The war was over. Spring had come, melting away the harsh winter that had been present for over 100 years. The four thrones of Cair Paravel were filled with two Sons of Adam and two Daughters of Eve, and the Great Lion had seemingly disappeared. The world of Narnia was finally returning to normal- as close as possible to normal for a world within a wardrobe.

Or so most thought.

The camp near the Stone Table had all but been disassembled, the good creatures returning to their homes, if not the castle itself. Save for one tent. Those who had been to the camp would have recognized it as Aslan’s tent, and it was not empty- but was not filled with the Great Lion. If it had, the half Jinn, half Giant asleep in the bed might not have been asleep in the first place.

She was beautiful, that was as disputable as the fact that she was tall, or the fact she was not human, perhaps. Even her enemies had to admit how stunning she was, golden as the sun, as she met them in battle. But her beauty was like her winter, cold and unattainable, untouchable. Whoever had laid her in the tent had removed her helm and had set it upon her dress and fur shrug, which in turn rested upon a wooden chair near the bed she resided in, her hair splayed artistically on the pillow beneath her head like rays from the sun itself.

When she awoke, the first thought that she called her own was on the fact she had woken at all, and an angry thought it was at that. This thought was shadowed by that of where she was, though that was answered rather quickly by herself. Perhaps, had she not been so angered, she would have wondered why a talking beast like Aslan had a bed within his tent.

It was then, however, that something within the air of the tent shifted, causing her to stiffen. Taking in but one sniff, her eyes narrowed to slits, dangerous slits that cast her gaze sharply from one side to the other. The smell that had reached her was familiar, not to mention contradictory; soft, yet strong, like that of sandalwood.

She hated sandalwood.

Taking in a deep breath, she was surprised to find pain in her one shoulder. A hiss cleft her lips, only to be accompanied by a lower, rumbling sound. Many would have been comforted by such a sound- she, was not. “I am afraid I may have left you a scar.”

The voice made her sit up sharply, like a mousetrap having gone off. Her eyes narrowed to slits once more, mainly due to the lion standing over by the door, the calm lion now caught in her gaze. When she went to speak, however, and found the pain returned once more to her shoulder, such a task became impossible. Gasping in her pain, one of her long, supple-fingered hands went to her right shoulder- only to rub against coarse bandages. Finally looking down upon herself, her harsh eyes took in the sight of her bare chest, and the bandages around both her breasts and right shoulder, the shape like that of a bowman’s harness. “You…” was the solitary word that tumbled past her lips as she looked up at the Great Lion once more, pure loathing upon her face.

“I know,” Aslan said, the calmness in his voice only angering her more. “I did not end your life, and I am not surprised to find you angry with me. I have good reason for such an act, all the same.”

She looked over to the chair upon which her clothes rested then before returning her ice-like gaze to him. “Not good enough, for certain,” were her cold words to him. When he turned his head away with a set of downcast eyes, she shifted to her knees, her hand reaching out and within her shrug before she crawled to the edge of the bed, her one hand gripping at the blanket about her waist. “I killed you once, Aslan,” she murmured, moving her feet under her to crouch on the edge of the mattress like a gargoyle perched on a rainspout, “you are a fool to think I would not try again. And Narnia does not suffer fools.”

Aslan looked to the lady then, only to find her flying at him, a small silver dagger in hand. To catch her was easy enough, though it knocked him to the ground, an act she used to her advantage to pin him there, her dagger at his breast. “You need to rest, your body has yet to fully recover,” he said quietly to her, not a hint of fear within his voice.

Perspiration clung to her brow, but she ignored such a fact, a wild look in her eyes as she pressed the dagger into his fur, reaching flesh to draw a drop of crimson that matted his fur. “I do not need your pity, you great cat,” she hissed at him- before her world suddenly went black.

Catching her on top of him as the dagger clattered to the ground, the Great Lion carefully stood, shifting her to his back so he could once more place her in bed. When the White Witch slept she was like an angel, but when awake, more akin to a demon, it seemed. Sighing, he turned to leave, picking up the dagger in his teeth before slipping out to leave her in peace,

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