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alp impressions by Lukas Furlan

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Sometimes home isn’t four walls and a roof, It is two eyes and a heartbeat.

Nicole DeStefano   (via wnq-writers)

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Susan moves towards a nearby chair and sits down. She folds her hands neatly into her lap, her lips pressed into a small smile as she watches Eden reminisce about her holiday season. She’s relieved to hear that Peter’s poisoning wasn’t preventing her from enjoying her Christmas with her loved ones. 

“I’m glad to hear it. Truly.” she quickly responds, not wishing to turn their warm conversation into a solemn one. She was quite fond of Eden, their conversations together being both pleasant and a welcome distraction from her many responsibilities as queen. The two have grown relatively close over the past couple months, the summit providing Susan with an excuse to have some new dresses designed in preparation for all the festivities she would be hosting. Susan relied heavily on Eden during the planning process as she has a gift of taking what she envisioned in her mind and translating it onto paper. 

“It was very hard, yes. I thank Aslan everyday that he’s still with us and is recovering well.” She allows for a brief standstill to occur, “How are you coping with it all? Were you in the room when it all happened?” It being Peter’s poisoning. Although she despises the grief that comes with talking about the incident, she wants to know how Eden is coping with it all more.

“Oh, of course I have time. I fell asleep because I had too much of it!” Eden replies warmly, taking the coat from the other and inspecting the tear. “I can fix this quickly. Please, do sit down and make yourself at home.” She hurries around to get the appropriate materials, and sets them out on an empty table, then goes to the hearth to set a fire. 

“I’m wonderful, thank you,” Eden replies, quickly coaxing out a flame. 

“My holidays were… enjoyable, for the most part.” She thinks of the near-tragedy that happened during High King Peter and Princess Mithian’s wedding, and shudders slightly. “I’m sure you know which part was less than that. I am so glad that High King Peter is making a full recovery.” Eden bustles back to the sewing station, and lays out the cloak on the table, then takes a seat on the bench. 

“How are you?” she asks carefully, an undertone of sadness layering her words. “The whole incident was quite a shock for all of Narnia. I am certain it was hardly easy for you.” 

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He brings up fair arguments, in fact many of them are valid and even foreseeable and she’d no doubt take them into account, but as she stated to him earlier, the interrogation was still being conducted and thus no answers would be accepted so rigidly. It was still early on in the inquest -- they had only been interrogating the man for a mere day for Aslan’s sake, there was still ample time for revelations to be discovered -- and thus,  if he is lying, the chances of him slipping up and being caught in his own lies was immense. She can’t help but be slightly irked by these comments (perhaps if was due to her lack of sleep); feeling as if he viewed her as incompetent, too naive to even consider the idea that his poisoner could be deceiving them all, or that they could somehow afford a war with Calormen. It also isn’t impossible to believe that the culprit is telling the truth, that he somehow managed to make the lengthy travel to Narnia out of sheer determination to protect his loved ones (perhaps he was a hunter or some type of a gatherer back home and thus made travelling an easy task), nor is it impossible for Peter’s theory of him being an active member of this group to be true. She knows that the faun’s words weren’t absolute, but she also knew that certain circumstances weren’t so black and white. The possibilities were endless. 

He’s right though, about the need to increase interrogation tactics. The situation with Calormen was a precarious one; she hoped to forge some type of relationship with the Calormenes during the peace summit, but felt that this attempt had fallen short. Their political relations with their rivalling neighbours was still as tense as ever, Calormen’s supremacy still towering over them like an illustrious tree. Like Peter, she didn’t want war; it wasn’t a feasible response to such a situation. Given that it wasn’t the state of Calormen who specifically ordered this attack (though this fact could quickly change), but a group of radicals, the political repercussion of this vicious crime would be a delicate one. How could they punish a foreign group for what they did? How could they impose their own laws without the cooperation of the Tisroc? What if they decided to declare the faun guilty and have him executed? Would Calormen respond by declaring war? She had no idea. However, if Calormen truly wished to show that they played no role in this attempt at murder, the Tisroc would need to be involved in creating some sort of compensation and retribution. She doesn’t allow herself to become too consumed by these thoughts though, as she knows she isn’t in the right state of mind.

When he flinches away from her, she is washed over with the pain of rejection, and any further argument she intends to voice immediately die on her lips. She feels a churning feeling form in the pit of her stomach, her chest tightening as she glimpses down towards the ground despondently. “Like I said, the inquest is still ongoing, and nothing is absolute.” she answers back, her tone grim. She stands, her brown eyes stealing one last glimpse of him before turning to depart from the room. After she leaves, she seeks out his healers, informing them of his recent rousing and his attempt to wash himself. She leaves him to their mercy, confident in their ability to tend to her brother’s needs. She begins the trek back to her own chambers, her heart laying heavy in her chest. She feels her eyes begin to sting, the back of her throat throbbing, but she allows for no tears to come out. Instead, she turns it all off, finally surrendering herself to her mind’s desperate need to go numb. When she enters her chambers, she doesn’t bother to change out of her dress and instead pulls aimlessly at the strings of her dress, loosening it until she feels comfortable. She casts herself onto her bed, and by some miracle, is greeted by the feeling of sleep.

End of thread.

He stares down at the water as Susan explains, not seeing the liquid, his fists clenching and releasing. Clenching and releasing. “Audun is lying,” he growls out once she finishes. “Born and raised in Calormen, therefore he would have to travel the significant distance to get here. Anyone even marginally intelligent wouldn’t trust someone they apparently threatened into this to travel so far on their own. Someone had to come with him, he would’ve had to spend time with them. At the very least he’ll know aliases. He probably even knows the name the entire group goes by; he might even be a member, who knows perhaps this was his initiation!” His voice breaks off and he takes a small breath. “Either Audun is lying about knowing names out of some misplaced loyalty or he is lying about there being a group in general in order to buy himself more time. Either way he is lying, and our interrogation tactics ought to increase.” He scoops up water in his hand and smooths it over his head as his mind buzzes. “Calormen is the most powerful nation in the world. We cannot afford war with them, and war would be the most obvious reaction to this. But we can’t afford it. Not in terms of money nor in terms of arms. They can do these things to us and not get proper repercussions. I’m certain Calormen would know that; who knows, perhaps these radicals wanted to test that idea.” He has very little idea if that is actually correct, or even is likely, but as he says it, it feels true.

