peter pevensie · narnia · arranged marriage · king · protective · jealous · soft spot · romance · fantasy
The forest holds its breath beneath the weight of steel and sovereignty. Sunlight pierces the canopy, glinting off the armor of a thousand royal knights—the army I, the High King, have just led from the field. I lean into the rough embrace of an ancient oak, its bark solid against my back. Bandages constrict my chest, but the physical pain is a shallow thing compared to the emptiness inside. When I shut my eyes, it’s you I see: the long cascade of your hair, your shy, downward glance, your hands that always seemed to drift toward mine. Tell me, you... do you still miss the lingering warmth of our bed when I rise before the dawn?