Chapter Text
GALMA. LATE FALL 1014
“Rise and shine, Nadora,” Ilona called. “We've a long day ahead of us!”
Entering her daughter's bed chambers, the duchess of Galma expected to hear some retort about how all the days had been long lately — which was true, given the Harvest Festival was to start the next day — but no such retort came.
“Nadora?”
Ilona ventured further into the room, two maids falling behind to stay just outside the door, but when the sound of their scurrying feet suddenly ceased, no other noise took its place.
Nadora was not there.
To call Ilona surprised would be an understatement. She'd woken Nadora almost daily in recent weeks, and while she did see the young woman awake some mornings, she'd never seen her so alert as to have departed already for the day. Nevermind that today's wake up call was one of the earliest yet.
Turning about the room, Ilona noted the bed and the wardrobe — both tidy and clean. Clearly, it had been long enough since Nadora's departure that morning for the staff to clean up. In fact, everything in the room was just right, and for a moment, Ilona worried that Nadora might have taken off.
She hadn't, of course. Nadora never missed the Harvest Festival, and from the windows, Ilona could see the flag of the Drifting Noble flapping in the breeze, close enough to still be docked as it had been for weeks now.
No. Nadora had not sailed off, as she had been so eager to do in her youth. Yet her room looked as it usually did when the woman was at sea — neat and clean but not… well, not lived in. Dust collected on the mantle, and each lantern was empty of oil. If not for the fresh bedding upon the bed, Ilona might have believed Nadora to be leagues away as she usually was at any given time over the last decade.
She sighed, completing her circuit of the room with a dismal realization. Nadora might have been home now, and truly engaged with the court for the first time in years, but she was not at home.
Ilona had hoped otherwise. She'd seen enough of Nadora the past few weeks to truly take stock, and had hope she'd been wrong in her assessment.
But there was something amiss with Nadora.
It didn't take a genius to know it had to do with the summer spent in Narnia. Nadora had arrived home with still healing wounds — of which she explained nothing despite the fact that both the duke and duchess already knew what had happened. Moreover, Nadora had thrown herself directly into the happenings of Galma's court, which was lovely and desired by no one more than Ilona herself… but was still quite odd.
And then there were the letters.
Ilona gravitated toward Nadora's writing desk — the only space within the whole room that showed signs of true interaction — where several thick letters sat in disarray. She ran her fingers over the envelopes, taking in each one. She'd seen enough missives over the years to recognize the seal as Narnian, but where the red wax was distinct, the image pressed into it was not the royal one. Curiosity brimming, Ilona unfolded the singular opened letter and read the words silently to herself.
She was so invested in the king's words, she did not hear anyone approaching behind her until it was too late.
“Mother? What are you doing?”
Ilona turned suddenly, dropping the letter shdd been reading . “Nadora, good, you're here. I came to wake you, only you weren't here an—”
“So you thought you'd read my letters?”
“Nadora. Please, I…” She knew, even as she tried, no explanation would absolve her of this betrayal. “I am sorry. I shouldn't—”
“No, you shouldn't have.” Nadora sniped back, collecting the remaining letters to hold them together, safe, away from anyone else. “These are private.”
“I apologize, Nadora. truly. I did not mean to pry. It's just…”
“Just what?”
It was a testament to their closeness that Nadora had stalked off or demanded that she leave. Ilona was grateful for it, else she might not have this opportunity.
“It's just, I saw King Peter's seal, and… I am sorry.”
Nadora stood clutching the letters to her stomach, fingers wrapped around their edges tight. Slowly, Ilona reached out and laid her own hands over them, heart aching at the tension she felt there.
“Come, let us sit,” she said, before guiding them to the bed to sit. “Talk to me, Nadora. Tell me what you're running from.”
“I'm not running.”
“Nadora, your beloved ship has been docked for six weeks straight. You're certainly running from something.”
Nadora sighed, and Ilona could see the fight leave her as her shoulder dropped. “I don’t… I'm not….”
Her heart ached. Naddora might not have been her daughter by blood, but she'd still raised her as though they were. Ilona loved Nadora, no more or less than she loved Ilias or Halloran. It hurt to see her this… lost.
