My steps echo on the tile floors as I step through the corridors to the quarters private to their majesties. To Peter.
Breakfast, as I have recently come to know, was the one meal our sovereigns shared only with each other: a fact that didn't ease any nerves on my end.
I stop outside of the door to the veranda where I was told to go. Apparently, if the weather was pleasant, this is where the morning meal was held- How Mrs. Dolie kept track all these details, I'll never know.
I think back to her drowsy figure greeting me as I attempted to sneak into our shared quarters just as dawn was beginning to break.
"Should I be worried about you, deary?"
I startled as she spoke, then shuffled to stand in front of her as she lit the candle on the dresser. "No, ma'am."
She gave me a quick scan, pursing her lips, not unkindly. "The state of your hair implies you to have been outdoors."
It was a statement, but it's also a question. One I knew better than to dodge: there was an iron backbone to support all her amiable nature.
I took in a breath and squared my shoulders. "Yes. I just needed to…" I made an abandoned gesture with my hand. "...clear my mind."
Her demeanor released, her shoulders descending a solid two inches as she sighed. "Your sleep troubled again, love?"
I nodded my head.
"Is that all you have to say about it?"
"If that's alright, yes."
"Oh, it'll do," she was speechless for a moment as she scooted herself off her bed and onto her feet. "Morning is already here. Might as well get dressed and get an early start on breakfast."
I stripped my own coat and nightdress, opening my drawer of the dresser to find a chemise. Then a thought hit me.
"On a completely unrelated note: what does one wear to attend breakfast with their majesties?"
Mrs. Dolie whipped around to me, her own chemise only half way up her body, mouth gaping. I can't help the laugh that tore from me at the image of her.
"All of them?" she asked, jaw still slack.
"Why wouldn't it be all of them?" I asked, eyes narrowing in question.
She grinned as much with her eyes as she did with her lips. "I imagine it was a specific one of their highnesses who asked you, hm? Perhaps I'll suggest the High King?"
My hands flew to my face as I made an inhuman squeal, any last hope of me attaining my ideal mature, stoic self escaped out the window.
A robust laugh erupted from Mrs. Dolie, "So you weren't alone, then?" It was posed as a question, but it was, in fact, a statement. I needn't answer. But I did feel the need to explain myself.
"It's not what it looks…" I started, but was quickly interrupted.
"Isn't it? It looks to me like the High King wants a lass to meet his family. And in that vein of things, your blue dress will do just fine."
My mouth opened and shut, coming up empty for any retort, reaching for familiar blue fabric underneath all my other things. It didn't get much wear.
"Take ease, my sweet. If he had dubious intent, he'd be whisking you away to his private chambers at night, not cordially inviting you to dine with his siblings and him in the morning hour."
I stopped short, dropping my dress back into the drawer. That most certainly did not help me take any ease. She was right, of course. But it immediately brought to mind the snippets of gossip I'd overheard, half listening as I did my tasks. The High King had his share of overnight guests, if the stories ran correct, which I never knew if they did. And if they were true...well, I didn't know how to feel about it all. Or if I had any right to feel anything on the matter.
But I hadn't heard any rumors of breakfast guests. What does that make me? I try my best to squash the growing dread in my abdomen.
Now, as I stand outside the entrance to the veranda, I see Peter and King Edmund already seated at the table, talking to each other, but I can't quite hear what they're saying.
Should I enter, or do I wait? Where do I sit at the table?
I take deep breaths to ease off my anxiousness.
"They won't bite, you know," came a lively voice from behind me.
As I whip around, hand on my chest, Queen Lucy smiles brightly, then cocks her head to the side, recalling something. "Except Edmund, I suppose. But he only did that once when we were very little. Just don't steal his food, and you'll be safe."
I remember to drop into a curtsy as a small smile lifts a side of my mouth. "I will resist the temptation, Your Majesty."
She giggles, then drops into a curtsy of her own. One of my country's queens, curtsying to me.
The confusion must show on my face, because she makes a flippant gesture with her hand and explains, "I rarely get to curtsy to anyone, and It's a shame, because I think it's a rather lovely way to greet."
My laugh is a combination of amused and astonished. I begin to understand Peter's deep sentiment toward his younger siblings.
I look up as I hear footsteps and the swish of fabric scraping the floor, and I'm greeted by the sight of Queen Susan who greets me with kind eyes as she says, "Good morning, it's nice to finally meet you. Peter has speaks of you incessantly these days."
I try to not let my surprise show as I again curtsy my greeting, but I can't help the incline of my head. As I rise, I open my mouth to attempt some response, (what response is there to that?) I'm saved by the interruption of two men behind me.
After the proper yet slightly amused salutation from King Edmund, smiling like he knows something I don't, I turn to Peter, whose eyes are already on me, filled with a hopeful affection that kicks me off guard more than any other oddity of the morning's progressions.
Would I ever get used to that?
Bold of me to assume I'd get the chance to. Nothing here is promised.
As we all take our seats at the round table, I notice the two glasses of orange juice at my place. I glance sideways to Peter and look pointedly to the dual glasses and back to him, and I'm rewarded with a playful wink.
Across the table, Edmund snorts before he takes a long sip of his tea.
"So, Peter's told us about you, but only a little. Would you tell us about yourself?" Susan inquires between bites of her eggs.
I stiffen a little, searching for a reply, scooting my fork across my plate, feigning intense concentration on stabbing my first bite of food.
What was there to say? I don't remember my parents or any family, all I have to remember of my upbringing was that man, and that was a quick way to make a lighthearted morning dark.
"There's not much to say, I suppose," I shrug as my fork finally found my lips, swallowing before adding, "Unless you're interested in hearing my technique on dusting bookshelves."
