Chapter Text
It’s been a month since Edmund first went to spy on the Castle, and he is starting to feel quite nervous. He wants to get things done, he wants to attack, he wants to succeed, he wants to see Peter and Susan again and ask them what, exactly, was their plan? Every day since he’s just been imagining them in the lap of luxury, forgetting all about him and Lucy.
The good news is that the troops have been rallied. The tunnels are far better developed than they were previously now they have asked many people for help. Notably the attacks from the soldiers have slowed down. Edmund wonders if it’s to do with Peter and Susan, but says nothing.
Today is important. He sent Reepicheep and a few other mice on another mission to check on Peter and Susan. Edmund doesn’t know what would be worse, if they were doing terribly or if they were doing brilliantly.
A plan, in this situation, is quite complicated. They don’t have the resources to attack the Telmarine Castle. Edmund currently has stationed Minotaur and Centaur guards at strategic places around the Woods. They are hoping to take down any soldiers who go past them, thereby scaring those left in the Castle when they notice the old soldiers never returned. Lucy has even managed to get the Trees in on this trick, and Trees are frightening when they attack. Edmund is feeling especially positive as some of these dangerous creatures have been placed in places that typically wouldn’t house them, meaning that the soldiers will arrive completely unprepared, expecting to merely find fauns.
“If our friends manage to take down the soldiers who dare to enter the Woods, what’s our plan for those who don’t?” Lucy inquires. They’re sat together in Peter and Edmund’s room. Lucy is sat cross-legged on Peter’s bed while Edmund lies in his own and stares thoughtfully at the ceiling.
“I’m not certain yet, Lucy. Attacking the Castle would be impossible. You should see it, it’s a complete fortress,” Edmund says, sighing. There are so few Narnians compared to Telmarines and it just isn’t fair at all. Of course, by killing off the soldiers, Edmund is hoping to even the odds a little, but the difference that makes will be minor. It is more about scaring the soldiers away from killing them anymore.
“Perhaps we should just keep to scaring them away from the Woods for now, and hiding in the tunnels. You’re stressing yourself out and as long as we aren’t in any immediate danger, we can wait until we’ve made proper contact with Peter and Susan. Peter will have a plan,” Lucy suggests. Edmund’s blood runs cold. Just lie around and wait for Peter? That’s the opposite of what he wants to do. And he is a better strategist than Peter, anyway.
“Lucy, we need—” Edmund begins to say, but is interrupted by a very timely voice outside, running into their garden. They have the window open so they can always hear what is going on outside.
“I have made contact with Peter and Susan!” Reepicheep yells. Lucy gasps, immediately standing up, and Edmund sits up as well. Reepicheep must have grabbed their attention while he was sneaking around the Castle. It is an amazing idea, and Edmund would likely have thought of it himself if he didn’t feel so hell-bent on not relying on Peter and Susan.
“Edmund, let’s go!” Lucy says, grabbing his wrist and pulling him up and down the stairs, leaving him to hastily grab his notebook and quill, without which he never goes anywhere. They run outside, where Reepicheep is confidently and patiently waiting for them. “Reep, really?”
It is just them who have ran over, as everybody else is busy in the tunnels. They were both just taking a small break from their respective tasks, digging and planning.
“Really, your Majesty,” Reepicheep answers, bowing as he always does. Lucy crouches down, Edmund doesn’t, he just stares.
“Well, what did they say, then? What did you ask them?” Edmund asks, crossing his arms. If he knew Reepicheep would have been communicating with them, he would have sent Reep with a list of questions for them to answer, quite frankly. He hopes that Reepicheep asked the right things.
“They were more worried about you two than anything,” Reepicheep confesses. “About where you were when they left and if you were OK. I said you were both doing just fine, making a plan to help save everybody, to which Peter told me to tell you to stop. He doesn’t think it’s safe. Of course I explained how capable you were, and so then he calmed down and started explaining to me a plan.”
Edmund arches his brow. Bloody typical. “Peter has a plan, too, then? What is it exactly?” Secretly he does hope that Peter will provide the half of the plan that he is missing.
