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kyndaris · 6 years

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The Constraints of Leadership

What does it mean to be a leader among men? Many of our more prolific politicians in recent times have been individuals with larger-than-life personalities but with very little substance. Anyone can look to the 2016 election in America to see how much the world has changed. In Ni No Kuni II: Revenant Kingdom, our modern day issues are explored through the vehicles of a simple fairy tale. While it may be heavy handed at times, Revenant Kingdom also provies some much needed social commentary for a world gripped in paranoia and fear, before steering our gaze towards the hopeful horizon.

The game begins with a bang. Roland, our erstwhile deuteragonist, witnesses the destruction of his country as two nuclear warheads fly overhead. As he lays in the refuse of his crash, he is mysteriously transported into the magical world of Narnia Ni No Kuni just as a coup is underway. There he meets young Prince Evan Pettiwhisker Tildrum, a half human and half Grimalkin child that appears if he had just emerged from childhood. Their first encounter is fraught with surprises and misunderstandings, but the two cooperate and escape through the sewers. As they emerge into the predawn, they find themselves at a crossroads, bereft of what they once held dear (although truth be told, Roland handles being potentially dead/ in an entirely new world quite well).

So begins their unenviable task of building a nation from scratch. While it is a little surprising how easy Evan manages to recruit people to his cause (along with their willingness to be assigned roles in kingdom management), it was an enticing opportunity to see both Evan and the budding country of Evermore grow.

While there are many similarities with Wrath of the White Witch, Revenant Kingdom is set several centuries after Oliver’s initial journey. His story is one passed down as legend although it was still nice to see how Ding Dong Dell has evolved over the intervening years. The music too, also serves as a reminder to the first game. But despite the nostalgia, one needs not be familiar with the first to dive into this new adventure.

The world of Ni No Kuni is vast. And the troubles facing each of the other major nations unique. As Evan builds up the kingdom of Evermore, he sets his eye on uniting the world with the banner of peace. Matters are complicated with the appearance of Doloran, a man who had once been king of the fabled Allegoria, but who sets about corrupting the ideals of the world leaders before stealing their Kingsbond (a MacGuffin of sorts that is an indication of the ruler’s bond with the people) in the hopes of reviving his own Kingmaker and restoring his lost kingdom.

There’s much to unpack in regards to each of the four other nations in Ni No Kuni, but let us start with the first one that Evan and Roland stumble upon just as they’ve claimed a new land to call their own: Goldpaw.

To one that has grown up in a world where taxation and government policy is dictated behind closed doors after vigorous debate is undertaken (at least, one does hope), Goldpaw’s reliance on the whims of Lady Fortune to decide on matters such as legal cases is quite puzzling, if not a little arbitrary in its rulings. But the people have put their faith in the roll of the die and its decisions are final. Games of chance are such an integral part of the culture in Goldpaw that many of its government officials are also those that run the casino. Overseeing the entire administration of Goldpaw is the noble Grand High Roller Pugnacious. While he was known for his honesty and ensuring that each and every result from the statue of Lady Luck seated in Fortune Square was not tampered with, his desire to lift his kingdom from the brink of poverty led to manipulating the populace as his greed grew and rose to new heights. Though his initial intentions was to the benefit of his people, the underhanded ways he tried to achieve his goals led to a loss of faith, leaving Goldpaw vulnerable. But perhaps the lesson here, though, is not to rely on Lady Luck to determine how the nation is run.

The second nation that Evan assisted was Hydropolis. With its strict laws, many of its denizens chafe at the restrictions but also fear the punishments meted out by Queen Nerae. What would it be like to live in a society where to act of love is forbidden or even falling ill. This tyrannical hold of the entire nation serves as a catalyst for Nerae to lose her Kingsbond to Doloran. Once her Kingmaker is defeated, it is however, revealed that the Queen had only declared such ludicrous legislation in the hopes of keeping her city and people alive. Laid low by a volcanic explosion, any change in the population would mean that the spell she had carefully weaved would be broken. But Evan helps her realise that clinging so tightly to the past is not without its own repercussions and she finally decides to let time pass as it should. It’s an interesting exploration of security versus personal freedoms but this theme is touched on only lightly. And as everyone who has watched Thor: Ragnarok or a heartfelt film of family knows: a kingdom is not the grand palace or the infrastructure. A kingdom is the people. And without the trust and the support of the people, can a king or a queen claim to be their leader? That power is not simply passed down from birth. It has to come from others relinquishing their own.