Would people really hurt them just to show it could happen? Peter often believed the best of people, disliked thinking negative about the world in general, but there is very little doubt in his mind that people would do that. He’s been working so hard for so long and still it wasn’t good enough. All of this – the peace summit, the wedding, even his defeating Archenland – it was all a joke to the rest of the world, wasn’t it? An entertainment. A childish thing the child country with its child monarchs have done. Nothing serious. All of his work is for nothing if it still isn’t a guarantee of his siblings’, of his country’s, safety. And, evidently, it isn’t. He isn’t good enough, he isn’t working hard enough, he needs to do more. He needs to do more to show that Narnia is a proper country once more, Narnia is no longer isolated, and, perhaps most of all, Narnia is a threat. His marriage to Mithian was meant to show that, yet it seemed people hadn’t seen it that way.

Susan’s gentle reassurances, her touches, her concern, all go over Peter’s head. He flinches away from her touch, her kiss; he doesn’t deserve it. They make him feel worse.

“Please go,” he whispers, ringing the rag in his hands. “You’ve done more than enough and I appreciate it all. But I want to be alone and you need rest in your proper bed. There isn’t anything more you can do, so please just go.”

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Favourite outfits: Mary Stuart (part 1)

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She feels her stomach tie in knots when Lucy pulls away from her, the night’s darkness surrounding her once more. With the moonlight reflecting through the window though, she could see her small fists clenched at her side.

“Only took away the life threatening effects of the poison?” she gently jests, being able to briefly switch off her own emotions of solemnity and grief. It quickly passes though, and she sighs, deciding not to reach out to her, “The recovery will take time, yes, and it will most likely cause him extreme discomfort, but Peter is strong. And he’ll have us by his side the entire time.” She knows the likelihood of her words easing her worries was low; hat words could she possibly say to make this situation better? To make her feel better? Instead she chooses to validate her words, “But you are right. All this waiting, not just with Peter’s recovery, but for answers, is agonizing.”

They both stand still until Lucy decides to return back to her side, “Your words warm me, sister. Truly.” She wraps her arms around Lucy once more, resting her own head on top of hers, “But if I must be honest, I only behaved in the manner that I did because it was expected of me, though I’m beginning to suspect it might also have to do with me being afraid of how I’d react if I actually allowed for my own emotions to run rampant.” By taking control, she didn’t have time to process her emotions, to feel her emotions. “Have you slept at all tonight?” she asks softly, trying to steer the conversation away from herself.

Susan’s words should have been comforting, but all they did was frustrate her more. Lucy tugged her arm out of Susan’s grip before wheeling around to stare out the window, her fists clenched tightly by her sides. “But waiting is so hard. My cordial may have helped, but all it did was take away the life threatening effects of the poison. The recovery takes so much longer, and can be much more painful.” She paused. Susan understood. Everybody was hurting, and none of them liked waiting when it came to health of their siblings. She slowly turned back around, taking a step forward. “I’m sorry. I know that you know.”

“And I’m not handling things better. You were the one who stayed calm. You brought order back from the chaos!” She remembered how Susan’s voice had been so strong, so composed, even though Lucy knew she had been afraid. “You were brilliant.” 

Susan’s next words brought a soft, rueful smile to her face. She pressed herself against Susan’s side, her head moving to rest on her sister’s shoulder. “So do I Su, so do I.”

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She lowers her hands into the water, rinsing the leftover soap off her hands while he bombards her with questions. She expects his inquiries though, for she only briefed him quickly the last time they spoke, and it had just been mere seconds after he woke from collapsing; she wasn’t entirely certain he even remembered everything she told him. While information was still being gathered, it was abundantly clear that the poisoner was working alone (meaning he had no companions to initiate a backup plan), and therefore, the likelihood of a future attack being made on them remained low. Cair remained on high alert though, additional guards being ported all throughout the castle entrances. 

She looks down at the water, biting her lower lip. She watches as ripples expand across the water as Peter scrubs himself down, attempting to find the words that’d accurately summarize all that she has learned over the past day. She draws in a deep breathe, “Oreius and his men were vigilant and captured the faun just hours after you collapsed. He was hiding in an old broom closet in the servant corridor. His name is Audun. He was raised and born in Calormen and holds no distinct ties to Narnia. He was working as a servant in the capital when he stumbled upon a group of Calormene convicts who were known for their radical ways. He swears he doesn’t know what name they go by, nor can he identify any of its members; all he is able to tell us is that they paid him a large lump sum to poison you and threatened to inflict pain on his family if he didn’t comply. We’re trying to gather more information on the group behind the attack, more specifically why this group of radicals wants you dead, but our trails remain cold.” She couldn’t fathom why they’d want to murder a foreign king, unless they wished to place the blame on the Tisroc, to create even more tension between their two nations; but still what would that accomplish? What was this group’s end goal? Were they revolutionists? Extremists? Or did they just enjoy creating havoc? Susan had no idea. 

She notices the small fragments of blood on both the rag and the water, it becoming clear that he would scrub his skin until it was raw if she didn’t intervene. “Peter,” she motions to the evidence floating in the water, “You’re scrubbing far too hard. You’re going to chafe your skin.” The poison had weakened him significantly, and although his cuts were small and being to scab over, she fears that his immune system would be too weak to properly fight off any infections. She brings her hand to the nape of his neck, her thumb stroking small circles into his side before leaning into him and softly saying, “Please be patient. Not just with yourself, but with the entire process as well. It’s going to take time for all of us to recover. We will find answers and a way to respond in good time. I promise you.” She presses her lips to his temple and kisses him, “I’m so sorry I don’t have any more information to tell you; I know how badly you want answers.”

