I’ve always found Peter and Susan’s relationship interesting. A contrast of both how well they understand and simultaneously misunderstand each other. I keep thinking of that scene in LWW (Walden) where Susan says, “I’m just trying to be realistic,” and Peter goes, “No, you’re trying to be smart, as usual.” (I always thought he said "smart" like he was saying a slur in that scene, lol.)
I know some people take it to be Peter rightfully calling out Susan for her vanity and higher-than-thou-ness, but I think it’s a classic example of Peter misunderstanding Susan (not maliciously, but out of frustration). The wolves are advancing at the river of Beruna and a quick decision needs to be made. Susan wants to stop and think and Peter knows there’s no time for that. What’s important to note is that Susan is trying to help. She isn’t trying to be patronizing or “better than him” though he may read it that way. She’s trying to be “an adult” much in the same way that Peter is. Trying to keep her family alive—like Peter. It’s just that most people find this a flaw in Susan and a virtue in Peter (partly because the text in both the book and film train them to).
Susan strikes me as someone tormented and traumatized by helplessness. For that reason, her anxiety centers on control. She focuses on prevention and preservation where Peter focuses on duty and seeing things through. He’s always resigning himself, especially after the war, to do the hard thing. Even to die.
I think that causes them to both understand and resent each other.
They tend to argue and quarrel the most out of the four and because their goals are aligned and passions are matched even when their methods differ.
But Susan, like Peter, is also eager to please her siblings (not really anyone else, with whom she maintains a resolute distance). She is sensitive to criticism because she’s always trying her best to make things easier for everybody and it really hurts her when she’s told her help is unwanted, unnecessary or ineffective. Susan has a deep need to be helpful to her siblings, a need coloured by a fear of abandonment. If only she helps out a little more, does as she’s told (which is look after her siblings), then her father will be able to come back from war and their mother will send for them soon enough. All will be put right if they just do what they’re supposed to—look out for each other. And don't cause any inconveniences for those taking care of them (Susan hates being an inconvenience).
This deep wound carries over into her rule as a Queen of Narnia during the Golden Age. And when Peter comes back from war and criticizes (not maliciously but out of habit from years of decision-making) she often gets defensive which in turn makes him defensive because he always feels like Susan is unfairly critical of him.
They are both intimidated by each other in the sense that they both think they ought to be more like the other to be good rulers. That the other is a better ruler than them because of their key traits. And both have a sense of fear that the younger ones seem to lack—Lucy most of all (though an iciness has settled on Edmund that makes him appear unfeeling to normal human pathos). And Peter sometimes resents Susan because she gets to listen to her fear and he doesn’t, despite feeling it so often. Because everyone's looking up to him.
And Susan resents Peter because she feels that he throws himself at trouble—because despite the fact that he doesn’t love war, he is most assured of himself within it. It is his greatest competency. More than diplomacy or strategy or court decisions. She knows it makes him feel most like the king he is and resents him for always trying to prove himself knowing how the waiting and worry torments her. How unnecessary it is. Also resents herself for not being able to take on the burden he has, yet every time she tries to lighten his load, he acts as if he is being somehow patronized. In his darker moments, usurped. Which is why Susan also believes Peter is overly critical of her and everything she does. Like he’s punishing her for his position as High King. One he feels he didn’t choose and one she knows he did. Because he also felt helpless and so grasped at the first semblance of power he could get when St. Nicholas gave him that sword. He chose fear, too, like she did, but got praised for it while she got scorned and resented. At least, that's how she sees it.
And this bitterness is something only they seem able to know about each other. A quiet, secret unhappiness that they can’t hide from each other. That comes out when they are forced to fight and sacrifice and bleed for their kingdom in whatever way. For that reason, there’s also a comfort they seek within each other. One that comes from permission to be ugly and rude and children abandoned by those that should have been there to take care of them rather than kings or queens. A satisfaction from stripping each other of the pretenses they put on for everybody else’s benefit.
Yet Peter trusts that no matter what ugliness he shows, Susan will never turn him away. Will always be there for him as he is for her. Because the love wins out over the fear in the end. And once they remember that unwavering truth, they feel capable of anything, or at least, doing the next thing. A strength, an assurance, only they can give each other.
The thing about Peter and Edmund’s bond is that it’s forged in war. Literally. Edmund is Peter’s grounding force in a way no one else is because Edmund is what steadies him in battle. There’s a comfort he finds in Ed’s presence he doesn’t have with anyone else. Because that’s his brother, the one who saved him from Jadis. That’s the one who knows the best route. The one who will see what Peter misses. Who will cover up and correct Peter’s mistakes. On top of that, Ed doesn’t glamorize Peter the way the others do. He sees Peter the most truthfully. Which provides Peter with a sense of safety. He trusts Ed more than he trusts anyone—sometimes even himself. Because of this, Ed is like Peter’s personal teddy bear. He’ll lug him around wherever he goes. Bring him to places he doesn’t have to be just so he doesn’t feel alone. Goes to him or holds him when he’s anxious (it helps that Edmund never quite outgrows him height-wise). Ed who has a witticism for any situation they’re in. Who can make him laugh and who can help him see things differently. When it comes to Ed, Peter has almost no sense of personal space. He’ll talk to him about everything and anything while Ed is trying to take a bath or go to the loo until Ed has to say in a firm but calm way that he needs literally two minutes to breathe alone. Yet, even as much as Edmund might get occasionally frustrated with Peter, he secretly luxuriates in Peter’s affection and high esteem of him. He feels so loved by Peter and that grounds him, infuses every act of loyalty he does for Peter. Peter whom he betrayed. Who never stopped searching for him. Who only became king because all he wanted was his brother back home and safe. Who went to war for Edmund. Edmund wants Peter to be proud of him.
It’s not always charming, though. Oftentimes, when Peter feels safe, everything he usually represses comes out. His bitterness, fear, self-loathing. Ed usually softens when he feels safe, becomes more prone to laugh and more open about himself. Less confrontational and more complimentary (almost to a sappy degree before he catches himself). He knows people well and so knows what gifts to give them. Loves to see their faces light up when he remembers something they like. Peter is the opposite. He becomes critical or melancholy or resenting in that initial safety following conflict. All his anxieties come forward and he begins to deliberately neg or annoy people, as if wanting a fight. Wanting to be told all his worst fears are true. He starts putting all his worries and anxieties in other people’s mouths. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? That you’re smarter than me?” “You think I’m a bad king, right? That I don’t do enough. I’m never doing enough for you. You’re spoiled.” “Why are you drinking at this time? Spit that out.” Edmund is just the most skilled at not giving that fight to him. Because he’s used to it. Peter acting that way after a battle, however it goes. He knows what Peter wants is a reprieve from his own crown. His own authority and reputation. From high expectations. He wants assurance that he never fully believes anyway. So Ed lets him act the arse to him, part of him thinking he deserves it anyway, and then waits for Peter to apologize because he always does once the poison’s out. Transforming into a doting, sappy, loving dog. Eager to kiss and hug and please. To make up for it a hundred times over. Because he’s always anxious to let his siblings but especially Edmund know he loves them. Because he blames himself somewhat for Ed running off with the White Witch. Blames it on him being too harsh and critical so that Ed had to run away. Doesn’t ever want Ed to feel so scorned or unappreciated again.
There’s a few people who Peter can truly unravel around. Those are Ed, Glenstorm and Susan. Glenstorm is like Edmund except he’ll give Peter a stern talking to that snaps him out of it while Ed will usually let Peter ride it out himself. Glenstorm acts as a mentor to Peter, someone who’s seen more war than he has. Who guided him through planning for the Battle of Beruna. Glenstorm is good at using Peter’s emotions to sharpen him for battle. For kingship. As for Susan…well, more on that later bc I find his relationship to her very complex. But the long and short of it is Susan provides Peter with a sense of home (while Lucy provides him with a sense of freedom). Home is wherever Susan is, and that’s where he strives to return to. Always making his way back to her with the unwavering conviction that he should be there.