Third to join their name on the Treaty of Interdependence was Broadleaf. What had started out as a small company of three son became a mega-corporation that could be viewed as a nation in its own right. Presided over by President Zip Vector, its citizens were also its employees. But where once Zip cared for those under his employ, his obsession with building the largest fission reactor to benefit the world reaches a fever-pitch. He forces many of his workers into overtime, not caring should they collapse from exhaustion. His ambition balloons to astronomical heights under the influence of Doloran. But while his work might prove to be of great help in the future, should it come at the cost of others? When do the scales tip?

It’s a common issue facing our current society where workplaces expect to hire less people but have them complete the jobs of ten others. Overtime is the norm rather than the exception. Is it any wonder that many of the staff at Transport NSW threatened to strike? In Japan, this is an ongoing issue known as karoshi where people have actually died from the result of overwork. Mental illness is also an ongoing problem due to the stress placed on the shoulders of employees that are struggling to make a living in our capitalist society. Worse still is the model many of our businesses rely on and their inherent focus on profits. Both private corporations and governments are eager to cut down costs to maximise their return. Hard working individuals constantly face the risk of being made redundant as roles shift and change. But this often comes at the cost of efficiency and service. When should we step back and look at the carnage left behind in our pursuit for profit?

The return to Ding Dong Dell is a hard road to travel. But Evan does so, hoping to bring the nation he once called home into the fold of the Interdependence Treaty. What plagues Ding Dong Dell is another problem that we often face in our current society: racism and oppression. King Mausinger, the leader of the coup, led his forces in the hopes of bringing equality to the kingdom and elevating Mousekind from their position as second-class citizens. Yet in doing so, he, much like Killmonger from the recent Black Panther film, seeks to rectify injustice with his own brand of terror. The Grimalkin are ousted from their positions of power and sent scrambling, treated less than dirt by their new mice overlords. By chapter’s end, however, Mausinger turns over a new leaf when he discovers the faith that had been placed in him by the previous king (the one who had appointed him chancellor and had considered him a friend, only to be poisoned as doubts settled in Mausinger’s mind about Leonhard’s intentions). But racism as our current society now stands is a hard problem to solve. While we have taken steps in the right direction, memories of prejudice still run deep.

All in all, Revenant Kingdom served as an enticing game that, on occasion, held up a mirror to the ills of society. But like any fairy tale, many of the solutions found within were simple and tied up with a bow. If there is anything to be learned, however, it is this: anyone with the right qualities can found a nation. But even the best of intentions can lead you astray.

But let us not worry about the difficulty of claiming independence and all the bureaucratic red tape that comes with actually building up a nation from nothing. Will you, dear reader, join me as I create my own kingdom in the heart of the world? I may not be a blonde-haired, blue-eyed cat eared boy but I do have some wonderful plans.

#ni no kuni ii: revenant kingdom

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skepwith · 7 years

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Cat’s-Paw

[The White Witch tells her side of the story. Also on AO3.]

Winter is the best season. Everything is muffled and quiet. Sleighs skim across the surface of the snow, runners swishing and whispering under jingling harness bells. The hills and forests lie covered in white, and tiny animal footprints appear overnight. The land is sleepy, cozy. It knows it doesn’t need to get out of bed anytime soon. Maybe never. I wrap my land in winter like a baby is wrapped in swaddling.

I love my country, so it’s always winter here.

My Enemy does not love the quiet cold as I do. His eyes have never been burnt by a dying sun. He is restless, improving, on the move. He campaigns relentlessly for spring.

Not in person, of course. He wouldn’t get His paws dirty. Instead He undermines my reign in sneaky little ways. He sends messages to the trees, who whisper amongst themselves, call me witch and tyrant. He fans the flames of restlessness with stories of His future coming (He’s always on His way, never arriving). Foolish fauns listen and become obstreperous, robins grow unruly. Don’t even get me started on the beavers.

I am surrounded by ill-wishers and would-be assassins. Against these fanatics and malcontents I have taken strong measures—extreme measures, even. I would do worse to keep my country out of His jaws. The Lion will hold no sway in Narnia while I am Queen.

***

He walks to His death on soft, heavy paws, His mane hanging low. He has come alone, as promised, at the appointed hour. The crowd around me rustles and murmurs as we watch Him approach the Stone Table, meek as a lamb.

