Daughter of Nowhere || A Narnia (Prince Caspian) Story

10: The White Witch

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?"