But it is Edmund who makes Peter feel the most safe and Peter makes Edmund feel wanted—despite everything. For that reason they function as a kind of gravity to each other. An inseparable, interdependent pair.
Ten years after walking away from the only man she ever loved, Adelaide returns to Cair Paravel with one impossible assignment: plan the wedding of High King Peter Pevensie. Determined to remain professional, she buries every memory beneath floral arrangements, seating charts, and perfectly rehearsed smiles. But every corridor holds the echoes of a love they never truly left behind, and every glance reminds them that some promises refuse to stay in the past.
As old wounds reopen and unspoken feelings resurface, Adelaide must decide whether some stories are meant to be remembered—or rewritten. Yet when the wedding day finally arrives, the hardest choice may not belong to the bride or the groom at all.
warnings: emotional angst, second-chance romance, mutual pining, unresolved past relationship, heartbreak, grief over lost love, almost-kissing, emotional infidelity
The banners of Cair Paravel rose like memories over the horizon, gold against the grey-blue sea, and Adelaide wished the carriage would break a wheel and strand her in the wilderness.
She sat perfectly straight despite the ache in her spine, gloved hands folded in her lap. She had worn navy instead of black—it was less like mourning, more like indifference. It fooled no one, least of all herself.
Outside, gulls screamed as the cliffs rolled into view. The ocean wind tugged at the carriage curtains, and the scent of salt and pine twisted into something cruelly nostalgic. Ten years had passed since she last walked those halls. Ten years since she'd left that boy-king behind and promised herself never to look back.
And now she would plan his wedding.
Her lips curled at the irony, but no laughter came.
When the carriage drew to a halt at the palace gates, she let the footman open the door and stepped down with practiced elegance. The courtyard was a vision of motion—pages darted back and forth with bolts of silk, footmen bore wine crates, and courtiers shimmered with anticipation.
She was early, but the wedding fever had already begun.
"Lady Adelaide." A steward approached with a bow. He was new—she would have remembered those kind eyes. "The High King sends his apologies. He’s been detained in council, but you’re to be shown to your quarters, and the Great Hall is ready for your first inspection."
So. He knew she had arrived.
"Very well," she said, her voice cool. "We’ll begin at once."
As they walked through the palace, her heels clicking against marble floors she once ran across barefoot, Adelaide kept her face impassive. The walls whispered—old echoes, long buried: laughter in hidden corridors, breathless kisses behind pillars, whispered promises of always.
She didn’t pause. Not even at the doorway to the library, where he had once recited love poetry with too much drama and too little shame.
The Great Hall was resplendent, as expected. Cream-and-gold paneling caught the light from a thousand candles, and the windows arched high enough to touch the heavens. Adelaide swept into the room like a storm barely restrained, eyes sharp.
“Lose the lilies,” she said after only a moment. “They’re too funereal. And I want the musicians on the dais moved closer to the far wall. Their sound will drown out the processional if placed there.”
The steward scribbled furiously.
“And the color scheme?” he asked.
Adelaide hesitated.
Once, she and Peter had danced in this hall during a harvest festival, and he’d whispered that she looked like firelight in her garnet gown. She’d blushed like a fool. She’d worn that same color the night he first told her he loved her.
Now, the bride had chosen ivory and blush.
Adelaide schooled her face and said, “We keep it soft. Romantic. A bit predictable, but it photographs well.”
The steward nodded and moved to relay her instructions.
She stood alone in the hall, the weight of the past pressing in.
And then, the door opened behind her.
She didn’t have to turn.
She felt him like a change in pressure. Like the first crack of a storm.
"Adelaide," he said softly.
Ten years had passed since she’d heard her name in that voice.
She turned.
Peter stood in the doorway, the High King in all his golden splendor—taller, broader, impossibly handsome in a navy doublet with silver embroidery. But his eyes… his eyes were the same. Warm blue, just a shade too soft for a king. Still devastating.
She lifted her chin. “Your Majesty.”
He flinched.
“Is that how it’s going to be?” he asked quietly.
“It’s how it should be,” she replied. “I’m here in a professional capacity. I assume you can manage that.”
He took a step forward. She did not move.
“I didn’t know it would be you,” he said.
A small smile curled at her lips, but there was no humor in it. “Did you think I’d fallen off the face of the earth?”
“I thought you’d moved on.”
“I did.”
Another beat of silence.
Peter’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t have come.”
Adelaide laughed—bitter, short. “You think I wanted this assignment?”
He didn’t answer.
She tilted her head. “But you didn’t cancel it, did you? Even when you saw my name on the parchment. I wonder why.”
He looked away. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually accept.”
“Yet here I am,” she murmured. “Planning your wedding to another woman.”
The silence between them stretched like glass pulled thin.
She looked around the hall again. “I’ll need approval on seating charts by tomorrow. I’ve already spoken with your bride’s envoy. She prefers peonies over roses, which changes the floral order.”
Peter’s voice was tight. “You’re good at pretending.”
“I’ve had a decade to practice,” she said, voice like frost. “I suggest you do the same.”
She turned on her heel and strode from the hall.
Behind her, Peter didn’t follow.
But his eyes stayed on her until the doors closed.
☼
Adelaide sat at the head of the long oak table, a scroll of parchment unrolled before her, dotted with her neat, looping script. The afternoon sun poured through the arched windows of Cair Paravel's solar, turning dust motes into floating stars. Outside, the waves broke quietly against the cliffs. Inside, her world unraveled one flower arrangement at a time.
"Her Majesty prefers blush peonies over white roses," Adelaide said, tapping the parchment with her ink-stained finger. "But roses are traditional for a Narnian royal wedding. We'll need to strike a balance. Perhaps a spring garland woven with both."
The steward beside her nodded, jotting notes. He had no idea he was taking down the careful words of a woman bleeding from old wounds.
Adelaide continued, her voice steady, calm, as she reviewed the seating chart, the musicians' placements, the ceremony sequence. Every detail sharpened into something brittle. She knew this court like the back of her hand, and she could still walk its corridors in her dreams. Once, she'd dreamed of doing this very thing. But not like this. Never like this.
She had imagined planning a wedding to Peter, not planning Peter's wedding to someone else.
Each line she inked was a silent scream. Each checkmark a funeral bell for the life that could’ve been. The ribbons, the candles, the silver goblets polished to mirror shine—she’d once imagined those details for herself. Not for a stranger. Not for a woman she hadn’t even met yet but whose name had been announced to the court with trumpets and applause.
A creak at the door broke her rhythm.
She didn't look up. "Is that you, Silas? I need the updated guest list from Archenland. We can’t risk another incident like at the Queen’s birthday ball."
"It isn’t Silas."
Her pen stopped.
She looked up slowly. Peter stood in the doorway again, one hand on the wood like it was a lifeline.
"I thought you had council until sundown," she said.
He stepped inside. "It ended early. I wanted to see how things were going."
Adelaide leaned back in her chair, folding her hands neatly over the parchment. Her expression gave nothing away. "Things are going as expected. Efficiently."
Peter approached the table, slowly, cautiously, like she might vanish if he moved too fast. "You’ve changed the layout."
"Yes. The bride’s family prefers a circular formation. More inclusive, apparently."
He nodded, looking at the sketch she’d drawn of the seating arrangement. His hand brushed the edge of the paper.
Adelaide pulled it away, a little too quickly. "I’ll finalize it by tomorrow."
A heavy silence settled between them.
He watched her for a long time. "You’re wearing navy again."
She arched a brow. "Observant."
"It was always your color."
She returned to her parchment. "It’s a neutral tone, suitable for court."
Peter pulled out the chair across from her and sat. The sudden proximity made the air feel too thick.
"Why did you agree to this?" he asked finally. "You could’ve sent someone else from the firm."
She looked at him then. Really looked.
The angles of his face had hardened with age, but his eyes were still too earnest. Too gentle. It was that gentleness that undid her.
"Because I’m the best," she said. "And because I’ve spent the last ten years proving I don’t run from difficult things."
Peter flinched.
Good, she thought cruelly. Let him flinch.