My people have gathered under a black velvet sky and a pregnant moon. Our congregation is a varied one, of all shapes and sizes, covered in fur, feathers, scales, and mottled skin, on black claws and bald grey feet and wide leathery wings. Male, female, both, and neither, we shriek and whistle and gibber, unable to contain our excitement. One of the minotaurs throws back his head and bellows joyfully. A ritual of this magnitude has not been performed here in many, many generations.

The Lion closes His eyes so He doesn’t have to look at us, the deformed and the defective. All my beautiful monsters.

Under the cool moonlight, our torches send shadows leaping and clawing in all directions. At my nod, the hags Agda and Oona emerge from the darkness and take their positions, hobbling with what dignity their age will allow. Their limbs are like sticks, their skin all ash-dusted wrinkles, their hair white clouds. Agda’s eyes are milky and Oona cannot hear, but they move unerringly to either side of the Table. No one knows if they are sisters or lovers—perhaps both—and no one but I knows their age, for they have been around as long as anyone can remember.

The two hags raise their thin arms above their heads. Orange torchlight ripples across the slab’s pitted, rune-carved surface. “Let the sacrifice be laid upon the Stone Table!”

The Lion is seized and bound with ropes. He offers no resistance.

***

His own rules were His undoing. He loves making rules: thou shalt this, thou shalt not that. It was one of the first things He did when He came to this world, back in the beginning.

When there was nothing here but darkness, He sang the world into being. So they say. I tell you this: worlds come and go all the time. They die and are reborn every minute, without His help or anyone else’s. A gardener can prune a tree, but that doesn’t make him its creator. My Enemy is a horticulturalist of universes—He guides them, shapes them, but He does not birth them.

I was here, at the beginning. I saw it.

I had just clawed my way out from amidst the death throes of my own world. It was ancient, glorious, venal, and complex—a civilization collapsing under its own weight. None of my people escaped with me; I am the last of my line. When I came into this new world, I was reborn. Everything here was fresh and fertile, humming with generative energy. But there was no chaos, no wild growth, no mutation. He was a strict midwife. He harnessed this world’s power carefully. Imagine, if you will, a butterfly bursting from its chrysalis…into a terrarium. Such was my arrival in Narnia.

No sooner had he brought forth the world’s creatures, fully formed, from the earth, than he began to lay down rules: man to obey Him, wife to obey husband, animals to obey man. It was an old scheme, and one I’d seen before. My foremother Lilith left a similar prison to consort with wilder gods—or demons, if you prefer. I come from a long line of tricksters and trouble-makers. In my family, to see a rule is to itch to break it, an urge as undeniable as the madman’s compulsion to shout obscenities in the middle of church.

My Enemy set the rules and laid the pieces on the board, claiming the white ones as His own. There was nothing for me to do but choose the black. For Him warmth and courage and nobility, goodness and beauty, everything bright and pure. For me, all that He did not want: the dark, the cold, the damp, that which is awkward and ill-formed, the crooked and bent, the hidden, the despised.

What a fool He was to cast such things aside! They have their own power, too.

For many centuries I lived in the shadows of His world, learning how to shape their magic and letting them shape me in turn. My blood turned as chill as the cold that fed me, my skin as white as the snow which followed in my wake. As I grew more powerful, the kingdom’s dissidents flocked to me—those who were punished and shamed by His laws, and many more who did not care for the rule of man. By then Narnia had been governed by a long line of human kings, as He had decreed. The Lion Himself was long gone. He liked His subjects to make their own mistakes, the better to scold them for it upon His return.

When we took power, we executed the king and his entire line to ensure humans would never oppress us again. And not one of that cursed species set foot in Narnia thereafter, until the boy.

I first spied him from the seat of my sleigh as it sped through the forest. He was standing in the snow, gaping witlessly at me as we passed. Rather small and easy to miss, yet utterly outlandish. I called at once to my driver, Ulli, who pulled the reindeer to a halt.

The boy stood uncertainly at the edge of the track, shifting from one foot to another, until I beckoned him and he stumbled through the snow. He wasn’t much taller than Ulli, with short, fair hair and pale eyes. He didn’t look like a harbinger of doom. I rarely pay attention to prophecies of my own destruction—there are so many, all invented by my enemies—but if certain predictions were to be believed, this boy was a dagger pointed at my heart. But only if he hadn’t come alone.

