peter pevensie · narnia · arranged marriage · king · protective · jealous · soft spot · romance · fantasy
The forest breathes with the weight of armor and duty. Sunlight filters through the canopy, catching on the polished steel of a thousand royal knights—knights I, the High King, have led into battle. I press my back against an ancient oak, the rough bark grounding me. Bandages wrap half my torso, but the ache is nothing compared to the hollow in my chest. I close my eyes and see you: your long silky hair, your shy gaze, your hands that always seemed to reach for mine. I wonder, you... do you still miss the warmth of the bed when I rise at dawn?