“He has confided in the Prince and his Professor, who is half-Dwarf, supposedly,” Reepicheep answers, and Lucy gasps, glancing at Edmund over her shoulder, who is equally aghast. “The people prefer Prince Caspian to King Miraz. Peter is hoping to use Caspian to inspire an upbringing, but still has hope in the prophecy.”
“So, what are you telling me here, Reep,” Edmund begins, crossing his arms and gazing into the distance as be speaks, feeling the eyes of the Mouse and his sister upon him, “is that Peter has taken it upon himself to give all our secrets to a member of the Royal family? It has been merely a month. How, in such a short time, can he possibly have gathered enough information to be sure that this was wise? What if Caspian is not trustworthy at all? What if Caspian helps us to take down Miraz and then attempts to dispose of us, to take the crown for himself?”
Reepicheep bows in apology. “Unfortunately, our conversation was not long enough for me to have gathered the answers to all of these brilliant questions, Sire, but I am sure Peter knows what he is doing and has thought of them himself.”
Edmund thinks for a moment of his brother, a man guided first and foremost by emotion. Then he considers that Peter would never have given Lucy’s name to anybody but somebody he trusted. Edmund still can’t help but feel that Peter has acted with haste but trusting him is all that Edmund can do now.
“Well,” Lucy says, standing up straight, gently touching Edmund’s shoulder as though she can see his mind spinning, “at least that means that the other half of our plan is covered for certain. We needn’t worry so much about it anymore; we can just focus on scaring away the soldiers and creating the tunnels. Depending on how long it takes before we can see Peter and Susan… if we have not seen them again in a month, could you go and check on them again, Reep?”
“Whatever would please your Majesty,” Reepicheep answers with a deep and regal bow, which makes Lucy smile. “It is worth mentioning that they both seemed quite happy. Although they did speak mostly of the two of you, they both appeared healthier than I had ever had the pleasure of seeing them before. Susan mentioned that she had made more friends who may be trustworthy, but that she is holding back on telling them anything, as she wouldn’t like to step wrong.”
“It is nice to hear that they are making friends,” Edmund says, quite flatly. He turns on his heel and heads back inside, ignoring Lucy calling his name; he knows she does not follow, however, because he then hears her offer Reepicheep some food and a cup of a tea. Edmund is glad for the opportunity to be alone.
He goes back upstairs to his room and closes the door. Rather than walking to his side of the room, he examines Peter’s; he’s never cared much for what Peter likes and doesn’t like in the past, but suddenly he has an urge to understand his brother, an urge which has never taken him before. As he looks around Peter’s things (snooping admittedly), he finds a couple different swords, a dagger, and torn out pages from notebooks all over his two bedside tables. The notebooks are filled with drawings and observations: a sketch of a Centaur friend they have, a drawing of a bird, little notes such as “I must tell Lucy to tell us if she is going to visit Tumnus”. Then there is a full notebook, and what Edmund opens it, it appears to be a journal. Very personal, of course, and Edmund should put it down, but he doesn’t.
He notices that Peter did not write in it every day; more like once a week. He is nearing the end of the old thing now, but as Edmund flicks through, he sees various entries and sentences which help him to understand his brother a little better. Things such as: “It was the right thing for Mother and Father to do, to train me so I could protect everybody, but I wish I had time to be a child as Lucy does”, and “I wish we had more opportunity for human relationships. I wish we were not so completely alone out here. I would like to make friends who are more like me, and perhaps even fall in love. Is such a dream so unlikely?” Edmund is surprised. He didn’t know that Peter ever wanted anything more than the life they all had together in the Woods. There was never any hint of dissatisfaction in the way Peter carried himself or acted, but it does make Edmund wonder if Peter’s trust in Prince Caspian might have something to do with Peter’s desire to form bonds with human men his own age. Such a thought makes Edmund’s stomach sink, that Peter might have been, like Edmund anticipated, led by his emotions.
Edmund wishes that he could find a similar window into Susan’s thoughts, but he doesn’t feel comfortable rummaging through his sisters’ room to find Susan’s possible diary. It is rude of him to look through Peter’s. Edmund puts the diary down, unable to hold back the feeling that they just weren’t enough to make Peter happy. Edmund wishes for a brief, fleeting second, that he had been a better brother, a brother that is also a friend; but he squashes it down as soon as he feels it. It’s too painful to linger upon.