“Come, sit beside me,” I said to him, patting the sleigh’s plush red seat. “You must be cold.” In fact he was shivering, hardly surprising considering how totally unsuitable his clothes were for our climate. His trousers were absurdly short, showing his knobby red knees as Ulli helped him into the sleigh with a wary smile. Ulli knew how dangerous this creature was as well as I.

I wrapped the boy in a corner of my white fur cloak and conjured him a hot drink and his favourite dish. Turkish delight, he called it, a vile-looking sugared jelly in garish colours—revolting. He ate greedily, and talked with his mouth full.

“We all thought Lucy was lying about the wardrobe. Fancy her being right all along!” he said, speckling my furs with chewed-up bits of sweet. His expression turned sulky. “I suppose now I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“There, there,” I said vaguely. “And who is this Lucy?”

“My sister. She’s the youngest. She’s all right, if a bit babyish, but Susan’s no fun and Peter’s an utter prig.”

So there were four of them. Two Sons of Adam and two Daughters of Eve, as my Enemy likes to call them when he’s feeling particularly pompous. One for each of the thrones at Cair Paravel, the stronghold of the old regime. My fingers clenched at the fur in my lap.

The boy prattled on. His sister, it seemed, had been here already and made contact with a faun called Tumnus (no doubt one of my Enemy’s sympathizers). I bit my lip until I could taste blood. The rebellion had already begun.

“You must come visit me at the Winter Palace,” I told the boy, whose name was Edmund. “Bring your sisters and brother. All three of them, understand?” No use hoping they wouldn’t find their way back to our world. This “wardrobe” business had His paw prints all over it. “If you come and live with me, I will make you a Prince, and you will rule as King when I am gone.” It was an absurd promise, but he seemed to have no trouble believing himself destined to rule over a foreign land. “Don’t forget to bring your brother and sisters.”

I sent him on his way before the magic of the food could fade.

Ulli turned the sleigh homeward at once. It slid to a halt inside the Palace gates, the reindeer panting a mist around their antlers. I leapt to the ground and strode across the courtyard, along the path between snow-draped statues. At my arrival, a great white bear lumbered to her feet and shook the snow from her fur, while a pair of ravens circled overhead, crying a harsh greeting. More of my people flowed down the wide steps as the Palace doors swung open—a white tiger, a fur-clad giant, several chattering foxes. One of my servants, an incubus, appeared under the shadow of a stone stag and bowed.

“Summon Maugrim at once!” I commanded.

Maugrim is—was—my Chief of Police, the descendant of a skilled general who had helped me overthrow the old regime. He arrived promptly in the Great Hall, flanked by Ash and Shadow, his second- and third-in-command. All three bowed low, muzzles close to the ground. They were panting but not winded; a wolf can run all day without tiring. Maugrim was the largest of the three, with long, lean haunches and a thick grey coat. “What is your command, my Queen?” he asked.

“Find the faun Tumnus and bring him to me.”

It didn’t take him long. Maugrim was clever and efficient as well as beautiful. The faun was brought in trembling, his delicate hooves tripping on the flagstones. With minimal prompting, he confessed to fraternizing with the human girl—high treason. It’s always unsettling to look into the eyes of someone who would gladly see you dead, and your country in ashes around you. I wish I could say it was an unfamiliar experience.

Pulling my wand from inside my sleeve, I added another statue to the courtyard.

They’re really starting to clutter up the place.

That night Maugrim and I lay sprawled across my fur-heaped bed, his coarse grey coat against my cool white skin. We fed each other from a platter of raw seal meat, rich and fatty, and when the platter was empty I pushed my fingers between his fangs so he could lick off the blood. He met my gaze, his eyes gleaming, and his jaws widened into a sly grin. I laughed and ran my fingers through his fur, and he licked me with his hot tongue.

Our sin was threefold, by my Enemy’s reckoning: fornication (for we were not married, as He considers it), sodomy (since we never felt the need to limit ourselves to the missionary position), and lying with animals (was it still bestiality if neither party was human?). And a fourth, the sin of Lilith: woman on top, literally or metaphorically. For a being without sex, He is rather obsessed with it. He scrutinizes His subjects’ bedroom habits as jealously as a breeder tracks bloodlines. What worse chaos than a world of mongrels? I could tell Him impurity is inevitable, but He always chooses order over entropy. And desire is so dreadfully unruly—it delights in flouting His rules. No wonder He disapproves of it so strongly. No wonder I enjoy it so much.

