Chapter 2
Iwarlil walked and walked, the hours stretching like threads of golden light as her new legs carried her farther than she could have imagined. She had never known weariness before, never felt her body pull against itself with each step. But the thrill of it—of walking, of being on this land of Aslan’s Song—was a delight that wove through her tiredness, pushing her forward. The land was alive, and she marveled at every inch of it.
The wind played through the trees, making them dance in graceful, creaking rhythms. Leaves shimmered like emeralds in the soft light, while birds flitted between the branches, singing songs in languages she did not yet understand but felt all the same. Her feet, bare and pale as new moonlight, brushed the grass, damp and cool at first, but then warm as the day wore on. It tickled her skin, grounding her to the earth with every step. She looked down often, astonished by the feel of the world beneath her—the crunch of twigs, the softness of moss, the grit of dirt. How marvelous it all was.
She saw forest nymphs peering curiously from behind their trees, their skin mottled like bark and their eyes as deep and watchful as the forest itself. One smiled shyly before vanishing, a ripple of laughter following in her wake. Bees hummed lazily past her, weaving between wildflowers that sprouted in joyful disarray. The air itself felt alive, carrying with it the scent of earth and green and something she could only call Narnia.
All the while, she kept her eyes on the north, where Spearhead gleamed faintly above the horizon, her guide and comfort. She wondered if Spearhead could see her now, this tiny star wandering so far from her rightful place. Could her siblings see her too, their light whispering from constellation to constellation about the little one who had dared to walk among mortals? Iwarlil, they would say, the last-born star, bold and curious, with her wet dress and wandering feet.
She smiled at the thought, though her lips were dry and parched now. She liked Spearhead; he had always been a quiet one, content to watch Narnia spin and sing from afar. He had never longed to come down. But Iwarlil… oh, she had longed. And now here she was, wrapped in the wonder of this world.
The wind had worked at her dress until it dried, and though it now hung heavy with salt, it swayed softly around her ankles. Her hair, damp from the sea, had loosened into unruly curls that fell about her face, sticking there with sweat. She did not mind. Her mind was too full of what she saw, what she heard, what she felt.
Hours passed. She did not know how long. Time was strange here; it flowed and rippled like the sea she had emerged from, folding her up in its endless rhythm. At first, her legs had carried her tirelessly, as though they knew nothing of limits. But as the sun rose higher and its golden warmth became heavier, she felt it—a dull ache creeping up through her feet, her calves, her back. Her steps slowed.
She paused beneath an ancient oak tree, its roots sprawling like great, gnarled hands. For the first time, she felt the weight of her own body. Her legs trembled, and her breath came unevenly, shallow and new. Is this what tired feels like? she wondered, curious even through the discomfort. She had never known such a thing. As a star, she had been endless and unchanging. Now she was small and frail. She felt it deep in her bones.
Finally, she let herself collapse onto the grass, her body folding awkwardly as she sank down. The earth was soft, softer than she expected, and it welcomed her like an old friend. She lay flat on her back, the ache in her limbs now mingling with something she had never known—relief. Above her, the branches of the oak swayed, dappling her face with shadow and light. The wind sighed through the leaves, and Iwarlil sighed with it.
She turned her head to look at the sky, at Spearhead, still waiting far above. “Can you see me?” she whispered softly. Her voice sounded thin, barely more than a breath, but it felt real in her throat. She wondered again if the other stars whispered of her now. Did they pity her for choosing this life, so fragile and tiring? Or did they envy her, just a little, for being brave enough to experience it?
She closed her eyes, the tiredness finally overwhelming her. Her body sank into the earth, her chest rising and falling in slow, unsteady rhythms. This was sleep—another thing she had never known, another mystery to add to her growing list. It was strange and sweet and heavy all at once, wrapping her in its arms like a lullaby.
And there, beneath the branches of the old oak tree, Iwarlil, the last-born star, slept for the first time, cradled by the land of Aslan’s Song.
In her dreams, she rose to the heavens, and there was Leopard, the constellation to which she belonged. Her siblings shone brightly, their light mingling with the music of the spheres. Iwarlil, where are you? they seemed to hum, their glow flickering in rhythm with their quiet calls. Spearhead’s light loomed steady and watchful as ever, and she felt his presence like a warm hand against her heart. The dream was full of brilliance and longing—a call from home.
Then the dream broke.
Iwarlil woke with a start, the soft rustle of leaves giving way to hushed voices. She blinked and sat up quickly, her body still foreign and sluggish from sleep. Around her, a small group of humans stood, their faces wide with curiosity. A family—four of them. The father was tall, with a thick beard streaked with gray. Beside him stood the mother, her face kind and soft, though lined with worry. Two boys watched her, one older and sturdy, the other slight and young, barely more than a child.