His eyes close as she starts to wash his back. As much as he simply wants to do everything himself, as much as he wishes to show just how fine he truly is, he has to admit that Susan’s gentle scrubbing feels delightful. “I feel fine,” despite the lowness of his tone, the ferocity with which he says this is clear. He isn’t dead, he isn’t going to die, he is fine. “If the healers came in to see me again, I was so deeply asleep I didn’t register it.” Peter doesn’t like that idea. Just because he was poisoned doesn’t mean all of his training to be alert to threats even when asleep shouldn’t go out the window. He is a knight, a soldier, he has to be constantly vigilant. Healers coming in to check on him should have woken him up. “However I did notice a change in the herbs they put on me so I assume they did check on me.” Honestly, they would be rather poor at their job if they hadn’t. Peter doesn’t know for certain how long he was asleep, but he knows it must’ve been for a good span of time. It would irresponsible for the healers to leave him for so long, especially considering the poison, especially considering how he is their king.

“What did you say about the poisoner earlier?” he asks after a moment, feeling his stomach drop at the question. “He was from Calormen right? Have you gotten any more information on him? Or anything?” A flutter of nerves erupts in his gut at the questions. He needs to know but he doesn’t want to know. He wants to leave it all in the past, ensure it’ll never happen again, and then press forward. Learning the details makes it personal, and he doesn’t want to fester on this more than is necessary. But he knows he needs to find out why this happened (what did he do wrong?) in order to make sure it never happened again.

And just like that, Susan’s gentle scrubbing suddenly isn’t enough. Peter reaches back to take the rag from her and scrubs at his torso. He presses harder, feeling as if there’s an extra layer he needs to go through before actually reaching his skin. Unknowingly, he irritates the small cuts he already caused from peeling off the herbs, flecks of blood working their way onto the rag, into the water. He doesn’t notice, focusing on washing every part of himself.

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She rubbed the side of her arm, her gaze being filled with concern for her little sister. “I know.” is all she says, allowing for the night’s silence to ring softly in their ears. “You’ve done more than enough, Lu. The healers are saying that your cordial will be the reason he lives.” she added solemnly. She wished so desperately to be able to take away all of Lucy’s worries, despising the fact that she was so distraught with worry. She wanted to fix everything, to take all her siblings pain away but couldn’t, and for that, she could slowly feel her vexation towards her self begin to eat away at her.

“You are handling everything so much better than me.” she says, her mind flash backing to the moment where Peter had collapsed in the Great Hall, to when Lucy had instinctively reached for a knife, preparing herself for another threat, while she was still left crippled by her concern for their brother. In that very moment, she found herself to be all over the place, not being able to regain her composure until she was finally forced to. “I just can’t wait for this night to be over.” she murmurs out.

Had it been any other, she might have resisted. But it was Susan, her older sister, her only sister, so she left herself be pulled into the tight hug. Lucy’s hands move to rest on Susan’s back, and her eyes slide shut as she let herself forget her troubles for a couple of moments. Susan’s embrace was motherly and warm and familiar. She needed that, needed this, right now.

Lucy feels the loss of warmth keenly when Susan moves away. Still, the arm around her shoulder was enough. “I’m fine. Just impatient. I want to find the person responsible. And I want… I wish I could help more.” A soft sigh escapes her lips as she falls silent. She hated waiting. “How are you Su?”

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“I’ve slept enough.” she answers calmly as she supports him into the tub. She can tell he’s displeased with her hovering but she can’t help it; it is her need to be useful, as well as her own nerves, that fuels her to be overly cautious. She refuses to let up though, her stubbornest nature and maternal instincts shining through. She doesn’t think anything of his brief outburst (if it could be labeled as that — she had barely noticed his tone falter), aware of how unbearable this entire situation would be to him. He is use to doing everything on his own, to hold his own fate in his hands, and now? Now even the most simplest of tasks seem to drain him of all his energy. It also made matters worse that there was a swarm of people -- arguably the size of a small village -- worrying over his every move.

He lowers himself in the tub, sinking until he is submerged in water from head-to-toe. She feels her own hand grow nearly as cold as him, her fingers going somewhat numb from feeling. This desensitization doesn’t last for long though, the feeling ceasing when her hand is lifted back into the air and is kissed by Peter’s mouth. She brings her forehead to meet the side of his head, her eyes closing shut when she feels his lips move to her wrist, relishing in this unexpected bliss of intimacy. With her palm being held to his cheek, she uses her thumb to stroke his jawline, attempting to supply him with a sensation that doesn’t have to do with the ice cold water or the pain his body is currently immersed in.

After he drops her hand and gestures towards the table, she walks over to it, patting her hand dry on the side of her skirt as she moves. She reaches for the bar of soap as well as its rag and a clean towel. When she returns to the tub, she hangs the towel on the side and plunges the soap and rag into the cold water. She rubs the soap together until it begins to lather, allowing for her hands to be covered in soap. She hesitantly hands him the rag and asks, “How are you feeling? Have the healers been in to see you again?” She fights her urge to take over and bathe him herself, knowing that he craved for a sense of control over his own body. She brings her hands to his shoulders and begins to rub down his back, figuring he would not be opposed of her helping him given that it was an area that was more difficult to wash. 

“You need to sleep,” is his immediate response. And then he adds a slightly frustrated, “And I am more than capable of giving myself a bath.” He can still move, he can still lift things, it isn’t like taking a bath is an especially strenuous task either. He doesn’t need to be coddled. The worst of it all is out of the way, he is fine, he is quite obviously not going to die from this, people need to stop being so concerned and acting like he’s about to fall over at any given moment. He rested, did he not? His fever is broken, is it not? He is fine. This frustration, however, is only brief and he looks down. “Sorry.” For waking her up and the slight snapping. Out of everyone, Susan deserves that the least.