He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "She’s nice. The princess. You’ll like her."
Adelaide’s stomach twisted.
"I’m sure I will," she said, voice as smooth as glass. "It’s easy to like someone you don’t love."
Peter went still.
Their eyes locked.
"That’s not fair," he said.
Adelaide stood, gathering her scrolls, her pen, her composure. "Neither is fate. But we live with it."
She moved toward the door, heart pounding, the silence roaring behind her.
Peter stood, too. "Did you ever—?"
She paused.
He swallowed. "Did you ever stop? Loving me?"
Her fingers tightened on the scrolls.
"No," she said, without turning. "But I got very good at pretending."
Then she left him there, in the room they once dreamed in, with vows on her lips that would never be said aloud again.
She didn’t cry. Not until she was halfway down the corridor, her footsteps echoing too loudly, her hands trembling. She ducked into an alcove behind a velvet drape and let the tears fall, silent and scalding.
It wasn’t just that he was marrying someone else. It was that he still looked at her like she was his future, and she was the only one who knew that she wasn’t. Not anymore.
Not since duty won. Not since they’d both let go.
She had thought time would dull the edge of it. But it hadn’t. Time had only made the ache more polite. It had taught her to smile through pain and laugh when she wanted to scream. But Peter had always been her undoing.
She wiped her cheeks and straightened, smoothing the front of her gown. She had a reputation to uphold. A kingdom watching. And a wedding to perfect.
Even if it wasn’t hers.
☼
The fitting chamber in Cair Paravel had once belonged to a queen who died long before Adelaide's time. Still, the light in it was good—clear and soft, filtering through gauzy curtains and warming the stone floor beneath their feet.
Adelaide stood near the far mirror, clipboard in hand, while a seamstress flitted around the new bride-to-be like a butterfly with a needle. Princess Elodie of Attalor was sweet-faced and golden-haired, radiant in a way that would photograph beautifully beside Peter’s stature and steady smile. She had been chosen well. Diplomatically, politically. Almost poetically.
And she liked Adelaide.
Which was the cruelest irony of all.
“This bodice is exquisite,” Elodie said, twisting slightly to examine herself. “Adelaide, did you design it?”
Adelaide shook her head, voice calm. “No, but I commissioned it. The designer trained in Archenland. His embroidery is unparalleled.”
Elodie smiled warmly. “You have excellent taste. Everyone says so.”
Peter was seated across the room, watching the exchange in silence. He hadn’t spoken much since entering. Adelaide hadn’t looked at him longer than a second.
He didn’t deserve her eyes on him.
“Your Majesty,” the seamstress said, “could you lift your arm—just slightly—yes, like that.”
Adelaide made another note on her clipboard. “The sleeves need adjusting. They pull when you lift your arm.”
Elodie nodded. “It’s perfect otherwise. I feel like I’ve stepped into someone else’s fairy tale.”
Adelaide smiled faintly. “You’ve stepped into your own.”
That made Peter shift.
After the fitting, Elodie retired with the seamstress, trailing compliments and thanks. “I’ll see you at the tasting tomorrow, Lady Adelaide?” she asked from the doorway.
Adelaide nodded. “Of course.”
When the door closed, silence bloomed between her and Peter like a bruise.
She didn’t look at him. She returned to the mirror, gathering the swatches of silk left over from the fittings. Her fingers trembled.
“You’re quiet today,” he said.
She didn’t answer.
“I thought you might say something. About her. About how she looks in the dress.”
Adelaide’s laugh was a soft, breathless thing. “What would you like me to say, Peter? That she’s beautiful? She is. That she’ll make you proud? She will. That she’s everything I never was?”
He flinched.
She turned to him slowly. “You don’t get to act surprised. You chose this.”
Peter stood then. “I chose the crown. That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” she whispered, voice breaking. “It’s worse.”
He crossed the room in two strides. “You think I don’t think about you? Every day? Every minute I’m not standing in front of someone, playing the part?”
Adelaide stared at him. “Then why are we here, Peter? Why is she wearing a dress I dreamed about? Why am I standing here helping you marry someone else?”
He shook his head like he didn’t have the answers either.
“I would’ve given it all up for you,” she said, voice trembling. “But you never asked me to.”
“You would’ve regretted it.”
“I would’ve regretted losing you more.”
They stood close enough now to touch, but neither moved.
He looked down at her, grief plain on his face. “You were always the braver one.”
Adelaide blinked back tears. “And you were always the one who left.”
Peter reached up then, slowly, and brushed a lock of hair from her face. His fingertips lingered against her cheek for a second too long. She leaned in without thinking.
Their lips were a breath apart.
But she stepped back.
She dropped the silk swatches like they burned her, took a sharp breath, and turned toward the window.
“This isn’t my place anymore.”
Peter didn’t follow her.
She stared out over the cliffs, where the sea crashed like her heartbeat. “You’ll be a good husband, Peter. You always do what’s expected of you.”
He didn’t argue.
“I’ll send the final fitting schedule tonight,” she added, voice steadying. “And I’ll try not to be here next time.”
When she left, the ghost of their almost-kiss followed her, heavy as a crown she’d never wear.
☼
The great hall had been cleared of its usual regalia. Long banquet tables and cushioned benches had been replaced by an open stretch of polished marble, gleaming in the afternoon light. The musicians tuned their instruments softly in the corner, the air humming with the anticipation of celebration.
Adelaide stood near the edge, arms crossed, a planner tucked under one elbow. From this angle, she could see the whole layout—the floral arch to be installed on the dais, the golden lanterns meant to mimic starlight during the final hours of the ball, the timing of each entrance.
She’d thought, foolishly, that this part would be easier.
But there was music now. And there would be dancing.
And Peter was standing at the center of the floor, waiting for his bride.
Adelaide hadn’t intended to watch. She told herself she’d stay just long enough to ensure the rehearsal went smoothly. But as she lingered, the ache in her chest pulsed stronger with every note of the waltz.
“Lady Adelaide,” the steward called gently. “The princess is delayed. She’s requested you fill in, just for the rehearsal walk-through.”
Adelaide turned sharply. “Me?”
The steward nodded. “Only for the positioning. She trusts you to get the timing right.”
Adelaide hesitated. But Peter was already walking toward her.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he said, voice low. “I’ll ask someone else.”
She met his eyes—too blue, too familiar. There was something unsaid in them. As always.
“No,” she said. “Let’s get it over with.”
Peter offered his hand.
She took it.
Their fingers laced automatically, instinctively, as if no years had passed at all. As if no ocean of regret stood between them.
The musicians struck up the opening chords. Adelaide’s body tensed, but Peter moved with practiced grace. He’d always been a strong dancer—elegant, sure-footed. He guided her effortlessly into a turn, and she hated how easily she fell back into rhythm with him.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
“You still remember,” he murmured.
Her jaw tightened. “Some things don’t get forgotten easily.”
They circled the room in sweeping steps, their bodies moving together like a memory coming alive.
“You changed your perfume,” Peter said.
Adelaide laughed, soft and bitter. “And you still remember the old one?”
“I remember everything.”
He spun her gently and caught her again, hand pressing to the small of her back. She looked up at him then, defiant.
“Then you remember how this ends,” she said. “With me letting go.”
He didn’t answer. His grip faltered for half a second, but he held her tighter as they turned.
“Tell me,” he whispered, “that you don’t miss this. Miss me.”
Her heart kicked painfully. But she smiled—cool, unreadable.
“That’s not the question you should be asking, Your Majesty.”
Peter’s brows furrowed.
“You should be asking,” she continued, voice razor-thin, “if I’ll survive watching you do this with someone else.”
The dance slowed into its final steps. The music softened. The room held its breath.
Peter looked like he might say something. Something that would burn the last bridge between them.
But the steward clapped. “Lovely! That was perfectly timed, Lady Adelaide. Thank you, truly.”
She stepped away from Peter before he could speak.
“I have notes on the entrance,” she said crisply, back in control. “The floral arc needs to be lowered—right now it distracts from the dance floor.”
“Of course,” the steward nodded.