It was Maugrim who brought me word of the human boy’s return. Alone.

At my orders, the wolf led him into the Great Hall. Shafts of cool moonlight fell through the high windows and glowed on the ice-smooth flagstones. Maugrim’s footfalls were quiet as snow, save for the clicking of his nails. The boy’s steps echoed loudly. His clothes and hair were wet, for he wore no coat. He shivered, and his breath made little moist clouds in the air.

“Where are the other humans?” I demanded.

“They’re not far, I swear!” he said. “They’re stopping quite close. At the Beavers’ house. When I left they were having a good old jaw. They’ve probably not even noticed I’ve left.”

“I see. How long do they intend to stay there?”

“Not long, I think. The Beavers said they were taking them to the Stone Table, whatever that is. To meet with a…a Lion. Called Aslan.”

I surged to my feet and slapped the name right out of his mouth.

Maugrim set out for the Beavers’ house immediately. “If they have left,” I told him, “make for the Stone Table and observe the enemy’s movements. We will rendezvous in the shadow of the hill. If you overtake the humans on the road, kill them.”

He collected Ash and raced off. The boy watched me with wide eyes as I ordered my travelling cloak brought to me and the reindeer harnessed without bells. “Come,” I told him and did not turn to see if he followed.

Ulli brought the sleigh around. Tiny flakes of snow had begun to fall, melting quickly on the deer’s dark, wet noses. “In with you,” I said to the sullen boy, and he climbed in as before, hunching his shoulders miserably. It was not the warm welcome he had expected—the more fool he!—and by now it had doubtless occurred to him that he had betrayed his siblings for nothing. No one forced you, boy, I thought. You have only yourself to blame.

We rode swiftly through the forest. The whisper of the runners, the creak of the leather harness, and the blowing and panting of the deer were the only sounds under the darkness of the muffled trees. Dawn broke, and soon the sun rose high enough to pierce the branches. Heaps of snow began to slide off green needles, landing with wet plops. I pushed my collar off my neck, where the hot fur clung uncomfortably. More tree branches slipped off their snow, one after the other. Meltwater trickled. On the forest floor, the snow had thinned in places and left balding patches of earth. The sleigh skidded, stuttering before righting itself. A few moments later, the runners caught on something and the sleigh jerked to a halt. Ulli coaxed the reindeer as best he could, but it was no use. We were stuck.

“Curse this thaw!” I said, grinding my teeth. “We’ll have to walk. Cut the reindeer free. They know their way home.”

Slush and mud sucked at my boots as I walked. My cloak hung heavily from my shoulders and its hem was soon matted with dirt. Even after I removed it, my armpits grew damp and sweat gathered beneath my breasts and trickled down my rib cage. Ahead of us, the human stumbled; his hands had been tied behind his back. Ulli poked him with the whip until he righted himself. He had stopped sniveling hours ago. Maybe I would have felt sorry for him if my situation had been less dangerous. Maybe I wouldn’t have.

Ulli grumbled as we walked. He’d had to sling his beard over his shoulder to keep it from trailing in the slush. The air smelled of dirt and crushed grass. A patch of yellow and purple seized my eye—a cluster of crocuses beside the forest track.

“This is no thaw,” said Ulli darkly. “This is Spring.”

“Shut up!” I snapped. A strange, rapid-fire season was unfolding all around us. Oaks and aspens burst into leaf with painful speed. Tulips jostled primroses in their haste to shoot from the ground. As the temperature rose, I felt my powers start to wane. It could mean only one thing: the Lion really had returned at last.

I called our march to a halt in a cool, shadowed valley of fir and yew trees at the foot of the hill. As soon as we stopped, a dark shape hurtled into our midst. It was Ash, her sides heaving and froth falling from her panting mouth.

“He’s dead!” she wailed. “My Queen, Maugrim is dead!” Her legs trembled as she gasped for breath.

“Tell me,” I said in a voice I did not recognize as my own.

“The eldest human killed him, ran his sword right through Maugrim’s heart. They are at the Stone Table—three of them—with Him and His rebels.” Her report unravelled into a howl of sorrow.