Her touch is soft and so welcomed that he actually shudders once he feels it, eyes fluttering closed. The touch is only brief and his body protests once she has to move away to fill up the tub. As much as he knows Susan doesn’t mean for it, her actions rub him poorly. He is more than perfectly capable of doing this himself, he isn’t some sickly child unable to take care of himself; he hates this, hates being coddled, hates how Susan feels the need to. Still, he isn’t about to pass up an opportunity to touch her again, and so he grips her hand to lower himself into the tub.

The water is absolutely freezing, so freezing that his chest seizes and his breath catches in his throat for a moment. But Peter only sinks further into the water, hand never leaving hers, and soon he is engulfed entirely, head under the water as well. His eyes remain open, ears listening to the utter silence the water gives, before he lifts himself up, breathing heavily as he runs his free hand through his hair. Thumb rubs against her knuckles as his heart goes back to normal pace. After a moment, he brings her hand to his mouth and kisses her palm, before having her hand cup his cheek, his hand cupping hers to keep it there. He kisses her wrist, just focusing on the warmth of her skin and the fact that she is so near him. Even that knowledge was enough to make him feel better.

Still, he wants to get clean, and he drops her hand. “There should be soap and a rag in the t-table,” he gestures idly toward the lone table in the room. His voice stutters slightly from the cold and he sinks further into the water.

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Susan had just returned from her meeting with Oreius (she was providing him with a description of Peter’s poisoner so they could begin their manhunt for him) and was now making her way to the healers’ corridors  -- when suddenly -- she spots Lucy out from the corner of her eye. Although her body is cloaked by darkness, her pale locks shimmer against the night’s moonlight and immediately gives her away. Susan refrains from approaching her directly; she could sense that she was deep in thought and therefore didn’t wish to disturb her just yet.

Lucy turns around to face her, her greeting to her being solemn and unlike her usual self. Susan responds by pulling her into a tight embrace. She rests her hand on the back of her head and doesn’t let go for awhile, her eyes shutting tight as she takes all of Lucy in. 

When she pulls away, she keeps one arm wrapped around her shoulder, “How are you doing, Lu?”

Lucy stood at the window, her eyes gazing out at the sea. She’d wanted some time alone, and with the court in disarray, she didn’t have to be anywhere urgently. So, she stood there, in the middle of the hallway, looking out at the ocean, watching silently as the waves rolled through the shore. She was wearing Edmund’s clothes again. They were a small comfort and familiar on her skin, and she craved that familiarity. Her dagger was carefully hidden in the waistband of the trousers. She had stopped carrying it around, but after recent events, she felt safer with it on her person.

She was worried. And terribly frustrated. All she could do was wait to see if Peter would wake up. No, not if. When. He would live. She got the cordial to him fast enough The healers were doing everything they can. Aslan wouldn’t let Peter die, would he? No. Aslan would never let his High King die. She mustn’t doubt Aslan. She needs to have faith. Peter’s strong. He would live. He had to.

She tensed at the sound of footsteps, her hands moving closer to her body. Her eyes slid to the window, her body relaxing slightly as she recognised the person in the reflection. She slowly turned around. “Hello.”

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Susan immediately begins comes to when the bucket slams into the ground (she has always been a light sleeper), her eyes slowly flickering open and her brows furrowing as she tries to orientate herself. For a brief moment she finds herself dazed, though after a short second, she realizes she is still in the healers’ quarters and that she must have fallen asleep. She isn’t too sure how long she was asleep, but given the heavy sensation she feels in her eyes, she knows it wasn’t for too long. 

Her gaze shifts to the bed, and much to her dismay, she discovers that it is empty. She quickly sits up, her stomach dropping as she does, and shifts her attention to where the disruption had come from. Her eyes immediately lock on Peter, who had apparently managed to strip off all his clothes while she was asleep and was now standing next to the tub, the empty bucket laying on the ground next to him. She locks eyes with him; guessing by his stance, she assumes he was trying his best to avoid waking her. 

“What are you doing?” she murmurs out to him, though she doesn’t expect him to answer; she already knows he is attempting to draw himself a bath. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she adds, slightly irritated with herself for falling asleep on him; she meant to come here to help him, to tend to him and ease his pain, not to get in his way and make his night more difficult. The healers had also advised him to rest, and that if he so wished to move, he would need to call someone to assist him. The effects of the poison were viciously strong and they didn’t know how long it’s symptoms would last, or if they’d be sporadic, and therefore wanted to remain cautious.

She stands up and makes her way towards him, easily bending down and reaching for the empty pail as she moves. “Let me.” she says softly, resting her hand on his lower back as she brushes by him to fill up the bucket. In one swift movement, she fills the bucket with water and pours it into the tub. She does this once more until the water reaches up to the rim of the tub. She places the bucket down and turns to him, “Ready?” She offers her hand out to him.

He doesn’t dream, or if he did he does not recall, and when he surfaces once more there is nothing but moonlight flooding the room. Peter focuses on nothing but breathing, feeling his blessed heart beat beneath his skin, running his hands down his torso, picking off the dried herbs, as a reminder that, yes, this is his body and, yes, it is still whole. Tainted, soiled, though it may be his body is still whole.

Feeling it, however, only serves to further show how disconnected he feels at the moment. He peels off the herbs with increasing intensity the more it becomes evident he scarcely feels the pull on his skin. He peels, and he peels, and he peels until finally the herbs are gone. He places his palm against his chest and it comes away sticky; he peeled so fiercely that his skin cracked and bled in places. His throat locks and he lays back, gazing up at the ceiling, carefully breathing in order to calm down. His body is his, his body is his, he controls it, he is here, and he is alive. There is no need to feel this way. “I’m alive,” he whispers to the room, voice cracking in the middle. He curls his fingers into the sheets, and only feels it once his fists start trembling with the effort.