He steals a drawing Peter did, though, of Edmund himself, Susan and Lucy, laughing around a fire outside, with Peter’s signature in the corner. It comforts him to see it. He goes to grab himself a pin from his side of the room, and pins the drawing into his own notebook, so that he might carry it around with him, so that he can see it and remember that Peter did love him, even if he wasn’t enough.
After a month in the Telmarine Castle, Susan is getting a little bit too used to it. She can feel it every waking moment, her old life slipping away as she adjusts to a new routine, which is growing more and more familiar by the day. She wakes up and she helps the Queen bathe and dress; they often will then all go for a stroll together, and then have breakfast, discussing rumours about Court. Prunaprismia will tell them all about how her plans to get pregnant are going, which is thrillingly awful to hear, and when they get a break, Lefli and Susan will walk off arm-in-arm and giggle about it and discuss what it would be like to one day give themselves so completely to a lover.
In the back of her mind, Susan knows that this life is only temporary, soon to be blown up. It is giving her mixed feelings, that she has been thrown so suddenly into living this way and will soon be thrown right out again into what might turn out to be a civil war. She is frightened, and she misses Edmund and Lucy. At night she wonders what they are doing and wishes they were with her, that she might talk to them as she once did, and know they are safe. Instead, they are living in the increasingly hostile Woods all alone. She is scared to death of forgetting them, of thinking of them as being a part of her past.
When she is honest with herself, seeing them again will be strange, like they are ghosts of a life she has lived and moved on from. When she thinks that, it makes her want to throw up. How could she? How could she ever forget or move on from her siblings, those she loves the most? It is not as though she loves Lefli like a sister. Lefli could never replace Lucy.
No matter how she thinks of it, though, a month is a long time, especially when the days are so long, and so structured, and they are trapped inside the Castle. One gets used to things more quickly than usual under such circumstances.
“How are you on this fine morning, dear sister?” Peter inquires with a grin at breakfast. He has a moment to himself as Caspian has begun his studies from the day, and Peter’s presence is not required. “I see that your clothes grow ever extravagant. That shade of green compliments your skin tone.”
“Why are you in such a good mood?” Susan asks with a smile, buttering her roll as they sit together in the Hall, surrounded by many other members of the Court who are taking their breakfast. “Not that I am not pleased to see it.”
“Things have been going well recently. The attacks have slowed down, and that’s what matters,” Peter answers, taking a bite of his apple. Susan wonders if he is saying that they can relax a little now. She wonders if he feels the same way she does, but she’s too ashamed to ask. “Do you have any more information about, you know… the Queen?”
“They have not yet achieved success as far as we can tell. No morning sickness,” Susan answers. She dreads the day that Prunaprismia wakes up feeling queasy and ecstatic. “I will let you know when that changes, of course. Stop worrying yourself; Caspian is going to be fine.”
Peter smiles and ducks his head. The pair of them have become close, there is no mistaking it. Susan thinks that Peter is playing with fire. She knows how he feels, and it is dangerous, as much as she, too, hopes to find love one day. It is not the time for it now as much as she wishes it was.
“Good. I’m glad to hear it,” Peter answers. They eat their breakfast peacefully, sipping their alcohol-free wine, and it is peaceful this morning, Susan can’t help but feel. Charmingly so.
“Peter…” Susan begins, and Peter looks over the table at her, lifting his brows in interest. “Do you feel- no. It doesn’t matter. Forget it.” She was going to ask if he feels at home, right here, right now, in the Castle together. With the sun streaming through the wonders, soft chatter all around them, Susan does feel relaxed. She knows that she shouldn’t, not at Court, not when she is planning treason.
Peter looks at her thoughtfully. She wonders if he is guessing what she was about to say. If he is guessing correctly. She wishes she knew if he felt the same way. She wishes he would just come out and say it.
“We’ve met some good people here so far,” is all he says in response, and then she thinks he might understand. “It hasn’t been all bad, has it?”
“No,” she whispers, smiling again. “Not all bad at all.”
