Title: The Only Humans In Narnia

Summary: Aslan won't tell you anyone else's story, even if everyone else is dead. A dark LWW AU.

Warning: Here there be death. Don't read if your vision of Aslan is sunshine and roses.

Author's Note: Thank you to songsmith for inspiring this fic by answering a call for prompts on twitter over a year ago. (The prompt, incidentally, was "Alone by water." The, uh, "water" part of it got cut out. "Alone" stuck, though!) Slightly appalled at how long it took me to finish this, but at least it's going up now!

Another thank you to ruthstewart and freudiancascade for all the beta work. You ladies are both awesome!

—X—

The Beavers were resting at the peak of the hill, flat on their stomachs so their heads would barely show above the grass to anyone on the other side. As she got near, Lucy crouched, then dropped right down on her arms and knees to slither awkwardly beside them. The grass tickled her throat but it smelled fresh with life.

"Look dearie," said Mrs. Beaver in a hushed voice. "It's Narnia in spring."

Lucy turned her eyes outward and could not help the short intake of breath. For so long, she had remembered only the icy plains and snow-swept hills, the bare tree branches and frozen river banks. Now, green had returned to Narnia once more. The trees were full, the rivers alive, and the fields waved in all different shades. Other colours were visible too, belonging to the blossoms that were already opening.

When she turned her head to the right, Lucy could see the opalescent castle that rose over the mouth of the great river. She'd forgotten what it looked like, had almost begun to think it was the hopeful dream of a naive little girl. Six years had passed since the night she'd fled with the Beavers as the winter storm waged around them; Cair Paravel had been hidden behind a cloak of grey. She pushed the memory away, ignoring the pain that threatened to follow.

Mr. Beaver motioned to the left. "Aslan's Camp," he said, "Or what once was."

She could remember bright banners and tents dotting the hillside once, but there was nothing but grass now. "Would they have built camp elsewhere?"

"So soon after the last?" He considered the possibility before grunting, "They'll be too scared, I'd reckon."

But then, a crisp brass note cut through the air. Lucy shivered at the sound of it. "Orieus's horn." She lifted her eyes, scanning the landscape until something bright in the distance caught her eye. "There is a camp," she said, and pointed.

There was little doubt now as to their course of action. The camp would be the destination of the four, and therefore it was where she must go.

—X—

Aslan was bigger than Lucy remembered.

She knelt in the grass before him, aware of the Beavers at her back and the absence at her side. This time, no crowd gathered as she placed herself at the lion's mercy; she was no longer a hope for the future, but a reminder of the bitter past.

"Welcome, daughter of Eve," said the lion, and she felt his breath on her face.

Once, her tension had eased at those words. Now, she didn't know what to say. When she was younger in so many ways, it had been easy to speak her mind to Aslan. She'd been able to tell him her doubts and fears, hopes and wishes. And then he had been killed and had taken too long to return.

Her knees ached from the hard earth. Lucy stared down at the ground, her loose hair hanging between herself and the lion. One question she had, and it burned her tongue for holding it in. Yet she could not bring herself to ask for fear of what the answer might be.

He knew, of course. "Tell me your troubles, dear one."

Still, she hesitated. Fingers fidgeting, Lucy tried to think of anything else to say, and failed. "Please," she said at last, "Just tell me — why?"

"I will tell no story but your own."

"But that's not fair!" she snapped, and at last looked up. From behind came the the Beavers' inhalations of surprise. Lucy took a breath and worked to control her voice. "They were my family; it's my story, too."

His eyes were unfathomable. "There is a time for explanations, daughter of Eve. Now is not that time. The four approach — put aside your doubts."

When Lucy turned, she could see the creatures of the camp setting down their tools in preparation for the new arrivals. Even Aslan was moving away — toward them, she realized.

Mrs. Beaver placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Lucy took a deep breath and rocked back onto her heels before rising. There were grass-stains on her trousers and she wiped at them absently.

"Come along, dearie," said Mrs. Beaver sadly. "The four are here."

—X—

It hurt to see them. Perhaps it was the way the eldest carried herself, alert and wary, one hand on the hilt of her sword — Peter's sword — while the other hand rested on her sister's arm. Or perhaps it was the brothers, twin archers, dark and tall with the same creased brow that Lucy still saw in her dreams. Perhaps it was the youngest, eyes shining and a laugh on her lips —

Lucy hadn't expected the surge of memories that washed over her, pressing on her chest until she almost could not breathe. She gasped, eyes and heart burning. But though it hurt to watch, she could not tear her gaze from the children as they strode confidently through the camp.