I cannot shed tears: I am not human. This doesn’t mean I feel any less. A gaping cavern opened around my heart, as Ash’s high, keening howl rose to meet the falling darkness.

Maugrim, my beloved! My beautiful, brave, clever wolf!

But one cannot mourn in wartime. “Summon all our people to meet me here,” I told Ash. “The time has come to fight.”

She bowed her head, and as it rose, her eyes fell on the boy. “Him!” she growled, muscles quivering. “It was his kin who murdered my captain. My Queen, let me kill him to avenge Maugrim!”

“No. Custom must be observed. Leave him to me. You have your orders, Ash.”

With another bow, she loped off to raise my army.

I contemplated the boy, whose head hung low and whose eyelids fluttered. His own danger had barely penetrated his exhaustion. He was of little use to us now, since his siblings were within my Enemy’s protective paws. But no matter how many rebels took the Lion’s side, He still had four thrones to fill to complete the prophecy—four, not three. The boy could be of use to us yet.

Still, there are ways to do such a thing. The Stone Table was best, but any altar would do in a pinch. “There,” I said, pointing to a flat white stone under the shadow of an oak. Ulli tied the boy to the tree while I bared my arms and sharpened my long stone knife. The shadows grew thicker as the sun crept below the treeline.

I threaded my fingers into the boy’s fair hair and pulled sharply, forcing him to raise his chin. His throat was very pale in the twilight, and within it his pulse beat like a bird caught in a net. I looked down at him with new respect. He had been profane, but now I would make him sacred.

Just before blade met flesh, the rebel party fell on us like a whirlwind. Unicorns, centaurs, and eagles trampled into the clearing, beating the air with their wings. My knife was knocked from my hand. I drew my wand, but even I could not bespell them all at a single stroke. Instead I made myself and Ulli indistinguishable from the trees and rocks. They unbound the fainting boy and carried him off to the enemy camp to be reunited with his brother and sisters. Had I fought, I probably could have stopped them. But why bother? The boy was mine, by my Enemy’s own laws.

For Him the loyal, for me the traitors. Edmund had betrayed his own kin, ergo his life belonged to me.

The next day, the Lion and I came to an agreement. Side by side, a stone’s throw from the Table, we stood under the flapping banners of His pavilion and watched the sun shining sharply on the white-capped sea. A week ago, this bay had been ice-locked, and white bears had roamed it freely. You would never know it now, if you didn’t remember how it used to be. Across the bay, Cair Paravel stood on its lonely cliff. I wondered if He’d sent someone round to wipe the cobwebs off the four thrones.

“You know the rules,” I told Him, rather smugly, I admit.

“Yes, Jadis,” He said with a heavy sigh, as if I was a great disappointment to Him.

“It’s your game,” I said tartly.

He turned His heavy head towards me, His expression grave. “It is more than a game, my child. It is the battle between Good and Evil.”

“Yes, but which is which?”

His head shook sadly from side to side, to show how my sophistry wounded Him. There never was any point in arguing. “Just give me the boy!” I snapped.

He sighed mightily and, looking out to sea, said, “I would like to propose a trade.”

Rather than lose the human child, He offered to take his place. How He loved the little children! And children they stayed, no matter how long of limb they grew or how broad at hip or shoulder. Pity the one who decided to grow up, only to be barred from Paradise.

Four children and no Lion. Without Him, I could defeat them easily.

“Agreed,” I said.

***

He is silent now, lying motionless as the flickering torchlight glints off His golden fur. He has not spoked a single word, but His face is sad and patient, as if He would forgive us, if only we would ask Him to.

How infuriating His arrogant piety is! “Do you think you came from nothing?” I ask Him. “You are a born creature, like the rest of us! What lionesses fed you? Hunted for you and gave you the largest share so you could grow up big and strong?”

Cries and jeers echo my words. “Let him be shorn!” I cry. An ogre produces a pair of silver shears and begins to cut the coarse, golden-brown fur of His mane. It falls onto the scarred surface of the Table in hanks and clumps, until His head and shoulders are as close-cropped as the rest of His body. Maneless, He looks smaller. I bend to His ear and whisper, “You are a lioness now.” He will take this for humiliation. He’ll never understand I mean it as a compliment.

I raise my stone knife high, to the moon. Silence echoes across the clearing.

I plunge the knife, swift and true, to His heart.