Later that evening, she is in the kitchen, picking up the Queen’s lunch, which is packed especially, as they will be dining outside upon a blanket due to the warmness of the day. Susan thinks that this goes to show Prunaprismia’s youth, that she would like to do this; she certainly isn’t as old as her husband. Susan finds it admirable that she loves him, but at the same time condemns it. Doesn’t Prunaprismia realise how wicked her husband is?
“Lady Pevensie,” Quintin says, appearing out of nowhere, as Susan is stood patiently waiting for the lunch to be prepared. What on earth is a nobleman doing in the kitchen? Susan is surprised he knows where the kitchen is. “I am pleased to have tracked you down. Can I ask you something?”
“It better not be another date,” Susan says dryly, who has given up telling him that she is not a Lady. They have been on one more since their last, only to appease Lady Cavendish, and Susan had a fine time, as they are good friends, but doesn’t wish to keep this courtship going on any longer, as it is a farce.
“No, no, not at all,” Quintin promises. He leans in to talk to her more quietly, and so she lends him her ear. “Do you think that Peter could ever be wooed by the method of… a particularly romantic poem? One within which I have put a great deal of thought?”
Susan turns to look at Quintin fully. She knows that he and Peter often spend time drinking together at Court, that there are feelings there, but Susan also happens to know that Peter’s favour lies with Prince Caspian, whom she has not often spoke to, as she is not allowed, but whom she has seen briefly, and knows to be very handsome, and to better Caspian’s cause, he is even in favour of saving the Narnians.
“Oh, Mr Cavendish. I’m not quite sure,” Susan admits. Her brother’s love life has quickly turned into a maze of sorts which she has absolutely no desire to enter. “It is true he might appreciate such a sweet gesture, but at the same time, have you considered just- being honest with him about your feelings more plainly before you start reciting poetry? Rejection is less crushing when you don’t put so much… art into the proposal.”
Quintin considers this for a moment, looking a little put out that her first response wasn’t that Peter is absolutely enamoured with Quintin, and his poetry, and that he would be absolutely honoured to receive some of it.
“I understand what you’re saying. I find it difficult to speak so genuinely without poetry, is all,” Quintin answers, thinking about it for a minute. Susan allows him some silence to ponder, hoping that the cook will hurry it up a bit, before Quintin speaks again. “You’re right. I should be honest with him.”
“Yes,” Susan agrees. Being honest with somebody is always good advice; she cannot possibly go wrong. “Good luck, Mr Cavendish.”
“Thank you, Lady Pevensie,” Quintin answers, smiling and hurrying out of the kitchen. Susan hopes that Peter does not break his heart too brutally, but Peter is a kind man, and she has complete faith in him.
“The Queen likes white bread, doesn’t she?” the cook asks, out of nowhere. Susan turns to look at the man with a disapproving gaze; he has not yet fetched the bread? She will be here all day.
“Yes. And do hurry, please. I cannot be late with the Queen’s lunch,” Susan says, quite shortly. Her firmness seems to affect the cook, who hurries it up a little, thank goodness.
“It is remarkable how quickly you have adjusted, Susan,” the Queen says, as they are all sat together upon the grass, the sound of men fighting upon their horses nearby, ruining the otherwise lovely atmosphere. They are still within the Castle walls, of course, and the concept of leaving is almost shocking to Susan; she cannot believe that what lies beyond them is simply her old home, not so far away.
“It is easy to adjust when one is having such a marvellous time, your Majesty. You have been very kind to me,” Susan says, smiling. Lefli grabs her hand and squeezes it, and Susan turns to grin at her for a moment.
“You are above average, that is certain. You are organised and beautiful, and your brother is similarly impressive at his post, or so I hear,” Prunaprismia answers. Susan smiles a bit again, unsure what to do with so many compliments. She looks at the other girls, who also seem confused by how kind the Queen is being.
“I am glad to hear that we are so welcome, your Majesty,” Susan answers. “I have dedicated myself to this job from the moment that King Miraz has the kindness to offer it to me, and I know that Peter feels the same.”
“This will always be a home to you,” Prunaprismia answers. It is then that Susan realises she might be being emotionally manipulated. She worries, suddenly, that somebody is starting to catch onto what’s going on. “As long as you remain focused, you will have whatever you want for the rest of your days. As close to royalty as any none commoner could ever wish to be. You are lucky, Susan; you don’t know how lucky you are.”
