So GoldenAshes started a challenge called the spangled series within which fic is inspired by the words of her National Anthem...and I started thinking about my own anthem and the plot bunnies bounded free....

So this is the beginning of the anthem series, based on the words of the Australian national Anthem. More than likely, it'll be a series of one shots.

Hope you enjoy.

Crimson

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In those first weeks which followed, if skirmishes with the remainder of the witch's army were regular and fierce, then the celebrations were even more so.

It seemed to the world that the Narnians were determined to shed the long ache of winter and jump head first, fists flailing and voices raised into summer.

After such a long period of enslavement and many years of chill, freedom was a thing of celebration and warmth the rejuvenation of youth.

There were feasts followed by dancing, followed by a bonfire on the beach, followed by revelry which lasted well into the early hours.

It was mainly the younger folk who celebrated with such madness. It generally is the younger folk after all. The elder are more learned, have gathered more wisdom and are more content to sit and embrace with peace. The younger always feel the need to do something, to live, to enjoy, to make up for lost time, to gain what was taken from them.

And Narnia was a youthful country, unearthed, reborn, shuddering with the new taste of a summer breeze.

The soldiers were heroes. Those returned from marble were legends. The tales they spun were rich with thanksgiving, slightly foreboding and always patriotic, telling of a gory past and a bright future.

"Two sons of Adam, two daughters of Eve." They always began and they always ended with the Lion. Always.

There would be exuberant re-enactments, sometimes made more harrowing by drink, of King Edmund smashing the Witch's wand and of King Peter heroically standing over his brother's battered body protectively.

The young loved freely and fiercely and there were none more loved than their Kings.

King Peter would sit with them, for hours on end, his eyes tired, hair tousled, but always with a smile. Already, at the tender age of fifteen, he was looking upon his subjects with the fondness of a father, with the fierceness of a protector.

A fifteen year old with the weight of a thousand million expectations on his shoulders.

They drew him into mock sparring matches, playing at the Witch, begging him to recall his stories and when he finally surrendered, flushed and filled with bashful pride, the flash of Rhindon would render them all speechless, even as he stumbled through certain moves, a novice yet in the art of battle. But it was not his finesse they revered, it was the unbridled strength and untamed brilliance to his movements which belied a pledge of loyalty to his people and to his family. They were his to command as he was theirs.

King Edmund would be wherever his brother was. And it was that way for all the years which followed.

He was more solemn than his brother. The tales he wove by the light of the fire were of a more moralistic view, resonating of a lessoned learned and learned well. He was never quick to draw his sword, preferring words and mind games. But if the moment called for it, or his family needed him, or a soldier needed aide, he may not have been the strongest but he was the fastest to answer the cry of help. They were his to protect as he was theirs to defend.

The stories would give way to songs of war, then songs of dance and as the moon shone brightly and the stars returned once more, the soldiers would whirl around the fire, a blur of colour, a roar of voices, a pledge of life.

It was not just the soldiers who danced, no, their women and children and friends and families gave everything to the beat, until the beach thrummed with the chanting and thumping of a thousand mouths and feet.

"ei, ei, ei, down, down, down," they would scream and always, someone would be in the midst of the circle playing the death of the witch, crumpling in feigned agony amongst their wild cheers.

If they were hesitant at first, their Queens, who were tiny things with human hands and feet, soon learned that no one cared for elegance around this fire. No, this fire was for passion, for the untamed and for the exuberant.

"May I have this dance?" They would ask in a coy imitation of courtly rituals. For they were royalty, yes, but this was no occasion to observe the customs of rigid courtly manners. This was the occasion to feel, to revel, to bask, to exult. No restraints, no proper words, no crowns. Instead wreaths of newly blossomed flowers were twined in their hair and even the Kings, as the evening wore on, were decked with the earthy gifts of a new summer.

They would whirl and twirl, bare feet kicking up sand and hair flying, until they were exhausted. Queen Lucy, the tiniest of them all, was passed from arm to arm and whirled around until hers was the brightest presence, until they danced if only for one song, to her laughter only. Her bright eyes and wonder filled stories of the Lion inspired the more heartfelt songs of loyalty and faith. And to their endless amusement, though her will was strong, she would often fall asleep, grudgingly so, nestled in her eldest brother's arms, well before the revelry ended.

They were hers to inspire as she was theirs to adore. And if any dared to harm her, the world would surely be ravaged with the fierce anger of her subjects.

When the revelry became too much, when heart beats were too high and emotions ran too freely, the Gentle Queen would step to the middle of the circle, and immediately silence would fall.

She had the loveliest voice, mellow and slightly breathy. She would sing songs of home, songs of love and songs of comfort.

Her voice never wavered, though she sang for a timeless space and every night the nation stopped to listen. Every night she would, without fail, bring them home from the heavens of unbridled emotion, back to Narnia with steadfast hearts and peaceful minds. She was theirs to revere as they were hers to nurture.

For Susan's gentleness, for the reminder that they were not immortal, they loved her deeply.

For Lucy's faith, for her innocence, they loved her boundlessly.

For his protection, for his wisdom, they loved Edmund proudly.

For his loyalty, for his conviction, they loved Peter fiercely.

Though Narnia was a country hundreds old, theirs was a new Narnia, theirs was the reborn, theirs was the flowering of spring.

Winter never held the same power over them as it once had. Instead it brought a solemn remembrance which only sought them to celebrate harder and fiercer in the warmer months.

And then years passed, hundreds, thousands. As they always do. Many things happened and came to pass in that time. And no longer did they revel in their freedom with such abandonment. It became a given, an expectation and a right, not a gift. Such things happen, gifts are often regarded as rights after time has washed away the initial thanksgiving.

But in the archives, in the dusty pages of the libraries of scholars and royals, there were pages which burned with brilliance, trembled with joy and revelled in the eternal summer of freedom.

Theirs was the Golden Age.

None like it would ever exist again.

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hmmmm, I'll hold off on any comments of mine, till I hear what you all have to say......concrit would be fabulously appreciated.