Jubilation erupts around me. The sacrifice has been successful! The old traditions have been honoured! My people dance and caper, jostling me, but I hardly notice. Tears run hot and salty down my face. The world is mine now. I am safe.

At least, I will be when the humans are dead.

My forces attack the rebel encampment immediately. We fall upon them with an avenging fury, and they scramble to defend themselves. Their banners and shields are golden in the torchlight, with a red lion rampant, naturally. Unicorns, leopards, tree-people—I brandish my wand and turn half a dozen of them to stone at a stroke. They resist us valiantly, but they’re losing all the same.

The boy Edmund comes at me like a mad thing, fighting with all the fanaticism of the newly converted. But instead of lunging for my vitals, as I expect, his sword sweeps into my wand, severing it neatly in two.

I scream in rage and draw my knife. “It doesn’t matter how hard you fight,” I hiss at him, “you will always carry that selfish, frightened boy with you, no matter how many times He forgives you.” I slash at him until he falls to the ground, bloodied, but before I can kill him, his brother attacks.

His sword screeches wildly against my knife, steel against stone. I parry, scattering sparks. He staggers, recovers, and we circle each other slowly. So this square-jawed, pink-faced human is Peter. He may be the eldest, but he is still very young. It’s plain this is his first battle, and I imagine he would probably be sick if he could. I might almost feel sorry for him, if he hadn’t murdered Maugrim.

“Go back to your country, Son of Adam,” I say. “This is not your war.”

His jaw remains as square as ever. “My brother and sisters and I will sit on the four thrones at Cair Paravel as Aslan has ordained,” he says. “And we will liberate Narnia from your tyranny.”

“Narnia doesn’t need you, you insufferable idiot!” I look forward to killing him.

We trade more blows, faster and faster, until I can almost taste my victory. And then he looks behind me, and a new expression comes over his face: hope. Relief.

Dread seizes me. I look over my shoulder.

He is rising over the horizon like a sun, a battalion of supporters roaring behind Him. Somehow, His mane has regrown overnight. His brightness hurts my eyes. He gives me a headache.

He comes straight for me, haunches rippling, moving at immeasurable speed. Cats are sprinting hunters. In seconds He is upon me. I raise my knife and scream a curse.

His paws land heavily on my chest, and the muddy earth rises up to strike the back of my head. My crown is jarred loose, and I see it rolling away. Pain drives through my body in a dozen places. My breath is a wheezing gurgle: His claws have pierced a lung. Where is my knife? I can’t feel my hand to know if I’m still holding it. He has me pinned to the ground with His enormous weight, as trapped as any mouse. We are nearly nose to nose, His soft and dark, mine white and pointed. His sweet, warm breath washes over me.

“There is still time, Daughter of Lilith,” He says gently. “My forgiveness is without limit. Repent, my child, and let me save you from your fear and anger.”

I know this story. You Fell and broke, and only He can make you whole again. But the cost of redemption is obedience.

I try to speak, but my lips make no sound. I want to say, You cheated, Aslan. It doesn’t count as a sacrifice if it doesn’t take.

Of course He knew all along. He knew what He was—and wasn’t—offering me under His pavilion on the hill. Knew I would accept, knew He would defeat me in the end. It was all part of His plan. I was just His cat’s-paw. I have been all along.

I take a deep breath, and spit in His face.

He rears back, affronted. The golden fur on His cheeks and muzzle is spattered with my blood. He wipes it away quickly, licking His paw and running it across His face. When He licks it again, my blood will be inside Him, tainting His perfection.

I smile one last time, blood seeping between my teeth.

He licks, wipes.

Licks, wipes.

Cats do so hate to be unclean.

#Narnia #fic #Jadis #The White Witch #Aslan is a patriarchal douchebag

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Pirelli’s all-black calendar: ‘Any girl should be able to have their own fairytale’ | Fashion

‘I chop off people’s heads – and I like it.” Naomi Campbell looks up from her phone to tell a group of journalists about her role in the latest Pirelli calendar. It is inspired by John Tenniel’s original illustrations for Alice in Wonderland, and Campbell is on set in a photographic studio in north London, surrounded by a twisted fairytale scene of mouldy jam tarts and scorched doll houses.