“Good day,” Iwarlil said, her voice quiet and unsure, though it rang with something strange, something other.
The mother stepped forward first, her brows knitting with concern. “Are you all right, my dear? You’ve no cloak or shoes, and—oh, your hair!” She glanced to the father and back, shaking her head. “What’s happened to you? Where did you come from?”
Iwarlil tilted her head, her curls falling in front of her face like tangled starlight. “I walked here.”
The older boy, whose name she would learn was Alric, glanced at his younger brother with a look of wonder. “She glows,” he whispered. “Mother, she glows.”
“She’s not well,” the mother said, kneeling beside Iwarlil. “You’ll catch a chill dressed like that, child.” Her hands were gentle as she reached for Iwarlil’s hair. “Let me help you.”
Iwarlil blinked slowly. “I do not need help,” she said simply. Then, with a small smile, she added, “But you can, if you wish.”
The woman looked back at her husband, whose name was Toren, and he nodded silently. “Very well,” she said, her tone soft but insistent. “Sit still, dear.”
The mother, whose name was Elaina, brushed out Iwarlil’s tangled hair with great care, her touch steady and warm. The young boy, Merek, stared in awe, his wide brown eyes drinking in every detail as though she were a wonder he might wake from.
“Are you a princess?” Merek blurted suddenly. “Or a spirit?”
“I am Iwarlil,” she said. “Neither princess nor spirit. A star, I think.”
Elaina stilled for a moment, then resumed brushing, exchanging a look with Toren. “A star, you say,” she murmured. “Well, you’ll need proper clothes, star or not.”
From their packs, they offered her a white shift, a blue skirt that fell to her ankles, a leather belt to cinch it, and a warm shawl. They gave her shoes too, though Iwarlil looked at them strangely at first, reluctant to cover her feet. “They are too fine,” she said hesitantly. “You may need them.”
“Nonsense,” Elaina replied firmly. “We’re merchants—we’ve plenty. Now hold still.”
When they finished, they pressed bread and honey into her hands, and she tasted them for the first time. The sweetness of the honey startled her, and the bread softened against her tongue. “It’s good,” she said quietly, as though speaking it aloud might break the spell.
“You were hungry,” Toren said, watching her kindly. “Wherever you’re going, you’ll need strength.”
“Come with us,” Merek pleaded. “We’re headed home to Archenland. You can come too.”
Iwarlil smiled, soft and wistful, though there was a glimmer of regret in her gaze. “No,” she said gently. “I must go to Cair Paravel.”
“But why?” Alric asked, curiosity pulling at him. “There’s nothing for you there, is there?”
“I do not know,” Iwarlil replied honestly, tilting her head in thought. “But it is where I must go. Thank you for your kindness.”
Toren stood then, offering her a small waterskin. “If you’re set on your path, take this at least. The road to Cair Paravel is long.”
Iwarlil accepted it with both hands, marveling at the weight of it. “Thank you.”
Elaina placed a soft hand on Iwarlil’s shoulder. “Are you certain, child? You’re so far from home. You could travel with us; we would see you safe.”
“I am safe,” Iwarlil said with quiet conviction. “The land watches me.”
The family exchanged looks, uncertainty lingering between them. But something about Iwarlil—her calm, her glow, her strange words—seemed to convince them. She was unlike anyone they had ever met, and they could no more hold her back than they could the wind.
“Then may Aslan guide your way,” Toren said solemnly, resting a hand over his heart.
“And thank you for yours,” Iwarlil replied. Her words carried a weight that seemed to settle over them like sunlight.
With her hair braided, her new clothes snug against her, and the taste of bread and honey still sweet on her tongue, Iwarlil bade them farewell. The family watched her as she walked away, her figure small and luminous against the green and golden world. Merek waved after her until she was little more than a shadow on the horizon, and Elaina murmured softly, “What a strange and beautiful child.”
“Not a child,” Toren said quietly, watching her disappear. “Something else.”
And so Iwarlil continued, the path to Cair Paravel stretched out before her, full of promise, full of wonder.
Iwarlil’s journey stretched on as the day waned, each step carrying her deeper into the wonders of Narnia. Her body, still learning its limits, grew sluggish and uncertain, but her mind danced with curiosity and delight. The land around her brimmed with life—life she could touch, hear, taste—and each discovery filled her with a childlike joy, tinged with a star's ancient wisdom.
She wandered off the path as her attention was caught by a bush dotted with plump, dark berries. She crouched beside it, her fingers brushing the glossy fruit. "What are you?" she murmured softly, more to herself than anything else. The berries glistened in the dappled sunlight, their color like ink pooled in the palm of her hand. Hunger stirred again in her belly—a new and insistent feeling she was beginning to know well.