He is disgusting, he is soiled, he is filthy, and…and he needs a bath. His body is weak but he can manage that, and Peter knows that if he waits any longer he may very well end up doing something even worse than accidentally cutting himself. Sitting up once more, he carefully slides off the bed, only standing once his feet are firmly on the floor. Only then does he notice the oh so familiar figure sleeping against the bed. Susan was in such an uncomfortable position, Peter’s initial reaction is to place her on the bed, but the bed is currently soiled by him so he doesn’t move. Instead he tries to keep as quiet as he can as he peels off his smallclothes, tossing them on the floor, leaving himself stark naked as he goes to the other side of the relatively small room.

Healers’ quarters each had a small alcove attached where there is a basin of water and a tub to wash patients in (Peter hates how that is what he is now – a patient), and it is this Peter approaches to wash himself in. The tub, unsurprisingly, is empty but the large basin is full to the top. There are several in the alcove, which Peter doesn’t think is the norm, and figures the healers put extra in here in case they needed them. Using a nearby bucket (it is slightly damp inside, probably from having transferred water from the well into here) he filled it and then transported the water into the tub. It’d be cold, he knows, and he much preferred it that way at this time. After repeating the process three times, the fourth time he accidentally stumbled, causing himself to drop the bucket. It lands with a deep clang against the floor. Peter tenses and glances out to see if it disturbed Susan. The more selfish part of him hopes it did, even with it being an accident. Talking to her always made him feel better.

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Susan stands to the side of the room as the healers begin to examine him, politely interrupting every now and then to seek clarity, their medical jargon being like a foreign language to her. They speak quickly and in hushed whispers to each other, causing Susan to shift back and forth on her feet while she tries to make out what they are saying. Once their examination is over and Peter is fast asleep, she treks her way back to her own chambers, silently repeating everything the healers have told her in relation to his recovery. Entering her room, she neatly scribbles it all down in her journal. She eventually collapses in her chair, her eyes throbbing out of exhaustion and her lids growing heavy. She gives herself time to shut her eyes, a brief moment to forget everything and to be free from all the mayhem, before summoning one of her ladies-in-waiting to help her change out of her dress and into a new one. She would have plenty of time to rest once arrangements for their guest’s departures were made.

After sending out messengers to politely inform their guests that they would be required to leave Cair by nightfall -- or if that was not possible, at their earliest convenience -- she walks to the Great Hall to personally say goodbye to the guests who would be departing shortly (many of them having returned to their rooms after the poisoning and packing their luggages the same night). While they didn’t express anything but their extreme gratitude to Susan and the rest of her siblings, their faces said it all: Narnia wasn’t invincible nor was it the utopian state that the world had so ignorantly made them out to be. Who’d want to ally with a country who’s crown could crumble so easily? is a thought that often came to mind when she sent their guests off. While she doesn’t see it this way, she knows many would. She doesn’t let these thoughts grow any deeper though, for there would always be attempts made on their lives for as long as they reigned. These attempts on their lives wouldn’t be the centrepiece of their legacy, she wouldn’t allow it, but rather how they deal with these inevitable moments of disorder will be what history remembers them for. She doesn’t wish to internalize the blame, instead she wishes to punish those who are responsible for this treacherous act.

After a few hours, she decides to check on Peter, finding him in the same spot she had previously left him. He lays sprawled out on his bed, his large frame making the bed look ridiculously small, his body fighting off the remaining pieces of poison. She sits in the stool and gazes down at him, taking a moment to thank Aslan for keeping him alive, until eventually, she rests her head on the edge of his mattress and feels her own eyelids begin to drift shut...

He flinches at the suggestion, unable to not gaze at the goblet with distrust. It’s Susan a stern voice reminds him in his head, and he swallows before nodding and taking the cup from her. His thumb rubs against the rim of it, as he stares into its depths, the world fuzzing into white noise around him.

It ceases when Susan kisses his cheek.

Softening, Peter gazes up at her, his expression a silent admission of his gratefulness toward her. “You should rest too Su,” he whispers. Lion knows it was a difficult night (day? come to think of it he doesn’t know what time it is) and she most likely didn’t sleep. Such things are always difficult for her, he can only imagine how much worse it was this night. She did so much, she deserves a respite.

When she leaves to go retrieve the healers, Peter plucks up his courage and drinks the water. The cool silkiness of it brings instant relief to his itchy, flaming throat, and he has another (his hands shake as he refills the cup, the water getting more on the floor than in the cup majority of the time) before finally laying back, panting from the exertion. Everything aches and, although his limps still twitch with discomfort, his eyes flutter shut of their own accord. At the moment, the healers return, and Peter forces his eyes open and sits up, wanting to listen, needing to hear what they say.

The pair check his vitals, remove any herbs that still remain on his person, and wipe away the dried sweat against his skin. Try as he did, Peter couldn’t catch everything the healers explain. In fact most things get lost in a whirlwind before reaching his ears. His eyelids feel heavy, his whole self feels so heavy and so weak, he just wants to lay down and never resurface. He does catch some things, of course, how they mention the cordial is what really saved his life, the poison having been one which strangled its victims which is why his throat is as sore as it is, how they mix up a fresh batch of herbs that they plaster over his chest and throat to release any more toxins that could remain there as well as bring relief from the fever, how the fever is dying down in general, and how, all in all, he should be perfectly well after some good, hard rest and hydration. They clean up the mess Peter made, and as soon as they release him, Peter is back down against the pillows, not bothering with the blankets. Within moments, he is asleep.

