Once Upon Another Time

I own nothing, except Elednor.

The Darians are inspired by the Rohirrim from LOTR and the Bards from the Pellinor Series of books, although they do not possess magical powers.

The water was lukewarm as it trickled from the neck of the waterskin and down Elednor's throat, but it was a welcome relief after days of walking on the dusty, pathless dunes of the desert.

Around their temporary campsite, her people strode briskly despite their weariness, readying a fire from the dried out husks of long dead trees bordering the edges of the wasteland they had just emerged from. The sun was setting in a dusky vista of reds and pinks and golds over the Calormene lands. Their last water stop had been at an oasis in the middle of the deserts, and their supplies were running low. With a word and a gesture, Elednor despatched Rumal and Carmin to fetch some more from the brackish, but still drinkable, spring they had found.

All around her, her people were pulling out dried fruits and salted meat from packs, stretching aching muscles and arranging sleeping mats for the night. Elednor let down her own pack, easing the tension from her tired shoulders before a groan reached her ears. Smiling exasperatedly, she turned to find her old nursemaid and the matron of their motley group, Aisla rubbing her aching feet, covered in sores and blisters.

Not that the stubborn old goat would tell me, Elednor thought wryly, as she tied back the long golden waves of her hair and went to help, the skirts of her rough travel dress catching on the rocks.

Not for the first time, she rued the choice of clothing, but they had not passed through any towns they could trade in, and there had not been much left to salvage from their home when they-

Stop it! Elednor cut off the wayward thoughts of her, of their homeland, now lost forever. Sternly, she drew herself up, banished the torturing memories and knelt to smooth healing balm over Aisla's cracked feet.

"Get away wi' yer, yer daft ninny!" Aisla tried to bat her away, but the old woman's hands barely made an impression on the steely muscles beneath Elednor's worn clothes. "Tis no job for a prin-"

"Aisla," Elednor cut her off abruptly, a tone of command slipping into her soft voice. "Do not speak that word. I am no longer that person, and you are under my care, so yes it is my job. Think of it as recompense for all those years I ran rings around you," she added, with a gentle tease, making the old woman fondly swat her shoulder again.

After a meagre dinner, the camp fell into slumber, a watch of two men set up around the camp, as Elednor tried to find a comfortable spot on the hard ground. She gave up, staring at the unfamiliar constellations, her mind wandering rebelliously to their journey.

And the causes behind it.

All of them had lost so much, and yet it warmed Elednor's heart to see her people coping so well, fighting through the trials and the suffering. Her people had always been renowned fighters, living on the grass plains of Daria, as horse herders and musicians.

They had lost so much, but they had never lost hope. They would find a new home, and she would fulfil her promise to her family to protect and serve them until her death.

"My lady!" a harsh shake of her arm made her jerk from her thoughtful gazing, and she sat up and looked into the eyes of her captain, Daryl.

All Darians possessed either blonde or light brown hair, almost without exception and Daryl was no exception with fair colouring and blue eyes. Elednor possessed piercing grey eyes that belonged to her family alone, and they flashed now as she reached for her sword.

"Intruders, sneaking up on us from the East. I think they're slavers," he murmured in her ear, and she nodded once.

"Send ten men around to flank them. Quietly," she hissed, already unsheathing her blade from its tooled leather sheath, inlaid with gold and overlaid with runes for protection and courage in battle.

Elednor followed Daryl as he gathered the men and began to run quietly around the side of a rocky crag which sheltered their party, coming up on a ridge overlooking where the slavers were advancing steadily.

Daryl shot Elednor a censorious glance, but she merely glared back and crouched by his side, sword steady in her hand. Rumal, her second-in-command, knelt by her side, arrow already nocked to the string and ready, poised and waiting.

"They think all that await them are women and children, no match for them," he hissed in her ear, and an unholy smile passed over Elednor's face, as unbeknownst to her, her eyes flashed jet-black.