Susan smiles and nods, and squeezes Lefli’s hand just once more. Her heart is fluttering with panic. Prunaprismia is, perhaps, just being charming, trying to make Susan feel a part of the group despite her background.
Later, after they have packed up, Susan is hurrying inside, but she is stopped by a hand grabbing her wrist. When she turns, it’s Lefli, stood there with furrowed brows, pulling Susan a little closer. Lefli’s hair is tied up in a bun today, accentuating her remarkable features and almond eyes.
“Susan,” she says, “why do you look so worried? Prunaprismia was so kind to you. I’m a little jealous.”
Susan considers for a moment denying the truth, but instead she pulls Lefli beneath a stone bridge on the second floor, an alley of sorts in the Castle which is rarely used. Lefli is dressed in a gown which is silver in colour, and Susan is sure that she herself couldn’t pull it off, that it would look ridiculous on her, but Lefli looks absolutely radiant.
“I just worry sometimes,” Susan begins, not wanting to tell the whole truth. “I’m from the Woods, and I know I was given such an impressive station so that I could be spied upon… I worry that they are still suspicious of me, that her Majesty was trying to… emotionally manipulate me. But there would be no need, of course. I just want to be trusted.”
Lefli smiles widely, intertwining her hand with Susan’s. It is comforting. It makes Susan smile, too. “You are upset over nothing, Susan! Queen Prunaprismia was saying that to comfort you. To tell you that you are one of us, despite your background. You are reading into it too much.”
“I certainly hope so, Lefli,” Susan agrees. They take each other’s arm properly, and make their way back inside together, to find some activity to do. If not flirting at the Court, then they will probably sew. Susan is not the biggest fan of sewing, but it can be calming, and it’s quite nice to do it with Lefli, to sit together and talk, or in complete silence, enjoying the company of the other until they are needed yet again by the Queen.
It has been a month, and Peter and Susan have managed to send word, via the mouse Reepicheep, to Lucy and Edmund, informing them of their plan to overthrow Miraz using primarily the voice of the people. Peter has been thinking for days since about it. He likes his life in the Castle quite well, but every day he is forced to see how Caspian is hidden and mistreated; imagining a day where Miraz is gone, and Caspian can walk freely, is motivation enough.
Peter has also been trying his best to read books about politics and such, due to his ambitions to fulfil the prophecy and become the High King. It is tedious, but he merely sits in on some of Caspian’s lessons with Cornelius now, although not all of them. They are too frequent, and Peter is not the best study as it is.
He has an hour to himself today and is musing on their future. Him and his siblings, Kings and Queens. Caspian free. Narnians safe. Everybody together. If Susan were here, she would remind him that it will be a long time before they reach such a utopia – that blood will be shed – but Peter can’t help but dream of it. Peter thinks, sometimes, that Susan is enjoying her life a little too much, but he can hardly hold it against her. He knows that she misses Lucy and Edmund and worries about the Narnians. It isn’t her fault that her life has turned out to be one of the most pleasant in the land. They did it on purpose to manipulate her, Peter is sure.
As he is lying on a bench in the courtyard, legs hanging off the side as he gazes at the blue sky up above, he is approached. Footsteps echo on the stone and a shadow casts over Peter’s face.
“You’re in my sun, whoever you are,” Peter says without turning his head. He is watching the trajectory of a singular, faint cloud as it travels through the sky.
“It’s me,” says an all too familiar voice. Quintin’s voice. Slightly nervous yet formal, all at once. When Peter turns to look at him, he can see the freckles on the inside of Quintin’s middle finger. A bizarre place for freckles, Peter has always thought. How does the sun shine upon that spot so frequently?
“Cease to cast a shadow,” Peter says, but then decides it would be rude of him not to make space. He sits up properly and pats the spot beside him. “Sit with me, Quintin. Turn your face to the sun. It’s good for you, you know.”
“Peter,” Quintin says, sitting beside him, quite close. Almost too close, but Peter doesn’t mind. He has never been the sort of man who needs a lot of personal space. “Is there any chance of us going somewhere a little more private?”
