𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 || Tirian of Narnia

Chapter Eleven: Something Wilder

Gravity's intoxicating pull saturated every inch of Tirian's being, weighing down trembling limbs as stars danced in his vision and he slipped into what might have been a dream, save for the whisper of wind through invisible branches and the damp cold soaking into his back.

Not even one patch of moonlight broke the emptiness, the world utterly black when at last the lights bursting in his head subsided, and he stared into nothing for so long he couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed.

He could die here. He could die here and no one would know and nothing would matter, he could sink into the earth and never think again, let the darkness claim him, let it silence the noise in his chest.

But just as the thought flashed into his mind, he felt suddenly that he was not alone.

He bolted upright, head spinning, heart pounding, clutching damp leaves as the hilt of his sword dug into his stomach and a presence rushed around him so thick that he gasped.

But the night remained unchanged, no movement, no break in the darkness, no sound but his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, and the weight of some massive creature hanging over him, invisible, vibrating in his chest.

He glanced wildly around into inky blackness, chest heaving, adrenaline singing painfully through his veins.

Who's there, he wanted to ask, but the air caught in his throat.

And then his father's voice came up from the depths of his mind, like a memory called unbidden to the surface. My son.

Or, was it his father's voice?

He couldn't hear it so much as he felt it, but the words hung there all the same, rich and low and pervasive.

My son.

Warmth flooded his body just as if he'd crawled into his father's bed, candlelight flickering on marble walls, and his hand flew to his middle, as if expecting to find something there aside from his own flimsy tunic.

"Who are you," he breathed, not even a whisper, but he knew the answer the moment he asked.

He'd known it all his life, an image in the back of his mind, stories from his fathers' lips, figures carved in stone older than he could comprehend.

Now that it was here, he only knew that he did not know it nearly well enough.

What have you done, child.

The voice was so like his father's that for a moment he thought again it must be some distant memory, except for the terrible wildness to it, plaguing his mind as if breathed in a nightmare.

He drew a shaky breath, cold air raking his lungs.

"I—" His voice cracked in the darkness, too loud, too raw, too real. Only one thought crashed through his mind, but he couldn't say it, not here, not now, not to this thing. He's dead. He's dead and it's my fault.

His lungs constricted, stabbing ice through his chest.

But the question only lingered, unanswered, pressing. It was looking for something else.

What else could possibly matter? His father was dead.

What have you done?

Thunder rumbled again inside him, words flashing back to his head.

"What good does it do us now, huh? What good did it do my father?"

"I don't want your help!"

But even then, the question hung, unmoved, even as his stomach flipped over and his hands trembled in freezing cold, soaking wet undergrowth.

Energy swelled in his chest, choking it out of him. What have you done?