"Well, let's disavow them of that foolish notion, shall we?" she breathed, signalling to Daryl. He raised his hand, as the well-trained and battle-hardy men along the ridge swapped swords for bows, and took aim, waiting.

Elednor did the same, relishing the feel of the arrow beneath her fingers as she slid it into place, coolly ignoring the nauseous anticipation in her gut as the sound of footsteps came nearer.

Fifteen men, if she was not mistaken. They would pay for their mistake with their lives. The last remaining People of Daria would not be taken by some lowly slavers, outnumbered or not.

Daryl raised his arm, and Elednor felt tension sing through her nerves as she drew the string on her bow back. She could dimly make the figure of a man in the darkness below, carrying a rough scimitar and no armour.

Child's play.

Daryl's arm dropped, and arrows flew from their perches, men crying out in surprise, pain and fear as they were hit in the dark.

"My Lady, stay here with Rumal, Jarin and Leon. Don't argue!" Daryl cut her off impatiently. "We can't afford to lose you or have you injured."

Tersely, Elednor nodded once and nocked another arrow to her bow. With an exasperated sigh, Daryl led a charge forth, onto the Calormen slavers. In the dark, Elednor listened in tense expectation as the sounds of steel clashing and the cries of men sounded in the night, unaware of what was coming behind her.

"My Lady!" Rumal shouted, as a sword came down at her head. Elednor twisted and threw herself onto the ground, rolling to the side and snatching up her sword. She swiped at one slaver's leg, cutting it before scrambling to her feet, tangling in her skirts.

To her left, she saw Leon on the ground, his golden hair splayed over the rocks and blood leaking from a head wound. Heart sinking, she whispered a prayer that he might find his way to the halls of his forefathers, to rest in peace.

"Hold hard!" an unfamiliar voice shouted, and Elednor, Jarin and Rumal were forced to freeze in their fights, as crossbows were aimed at them. Jarin glanced at his Lady, and launched himself recklessly at the nearest, as Elednor screamed for him to stop and Rumal held her back.

Jarin lay dead with an arrow in his heart.

Elednor looked up at her captors, all tall Calormenes in their curly-toed boots and loose clothes, scimitars hanging by their sides. Behind her, only yards away she could hear the battle still going on, Daryl calling the men to rally as she was forced to drop her sword. Rumal glanced at her, shifting in front of her to shield her as the slavers' leader stepped forward.

"Stand aside, boy!" he spat. "We're not interested in you, just your pretty little friend."

"Do not address the Lady like that! Savage!" Rumal snarled, refusing to budge. The slaver smiled, and Elednor shivered. That smile was pure menace.

"Plenty more where you came from anyway, boy!" he murmured silkily, and Elednor glimpsed the flash of silver. Her cry was swallowed back as Rumal collapsed into her, a knife now protruding from his chest as she fell to the ground with him, seeking his pulse.

There was none, his youthful face frozen in a death glare, and Elednor felt the now familiar tearing inside of start, as rage bubbled and her grief made her hands shake.

"Now, now none of that. Can't have tears marring your pretty face," a hand roughly pulled her up, leering down at her and rubbing a strand of hair between his fingers greedily. "Like spun gold. You'd fetch a fine price, pretty one. Eh, lads?"

Jeering erupted from the assembled men, as Elednor debated whether to scream or not. Her face hardening, she yanked her arm away, spun and pulled the knife that had ripped away Rumal's life, and lunged for the slavers' leader. A burning pain erupted in her arm as she was hit with an arrow, her scream abruptly silence as the slaver caught her wrist and threw her to the ground, legs tangled in her skirts. Elednor forced her head up, to proudly glare at her captors through the pain before there was a cold impact on the back of her head, and she fell down into darkness, the slavers' leering faces the last thing she saw for a very long time.

Edmund hated Calormen. He really, truly did hate the blasted country, with its blinding white cities and the sand that got everywhere, and the jostling crowds and sweaty slave markets, and the constant, bleating of "Make way for the Vizier!"