Peter’s curiosity is piqued by this question, and so they stand again, and make their way to the antechamber of an unused bedroom upstairs, in a wing that is rarely used due to the lack of guests staying in it currently. Tapestries are hung on the walls beside the tiny windows which only let in little amounts of light, although today, with the sun being as bright as it is, it isn’t so dim.
“Can’t get any more private than this,” Peter says, and then lounges in an armchair beside a little desk, resting his elbow on the armrest. He knows there is no need for formality around Quintin; he sees him drunk, for goodness’ sake.
“Yes. Quite,” Quintin agrees. He sits in a different armchair, one leg crossed over the other, sat straight as though he can’t relax. Peter lets his own head loll against the back of his chair, eyes still on Quintin, as he waits for him to speak. He likes to make himself at home in a space. “Peter, it is time I confess something to you. Something I’ve known from the moment we met.”
Oh, good Lord! Peter doesn’t know quite what to do about this incoming information, although he is sure of what it is. He imagined they would never speak it out loud. He thought that Quintin, raised by the nobility, would never risk it. Peter was betting on it, in fact, if only because he wasn’t sure he could resist the opportunity if it came his way, even though he knows his heart lies with Caspian, and that isn’t fair to Quintin.
“Quintin…” Peter starts, sitting up a bit, but Quintin holds his hand up at Peter, symbolising that he must be quiet until Quintin has finished what he is saying.
“Please let me finish speaking, Peter,” Quintin says, and so Peter silences, leaning back again, accepting his fate. He wonders how people ever struggle to find a partner. He has been here a mere month and is already the soon-to-be recipient of a love confession. “From the moment I saw you, Peter, I have felt- quite possessed by you. How handsome you are, how naturally graceful. You have taken my heart to keep as your own. I hope you don’t find this to be too improper of a thing to say, Peter—”
“Not at all,” Peter says, cutting in smoothly. Calmness has overtaken him. He knows that he doesn’t feel the same way. Not that he doesn’t like Quintin, but he certainly doesn’t feel that Quintin has stolen his heart in any manner. Not with Caspian around, at least.
Quintin relaxes slightly, closing his eyes for a moment. “Peter Pevensie... my heart submits itself to you. I hope very much that you will accept it. I know your feelings are unlikely to be the same as mine, but perhaps in time, Peter, if you give me a chance, they could be.”
Peter is in no rush to offer a response. He doesn’t want to tell Quintin something untrue, so he allows himself time to consider it, to truly think about it. Quintin is a very nice man. He is handsome and artistic. He is full of feeling. Peter isn’t here to be falling in love with Court dwellers, however. He is supposed to be focusing on taking down the King himself.
“I will say only this, Quintin,” Peter says finally. Quintin is watching him with wide, worried eyes. “It may be, one day. I am afraid that at the moment I have too much on my plate to allowed myself to be courted.”
“You swear that is the reason? It is not— not because of his Highness?” Quintin asks, swallowing, a question which Peter did not wish to be faced with. Caspian is, surely, out of his reach, and besides, the principle remains.
“I swear,” Peter answers, and smiles, sitting forward. “As I said, Quintin. Perhaps one day.”
Peter would like, very much, to kiss Quintin here in this antechamber, to forget the responsibilities he has given himself and all the stress that he is under. But he cannot use Quintin merely as a distraction, because that would be leading Quintin on, and that would be cruel. Peter isn’t a cruel man. Instead, he stands and walks over to Quintin, taking his hand—but before he can kiss it, Quintin brings Peter’s hand to his own lips.
“I will wait for you, Peter,” Quintin says softly. His eyes are full of meaning and his cheeks are flushed, and he has never been more handsome than he is now, but it isn’t enough. “As long as you need.”
“I will see you at Court, Quintin. I hope you will still drink with me,” Peter says, and then leaves him there. He should go and see whether he is needed elsewhere.
Caspian sits down on the stone bench that stands beside the fenced-in field, pressing a cold cloth to his bleeding cheek that was brought to him by a nearby guard. He wonders where Peter is and why he isn’t here. It is Peter’s job to be here.
“You need to focus, your Highness,” Glozelle says, approaching him. Caspian looks up at the General silently, trying not to appear too sulky, as that isn’t princely at all. “You know I hate to cut you.”