Peter was still watching her. Still standing in the middle of the dance floor like something important had been stolen from him.
Adelaide didn’t spare him another glance.
She walked to the edge of the hall, her heels clicking on the marble, each step measured, each breath careful. And when the doors closed behind her, only then did she allow herself to crumble slightly. Just slightly.
Not because she had danced with him.
But because, for the length of a single waltz, he had held her like she was still his bride.
And she had let him.
☼
The feast hall was silent.
No music. No laughter. No echoing steps or clinking goblets. Just stillness—soft and sacred, like the last breath before a storm.
The garlands hung precisely where she’d asked. Twisted ivy, white roses, pale peonies, and star-shaped lanterns. Adelaide walked the length of the long table, fingers grazing the back of each carved chair. She adjusted a place card. Straightened a silver fork. Re-tied the end of a silk ribbon.
It had to be perfect. Even if it wasn’t hers. Especially because it wasn’t.
Cair Paravel’s grand hall had never looked more beautiful. And she had done that. She had built this moment, thread by thread.
And tomorrow, it would break her.
She didn’t hear his footsteps at first—only the faint shift of air as the doors closed behind him.
“I thought everyone had retired,” she said softly, not turning.
“I couldn’t sleep,” came Peter’s voice, low and rough. “I walked until I found the light.”
Adelaide stood still, hands resting on the edge of the table.
“I should have blown out the candles.”
“No,” he said. “Leave them.”
She turned slowly. He looked tired—though handsome still, in a way that time had only refined. His tunic was loose at the collar, his crown absent. Just Peter, the boy who once held her hand beneath the stars, not the king who would marry another at dawn.
“I was just…” she gestured vaguely at the garlands, “making sure everything’s in place.”
He glanced around the hall, then back to her.
“It’s perfect.”
She didn’t respond. She couldn’t.
He took a few steps forward, but not too close.
“You always said you wanted to be remembered,” Peter said after a beat. “Even if no one knew it was you.”
“I still do,” she whispered.
He watched her carefully. “Then know this. I will remember. Every garland. Every candle. Every breath in this room.”
Her throat tightened. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t help.”
He took another step. “Then tell me what will.”
Adelaide looked up at him, eyes shining. “Do you remember the way we said forever?”
Peter’s face broke. Just slightly.
“I remember the way you whispered it,” he said. “Like it was a promise and a prayer.”
She smiled—trembling, bittersweet. “And you said it like it was already true.”
Silence settled between them, thick and fragile.
“I should have chosen you,” he whispered. “In another world—”
“But this is our world,” she said, voice cracking. “And we didn’t.”
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
Peter crossed the distance in two strides, lifting his hand to her face.
He wiped the tear gently, reverently, like it was something sacred. His fingers lingered along her jaw.
“Don’t,” she breathed. “Please.”
But his hand didn’t move.
They were too close. They always were. Her breath mingled with his. Her eyes searched his like maybe, just maybe, there was still time. Still a sliver of space between goodbye and gone.
His hand slipped to the back of her neck.
Their foreheads nearly touched.
They didn’t kiss. But it was so close. A breath. A heartbeat.
Adelaide closed her eyes. “You’ll make a beautiful husband.”
Peter’s eyes fluttered shut.
But before anything more could be said—before hope could claw its way to the surface—she stepped back.
Just once.
Then she turned, shoulders squared, eyes dry now.
She walked away, her steps echoing against the stone, her silhouette framed by candlelight.
And she didn’t look back.
Not even once.
☼
The bells of Cair Paravel rang at dawn.
Clear, golden chimes soared across the cliffs, singing of joy. Of union. Of legacy. The entire kingdom stirred in celebration. Silk banners fluttered from every turret, white and gold and threaded with sapphire blue. Choirs rehearsed beneath the chapel dome. Courtiers donned their finest attire. Servants moved in choreographed swells. It was the kind of day poets would write about.
And Adelaide moved through it like a ghost.
Her gown was silver-gray, simple and elegant, her hair pulled back into a low twist. She held her planning scrolls in one hand and a thin bouquet of instructions in the other. Her presence was expected. Necessary. It was her design, after all. Her precision, her eye, her steady hands. And so she stayed. Because no one could say goodbye to a dream that easily. Not even her.
She hadn’t seen Peter since the night before.
There were rumors, of course. That the bride had arrived late. That her veil had torn. That the high king had broken a goblet that morning when a chamberlain mentioned the weather. Adelaide ignored them all. She kept her eyes forward and her hands busy.
At the chapel doors, she paused.
Guests were already seated. The marble floor glowed under sunlight. The altar was crowned with blooms she had chosen—blush peonies and white roses. The scent was intoxicating, as if beauty itself had been coaxed into the air.
She stepped into the shadows behind a column, heart racing.
From here, she could see everything.
Peter stood at the front, dressed in formal gold-trimmed robes, a sword at his hip, his crown gleaming like firelight. His posture was rigid, proud, kingly.
But his eyes—
His eyes searched the crowd.
Adelaide didn’t move.
She knew the moment he saw her. His expression didn’t change. But his hands clenched tighter at his sides. His throat bobbed. And his gaze—his gaze lingered, long and sharp and devastating.
She smiled.
Just slightly. Just enough to say, I’m here.
The music swelled.
The bride entered.
Adelaide had met her the day before. Princess Elodie. Beautiful, poised, kind in the way that did not ruffle pride. Adelaide had liked her. And that made it worse.
Elodie walked the aisle with grace. The chapel watched in awed silence. Peter turned to meet her at the altar.
Their hands joined.
The ceremony began.
Adelaide could barely hear it. Words floated like mist—blessings, vows, invocations of Aslan and eternity. But she wasn’t listening. She was watching. Memorizing.
Peter’s smile was gentle. Steady. Practiced.
He never looked back.
Not once.
Adelaide’s heart cracked open, slow and silent.
And when the High King of Narnia bent to kiss his bride, she turned and left.
☼
The halls were empty now. Everyone was at the feast.
Adelaide walked slowly through the corridors she once knew by heart. The sun filtered through stained glass. Her footsteps echoed softly.
She found herself at the gardens.
It was quieter here. The roses bloomed in rows she had helped plant years ago. The bench near the fountain was warm in the light.
She sat.
And for the first time in hours—maybe days—she let herself feel it.
She wept.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet unraveling. The kind that came from years of stitching yourself back together with thread too thin.
Somewhere, far behind her, bells rang again.
Celebration. Joy. A kingdom in rapture.
Adelaide pressed her hands to her eyes. She did not begrudge Peter happiness. Not truly.
But there would always be a part of her that remembered the boy beneath the stars. The promises. The what-ifs.
She had loved him with everything she had.
And now, all she had was the memory.
A voice stirred at the edge of her thoughts—his voice, from a time long gone.
“Forever, Adelaide. I swear it.”
But forever was fragile.
And she had learned to survive without it.
After some time, she rose.
She wiped her cheeks, straightened her gown, and looked back once at the castle that had given her everything and taken just as much.
Then she walked down the path toward the waiting carriage. No entourage. No farewells. Just the rustle of her skirt and the whisper of wind through leaves.
In the halls of Cair Paravel, duty has always come before desire. So when High King Peter asks his closest adviser and oldest friend, Arabella, to enter a fake courtship to strengthen Narnia's political standing, she agrees—for the sake of the realm, and despite the feelings she's spent years burying. But as lingering glances turn into stolen moments and pretense begins to feel painfully real, the line between obligation and love starts to disappear.
With every dance, every whispered confession, and every sacrifice made for the crown, their hearts edge closer to a truth neither of them can outrun. Yet some loves demand more than courage—they demand a choice. And when dawn finally arrives, only one question remains: will they continue living a beautiful lie, or risk everything for something real?
: peter pevensie x oc
The light filtering through the stained glass windows of Cair Paravel's council chamber cast flecks of soft amber and rose upon the marble floor. Arabella, standing by the great window with her arms crossed and her brow creased, didn’t look up as Peter entered. She’d heard his boots echoing through the corridor long before he opened the doors.
