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NARNIA STANDS still, a bitter wind sweeping across the land like a foreboding whisper: winter has returned.
Though absent from the world for thirteen centuries, the condemnation wrought by the cracking of the ice is unmistakable in the hearts of the Narnians. It reverberates through the air and travels up one's bones like a war drum pounding a warning beat.
The occupants of the chamber bearing witness to the resurrection are frozen in place. And I am no exception.
Despite having liberated my consciousness from her grasp and regaining a semblance of control over my movements, my body remains enslaved to Jadis's will — a vessel to manipulate and corrupt with mindless submission. How she's managed to enact such powerful command over me and how my curious link to Edmund Pevensie is the only thing keeping me from succumbing entirely to her influence is lost on me. And any desire to understand it ceases to persist in my mind. For all I can do is stand rooted to the spot and stare helplessly at Narnia's greatest evil brought back to life.
CRACK
Fissures race across the surface of the ice, cleaving the blue sheet with arcing white lines like the torn pattern of a spiderweb. Beneath the fracturing surface, Jadis's serene figure is shattered and incongruous with itself. Head tipped back, arms spread outward and fingers splayed, she might've been beautiful — ethereal, even — with her skin turning a soft rose and the drifting, incorporeal skirt of her dress.
CRACK
But my mind is my own; freed from her, it does not defer to bewitched thoughts.
CRRRACK CRACK
And Jadis is nothing more than that: a witch.
The wall of ice shudders and groans, the crevasses spanning its face deepening and spreading outward dozens of tiny cracks like the roots of a tree. Beneath the splintering crystals, the White Witch begins to glow.
Light pours off of her, refracting through the broken ice at every angle and bathing the chamber in a brilliant, wintry white. Eventually, it becomes too much to bear and I have to turn my eyes away.
The breaking of the wall comes faster now, thundering in my ears synchronously with my pulse. I can't see it, but if the dropping temperature in the room is any indication, it must nearly be in pieces. Which means any opportunities we have to stop this are almost gone. I have to do something.
Straining my muscles against her magic, I try to move. My fingers are locked around Rhindon's hilt, unwilling to compromise, while I find some semblance of control over my feet and legs. My arms, though, don't show any promise of movement — frozen in a mold to keep Edmund pinned beneath my blade.
I grind my jaw angrily. Come on...
The path to Edmund — that one, clear place in my mind — hums a warm melody through my bones. I pull on the rope, climbing it to get closer and escape the numbing, silent blanket cast over my senses. My arms shake and the warmth turns to a burning sensation that pools around my cuts and bruises and aching muscles. But I keep climbing and fighting through the haze and the pain I'm finally feeling. I relish in it and the realization that the more I feel, the further I am from her grasp.