Or some other pompous personage who wouldn't know how to actually do their jobs if it jumped out of a cesspool and slapped them in the face.

It was the slave markets Edmund hated most of all. The trade of human flesh was abhorrent and cruel, utterly unfair. Watching the subdued captives shuffled and prodded around like cattle, chained at neck, wrist and ankles, Edmund the Just was visited with a strong urge to draw his sword and free the lot of them, and then punish the twisted vermin who fed off their despair.

But he could not, because Calormen was not Narnia, and he was here on a diplomatic visit. Thank Aslan it would be only two days until he returned to Narnia, with his men.

"Make way for the Barbarian King and his retinue! Make way!" the caller in front of them yelled to the crowd as they passed the slave markets at last. Irritation picked at Edmund at the caller's words, but he swallowed it down.

These people, who so willingly sold and traded human beings as if they were worth nothing more beyond material wealth, these were the true barbarians.

He caught the eye of Mr Tumnus, Lucy's dear friend and indeed all their friend now these last ten years of their reign.

Tumnus's hairy lip quirked once, as if he guessed his King's thoughts, before a neutral expression returned and they walked quickly up the street, seeking shelter from the sweltering heat.

They were to visit the Grand Vizier Ligan's home, for dinner and entertainment that night before preparing to return home, trade links assured between their two nations. It was rumoured Prince Rabadash would attend their next tournament, to cement the uneasy friendship between their lands.

More likely to see if Susan the Gentle is really as beautiful as the legends claim her to be, Edmund thought cynically. He sometimes wished that his two sisters had not blossomed into such beautiful women.

At last they reached the Vizier's house, where they were greeted by Ligan, dressed in silks and satins, jewels dripping from his sizable body and slave girls hanging off his arm. Edmund restrained his sneer of repugnance, keeping the conversation firmly on trade and politics, while ignoring the attentions of a beautiful, amply-bosomed slave girl with raven hair and tanned skin.

Ligan's palace was a marble dream, decorated with great gilt domes and silk drapes, the floor of the meeting room scattered with deep, comfortable cushions around an ornamental pool where fish swam lazily.

As Edmund picked at a sweetmeat, Ligan leaned across conspiratorially, and the Just King had to fight not to recoil from the putrid scent of sweat and stale perfume.

"And here I have a new beauty, just bought today, which would tempt even you I sense, Your Majesty," he winked callously, and Edmund tensed. Ligan clapped his hands imperiously, and a golden-haired beauty was dragged in, wrists chained, her simple travelling gown stained and filthy, soot marring her ivory skin.

"Found on the borders of the desert, attacked our traders by all accounts. This is one filly I will enjoy breaking," Ligan grinned, all but licking his lips as the young woman's head was forced back so Edmund saw her face for the first time.

Grey, almost silver eyes met his defiantly, below a smooth brow of skin so pale and pure and perfect, it could have been marble rather than flesh. Although dirty, Edmund could see the woman's hair was a sea of cascading golden ripples, like someone had plucked the rays of the sun and cloaked her in them. She was slender, and muscled but her very bearing was regal even when chained.

She was no ordinary slave girl, or traveller, Edmund would bet his crown on it. She nobility, at the very least.

Her dress was rough, but serviceable. The blue under dress poking through the dirty brown over gown. She couldn't have been much older than he, he would have said twenty-one at oldest.

Ligan was frittering away in his ear about what he was going to do to the young woman, and Edmund felt a cold shiver run down his spine as he saw the desperation in the woman's eyes, and for a moment he saw them flash a deep, almost evil looking, onyx black.

"My Lord Vizier," Edmund interrupted the rotund official coolly, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "What price for her freedom?"

Ligan stared at him, mouth open and gaping like a fish.

Edmund glanced back at the young woman, and repeated the question, trying not to question his own sanity.

"What price for her freedom?"