“Arabella,” he said by way of greeting. No title. No pretense.
She didn’t turn around. “If this is about Lord Sethed’s speech, I’ve already drafted three versions of our response. One biting, one diplomatic, and one... indifferent.”
Peter closed the door behind him and took a few measured steps forward. “I’m not here about the speech.”
That made her turn.
Sunlight kissed the edges of her dark hair, casting the sharp lines of her face into soft shadow. She studied him carefully, guarded—always guarded—with the kind of stillness only those trained in court life possessed.
He looked tired, as he often did after long days of ruling: crown askew, tunic wrinkled, blue eyes shadowed with that permanent weight he’d carried since he first sat on the throne.
“You look like a man who’s about to ask something foolish,” she said flatly.
He chuckled, half-hearted. “How did you know?”
“Because I’ve known you since you were fifteen, and every time you wear that expression, I end up regretting it.”
Peter rubbed the back of his neck, then walked to the long table in the center of the chamber, his fingers grazing its polished surface. “Do you remember the treaty summit with Archenland last year?”
“Vividly,” she replied, folding her arms tighter. “You nearly declared war by accident because Prince Corin insulted Susan’s horse.”
“Well,” he said with a crooked smile, “he shouldn’t have called it fat.”
Arabella didn’t smile. “Peter.”
“I’m getting to the point,” he said, exhaling sharply. “The Calormenes arrived this morning.”
“I noticed,” she said, voice colder now. “Their ships block half the port and their captain demanded we bow to him in our own hall.”
Peter winced. “Yes. And their ambassador—Lord Ramash—made a rather loud remark over lunch today.”
Arabella’s gaze narrowed.
“He said I looked... soft,” Peter muttered. “That I am unanchored, emotionally vulnerable, swayed too easily by counsel because I’ve yet to bind myself to anyone politically.”
She snorted. “That’s rich coming from a man who weeps when denied extra olives.”
“I’m serious,” he said, finally meeting her eyes. “They think I’m weak. And they’re not entirely wrong.”
Arabella stepped closer, tension thrumming in every line of her posture. “They’re wrong about everything that matters. But since when do we care what posturing men from Tashbaan think of Narnia’s crown?”
Peter gave her a tight, tired smile. “Since we’re trying to finalize a defense pact with Archenland and Telmar before winter. And if Calormen undermines my authority now, it could turn everything we’ve worked for into sand.”
Arabella’s voice dropped. “So what are you planning?”
Peter inhaled deeply, like a man steeling himself for battle. “I need to appear... secure. Bound. Steady. They think I’m too easily moved because I haven’t married, haven’t even taken a consort. I need to counter that. Make a show of strength. Of... loyalty.”
She stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Peter Pevensie, if you are about to ask what I think you are—”
“Fake courtship,” he said in a rush. “Just for the duration of the summit. You and I. Publicly. Appearances only.”
Silence fell between them like a blade.
Arabella blinked once. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. It’s not permanent. Just enough to quiet Ramash and the others. Let them think I’ve made my choice and that I don’t need their offers of noble daughters or vague promises. You’re trusted, respected—”
“I’m your adviser,” she snapped.
“And my friend.”
“Exactly,” she said, voice cracking at the edges now. “And you want me to parade around court on your arm like some political ornament?”
“I want you to walk beside me,” he said gently. “As you always do. Only this time, let them see it.”
Arabella backed away. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves. “And when it’s over? When the summit ends and you announce it was just for show?”
“Then we return to normal,” he said quietly.
“Normal,” she repeated. “Do you hear yourself?”
He nodded. “I do. And I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t think it was necessary. You know I wouldn’t.”
She laughed, bitter and low. “Don’t put that weight on me, Peter. Don’t ask me to pretend to love you.” She then said in a lower voice, barely audible, “Not when everyone already thinks I do, anyway.+
”
His eyes flickered. “Do they?”
She swallowed hard and turned her face away, pretending not to notice the tremble in her hands. “It’s court gossip. That’s all. They see us together, they make assumptions. But pretending—faking this—it’ll only make it worse.”
Peter stepped closer, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. “I don’t care about gossip. I care about what’s right for Narnia.”
“You care too much,” she said, her voice trembling now too. “You always have. You’ll throw yourself into any fire if it means keeping the peace.”
He reached out, but didn’t touch her. “That’s why I need someone beside me who knows how to keep me from burning.”
She laughed again, but this time it sounded like it might break her. “You always do this. You always say the right thing, and you always look at me like I’m the only one who matters, and then—then you wonder why it hurts.”
Silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.
Peter’s voice, when it came, was very soft. “Does it hurt?”
Arabella exhaled shakily. “Only when I let myself believe you mean it.”
He was very still. “And if I told you I did?”
Her heart stuttered. She shook her head. “Don’t. Not if this is just politics. Don’t say things you can’t take back.”
“I’m not taking anything back,” he said.
“But you’re not offering anything real either.”
They stood in the golden light of the chamber, two stubborn hearts tethered by too many years and too many unsaid things.
Finally, Arabella stepped away, her voice colder now. “I’ll do it. For the good of the realm. For appearances. But nothing changes between us when it ends. Understood?”
Peter nodded once. “Understood.”
She turned to leave.
But just before she stepped through the door, he said softly, “Thank you, Arabella.”
She paused. Then, without looking back, she said, “Don’t thank me, Peter. Just don’t ask me to lie too well.”
And then she was gone.
☼
The Great Hall of Cair Paravel was almost absurdly beautiful that night.
Lanterns floated above in slow circles, casting golden light across polished floors and white stone columns. The stained glass windows shimmered with color, and the long tables gleamed with silver goblets and dishes piled high with roasted meat, sugared fruits, and honeyed pastries.
Arabella hovered at the edge of the archway, watching the slow-moving sea of nobility inside. She tugged at the cuffs of her navy blue gown—elegant, embroidered in gold thread with stylized falcons, her family’s crest. Her sword was gone, replaced with delicate gloves she had no intention of wearing. She looked like a lady of court.
She felt like a fraud.
"You're stalling," came Peter’s voice from behind.
She turned to find him leaning against a pillar, arms crossed, smirking like he hadn’t been waiting for her to show up.
“I am assessing,” she corrected.
“You’re sulking.”
“Excuse me,” she said primly, “but I’ll have you know I am conducting an essential survey of possible threats, diplomatic complications, and unstable centerpieces.”
Peter tilted his head. “The roses?”
“Leaning dangerously. One false move and a goblet of wine, and they’ll take out the entire Telmarine delegation.”
“I didn’t realize I brought such a hawk-eyed security expert.”
“You didn’t. I invited myself.”
Peter grinned. “You always do.”
And for a moment, Arabella’s shoulders loosened. This—this quiet ease—had always existed between them. He teased, she needled, and somehow it never felt like battle. Just... a rhythm.
He stepped closer. “Ready?”
“No.”
“Too bad.”
Peter held out his arm.
Arabella eyed it like it might bite her.
But she took it.
“Try not to look like you’d rather be executed,” he whispered as they began walking in. “We are supposed to be convincingly besotted.”
“I’ll have you know I practiced blushing in the mirror this morning.”
“Did it work?”
“I sneezed.”
Peter snorted. “Romantic.”
They entered the hall together, and as expected, every eye turned toward them. The chatter rose in an immediate, excited wave—curiosity and speculation crackling in the air like lightning waiting for thunder.
Peter kept his head high, and Arabella matched his stride, calm and aloof.
Inside, everything was gleaming: golden plates, high banners, diplomats in shimmering robes. The Archenlanders were already watching them with knowing smiles. Calormene envoys whispered to one another behind fans.
Peter leaned slightly toward her. “Three nobles have already started wagering on how long we’ve been secretly in love.”
“Let’s throw them off. I’ll spill wine on you.”
“Tempting. But you’d have to clean it.”
“I’ll delegate.”
He gave her a side-eyed smile. “So efficient. No wonder I promoted you.”
Arabella allowed a smirk. “Because of my stunning looks and biting wit, surely.”