All four of them had made it. She tried not to feel envy as they knelt before the lion. So proud, they looked. So hopeful and adventurous. They hadn't felt the terror of losing a sibling to the grip of darkness, had not spent the night huddled in a den to hide from hunting wolves. Perhaps they would have a chance after all.

Perhaps.

There was no cordial, she noted. The youngest was armed with a smaller version of her sister's sword, and the twins had their bows and quivers. Nor was there a horn, nor anything else that Lucy could expect to have magical properties. She wondered if Father Christmas had realized his error in placing such objects in the hands of children — but then, it could be argued that handing them weapons of war was an equally bad decision.

All the same, she could not quite bring himself to blame Father Christmas. None of the options were good ones, and he was clearly doing the best he could.

Her vision began to swim, and Lucy blinked hard to dispel the tears. Reaching out, she took hold of Mrs. Beaver's shoulder. The beaver reached one paw to her arm in silent support. On Lucy's left, Mr. Beaver pressed against her side to hold her up.

Together they stood and watched and listened as the four received their blessing.

And may they succeed where we failed, Lucy added silently.

—X—

The boy found Lucy beneath the old ash tree that guarded the western edge of the camp. She'd balanced her dagger on its point, flicking her fingers to spin and catch and spin and catch.

"You're human," he said with surprise. "Daughter of Eve, I mean. I thought you were a dryad at first, but — well, you're not."

He'd drawn near enough that she could reach out and rap on his knees if she so desired. Lucy spun her dagger once more before plucking it from the air. "And you are a son of Adam."

His feet shuffled and Lucy stifled a sigh. "You may sit, you know."

He dropped down gratefully, and Lucy lifted her eyes. He had dark scruffy hair, round cheeks, and a hesitant smile that revealed a gap between his front teeth. "I thought there weren't any humans in Narnia."

"You're here."

"Oh, well." He looked mildly embarrassed. "The satyrs said —"

He cut off, but Lucy understood. "Overwhelmed?"

"Why us?" he blurted. "What's so special about us?"

She shrugged and pushed the blade of her knife into the earth again.

There was a flutter above them and then a bird landed on her knee. "Mrs. Beaver was looking for you, milady."

The boy looked up at that. "Milady?"

"Not really," she said quickly. "I'm Lucy."

He stood up with her and held out a hand. Lucy stared at it absently until a faded memory sprung to mind — shaking — she was supposed to — but he'd already dropped it again. "Sorry," he said, "I keep forgetting. Habit, you know."

"I remember." She paused, uncertain for an instant, recalling lessons from her time on Galma. "Your majesty," she said with a half-curtsy.

He looked vaguely surprised. "Oh, that. I'm just — just Samson."

"Well. Hello, Samson." She held her hand out just as he had done a moment before. The boy grinned and gripped it tight. His fingers were soft; he had yet to develop the archer's calluses she remembered from her sister's fingertips.

She ignored the thought. "Might I see your bow?"

Samson was all too eager to share, if awkward in lifting it over his head. "A gift from Saint Nicholas," he told her eagerly. "Would you believe that? I'd always thought he was a fairy tale."

"It's very beautiful," she told him, running a hand over the decorative carvings. "Have you practised much?"

"Not much," Samson confessed. "Would you like to — I mean, if you —"

She shook her head so quick the wisps of her hair flew into her face. "Mrs. Beaver is waiting for me," she explained, but smiled. "And besides, I've never been one for archery. It would be good for you to practise, though. You won't have long."

"Long for what?" he asked curiously, and a small pit of cold formed in her stomach. Had no one told him? Or had he already dismissed the threat as an easily defeated fairy tale evil?

Yet, she could not bring herself to explain. "Well, what's the point of having a bow you cannot shoot?"

—X—

When she next saw Samson, he was returning from the archery range. His hair hung limp on his forehead, feet dragging tiredly as he came up the path.

"You practised," she said, mildly surprised that he had taken her advice.

Samson lifted his head, and a grin flashed across his face. "I did," he said proudly. "And for longer than Thomas. He's more interested in strategy than shooting arrows at a target."

Lucy fell into step beside him with a smile of her own. "I remember spending the whole afternoon at the targets," she told him. "It was the first time I'd ever thrown my dagger before." She winked at him and flipped the weapon into the air, watching the blade glint cheerfully in the light of the sun before plucking it from the air once more.