She plays the Royal Beheader – of course she does – and is joined by Lupita Nyong’o as a dormouse, Sean “Diddy” Combs as Campbell’s fellow beheader, South Sudanese-Australian model Duckie Thot as Alice, Whoopi Goldberg as the Royal Duchess and Sasha Lane as the March Hare. Fashion’s woke poster-woman and feminist activist Adwoa Aboah has been shot as Tweedledee. And RuPaul will also appear, as the Queen of Hearts.

RuPaul, Duckie Thot and Edward Enninful backstage at the shoot. Photograph: Alessandro Scotti/Pirelli PR handout

This is a staggeringly talented and eclectic cast. It is also all black, with the calendar styled by Edward Enninful, the newly appointed editor of British Vogue, the first person of colour to have held the post. That said, the concept is the work of a white photographer, Tim Walker, who explains his motivation by saying “it’s never been done before. Alice has never been told like this.”

This is not the first time Pirelli has featured an all-black lineup – in 1987, a 16-year-old Campbell posed topless for an edition that featured only black models. This time, however, the tone is wildly different. And it feels precision-engineered to strike a chord in an era in which fashion finally seems to be addressing its diversity problem, with Enninful’s appointment, the autumn/winter 2017 runway collections in just about every city featuring their most racially diverse cast ever, as well as Gucci’s recent campaign that featured only black models all being presented as green shoots of change.

Adwoa Aboah. Photograph: Alessandro Scotti/Pirelli PR handout

But reflecting, even leading, cultural conversations is what the Pirelli calendar does these days, which may seem bizarre given that it is essentially a promotional exercise for tyres.

This was not always the way. For much of its history the calendar, launched in 1964, was most famous as a place where supermodels took off their kit – sometimes artily – for photographers ranging from Terry Richardson to Herb Ritts.

Alpha Dia and King Owusu. Photograph: Alessandro Scotti/Pirelli PR handout

But in 2016 Pirelli commissioned Annie Leibovitz to shoot women known for their “professional, social, cultural, sporting and artistic accomplishment”, including Yoko Ono, Patti Smith, Serena Williams and Amy Schumer, without the male gaze in mind. Earlier this year, Peter Lindbergh’s instalment continued in the same vein, presenting portraits of women with their clothes largely on: Uma Thurman was snapped in a rib-knit roll-neck. Both calendars inspired thinkpieces aplenty.

Thando Hopa and Whoopi Goldberg. Photograph: Alessandro Scotti/Pirelli PR handout

The cynical might question Pirelli’s motivations for using an all-black cast, and whether its nod to fashion’s vogue for diversity is a little too on the nose. With that box ticked, will Pirelli forget about diversity for its 2019 edition? Will the rest of the fashion industry, for that matter?

None of these concerns are at the fore on set, however, where models wearing vinyl skirts and platform shoes mill around to a soundtrack of Aretha Franklin’s Respect and Otis Redding’s (Your Love Has Lifted Me) Higher & Higher. The dark detritus of fairytale is strewn about – cakes with plastic hands erupting out of them, burnt toast and a looming, giant stuffed hare that refuses to stay upright.

South African Thando Hopa plays the Princess of Hearts. She is a law graduate who worked as a prosecutor specialising in sexual offence cases, and only got into modelling because she “wanted to have a greater level of representation for someone who looks so different” (she has albinism). Invested in the power of images – “you see someone portrayed in a particular way and it gives you inspiration and motivation” –

The March Hare. Photograph: Alessandro Scotti/Pirelli PR handout

Hopa describes, laughing, her reaction to finding out that Walker planned to make this all-black Pirelli: “I actually phoned him up and I was like: ‘Let’s sit down and talk.’” Walker laid bare his thinking: “He said … any person with a different colour should be able to see themselves in any way. So any girl, whether she is black or Chinese or Indian, they should be able to have their own fairytale.

“This is an important step in culture development – to push images that aren’t generic, that don’t conform to stereotypes,” she says.

Tim Walker shooting Duckie Thot, Slick Woods and Sasha Lane. Photograph: Alessandro Scotti/Pirelli PR handout

Hopa has considered the response the calendar might get, given that the fashion industry is still far from fully representative. “I hope that people see the intention of this. Personally I don’t find it controversial … I think people really should see the end goal and not obsess in the myopia … this is a unifying effort because now you have Alice looking differently from the way she does. Alice can be anyone.”

Let’s hope that this year’s buzzword – “diversity” – keeps sounding loudly into 2018 and beyond.

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