“Those are the hazards of your employment.”
They reached the head table, and she slid into her seat beside him. Food was brought out—quail in plum sauce, stewed peaches, roasted carrots. Peter picked at his with the care of a man trying not to smear sauce down the front of his royal doublet.
Arabella, ever the pragmatist, immediately bit into a leg of quail.
“I admire your commitment to terrifying the court,” Peter murmured, eyes twinkling.
“They’ll fear me more if I’m well-fed.”
“Remind me never to negotiate treaties on an empty stomach with you.”
“You’ve survived worse.”
Peter’s fork paused. “Have I?”
Arabella glanced sideways. “You survived Susan’s attempts to match you with that Telmarine girl.”
He choked on his wine.
“Arabella,” he hissed.
“She had a laugh like a goat in distress.”
“She was very polite.”
“She tried to pet a unicorn.”
He buried his face in his napkin, stifling laughter.
They were still laughing quietly when Lord Ramash of Calormen approached. His long golden robes shimmered with jewels, and his sharp eyes gleamed with appraisal as he bowed.
“High King. Lady Arabella,” he said smoothly. “The court rejoices at the announcement of your... union.”
Arabella smiled sweetly. “We rejoice when courtiers mind their own business.”
Peter coughed into his goblet.
Ramash’s lips twitched. “So spirited. Narnia is fortunate.”
He bowed again, then drifted off with the grace of a snake.
Peter leaned over. “Do you think he’s planning our wedding already?”
“He’s probably drawing up assassination options in case I become queen.”
“I’d still pick you,” Peter said casually. “You’re the only one who doesn’t flinch when I ask for honest advice.”
Arabella blinked.
Then, recovering, said, “That’s because I’ve already imagined all the ways you might react.”
“Impressed or furious?”
“Both. Possibly at once.”
Dinner passed in much the same fashion—sharp remarks, laughter hidden behind goblets, and stolen glances when no one else was watching. It was far too easy to forget the act was supposed to be false.
Then came the dancing.
Arabella’s shoulders stiffened.
Peter, noticing immediately, offered a hand. “You’re not getting out of it.”
“Do I get hazard pay?”
“You get to spin in circles while everyone stares at you. That’s practically power.”
“Cruel High King you are.”
He grinned. “Come on. Let’s give them something to talk about.”
They stepped onto the marble floor, where the strings rose in a swell of lilting melody. Peter’s hand found her waist with practiced ease; her fingers curled over his shoulder. Their other hands found each other, warm and close.
He guided her gently through the first few steps. She followed without faltering, though her face was set in careful neutrality.
“Relax,” he whispered. “No one’s going to bite.”
“No,” she said dryly. “They’ll just speculate, assume, and publish pamphlets about the color of my eyes.”
He looked down. “They are very distracting.”
Arabella made a noise halfway between a scoff and a chuckle.
They spun. The room blurred around them. Peter held her close, and the world felt strangely quiet—like they existed in a space just between the beat of the music and the hush of unsaid words.
“You’re good at this,” she murmured.
“I practice in secret,” he said. “With Edmund.”
She barked a laugh. “That explains the aggression in your foxtrot.”
“I have grace.”
“You have long legs and misplaced confidence.”
“I’ll show you misplaced confidence,” he said, twirling her in a move that nearly had her colliding into him. She laughed, breathless, catching herself with a hand against his chest.
They froze there for a second too long.
Her palm lingered.
Their eyes locked.
And something fragile and true fluttered in the space between them.
The music slowed. The dance ended.
Arabella stepped back.
Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes now.
“Peter,” she said softly, “we should be careful.”
He nodded. But there was hurt flickering across his expression, too fast to name.
“Right,” he said. “Of course. Just... just pretend, like we agreed.”
Arabella looked down. “It’s easier when you’re not being yourself.”
He blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means stop saying things that sound real. It’s not fair.”
Silence.
Then Peter stepped back.
“I’ll... go charm the ambassadors,” he said, voice tighter than before. “You should get some air.”
Arabella didn’t argue.
She turned and walked toward the balcony, each step heavier than the last.
She hadn’t expected it to feel like this.
The closeness. The pretending. The problem was—it didn’t feel pretend at all.
Not when he looked at her like she hung stars in the sky.
Not when her heart beat faster every time he smiled like that.
She gripped the cold stone railing and let the sea wind hit her face.
This was a mistake.
Because she was already forgetting where the performance ended.
And where wanting him began.
☼
The palace gardens of Cair Paravel were quiet at night, bathed in moonlight and kissed by the salt wind off the sea. Only the gentle lap of waves and the whisper of leaves filled the air, a stark contrast to the storm still curling in Arabella’s chest.
She was sitting on the low stone wall overlooking the cliffs, arms wrapped around her knees, still wearing the gown from the feast. The golden embroidery glinted in the dark.
She’d managed to escape the celebrations without drawing attention, offering some half-hearted excuse to a courtier who nodded too eagerly at the mention of “headache.” But it wasn’t her head that ached.
It was her heart.
She should have never agreed to this ruse.
Not when it meant every lingering glance, every whispered word and brush of skin, dug deeper into something real.
Not when Peter—High King, friend, impossible boy—kept looking at her like she was more than just a friend. Like he meant it.
Footsteps behind her drew her back to the moment. She didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
“I thought you’d be dancing with the ambassadors all night,” she said without looking back.
Peter sat beside her, close but not quite touching. “I told them I had to confer with my most trusted adviser.”
“Convenient.”
“Isn’t it?”
They sat in silence. The sea stretched dark and endless before them, and for a time, it almost felt like old days again—before titles, before pretense.
Peter broke the stillness.
“You disappeared.”
“You noticed?”
“You left halfway through the second dance.”
She shrugged. “Didn’t want to ruin your illusion.”
“No?” Arabella asked. “Because it feels a little like I did.”
He turned to face her more fully. “What’s going on, Arabella?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she let the wind whip her hair around her face. “This was easier when people weren’t looking.”
Peter tilted his head. “You’re not the type to care what people think.”
“I’m not,” she admitted. “But I am the type to care when the line between pretend and real gets blurry.”
That stopped him.
“Is that what this is?” he said softly. “Blurry?”
Arabella turned to him, her voice quiet. “Isn’t it?”
Peter’s eyes searched hers.
Long, slow silence.
Then he smiled—soft, rueful, like something inside him was splintering. “You know... when I first suggested the arrangement, I thought it would be easy. We’d hold hands, smile a little too long, ward off marriage proposals. Simple.”
“It was supposed to be simple,” she echoed.
“But then you looked at me like I was something more than just your king,” Peter murmured. “And I forgot it wasn’t real.”
Arabella exhaled sharply. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say things like that,” she whispered. “You make it harder.”
Peter leaned closer, voice low and steady. “What if I want to make it harder?”
Their eyes met again. The space between them was no wider than a breath.
Arabella felt like the world had narrowed to this one moment—his hand resting near hers on the stone, the tilt of his head, the unspoken question in his gaze.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
She could feel the warmth of him. The familiarity. The ache.
“I’m your adviser, Peter,” she said, trying to anchor herself. “I tell you when you’re being reckless. I hold you accountable. I keep you from jumping off cliffs.”
“I never asked you to catch me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I just hoped you’d be willing to jump too.”
Arabella closed her eyes.
It would be so easy. Just a tilt of her chin. Just a moment of bravery. Let herself fall into that warmth, that longing that had been growing between them for months.
But she opened her eyes and said, gently, “We can’t.”
Peter’s jaw tightened. “Why?”
“Because if I let myself want this, I won’t be able to stop.”
He didn’t move away. “What if I don’t want you to stop?”
Arabella blinked hard, her throat tight. “Then you’ll make me choose between duty and desire. And you know how that ends.”
They were inches apart now. The moonlight lit half of Peter’s face, casting his eyes in shadow.
And then, slowly, so slowly, he leaned in.
His forehead touched hers. Not a kiss. Not quite.
But it felt like one.
Arabella let her breath catch in her throat. Her hand hovered near his, fingers twitching like they might reach out. But she didn’t move.