"Might I ask you a question, Lucy?"

The serious tone in his words caught at her. "All right," she said, somewhat cautiously, sliding her dagger back into its sheath.

"You never explained, earlier, how you came to be here. One of the animals said you were from Galma but not of Galma. I don't understand."

She was still gripping her dagger's hilt tight. "What else did you hear?"

"I heard that Galmans have skin as dark as mine. That they never travel to Narnia, ever. And that — well, that you are not Galman."

She did not know how to admit the truth. "Then where do they say I am from?"

"They don't! Or if they do, it is elsewhere. And that makes no sense."

"And where would they say that you and your siblings come from?"

The boy opened his mouth to retort, then paused as the answer came to him. "But we're the only ones," he said feebly.

She stopped in the middle of the track and held out a hand. "Let's start again," she told him. "My name is Lucy Pevensie and, six years ago, I was in your place. I just want to help."

He looked at the offered hand but did not shake. "I don't understand. You were —?"

"Like you," she finished.

"Did you come on your own? Why are you here now? Did you —"

She dropped her arm again. "It's in the past. Right now we need to focus on defeating the witch."

"Of course," he replied. But when she looked into his eyes, Lucy knew he would not stop thinking about their conversation any time soon.

—X—

When night fell, Lucy dreamed of her siblings.

Susan's soft hand brushed the hair from Lucy's face — Peter's tight arms enveloped her in a hug — Edmund's teasing grin and encouraging nod —

Come back, she tries to plead, but the howl of wolves cuts through the air and stabs her heart with fear.

The world shifts. She watches helpless from the top of the cliff as her brothers fight a pack of were-creatures. Edmund trips, Peter lunges, neither seeing the approaching danger. Lucy fumbles to draw her cordial from her belt but it slips from her grip, glinting in the moonlight as it drops to the battle below.

Now, she is in another home. Susan lies in a nest of blankets, forehead shining with sweat. The medicine dryad makes soft noises, whispering to the Beavers that the infection has spread and it will not be long now. From the bunk where she pretends to sleep, Lucy reaches for her cordial before she remembers that it's gone, lost in the wastelands of a gruesome battle.

The wolves howl again, sharp and close, and Lucy gasps. The terror envelops her, threatens to strangle her, and —

She woke suddenly in sweat-coated sheets. The tent was dark and still, no sound but her own heavy breathing. With the memories tumbling in her mind, it was easy to feel guilt over past mistakes. She ducked her head, slowing her breaths as she reminded herself that none of it had been her fault. It had not been her decision to pull four children across worlds. They had never been given a choice — only a war.

Her heart rate began to slow, and she fell back against the pillows.

In the distance, the warning horn blew.

—X—

When she emerged from her tent a few minutes later, the camp had become a flurry of motion. Lanterns and fires glowed red through the camp as soldiers rushed between the tents, already dressed in battle armour.

In the distance, Samson's eldest sister stood with Aslan, consulting even as she buckled on her sword belt. A faun passed her a helmet, and the girl stared at it briefly before placing it upon her head. The lion looked at her with pride and approval.

Lucy's nightmare was still fresh in her mind. It clashed against the scene before her, making Lucy sick with apprehension. She turned away, only to catch sight of the youngest of the four dashing between the tents. A moment later, two boys came running up the path, quivers on their backs and bows in hand.

"Wait," Lucy called to them.

The brothers stopped. "Lucy," Samson said, eyes bright with excitement. "It's time. It's now! The witch's forces are attacking!"

The chill of horror curled around her stomach. This was too soon, no one was prepared —

Samson's brother raised his bow overhead. "This is our chance for victory!"

No, she thought, This isn't a chance at all.

Thomas was too impatient to wait for her opinion. He spun on his heel and sprinted up the path. Samson hesitated. "It's fine, Lucy," he told her, perhaps reading the fear in her face, "We have Aslan on our side! How can we fail?"

—X—

The battle was an ugly affair.

—X—

The sun rose in a blood-red sky and Lucy woke to a throbbing arm and throbbing heart. The camp was silent save for the cries of scavenger birds wheeling overhead. When she sat upright, her dagger fell to the ground beside her, the metal stained brown with the dried blood of her opponents.

Bodies lay strewn among the half-burned tents and pavilions. Banners that had once waved boldly in the wind had been trampled into the ground. Lucy caught sight of a familiar face, eyes wide and sightless, and nausea burned her throat. She doubled over, choking up the contents of her stomach until there was nothing left. After, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve and then crawled toward the body to close Mr. Beaver's eyes.

