
There’s no reply.
“Aslan?” I cup my hands around my mouth.
The wind snatches my words and erases them, buries them in the suffocating snow.