[ofthehorn-blog]

She keeps her gaze glued to Ash as she listens to what he has to say. While she was deeply concerned with how Edmund was handling the whole situation, she was also concerned with how the Narnians were coping with all of this as well. Were they adjusting to it well? Everything had happened so quickly… She was fortunate enough to be given an explanation by Peter himself as to why he chose to marry, a luxury which many of their people did not receive and never would. “I do think you’re right.” she says, trusting he knows Edmund well enough to accurately gauge how he is feeling. Ash is with him most of the time, unlike herself, who was too occupied by all their court’s chaos to spend some proper time with him. She feels a sense of guilt wash through her, her mind silently scolding herself for not making a better effort to make time for him.

She pushes her feelings of regret aside, silently deciding to seek Edmund out after dinner, and directs her attention back to Ash. She’s glad that he acknowledged the many sacrifices that are being made, but she feels as if he is only telling her what she wants to hear. “But what are your own personal thoughts regarding the marriage, if you don’t mind me being so direct.”

His next question causes her mind to run wild. As a Queen of Narnia, she supported the marriage indefinitely; it provided their country with an alliance that would provide them with additional security. With their neighbours in the South rising, more specifically its rapidly growing militia, Narnia couldn’t afford to reject potential allies. As a sister though, she too wishes Peter had married out of love, while the deepest and most selfish side of her wished it was her he was marrying. She drops her hands, “I am in support of the many benefits it will bring to our country, and therefore, I am inclined to answer your question by saying yes; I support the marriage very much.”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, let me rephrase myself. I suppose that the… the more practical side of King Edmund knew that the marriage was quite beneficial for Narnia. Yet, and this is only what I personally think, the side that cares for him as a brother wishes that the main purpose of the marriage were to be for love,“ Ash clarifies. "I think that he wants High King Peter to marry someone that he is truly, deeply, in love with.”

What are my opinions?“ he repeats, mulling over her question. He thinks that the sacrifice the High King is making for Narnia is incredible - the thought of having physical attraction for someone is daunting enough for Ash, and the thought of spending your whole life with someone you don’t necessarily love… 

Ash was told by High King Peter himself the marriage was for the sake of peace in Narnia, not out of love, but he doesn’t want to directly say it for fear of offending Queen Susan. Also, he isn’t sure if the whole matter is a secret or not. It was definitely a surprise for him when he heard it from His Majesty for the first time. "I personally think that the marriage is a very brave thing for His Majesty to do. I, among many others, recognize the sacrifice that he made for Narnia’s sake. I support it.”

And you, Your Highness? If you are comfortable with answering of course, may I inquire if you are in support of the marriage?“

[ofthehorn-blog]

She nods at his request, her gaze never moving from his face, “I know.” Although she believes his decision to be somewhat rash (though given the current circumstances she can’t blame him), she agrees. She has no real qualms to fulfil his request as she wants their guests all gone almost as much as he does. She yearns for her court back, to have her home back. She doesn’t recognize her own court anymore, a feeling which has not only heightened her nerves, but is also the cause of her recent surge in sleeplessness; she is constantly on edge in her own home. Cair lacks its sense of familiarity, a feeling which she has felt arise since the beginning of the summit. She feels like an outsider in her own home — the high volumes of guests everywhere she went, constantly endeavouring to find new ways to incorporate each nation’s own traditions rather than her own, as well as always playing the role of a doting host and peacemaker — like she is forced to put on a performance that is not herself. While the task would prove to be somewhat tedious (guests were previously expected to leave over the course of the next few days anyway, however, asking them to leave immediately would somewhat complicate things), it is a task she is committed to do not just for herself, but for Peter as well. “It will be handled. Everyone will be gone by nightfall tomorrow.”

Unable to keep looking at him in such a state — she could sense his feeling of self-disgust, his own demeanour and physical state being the two most obvious indicators of that (which only made the whole situation even more insufferable for her) — she turns to the side table near his bed and reaches for the pitcher filled with water. She closes her eyes tightly and swallows thickly; she despised seeing him this way. No. She hated seeing him this way this. She feels as if every inch of her soul is being ripped apart when she sees him like this, so frustrated and revolted with himself. None of this is your fault, she so desperately wishes to tell him, but decides not to voice this for she knows her words would be futile. He always blamed himself and nothing she said would ever change that. And every time he blamed himself, she felt her heart break for him.

Opening her eyes, she reaches for the pitcher and pours water into the matching goblet. She turns to face him, the cup now in her hand. “You should drink something.” she says softly, though it comes out more like a command. She waits for him to take the cup of water before standing up, tucking a lose strand of her long hair behind her ear as she moves across the room. She thinks of calling for someone to change his sheets as well as his clothes, his attire and bed linens being left drenched after all the exertion his body has been put through, but decides against it. She wanted to hear from the healers before they did anything else. Out of pure impulse, she moves back towards him. She presses her lips to his cheek, their last moment of privacy before the room would be invaded. I love you. She rises, “I’m should go inform the healers that you are awake.”

The boiling panic in his veins comes to a shimmer as Susan’s words register in Peter’s mind. He knows she would never lie to him, especially about something so serious as this, and so he calms down. Mindlessly, his thumb reaches to stroke whatever skin against her face he could as she kisses his hand, the rest what she’s saying entering his mind quite easily. Calormen? It was Calormen? And Calormen rebels at that?  What has he ever done to Calormen, let alone their rebels, to warrant such an action? And he had to have done something wrong; why else would they take such an extreme course of action? Considering how no one else was harmed, no one else must’ve been targeted, so it was just him. What could he have done to so grievously offend a group of rebels? Oddly enough, he wouldn’t have minded if it was a random, overly patriotic Narnian. At least that he’d be able to understand, given what was occurring at the moment, and would know how to fix it and make it better. But this? He could barely fathom why Calormen would do such a thing, let alone how he could go about repairing whatever it was he did wrong. 