Peter’s voice was the softest thing in the world when he spoke again. “Do you want me to stop pretending?”
Arabella nodded, the movement almost imperceptible.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Peter exhaled shakily. “Then say it’s only duty.”
She didn’t.
Couldn’t.
Instead, she pulled back—just enough to break the spell. She stood, smoothing down her gown like that would hide the tremble in her hands.
Peter rose too, slower, the moment still wrapped around him like a shroud.
“Arabella—”
She looked up, and something in her expression was aching. “We keep up appearances. We do what we agreed. Nothing more.”
“And if I can’t?”
Her voice cracked. “Then you’ll break my heart.”
Peter flinched like she’d struck him.
But she didn’t wait for a reply. She turned and walked back toward the palace, leaving behind the stone wall, the sea, the stars—and him.
He stood alone, watching her disappear into the night.
The performance would go on.
But now they both knew the truth.
The curtain had lifted, and what lay underneath was not an act.
It was longing.
It was love.
And it hurt.
☼
The receiving hall of Cair Paravel glittered with gold and wine and distant laughter. Torches cast flickering shadows on the stone pillars, and garlands of fresh roses trailed across the archways, weaving scent and sweetness into the evening air.
Arabella moved through the crowd like a practiced diplomat—smiling at the right moments, tilting her head at compliments, offering the occasional pointed remark when someone dared press too hard on matters of state.
But she was watching him.
Across the hall, High King Peter stood in a circle of foreign nobles, gracious and golden, his crown catching the candlelight. Laughter rippled from their corner—particularly from Lady Illyra of Avenwyth, a flaxen-haired emissary with a smile like honey and intentions far less subtle.
Arabella’s jaw tightened.
Lady Illyra touched Peter’s arm again, the gesture lingering. He didn’t pull away.
And why should he? He was a king, young and admired. Arabella was only his adviser—allegedly his “companion,” if court gossip still held. But it was all pretend.
Except when it wasn’t.
She took a sip of her wine and turned away just as Illyra leaned in to whisper something in Peter’s ear.
And he laughed.
He never laughed like that with her anymore.
“Dangerous,” came a quiet voice beside her. “You’re gripping your goblet like it insulted your bloodline.”
Arabella turned to find Edmund standing there, one brow raised.
“You’re imagining things,” she replied crisply.
“I’m imagining you turning Illyra into a newt. And frankly, I’d allow it.”
Arabella tried not to smile. “She’s only doing her duty. Charming the High King.”
Edmund glanced across the room. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
She exhaled through her nose, eyes returning to the golden scene. “Doesn’t matter.”
“You say that a lot when it clearly does.”
Arabella didn’t answer. She took another sip, feeling the bitterness coat her tongue.
“Go talk to him,” Edmund said gently.
“I’d rather keep my dignity.”
Edmund paused. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
She turned a glare on him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Edmund blinked once. “That’s a yes.”
Before she could snap back, the trumpets announced the next dance, and the crowd began to shift.
Peter’s eyes found hers across the hall.
She held his gaze, unwavering.
Illyra said something to him again—her hand still resting on his arm—but Peter didn’t answer. Instead, he excused himself and began walking toward Arabella.
Her stomach twisted.
He was smiling when he reached her. Soft, careful. The one he always saved for her.
“Dance with me?”
There were dozens of reasons to say no. But she couldn’t bear to watch him dance with Illyra. Not tonight.
She placed her hand in his. “Fine. But don’t step on my toes.”
“Wouldn’t dare,” he murmured.
They took their place among the dancers, and the music began—soft strings and lilting flutes, light as a sigh.
Peter pulled her close, one hand on her waist, the other clasping her gloved hand.
Arabella hated how easily her body remembered this—his warmth, his scent, the steadiness of him. She hated it even more that she felt safe here, in this lie they’d built together.
They spun once, twice.
Then Peter murmured, “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been busy.”
He didn’t look away. “Arabella.”
She sighed. “What would you have me say? That I find it charming how quickly you took to Lady Illyra’s attention?”
His brow furrowed. “Is that what this is about?”
“You tell me.”
Peter’s mouth tightened. “She’s a diplomat.”
“She’s a flirt.”
“You’re jealous.”
“And you’re insufferable.”
Their movements were still graceful, elegant, timed perfectly to the music—but their voices were sharp beneath the smiles.
Peter stepped in closer. “It’s pretend, remember?”
“You didn’t look like you were pretending.”
Peter’s jaw clenched. “Would you rather I shoved her into the nearest fountain? Is that what you’d prefer I do whenever someone flirts with me?”
“No,” Arabella bit out. “I’d prefer it if it didn’t bother me at all.”
He stilled slightly. “But it does.”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
It was out before she could stop herself. Raw. Unfiltered.
Peter’s grip on her waist tightened just a fraction. “Then say what you mean.”
“I don’t know what I mean anymore,” she whispered, eyes glistening. “You say it’s all pretend, but every time you touch me I forget that we’re lying.”
The dance carried them into another turn. The hall blurred around them.
“I forget too,” Peter said hoarsely.
Arabella’s throat ached. “Then why are we still lying?”
He didn’t answer.
The music began to slow. The final notes were just beginning to fade when Peter led her out of the ballroom, into the quiet corridor beyond.
She yanked her hand from his. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t act like this is something you’ve suffered through. You started this, Peter. You—”
“I started this,” he said, “because I was already losing you and I thought this would let me keep you a little longer.”
She froze.
Peter’s voice dropped. “You don’t get it, do you? I’ve been in love with you for years, Arabella. Years of watching you fight beside me, talk circles around me, look at me like I’m just Peter and not some king. And when I asked you to be mine, even just pretend, it was the only way I could have a part of you.”
Her heart stopped.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said. “But it’s killing me to pretend I’m only yours in name.”
Arabella stepped back, stunned.
“You should’ve told me,” she whispered.
“I tried,” he said. “But every time I got close, you’d build your walls higher.”
She shook her head. “Because I can’t let myself have this.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I do,” she said, voice cracking, “I’ll never survive it when you choose someone else.”
Peter stared at her.
Then, without a word, he stepped forward.
His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
She didn’t move.
“You still think I’d want someone else?” he murmured.
Arabella’s breath caught.
But before she could reply, a sound broke the moment—a courtier’s voice echoing down the hall.
Peter exhaled slowly, backing away, the moment shattering like fragile glass.
“I have to return,” he said softly. “Duty.”
She nodded once. “Of course.”
He looked at her a second longer, like he might say more.
But he didn’t.
He turned and walked away.
And Arabella was left in the quiet corridor, heart hammering, eyes full of everything she couldn’t say.
☼
Dawn bled pale across the horizon, a faint blue-gray light spilling through the windows of Arabella’s chambers. It bathed the stone walls in a quiet melancholy, casting long shadows over the scattered parchments, folded gowns, and the half-packed trunk by the hearth.
She’d made her decision in the hush of midnight, when even the sea beyond Cair Paravel seemed to hold its breath.
The pretense was over.
She could not live another day in a lie that had begun to feel far too real.
Arabella folded a cream-colored gown into the chest, hands trembling slightly as she smoothed the silk. It was the one she’d worn the night Peter first proposed the ruse, back when everything had still felt manageable—safe. Back when she thought her heart would obey the boundaries she set.
The door creaked open behind her.
She didn’t turn.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Peter’s voice
She pressed her lips together. “I meant to leave before you woke.”
“Coward.”
That coaxed the ghost of a smile to her lips. “Always.”
She heard him cross the room slowly, the silence stretching between them.
“You weren’t going to say goodbye.”
“I didn’t trust myself to.”
He paused behind her. “So that’s it, then? You’re leaving?”
“I’ve done my duty, haven’t I?” she said softly. “I advised you through a dozen treaties. Kept court peace. Pretended to love you well enough that no foreign power could question your authority or your intentions.”
“And you think I wanted any of that more than I wanted you?”
Finally, she turned to face him.