Then why do you? Caspian wants to ask, but he knows what the answer will be, some kind of nonsense about how their enemies would be far less kind and Caspian needs to accept these blows now so that he is prepared for what could come in battle.
“Your Highness. Don’t give me the silent treatment,” Glozelle says, a little more sternly. Caspian has known Glozelle all his life, and feels that perhaps Glozelle does care about him, more than Miraz does, at least. But the relationship means nothing, because in reality, the two of them hardly know each other, and Glozelle has never made Caspian feel comfortable in his presence. He is too formal, and far, far too loyal to Miraz.
“Can you not allow me a moment to collect myself, General?” Caspian responds. Glozelle sighs like he’s frustrated, and sits beside Caspian on the bench, who looks down at the floor do that he doesn’t have to look at the General too directly. He is about to get a talking to, he can tell already.
“In battle, your enemy wouldn’t give you such a moment, your Highness,” Glozelle says, a little softly. Caspian bites his lip and doesn’t answer. “Although I do hope you will never be given reason to find that out.”
I will, Caspian thinks to himself, thinking of Peter, who is such a brilliant swordsman. Peter is going to bring war to our doorstep. He is going to challenge Miraz.
All things considered, he should be trying his best to focus on these classes.
“I am not in battle right now,” Caspian snaps back instead, quite childishly, and then wishes he hadn’t. Why must he must this way? Why can be not be mature and brave and strong? Why is he so sensitive? He pulls the cloth away from his face. It’s still bleeding. “Why did you have to cut my face?”
For a second, Glozelle looks annoyed, and fear strikes Caspian in the heart for no real reason. Glozelle has yelled at him before and it was absolutely terrifying. It was on Miraz’s orders, though, of course.
Before Glozelle can answer, Peter approaches from the Castle behind them, hands clasped behind his back. He observes Caspian’s face.
“Oh, your Highness. Allow me,” Peter says. Glozelle stands to make room for him, and Peter sits beside Caspian, taking the cloth to clean his cut with. “Hello, General.”
“Mr Pevensie,” Glozelle says. He seems to have a begrudging respect for Peter’s talents with a sword, which always makes Caspian feel a little jealous. “Perhaps you can teach our young Prince here about the realities of being in a real fight. Join me again once you have collected yourself, your Highness.”
Glozelle walks away, leaving Caspian alone with Peter, who continues to quietly attend to his wound. Caspian’s irritation comes bubbling unexpectedly to the surface as soon as he has a moment to express it.
“Where have you been?” he snaps. “I have been stuck doing this hideous training by myself and you know how Glozelle scares me. You told me that you would join me for these classes, Peter, I have been waiting, and you have taken your time. You know that you are being paid good money to be here for me?”
“Don’t snap at me,” Peter says softly. His voice holds a quiet confidence, a certain power, that Caspian cannot describe.
“Are you going to tell me what to do now you have declared yourself the future High King?” Caspian scoffs, in a low voice, so Glozelle doesn’t overhear. Peter meets his eyes. Caspian tries not to lose himself in how very blue Peter’s are, the colour that Caspian likes to imagine the ocean would be in real life. Glittering, almost glass-like.
“Of course not. I’m just focusing on washing your cut,” Peter answers. His touch is so gentle. He pulls the cloth away. “I’m sorry that I’m late, your Highness. I got caught up. You know I actually love doing these classes with you.”
“I hate them,” Caspian answers, trying to resist the urge to touch his face and check the bleeding has stopped. Clearly it has or Peter would still be cleaning it away. “You are far better at it than I am.”
“You’re a fine swordsman and you know or. You’d do well in battle. Glozelle is just hard on you,” Peter answers, touching Caspian’s shoulder. They both look towards the General, who’s stood watching them impatiently from a distance away in the field. “Shall we go join him now?”
“If we must, Peter,” Caspian sighs. Peter stands up and offers his hand, which Caspian takes, picking up his sword. He remembers how unbearable it was, before Peter was here. There was nothing to look forward to, the same loneliness every day, and he just had to bear it, hoping that nothing would happen that would make Miraz angry with him. Now it is different. Not only is there something to look forward to—seeing Peter every day—there is a light at the end of the tunnel. The possibility that one day, life will change for the better, for him and their people.