His eyes sting, and his throat itches with the familiar sensation of being near tears. But he takes a deep breath, looking away from Susan, as he blinks rapidly to make them pass by. By the Lion, Susan is already so worried, he doesn’t need to make it worse by crying like a petulant toddler. He’s alive, is he not? There wasn’t ever any chance of the poison killing him – he still has so much to do Peter simply won’t let himself die until it’s all done; it’s destiny his position, his being here, and he won’t die until that destiny is fulfilled – there’s no need to be so concerned. He leans back against the pillows, looking up at the ceiling, frowning slightly. Pain? Was he in pain? What did pain matter when they were now probably going to have to go to war against Calormen!? Except, of course, for the fact that Narnia cannot afford to go to war against Calormen (money wise and simply due to the size of their army, which is like that of a child’s army of toy soldiers when compared to Calormen) and so Peter is going to have to figure out another way to respond to this except for the fact that he doesn’t how to because he doesn’t know what he did wrong in the first place! Narnia and Calormen certainly weren’t friends but nor were they enemies; they largely just kept away from each other these past years, Peter having little to do with the country other than commonplace trade. He doesn’t know why rebels in Calormen would suddenly do this and Narnia cannot afford to have Calormen as an enemy. What did he do? What did he do? What did he do? How can he fix it and make sure this didn’t happen again, or worse, happen to one of his siblings?

He feels a certain disconnect from his body, the sort that made him grasp Susan’s hand just a tad too tight in order to ensure he actually feels something, but his head is swimming, everything feels gray and moist like someone is churning butter inside of him. He wants to be sick again. There is a coating of hot dirt inside him, wrongness, making every position, every movement, every passing moment uncomfortable. He wants to reach down his throat and scratch it all away. He wants to peel off his skin, turn himself inside out, and beat it all away. Sometime during everything, the healers took off his shoes and the heaviest of his clothes, leaving him in nothing but his smallclothes. Without realizing he was doing so, his legs kicked down the sheets as he peels his hand away from Susan. He shifts, sitting up, but then just as quickly he lays back down, hands going to press against his eyes as he tries to resist the sudden urge to sob. His body is most intimately his, out of everything his body is, perhaps, the one thing Peter constantly has pride in, the one thing he is constantly sure about regarding himself. But now it’s tainted, it’s no longer his own, and there is nothing but revulsion in his gut.

“I want them gone,” he says after a moment of stillness, voice low and rough and cracked. He removes his hands from his face, placing them flat on the sheets, expression going smooth as marble, only glancing at Susan out of the corner of his eyes, “I…I don’t care what promises I’ve made, or what I told people, I want every single person who shouldn’t be here gone.”

[ofthehorn-blog]

Susan draws in a sharp breath when he stirs, her round eyes filled with concern as she watches him spew up the remaining pieces of poison running through his system. He’s panting heavily and the colour of his face is significantly less pale than it was mere moments ago. She quickly leans towards him, careful to balance the bulk of her weight on the mattress and not on him. She brushes aside a lock of hair that clings to his forehead as she stares down at him, her eyes glinting at him warmly. He reaches for her and she quickly takes his palm in both of her hands, holding onto him tightly. His grip, though still weak, instantly brings her comfort and drives away the bitter feeling of emptiness that has been hovering around her all night.

His next words comes as no surprise to her. She had rehearsed what she would say to him when he finally woke all night, knowing that he’d desperately be seeking answers in attempt to pull himself out of his cloud of confusion. However, what she intends to say to him is immediately erased from her memory the moment he wakes up; her sole concern for him reigning in her mind without any rivals. She didn’t expect herself to react in this way when he came to; to feel paralyzed by her relief. This feeling soon fades and she wants to kiss him and weep, but she fears that once her first tear drops, her tears will never stop raining down. 

“Shhhh…” she finally manages to murmur out, “Save your energy. We’re all okay — Edmund, Lucy, Mithian — they’re all okay. Everyone is safe.”

She kisses his hand, thanking Aslan that he’s alive, his skin feeling scotching hot against her lips. She wonders if he still has a fever. She pushes herself to continue, “The assassin was captured early this morning. He was hired by a group of Calormen rebels and has already confessed to his guilt. We are still waiting on more details to follow.” She brings her hand to his face, caressing the side of his cheek with her thumb, “How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?” She feels her heart ache for him; her stomach still intertwined in tight knots; she couldn’t bear seeing him like this.

Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, you are better than this.

Peter sensed the motions about him, everyone running about, the chaos, he recalled feeling the drop of diamond from Lucy’s cordial glide down his throat, and the immediate relief it gave him. It eased the choking of his throat, the irregular beating of his heart, but the relief was only shortly lived. Heal every wound the cordial might, but it couldn’t ease the poison from his body. He was carried to a spare room where the healers then focused on retracting the poison from him. Herbs were pressed against him to stop the poison from spreading, certain measures were taken to try to get him to vomit it back up, yet all the while Peter remained asleep.

Wake up, wake up, wake up, this will not be the end there is still so much left to do.

In his unconscious state, Peter’s mind drifted out of his body and into the past. He dreamed, yet the dreams were more memory than fantasy. He saw himself, thirteen, fighting a chief dwarf into submission via a wrestling match in order to gain their loyalty. Fighting and proving victorious through nothing more than the sheer force of his will. He fighting a kraken, losing a finger, but still surviving. He kidnapped by Giants yet outwitting them and surviving. He fighting an entire pack of Jadis’s Wolves, all of whom wished to avenge their chief. Assassination attempt after assassination attempt after assassination that he survived. The countless skirmishes against the remains of the Witch’s army. The fight to gain back the Lone Islands’ loyalty. The battle against Archenland. The Battle of Beruna. His very first fight against Chief Maugrim. All of these whispered you survived all of this, you shall conquer this too. Every memory, tinted green though they were, was punctured by a woman’s voice begging for his return. I’m trying, he always thought as his eyelids fluttered, wanting to open.

Wake up, wake up, they still need you.