Peter looked as if he hadn’t slept—eyes shadowed, tunic wrinkled. His golden hair fell in loose, unkempt waves around his crownless brow. He looked less like a king and more like a boy trying not to break.
Arabella’s voice dropped. “What choice did I have, Peter?”
“You had me,” he said, stepping forward. “You always had me.”
“No,” she whispered. “You had a version of me that could smile in court and keep up appearances. But not the real me. Not the woman who would’ve ruined you if we’d kept this going.”
His hands clenched. “You think loving me would ruin me?”
“I think it would ruin me.”
She drew a shaking breath.
“I’ve spent years keeping my heart out of this—building walls, keeping everything neat and logical. But the moment you kissed my hand in that stupid corridor and told me you’d marry me if it weren’t for appearances—”
“That wasn’t part of the act.”
She froze.
Peter took another step forward. “That night. When I said I’d marry you, even if you gave me every reason not to? That wasn’t rehearsed. That was me.”
She closed her eyes, pained.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t make this harder.”
“I love you, Arabella.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll believe it.”
Silence.
And then, softly:
“Good. Believe it.”
Her eyes opened. Wide and shimmering.
“Peter, I’m leaving because if I stay, I won’t survive loving you this way—without a name, without a future. I’ll start hoping again. And I can’t afford that.”
Peter stared at her for a long moment. Then: “You think this ruse is all we are?”
“No,” she said. “I think it’s all we’re allowed to be.”
He reached forward and gently took her hand in his.
“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” he said. “Not for the court. Not for the world. I don’t care what anyone expects. I just want you.”
Her fingers curled around his, weak and desperate. “Then why did you let her flirt with you?”
Peter’s brows drew together. “Illyra?”
“You let her stay close. You laughed. You didn’t stop her.”
“I didn’t stop her because I needed to see if you’d react,” he said, voice hoarse. “I needed to know if it mattered to you like it mattered to me.”
She yanked her hand back. “You tested me?”
“I didn’t know what else to do!”
“Well, congratulations,” she snapped, “you found your answer. I’m in love with you. Are you happy now?”
Silence crashed over them.
Arabella’s chest heaved with emotion. Her eyes were bright with tears she refused to let fall.
Peter swallowed hard. “You love me?”
“I always have.”
He stepped closer. “Then stay.”
“No.”
Peter flinched as if struck.
Arabella’s voice trembled. “If I stay now, I’ll never know if you love me—or if you love the version of me that’s easy. The one who always says the right thing. The one who plays pretend.”
Peter shook his head. “You are the real thing, Arabella. You always have been. You're the one who sees the worst of me and stays. You're the only one I trust when I’m not sure of myself.”
Her lips parted.
He stepped even closer, so close she could feel the heat of him.
“You want a future? Then let’s build one. Not for duty. Not for court. For us.”
Arabella’s walls wavered.
But fear still clung to her ribs.
“I don’t know how to stop pretending,” she whispered. “It’s all I’ve ever done.”
Peter leaned in.
“Then let’s learn together.”
For a moment, they stood there—so close, hearts exposed, the weight of years pressing in around them.
Then, in the hush of morning, she kissed him.
It wasn’t a dramatic kiss—not the kind of kiss that resolved stories or undid lifetimes of longing. It was soft. Frightened. Fragile.
But real.
Peter kissed her back as if she were made of something he had waited his whole life to touch.
When they parted, breathless, she whispered, “You make it so hard to leave.”
“Then don’t.”
Her eyes searched his. “What if this doesn’t work?”
Peter smiled faintly. “Then we fail gloriously.”
She laughed. Just once. A little broken.
Then she rested her forehead against his chest, and for a while, neither of them said anything. The dawn crept higher, and the palace began to stir beyond the windows, but for once, there was no need to move.
people always talk about caspian's awe for peter and devotion to him, but no one talks about peter's devotion to caspian. how he sees caspian as light. gentle instead of burning. as peace and rest where he is war. as someone who picks up his burdens and shares them. makes kingship a little less lonely. can anybody hear me? they make me sick.
Hey I been thinking about the Pevensie and Im wondering. How mutch in your AU do they remember of England?? Only the feeling glipses fragments??
Do they remmeber there parents even if its a bit?? I dont think Lucy does atleast not her dad but what about her mother?? What about the others??
Even if they dont remember England does Peter for example remember little Lucy before Narnia?? Even if its tiny moments.
Obviosly I dont think they remmeber a lot 8 years is a lot I dont remember what happend 8 years ago myself only fragmanets and me guesing so Im asuming its something aimmilar maybe??
Do they talk about England? Do they ever talk about life before Narnia?? Do they remember the war they left behinde in England the bombs and all of it??
I think after eight years, all that's left are more somatic memories. Memories in the forms of feelings. I think the Pevensies get strangely melancholy when it rains and tense when it thunders because they vaguely remember the sound of bombs hitting their city, but by the time they're all in their mid 20s-30s, their nervous systems would have adjusted fully and they'd have unlearned the fear of loud, rumbling sounds. I think sometimes Peter and Susan recall things they learned in school. Facts about science or bits of poetry and literature and both them and Edmund still have some English exclamations that they can never explain when the Narnians ask them about it. Some of these phrases, however, are found in the historical annals of Cair Paravel, records that went back to the reign of King Frank and Queen Helen who were taken from London vaguely around the same time in history the Pevensies were (in that they all previously lived in 20th century England). However, it also wouldn't stand out too much because Aslan gave the animals speech that was English, albeit old English. I'm sure there'd still be some continuity.
Although I must say that my fic takes a lot of inspiration from the movies, where you have a badger talking in a Cockney accent, which isn't very medieval. I've kinda styled it in such a way that different animals and people speak different styles of English (for example, the dwarves use Yorkshire accents and slang that coincide with the evolution of that way of speaking regarding English miners). Narnia to me, like the movies, is alternate Britain, rather than the old villages of the Anglo-Saxons. At least when it comes to speaking.
Sorry, back to what the Pevensies would remember.
I think Peter and Susan would have some vague sense that they had parents once, but would conclude they were "lost." I liken it to being an allegory for how many children during the war became displaced and never found their families again. I do think most of them would be challenged to remember any specifics about how their parents looked or what they sounded like but for, again, those somatic memories. I imagine Peter smoking tobacco for the first time and getting disoriented with the emotions it brought up in him. Or Lucy brushing Susan's hair and Susan feeling strangely melancholy for a reason she can't name.
Faces and names, though, would be completely forgotten. As would the bustle of the city and schools. They'd forget their friends as well. Only some sounds and scents would linger and leave them feeling foggy and strange and momentarily out of place, like they were in between two places, before snapping back to the world of Narnia. Over time, they will regard themselves like animals do. Most animal young barely know their parents, don't really think of them as such (only the half-beasts might) and so, they supposed, they left their lifegivers when they were old enough to walk and were wild for a time before Aslan brought them into Narnia. Aslan would be the real parental figure, with maybe Glenstorm, Tumnus and the badgers functioning as pseudo-parents while they grew up and learned to rule.
Still, the concept of parentage and "mums and dads" would lose the human element we associate parentage with. Parents aren't meant to be stayed with for eighteen years and they don't pay for your school. They don't tuck you into bed at night. They just give life to you, feed you a while and ward off predators until you're old enough to walk and feed yourself, then you're on your own. And they're not bad for it. It's just what it is.
As for what they talk about, they only share about how they sometimes get those strange feelings, but none of them ever reminisce because there's nothing to reminisce about.
Edmund says, at length, “That spell nearly had you.”
It’s not angry, nor accusing, nor even a reprimand. It’s fact, plain and simple. Fact is all Narnia’s Just King has ever needed.
Peter snorts. “Believe me,” he replies, short and bitter, “I’m aware.”
“Are you also aware of how monumentally stupid it was to fling yourself at her like that?”
“I wasn’t flinging myself,” Peter protests. He sounds irritated, but maybe not at Edmund. “Someone had to get Caspian away from her.”
(or, it’s edmund who sees it first.)
(OR or, five times someone noticed peter’s feelings for caspian, and one time caspian noticed his own.)