“You haven't been yourself, Nadora. And you don't need to tell me what happened with the king, but I know something did. Even without these letters, I'd know it. But whatever it is, darling, you will have to speak with him sometime. Our world is much too small for you to believe otherwise; surely you've seen enough of it to know that?”
“I have nothing more to say to him,” she confessed softly. “I've already said it all, to his face no less, at Cair Paravel, in Etinsmoor and the Owlwood. He knows where I stand already, mother. What good would it do to write back to him?”
Ilona raised an eyebrow, only to furrow it slightly upon the stubbornness in Nadora's thoughts, in her inaction, and in her face.
“It seems to me, dear, that it is the king who has something to say to you,” she said. “And while I won't dictate that you must hear him out, I will say that for someone like the High King, with all the power and authority and responsibility as he has, it certainly means something that he's written to you without his title.”
Her daughter did not respond, so she pressed on, squeezing her hands gently with encouragement.
“Run and take your time dear, if you must, but do not act so quickly that you regret it. Especially not out of fear or stubbornness.” Ilona rose to press a kiss to Nadora's forehead. “You have always been a brave, adventurous soul, worthy and capable of every challenge life has given you. Do not let this be the one to make you falter.”
EASTERN OCEAN. LATE FALL 1014
“There you are, I've been looking for you all day.”
Peter turned but did not leave the railing fully. Lucy's voice was loud, cutting through even the crash of water against the hull of the ship, and her footsteps echoed across the deck as she approached.
As she came to the space beside him, she bumped into his side good naturedly. “Torienne was worried you might have fallen overboard.”
Peter cracked half a smile, but it faded from his face quickly. “Did you need something?”
Lucy shook her head, “I only wanted to check in. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been avoiding me.”
She wasn’t wrong, exactly. Peter had been avoiding something. Not Lucy herself, but rather, talking to her.
“Come on, Peter,” she insisted. “Better out than in, you know.”
He sighed. Truth was, Peter had been dreading this trip to Anvard since they’d been invited.
The return of Prince Cor was to be celebrated, of course, and Peter was grateful for that. He’d spent more than enough of his time and resources over the years searching for the boy. That he returned to Archenland on his own was a miracle, and a welcome one at that.
But going to Anvard in honor in his honor meant the possibility of seeing Nadora as well, and given the way they’d left things — the way Peter had left things… that was the reunion he wasn’t looking forward to.
“It’s Nadora, isn’t it?”
Peter sighed heavily, trying not to focus on the way her name sounded.
It was one thing to think it, to repeat it to himself, and another altogether to hear her name aloud.
“I haven’t heard back,” he murmured. After Ettinsmoor, they’d all returned back to Cair Paravel, but where Peter and the Narnians settled back into their usual routines, Nadora set sail back to Galma, almost immediately the next morning. Peter hadn’t even been awake when she’d left the castle.
He’d spent the following week drafting several letters, all of which were worse than the last. The one he eventually sent held little more than a bleak apology and a fervent request to explain himself. And the longer he went without an answer, the more he figured his request was denied.
Lucy reached around to Peter’s back, rubbing it comfortingly. “It’s only been a few weeks,” she said. “Galma’s got their hands full with Harvest. I’m sure she’s just been busy.”
“And if she’s not?” he asked, looking over at his sister. “What if she’s decided not to respond at all?”
She frowned back at him, and not in her usual empathetic way either. Instead, her brows furrowed tightly and she pulled her hand away to swat him on the arm. “If that’s what she’s decided, then that’s what she’s decided. But I assure you, it isn't.”
“You sound so sure.”
“Of course I am,” Lucy huffed. “I've known Nadora a long time, longer than you. She wouldn't leave your note unanswered without good reason. She’ll give you her answer in time.”
Peter bit back a labored sigh. He wanted to believe her, and knew he should. It was simply easier said than done.
“I wouldn't try to corner her and demand an answer, either. In Anvard, I mean.”
“I wasn't— I didn't plan on— I was—” he stuttered through his thoughts, before registering Lucy's placating hand patting his arm.
“Of course you weren't, I know. I only meant it as a word of advice.”
Peter deflated, crumbling against the railing. He had to be in a right terrible state, if Lucy felt the need to advise him so pointedly.
At least they were a couple days out from the Archenland shoreline. He could wallow a bit longer before getting himself together. And luckily, Peter was much more palatable as his kingly self than as a lovesick fool.