She picked one and held it between her fingers, examining it as though it might reveal its secrets. Then, with a small shrug, she popped it into her mouth. The taste burst across her tongue—sweet and sharp, a little wild—and she gasped softly, surprised by the sudden flood of flavor. "Oh!" she exclaimed to no one, then laughed, the sound light and tinkling as starlight itself.
By the time she had eaten a handful, her lips and fingertips were stained purple, and a strange giddiness took hold of her. It was as though the berries had set a spark inside her, something light and fizzy that made her sway slightly when she stood. The world around her seemed to spin just a little faster. “Too many, perhaps,” she whispered to herself, touching her stomach with a puzzled smile. Even discomfort, in its own way, felt like a marvel.
She staggered back to the path, her feet unsteady and her mind full of laughter. But before she could get far, a voice called out to her.
"Well, well! What have we here?"
Iwarlil froze mid-step, her eyes widening. She turned toward the voice and found a small creature standing at the edge of the path. It was a raccoon, but not like any raccoon she might have seen from the heavens. This one stood upright, a little satchel slung over its shoulder, its paws tucked neatly against its chest. Its eyes were bright and mischievous, and when it spoke again, its whiskers twitched with amusement.
"A girl walking through the woods, covered in berry stains and looking half-dreamt of. Who are you, then?" The raccoon tilted its head, the gesture both curious and polite.
Iwarlil blinked at it, the dizziness from the berries making her pause before she answered. "I am Iwarlil," she said at last. "A star come to see Narnia."
The raccoon’s sharp eyes widened, and it let out a bark of laughter. “A star, you say? Well, that’s a new one! I’ve met dwarves, dryads, and even the occasional witch, but never a star. Pleasure to meet you, Iwarlil. I’m Bramble.” It gave a small bow, then pointed to her stained hands. “Been helping yourself to the berries, have you? Careful now, not all of them are friendly.”
“They were lovely,” Iwarlil replied earnestly, her lips quirking into a smile.
Bramble snorted, though not unkindly. “Lovely and dangerous often go hand in hand. Remember that, little star.”
The raccoon rummaged through its satchel and pulled out a small water skin. “Here. Wash the stains off your hands and face. You look as though you wrestled with a pot of ink.”
Iwarlil accepted the water with a nod of gratitude, though she couldn’t stop staring at Bramble as he fidgeted and adjusted his satchel. A talking creature! She had seen them from the skies, yes, but this was something else. "Do you always speak like this?" she asked curiously.
Bramble gave her an odd look. “Speak like what? You mean politely? You are a stranger, after all. Didn’t want you to think we raccoons are uncouth.”
Iwarlil laughed softly, and Bramble blinked, startled by the sound. “You’re strange, too,” he muttered, though his eyes gleamed with good humor. "Are you headed somewhere, or are you just wandering?"
“I am going to Cair Paravel,” Iwarlil said, looking north again.
“Ah, the castle by the sea. You’ve got a fair walk ahead of you, little one. Best not dawdle too long.” Bramble tipped his head to her in parting. “Watch your step, now. The land here is kind, but it has its ways of testing travelers. Safe roads, star-girl.”
With that, the raccoon disappeared into the underbrush, his tail flashing once before the forest swallowed him whole.
Iwarlil pressed on, still marveling at Bramble and his words. Her feet carried her forward until, in her distraction, they carried her straight into a root. She tripped and fell hard to the ground, her knees scraping against stone and dirt. For a moment, she just sat there, stunned. Pain—sharp and hot—rushed up from her knees, and when she looked down, she saw red pooling across her pale skin.
She touched it gently, eyes wide. "Blood," she whispered. It was startling, this sight of her own frailty. The pain made her chest ache, though not just from the scrape. It was humbling, in a way she could not yet name.
And yet, as the first tears pricked her eyes, the wind swept softly through the trees, as though reminding her that she was not alone. Iwarlil exhaled shakily and pushed herself up, ignoring the sting. The land of Aslan’s Song was a place of life, and sometimes, she realized, life could hurt.
When night fell, Iwarlil found a small clearing and lay back against the grass, her scraped knees forgotten for now. Above her, the sky was alive with stars—her siblings—glimmering down like a thousand watching eyes. Spearhead shone brightest of all, his light steady and unchanging.
“Can you see me?” she whispered softly, as she had the night before. “Do you wonder where I’ve gone?”
The stars said nothing, of course, but in her heart, she imagined she could hear them—their faint murmurs across the great black sea of the heavens. She smiled faintly and closed her eyes, letting the sounds of the forest and the song of the wind lull her into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
And there, beneath the canopy of stars, Iwarlil’s small, human heart beat steady and strong, carrying her ever closer to Cair Paravel—and to whatever wonders awaited her there.