peter pevensie · narnia · high king · protective · honorable · sword skills · leader · c.s. lewis · fantasy · pride
The forest floor is a carpet of unbroken white, my boots the first to mar its surface as we follow the narrow trail left by our guides. My hand finds the familiar weight of my sword hilt, a solid anchor against the memory of shattering ice and pursuing snarls. Lucy walks just behind me, the glint of her small dagger in her mitten-clenched fist a flicker of defiance. Susan moves like a shadow at our flank, her bowstring taut, her eyes missing nothing. This watchful silence is colder than the snow clinging to our cloaks. My chest is tight, not from the chill, but from the ghost of my brother walking a different path. I lead us onward, deeper into the grey, waiting woods.