A Cold-Hearted Tale

The blades of silver whirl around me as I fight for a dead man’s love. My hair is a curtain of pale blond the shields my eyes from the battles raging around me. Jadis. My name bears a curse upon this land in the eyes of my subjects. Looked upon as a tyrant, a villain who’s reign must be ended, I raise my swords and recall in anguish the day that winter became my home.

I can still hear my scream that echoed across the frozen canyons like the calls of a thousand raptors. I can feel the dull thud as his body was hurled to the ground, his fangs still beared for the fight. But he could not win against the power of the mighty cat. His silver fur was parted at his neck to reveal a horrific wound. In the mind of the emporer, justice had been served at last.

Still I cried for him. Still I listened in silence to the lonesome, hauting howls of his pack. Still, my dear Quinton was dead. He may have died a wolf, but he was once a man. He was not a king, I loved him nonetheless. And regardless of the death of my father, I did not consider myself a queen, but a mage.

I was a mage in love with my knight. However, that knight did not have Aslan, the emporer’s favor. And so Aslan, in great mercy, cursed him. One evening he hunted in the woods, stirring tracks in the snow, but as long as I waited for him, he did not return. Fearing for his safety, I ventured from the palace into the forest, and found him circling his catch in the form of a wolf. I knew as soon as his eyes met mine, awestruck and yet horrified, that this was the work of Aslan. I could not take him and his newfound pack with me, so I payed him visits, not caring that he was no longer human. I could see in his expressive wolf face that he still loved me.

I swore to him that I would break the curse, that he would become my king. That whether or not Aslan thought highly of him, that he would rule with me forever, for immortality was the gift of a mage. Granted it was a nifty little gift, but I could still fall in battle. And so could he.

I never did break his curse, and in the end I was beaten by time. And by the great lion himself. I thought that had found a magical cave, filled with crystals that could reverse spells. But Aslan was clever, and, wishing the death of my lover, and of myself, he stood before that cave for ten day and ten nights, waiting for the venturing queen and her wolf to find him.

In a circle of twenty wolves, I entered the canyons said to withhold the secrets of the cave. It was a dark winter, and the full moon was high. My right hand rested on Quinton’s furry head; my left grasped my sword. We held our ground in the wake of our own destruction, and as short as the battle was between us and the lion, it was bloody.

I ended between the cat and the wolf. I watched the golden fangs tear open Quinton’s throat and the bared teeth dull, the intense blue eyes fade and grow misty in the morning light. I cried a passionate “NO!” but it was too late for magic. Aslan vanished into the foggy air, leaving no tracks but those pacing circles he had made around his victim. The deed was finished.

I sank to my knees, cursing the lion over and over again, though I knew that nothing could be done. The other wolves sat on their haunches and bayed like lost hounds to the moon, their calls repeating themselves as echoes, as hollow and tragic as the queen herself hunched over the body of a dog.

Though Aslan’s deeds could not be reversed, I amended that they could be compensated in the death of the lion. Many would have disagreed with me, but I was, and still am, somewhat impulsive.

I broke off a crystal from the magical cave and bound with a staff, allowing me to turn living objects into stone statues. These statue I placed above Quinton’s grave, a reminder that all who supported Aslan had supported Quinton’s death. His wolf pack served me loyally, and became like extended family, which I’m sure my few living human relatives thought thought to be a little odd, but I never spoke to them.

I kept track of the number of hours since Quinton had died, and by hour eight hundred and eigty-eight thousand, my plan was complete. I issued a false prophecy, stating that two sons of Adam and two daughters of Eve would bring my destruction. I was strongest in the winter, so magic spread ice and snow to no end.

I lead four children who fit my descriptions into my domain, intending them to side with me, but I was unable to keep track of the situation, and they ended up with a stirring group of rebels, bringing hope and cheer to Aslan until I had a full-scale rebellion on my hands.

I met the lion on the highest point in Narnia, where, if it seemed that he was defenseless, he fought my magic. It may have appeared that I had slain him without hesitance, but he had teeth and claws and was bound to no oath. But my fiery passion, harbored in my broken heart for decades of immortality brought me to victory. Or so I thought.

Because now I fight to save my life, I fight people who hated me for so long, hated my flaws. They do no see this how I do. They do not hear my cries as the wolf falls beneath the lion’s paws. They do not stand motionless as the howls shadow the full moon with grief. They do not know my story.

So I fight them with all of my strength and skill and magic, and although it is their life or mine, guilt tears at my flesh with a cat’s claws, reaching my heart just as the roar resonates through every inch of the battlefield.

There is no going back, even when facing my death. Facing my mistakes, the passion that brought me to a violent end, the sorrow that clutched my heart and froze it into endless wintertime. I watched it melt, and I still do. As the lion is upon me, the blurred face of my love appears behind the gread golden head, as if tears still cloud my eyes.

Come to me, it seems to be saying. It is human again, those pale blue eyes gazing into my own. I have ten seconds to tell them the truth. Ten seconds to show my past to those who believe me to be heartless. Ten seconds left in my master plan, before it fails me.

Ten. I feel the claws tighten on my chest. I do not know what to say.

Nine. I bring my swords in a cross over my neck.

Eight. I murmur my final words to Quinton.

Seven. With my free hand, I break the crystal from my staff.

Six. I do not need to speak to them.

Five. I wish this moment will end in oblivion.

Four. The cat’s hot breath is in my ear.

Three. He repeats his curse. I forget it as it comes.

Two. Quinton speaks. Jadis. My name is no longer cursed.

One. I remember.
I feel no pain as the lions teeth sink into my throat. Quinton reaches out, and a thought grasps me in my final moments, forcing itself through my crushed lungs into the open air. “Impossible,” I murmur, and as my eyesight fades to blackness, Quinton’s face becomes clear. From Aslan, from all who separated us, from the barrier between life and death, we have escaped.

At last, we are free.