She looked up hastily and saw Aslan a few feet away.

Fury rose up in her. With her good hand, Lucy snatched her dagger from the ground and scrambled to her feet. The world tilted in a brief instant of vertigo before righting itself again. She took a step towards the lion, and then another, and wondered whether there would be time to throw her blade before he swallowed her whole.

Aslan raised his head to stare at her, eyes wide and deep and hollow. No longer could she see compassion within them. Instead, Lucy caught reflections of the still landscape around them in which nothing moved save herself and —

Wait. She turned toward the movement and nearly cried out at the sight of the dark arm that reached out across the grass. Forgetting the lion, she dashed up the slope towards the survivor. Her boot touched a patch of blood-slicked grass and Lucy fell hard, catching herself with her bad arm. The pain jolted her but she didn't stop, frantically pushing away the satyr's body to reveal the boy trapped beneath.

"Lucy," he groaned, and she grabbed Samson's hand anxiously and held it tight.

Once upon a time, she would have stared down at him in helpless desperation at the knowledge that her cordial could have healed him in an instant. Six years had passed since then, and Lucy had learned to treat battle wounds — not in the delicate, precise manner of the medicine dryads, but quick and rough so that he could stand and walk with her help.

She set to work quickly, tearing strips from her tunic for bandages and ignoring Samson's pained grunts. "I'm sorry," she whispered, again and again until he reached up suddenly to touch her face.

Startled, Lucy fell silent. It only took another minute before the last bandage was in place, and she glanced up again to plot their course through the carnage.

It was only then that she remembered Aslan, but the lion had already vanished.

—X—

There was no one else to save.

—X—

"We'll go back to the door," she told Samson, once she'd helped him stumble as far from the battlefield as he could manage. They were hidden within a small copse of trees where the dryads had promised to keep watch. "We'll find the door, we'll go back home, and maybe —"

Even now, she could not voice the one hope that had driven her for so long.

Samson shifted with a groan. "Lucy," he said softly, "I don't remember the way."

Her breath escaped in a shuddering hiss. Above them, the leaves rattled with the dryad's sympathies. "You have to remember," she told him. "Just keep thinking. You'll remember." Samson moved again, as though preparing to speak, and she spat, "This country is a poison. We have to leave. We will leave, and it will be better, and —"

"Lucy," he said again, "If you were like us... you didn't come to Narnia alone, did you?"

She met his eyes and in that moment, all the grief that she'd walled away came flooding back. One shaky breath, then another — and then she was sobbing in the undergrowth with dirt on her face and leaves in her hair and so alone save for the whispering dryads and a wounded boy.

—X—

Years passed, and always the rumours floated on the wind. Tales of uprisings in Narnia, a cause that never quite managed to die despite the rebel blood that watered the ground. Sometimes, Lucy would hear talk of children from another world returning hope to the land, and her pulse would quicken in her ears.

"What if we went back?" she would ask Samson sometimes, in the dark of the Calormene night.

"What if we died?" he would respond. And then, sometimes, she'd feel the brush of his hand upon her face. "Do you want to go back?"

And the answer would hover on her lips, unspoken and unacknowledged.

—X—

The fire burns low in the badger's hole and four children huddle close to the flames to keep warm.

"I don't understand," says the eldest, tall and gangly and seated on the lowest stool. "Why can't we help? I thought you said we were brought to Narnia to help."

The badger pokes at the flames again. "And end up in a bloodbath, you will. No, we Narnians will fight our own battles, thank you."

"But what shall we do?" cries the youngest. "The way home has been lost."

Something pounds at the door, and the four children jump. The badger mutters to herself and crosses the room. "About time," she says, the door scraping against the floor as she pulls it open. "Hurry up, and mind your heads."

Two strangers duck into the hole, brushing snow from their cloaks and sweeping hoods from their faces. The woman moves with confidence, swinging a pack of supplies off her shoulder as she enters the dwelling. The man that accompanies her is like a solemn shadow at her back, limping quickly through the doorway before he pushes the door closed behind him.

The children gawk at them, uncomprehending.

"But - but I thought we were the only humans in Narnia," says the second-eldest.

"You are," says the woman. She runs her fingers along the hilt of an ornate dagger tucked into her belt, and adds, "But don't fear. We're here to smuggle you out."

—X—

End