Chapter Text
BASE OF ETTINSMOOR MOUNTAINS. SUMMER 1014
After a long, slow progression, Peter found them a little alcove from where he could see the edge of the marsh down below. It was still cold, but inside, they were hidden from most of the stronger winds blowing against the mountain, and the snow lessened, further from the edge. It wasn’t the best, but Peter’s side was aching something fierce, and what little light they’d had before was nearly gone altogether.
Nadora hadn’t woken in the time it took to get there, or in the time since they'd settled, while Peter debated how, exactly, they might fortify their little hideaway. It wasn’t until he’d managed to light a small fire made of twigs and broken brush branches that she finally started to come to.
In an attempt to sit up, however, she only managed to startle Peter more in the process than relieve him of worry.
“Nadora?” He whirled around from the opening of their hollow hideaway and rushed over.
“I think…” she murmured, cradling her right wrist against her chest. “I think it’s broken.”
Peter sucked in a breath, hoping she was wrong. Truth was, he wasn’t sure what to do when there wasn’t an open wound. He and Edmund had stitched each other up more than once, but without a wound to clean and close, he was lost.
Lucy was the healer after all, even without her cordial.
Whatever Peter was thinking, though, Nadora seemed to move past it, focusing instead of sitting up. He helped her, kneeling beside her, thinking this was something, at least, that he could do. But the moment she was mostly upright, Nadora groaned and tucked her head forward into her hands.
“Nadora, what it is?”
She shook her head slightly in response, before tucking over to the side where she hurled.
Peter winced, but set a hand to her back reflexively, as he might for Edmund or Lucy.
“My head…” she murmured, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Mine hurt, too. But it should pass.” Peter had no way of knowing whether this was true, but the pounding in his head had eased and there less pressure behind his eyes now. Supposedly, Nadora would feel the same, given enough time.
“I don’t…” she slowed, taking a couple slow, deep breaths. “I hope so.”
“Here, let’s get you more comfortable.”
He moved behind her, back against the wall of their little half-cave, and then pulled her back against his side. The weight of her body against his was comforting and warm, and with his arm around her, he could feel the steady flow of her breathing. In and out. In and out.
“How…” she paused, and then started over. “Where are we?”
“In the mountains,” he answered. Nadora was speaking slowly, slower than he liked. But speaking was better than the alternative. “We got side-swiped.”
“I feel like I got smashed,” she groaned.
He smiled lightly, despite himself. “I’m not surprised, you got more of it than I did, I think.”
She hummed, taking her time with an actual response. “Lucy is going…to be… so mad.”
Peter shut his eyes briefly, knowing exactly the extent of Lucy’s ire. He wasn’t going to hear the end of this for a long time. Once they got back, that was.
“I’m mad at Lucy as it is,” he confessed, though he was less annoyed now than he had been earlier.
On the one hand, Lucy had been right to send someone. It needn’t have been Nadora, of course, but the Narnians had been outnumbered from the start, and it was a hard fight. On the other hand, though, it had been Nadora she sent.
“I can’t believe she sent you,” he voiced softly. If it hadn’t been her, Peter might not have been so distracted—he might not be here in the mountains. And yet…
He glanced down, hearing Nadora mumble but not quite catching her words.
“Nadora? Hey, stay awake.” He was a poor healer, but Lucy was constantly warning both him and Edmund to stay awake until they could be attended to and rest properly. Especially if they were dizzy. He couldn’t remember why , exactly, but if Lucy said it, it was certain to be important. Which mean Nadora needed to stay awake tonight.
“Nadora, come on,” he shook her lightly and was rewarded when her eyes fluttered open.
“Hmm?”
“You have to stay awake,” he insisted, shifting their position just enough for her to rest more fully against hist front.
“Why?” she asked, “I want to close my eyes.”
“Close ‘em, sure. But stay awake,” he bargained. “Talk to me.”
Nadora hummed again, and though Peter thought she was likely to fall asleep again, she wasn’t quiet for long.
“You know, I think Gennady would have liked you.”
“Gennady?”
She nodded. The movement was slight, but everything about her right now was slight, her voice, her breathing. Slight was fine—it would have to be—as long as it was there.
“Who’s Gennady?” he prompted.
“My brother. Born to my mother, not Ilona…like Ilias or Halloran.”
Nadora paused, breathing slowly as she spoke. And if Peter hadn’t known that she’d just been knocked about by a giant, he might have guessed this would be a difficult topic for her.
“He passed when I was fifteen.”
Then again, maybe it was difficult.
“We were hunting,” she explained. “Our first time alone, and we came across a bear.”
“Not one who spoke, I take it?”
“No,” she replied, a slight lift to her voice. Which was good. She was paying attention. “Not a talking bear.”
Peter could guess at what happened. There wasn’t much need to elaborate—hunting accidents happened all the time.
“We had our bows, but Gennady had his sword, too.”
If Gennady had died and a bear was involved, there were only so many ways it could have turned out.