With a sharp gasp, Peter bolted upright and bent over the side of the bed, spilling out the poisonous contents of his body onto the floor in a gray-green mush. Panting, he sat back against the pillows, blinking furiously as his eyes flickered across the room, blurry and unfocused despite how he wanted – needed – to figure out where he was. Healer quarters, a voice whispered, and finally Peter glanced to his side he finally caught sight of something that wasn’t blurry but instead was the direct opposite, beautiful and elegant as she was – Susan. Shaking and weak, he reached toward her, gripping her hand, throat choking with emotion as he felt how solid she was. She was here, she was real, she was alive.

“…okay,” he croaked, throat inflamed, “you – ok…ay.” He gasped, everything about him feeling gray. “Ed – Lu – Mith…okay?” Monosyllable words it had to be, and even that took whatever little energy still remained in him. He sagged back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut, but he forced them back open, looking at Susan, needing to hear her explain.

[ofthehorn-blog]

Susan spends her day tucked away in her study, using the day to catch herself up on the endless stacks of paperwork that lay on her desk. She had been neglecting her administrative duties as of late, her free time being consumed by the aftermath of Peter’s poisoning. However, now that Peter was recovering quite well, Susan felt herself relieved of her duties to tend to her brother and free to focus on herself.

She continues to work until she hears a soft knock on her door. “Yes?” she calls out, looking up. Her maidservant enters with one of Susan’s winter cloaks in her hands. After being washed, the cloak’s threading had somehow caught onto a corner of a washing pail and needed to be repaired. The servant wishes to take it to the seamstress in town (for Amity was the one who designed it) for repairs and seeks Susan’s permission to do it. Suddenly engulfed by the feeling to be spontaneous, she decides to make a trip into the city and get the cloak repaired herself.

When she enters the shop, she isn’t welcomed by Amity but instead by her apprentice, Eden. She gently stomps her feet together by the door, ensuring that all the snow has fallen off her shoes before wandering in. “Thank you, dear Eden. Your concern for me is most gratifying. It warms me. I was just hoping you’d have time to repair a small tear in my cloak.” she answers, unbuttoning the clasp of her cloak and slipping it off. She smiles, extending her hand out and squeezing her arm. “Tell me, are you well? How were your holidays?”

@ofthehorn​

Eden sighed contently, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. She’d finally finished all that was on Amity’s list, and the requested gown from the woman that came by earlier. She was too tired to go outside in the snow, now, and it was almost nightfall, anyway. Amity should be back soon, she thought sleepily to herself. 

Before she knew it, Eden had fallen asleep, her face resting on the fabrics that lined the table in front of her. And then, suddenly, she was jerked awake by a knock on the door. 

Is it Amity? she thought, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes as she stood. But once glance at the clock told her that her mentor was due in at least a few hours. Who could it be?

Eden opened the door, still half-asleep. It was… Queen Susan?

“Your Highness?” she questioned in surprise, stifling a yawn as she did so. “What brings you here, this evening? You should not be out this late, look at the snow! It could be dangerous. Come inside, you must be freezing.” Eden held the door wide open, gesturing for the other to enter the threshold.

[ofthehorn-blog]

@peterthemagnificum

The past twenty-four hours have been a blur of chaos; an indistinct memory of panic and distress permanently engraved into Susan’s head. The treasonous act had happened so quickly that she wasn’t even aware (though this was most likely due to her being in denial) of what was happening until she heard a loud voice behind her shriek: “Poison!”

Her heart sunk in her chest and her stomach dropped when Peter collapsed. She felt nauseous and woozy, her heart was hammering out of her chest. It felt like someone had taken ahold of her neck and was slowly strangling her. She had choked on her own breathe, unable to utter out any sort of words other than Peter’s name. She made her way to him, her hands and knees trembling as she bent down and sheltered his head. She looked up, her eyes desperately foraging through the crowd for her siblings’ faces.

He’s not dead. He’s not dead. He’s not dead.

She silently repeated these three words to herself throughout the course of the night; she didn’t do this out of certainty, but rather because it was the only thought that would give her the strength to get through the night. 

Susan wasn’t given enough time to let her own wave of terror to paralyze her; she and her siblings were the ones everyone would turn to for a sense of security, looking for her to take command. She was the last to be with him, to see the face of the faun who was the culprit. She felt the urge to tremble, to give up and let someone else take over, but knew in her heart that she wouldn’t surrender to herself; she would not rest until the faun was found.

She had led the investigation herself, her previous encounter with the faun playing a vital role in his capture. The poisoner’s distinct characteristics — more specifically his different coloured eyes — made the hunt for him run smoothly. She had assigned Oreius with the task of leading the interrogation; her relation to Peter making her an unfit candidate to steer an interrogation. She was instead forced to oversee the period of questioning from afar. 

When the faun, who resided in Calormen and was hired, or rather coerced, by a group of Calormen radicals, sealed his fate by confessing, Susan began to make her way to Peter. She entered his chambers just as one of his healers were departing. She looked to the healer, but the woman shook her head, silently signalling to her that no progress had been made. Peter had been falling in and out of consciousness all day, his eyes only opening for a short moment before drifting back into a deep slumber. While they were fairly confident in his chances of survival (thanks to Lucy’s cordial), they wouldn’t know the extent of his harm until he was awake.

She moved to his bed, reaching for a clean wet cloth that sat in a bowl on his side table. She pulled off the cloth that was resting on his forehead and placed it to the side. She brought her palm to his cheek, his flesh feverishly hot and clammy. He was a ghostly shade of white, the strands of his hair damp as his body continued to fight off the poison. She leaned into him and pressed her lips to the top of his forehead before replacing the old cloth on his forehead with the new one. 

Seconds... minutes... hours... begins to pass by. She doesn’t know how long she’s been by his side nor does she care. Time was irrelevant when she was with him; it only acted as a painful reminder that this could be his last breath. The thought of this only causes the ache that has formed in her heart to grow stronger. 

She doesn’t let go of his hand. “Come back to us…” she murmured periodically, her voice always cracking just slightly. Come back to me.