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A CHIMÆRA.
I have to blink twice to be sure I'm not imagining it. And even though his image doesn't waver and everyone else seems to be staring as much as I am, it still feels like an illusion — another magic trick. It doesn't feel real.
But he is. After months and years of searching and hoping and praying, finally, right before me, stands another chimæra. The relief I feel is so overwhelming my legs feel like they might give out.
Wordlessly, Edmund steps closer, shoulder brushing mine as his hand settles reassuringly on the small of my back. As if holding me up.
The chimæra steps back, taking in Coriakin's features with a last smile before turning to face us. He's old. Older than Coriakin appears to be. Wrinkles and lines have settled into his sun-spotted skin. His hair is pushed back and almost reaches his shoulders. But while his trimmed beard is washed grey, the hair on his head still maintains some of its former black. "Who are our guests?" He asks, hands sliding into the pockets of his robe. The magician had conjured it upon his shoulders not a moment after he'd shifted.
"Explorers from Narnia," Coriakin answers, sweeping a hand out in a semicircle as he introduces each of us in turn. "High Queen Lucy, Eustace Scrubb, Captain Drinian, King Caspian the Tenth, High King Edmund, and Arryn Witchslayer."
He nods to each of us as a show of respect. When his blue eyes land on me I wonder for a second if he knows what I am. If he can sense it somehow. But he just inclines his head and passes over me like everyone else.
"I'm Sivaran." He places his hand over his heart. "Welcome to our home."
Caspian is the first to speak. "You're a chimæra," he blurts, because for some reason I can't seem to say it myself.
Surprise flits across his face, bushy eyebrows quirking up. "I am."
Everyone must look at me then because Sivaran's questioning gaze quickly slides back to me.
I swallow nervously. This is a moment I've imagined almost every day since we set sail from Narnia's shores. I practiced what I would say dozens if not hundreds of times before in preparation. But it was all for naught because now I can't recall a damn thing. I just hold out my hand with splayed fingers.
He follows the movement, and I watch his expression change when he sees the mark, realization and fear tightening the lines of his face.
"You have– you're the marked," he breathes, meeting my eyes. He's almost as nervous to ask as I am to speak to him, repeating the name Coriakin addressed me with. "Witchslayer... Did you...?"
I nod, washing away his fears. "The White Witch is dead."
Sivaran exhales a long breath, the tension lifting from his shoulders. When Coriakin steps forward to squeeze his arm and murmurs something in his ear, it occurs to me that he's been living with the constant fear that Jadis might arrive on their shores one day. That she would sweep across the ocean with her army and her everlasting winter, destroying their home and enslaving him.