“But it was useless,” she said. “It was too fast for me, and too big for Gennady.”
She was holding tightly onto his hand, and he squeezed back to offer whatever support he could. There really wasn’t much he could say that would truly mean anything, but he wanted her to know he understood. As much as he could, he understood.
She sighed shakily, and he reached up with his free hand smooth out the hair on her hair, to sooth her worry, in some small way.
“I’m so sorry, Nadora.”
A few sniffles made their way through her attempt not to cry, but he didn’t say anything about them.
Instead, he simply waited. This wasn’t the sort of story to rush, after all.
“You know what the worst of it was?” she asked finally.
He didn’t answer aloud. Just squeezed her fingers again.
“Everyone kept saying it was his responsibility to take care of me,” she said. “That that was his duty as the first-born son. But they’re wrong.”
Peter opened his mouth to reply, but wasn’t able to. He still didn’t know what to say to this point.
“I was his older sister. It was my job to protect him. Gennady, Ilias, Halloran, I’m the oldest of them all, and I failed.”
Peter’s voice caught in his throat when he opened his mouth again. How many times had he had this exact same thought?
“I failed, but they kept asking… They still…” she sighed, and he knew exactly who she spoke of and the request she continued to receive. It was the same request asked of him by his generals, his soldiers, his siblings. Would he stand before them again? Lead them? Take on the mantle of authority they so desperately needed to guide them?
“It was an accident,” he said finally, though he knew it would not make a difference. “There wasn’t anything more you could do.”
“I should have stayed,” she said. Her voice was softer than it had been, but no less clear. “I let him face that bear alone.”
“I’m sure…”
Peter trailed off as Nadora shook her head. The movement was minute, but enough that when her head rolled too far, the rest of her torso followed with it, and Nadora fell awkwardly across Peter’s lap.
“Nadora?” For a moment, Peter didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. All there was, was the soft crackle of their measly fire. Then, as he strained to listen, Nadora’s breathing came to him.
“Nadora?”
She made a low hum in response, and he exhaled heavily. Slowly, carefully, he adjusted their position so that she lay with her head in his lap.
“Stay awake, Nadora,” he reminded her. “Please.”
Her eyes were fluttering, neither open nor closed, but she did speak. Murmur, really. “He tried… to send me away…”
Gently, he took her left hand and laced their fingers together, holding on tightly as he brushed hair from her face with his free hand.
“It’s okay,” he replied firmly. This sort of rambling incoherence wasn’t new to him. And he’d sat through moments like this with Edmund enough times ot know she wasn’t likely to remember much of this exchange later. But if there was anything she did remember, he wanted it to be good.
“But he let go…”
“It’s okay,” he repeated. “Nadora, I promise, it’s okay.”
“It’s not,” she mumbled. She wasn’t quite unconscious, but she wasn’t all there with him, either. This much, he knew, by the stray tears on her face. Gently, he wiped them away.
And maybe that was it. Maybe it was something else. Something he did or something she thought up in her delirium. But the moment his thumb came away from her face, wet with tears, her eyes shot up again and she sat upright.
“Nadora?”
“He let go,” she repeated, a tone of frantic nerves in her voice now. “Gennady.”
“Nadora!” Peter wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against him. “Wake up, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
She twisted in his arms, and Peter winced, catching her elbow in his already aching side.
“Nadora,” he gasped, but she turned around to face him now, kneeling as she braced her forearm against the alcove wall on the side.
“ He let go of my hand, and I want… I want to hate him for it.” She spoke in a harsh whisper, but her eyes were wet again and her expression sad. The heat in her voice seemed to come from an anger as old and weary and tired as the bones of his own body.
“Nadora… it’s Peter, and I need you to—” He bit off the rest of his plea with a curse, reaching forward when, suddenly, all the fight drained from Nadora’s face and she began to fall forward. He only caught her because they were already so close, and, breathing heavily, he slumped back against the wall again, Nadora cradled against his chest this time.
“I lost him,” she murmured again, voice nothing more than a broken whisper. Something in Peter’s chest cracked at the sound.
“I lost him, and I miss him,” she said, “And it’s my fault he’s gone.”
“It’s okay.” The words were, perhaps, the only ones Peter even knew anymore. “It’s okay.” He repeated, again and again, amidst her own murmurs about Gennady.
Arms around her, her back against his chest, her heartbeat echoing through her and into him—it was only by their proximity that he heard her words as clearly as he did.
“I love him, but he’s gone.”
New and different from her steady refrain of anger and sadness over losing her brother, Nadora’s voice caught his attention first—softer now than before, and less frantic. There was a fearful resignation in her tone.
“He’s gone, Gennady.”
Her voice became less and less clear as she repeated herself, And later, Peter would claim he must have heard incorrectly—that he too was exhausted and not all present.
“He’s gone, and I can’t make him stay.”
But in the moment, Peter knew he’d heard clearly.
“Gennady, help me.”
Which was a problem in and of itself, because if Nadora was not speaking about Gennady, but rather, to him, then who was she referring to?