"Oh!" Lucy exclaims around a mouth of food before blushing, noticing her manners, and quickly chewing before adding, "That was my job back in England. Mum always had me dust everything I could reach… which wasn't much at the time."
Her laugh brings a smile to my mouth, and a quick glance around the table confirms my suspicions about her attitude being contagious.
"Yes, I remember. Dad built you a tiny step so you could even reach the fireplace mantle," Susan speaks with a smile in her voice. "My chore was making the beds and helping Mum with cooking."
"Mine was washing the clothes. Ed's was the dishes," Peter adds, tone on the precipice between speaking and laughing. "Which he hated."
"Don't remind me," Edmund tries to murmur grumpily, but his lip quirks up all the same.
Well, I didn't expect that. The thought of my country's leaders being children and given household tasks wasn't an image that occurred to me before, but now that it had, I was sure it was a thought that would visit me again, warming me when I needed it.
"And I might add that Peter was no good at doing the clothes, as he frequently ruined someone's good dresses with his inability to separate the reds out from the whites," Susan points out, looking at me, not at Peter, who instantly drops his fork to put his hands up in defense. The clatter of the silver mixes with Lucy's and Edmund's stifled sounds of amusement.
"How was I to know? It's not as if I owned any bright red dresses!" Peter tries to sound serious as he's put on trial, but the chuckle in his undertone wins out in the end.
Edmund adds, "No you didn't, but I had a number of light pink undershirts after that, thanks to you. Which Mum made me keep because we couldn't afford new ones!" The crescendo of his annoyance throughout his statement send the whole table into snickers.
Couldn't afford new clothing? I put away that detail in my mind to ponder later.
The rest of the meal goes by in what feels like minutes, eventually everyone reluctantly goes about their tasks for the day.
Peter lingers behind, strolling over to me. "They like you. A lot."
"You sure? How do you know?"
"I know them. And I am sure." He grasps my hand reassuringly for just a moment, and my skin lights up in reply.
"Can I see you later today?"
I sigh, frustrated. "I wish I could, but I've been neglecting my turn with the washing for some time now. I can only use so many excuses to get out of it."
He stares at me for an moment. "And… I suppose no pardon of mine could get you out of it?"
I smile. "It would, but it won't save me from the wrath of the dwarf who has had to keep taking my shift."
One glance at his face tells me further reassurance is still needed.
"I really would rather be with you, but I have duties as well, and even though they don't equal to the weightiness of yours, I still take pride in doing my part and being faithful to be relied upon."
He nods, understanding resting on his features, and his grin has a pride to it that I can't find the context for. "It's an honorable stance to have. Would it suit you then if I visited you? If I took care to be subtle?"
I all but cackle. "If I may be so bold, I will observe that Your Highness doesn't possess the art of subtlety…."
"Hey!"
I can't keep my face straight at his mock-offended interjection. "...however, I'd welcome your company all the same."
I turn then, throwing a last glance over my shoulder. "You can find me in the staff courtyard."
The courtyard used for the washing strategically straddles a stream. It gives the space a certain tranquility: the bouncing and splashing of the water over the stones. I almost feel guilty for contaminating the clear waters with my soap as I scrub a garment across a rock before the hinges of the small door leading back inside announce the arrival of a visitor.
He manages to look both tremendously out of place and perfectly fitting to his surroundings. The gold that adorns his head catches the light on the water and reflects it back in such a manner that deems his full formal title all-too appropriate.
Yet it's when the greenery of the plants growing wildly throughout the space resemble the same teeming energy of his newly carefree air that a king somehow looks at place among the dirty clothes.
I set the soap down on a rock far enough from the stream to not be swept away, dry my hands on my apron, and then awkwardly try to find some other occupation for my hands after giving him a short wave.
At least I knew what to do when I was still to curtsey before him.
His steps are their usual confident, but they lack any regality. Instead, he seems to have picked up a certain youthfulness, which almost makes me laugh aloud as I take his solid stature and stubble across his jaw which betray his true age.
When a certain mischief flashes in his eyes, I notice I've been staring and quickly attempt to recover. I nod to his head as he sits on the nearest boulder to me, "I feel slightly underdressed."
"What? Oh…" he swipes a hand over his head, nonchalantly ridding himself of the crown and placing it on the rock next to my soap. Is sacrilege always so downright amusing as it is troubling?
His neck is tinged red as he starts to explain, "Sorry, I forgot to take it off...I was in a hurry to…" he trails off, hand gesturing abandonly at the air in front of him, hoping I'll take his meaning.
I blink at him, open mouthed, before I snap it shut, taking the soap and returning to my task. Looking sideways to address him, I feign a authoritative tone. "Well, we take our appointments very seriously around here, but I suppose I'll let it slip this time." I finish with a smile, which he eagerly returns as he rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows.
He's forsaken the doublet he wore this morning, I notice. And appreciate. Then reprimand myself for the thought as my cheeks burn.
Then it hits me why he's rolled up his sleeves. He seems to notice my revelation moment, as he takes the cloth I just finished scrubbing and dips it upstream, sloshing it around in the water. "It makes it faster if someone rinses while the other washes," he says, matter-of-fact with a shrug.
My bewilderment takes a fine twenty seconds to wear off. Today, the High King of Narnia was to help this maid wash clothes crouched over a stream with his crown on a rock. My mouth opens and shuts a few times in search of a retort before finding one with a smirk. "Well, in that case, let me make ensure all the red-dyed ones are a safe distance from the rest."
He slops the garment down dramatically, sending splashes all around. "That wasn't that many times! I did eventually figure it out, you know!" He wipes the water he splashed on his own face as his chest's rhythm reveals his amusement.
I laugh so much I squeeze the soap too hard, sending it tumbling downstream. Reaching frantically, I launch both arms into the stream in attempt to retrieve it, soaking myself.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of movement, an arm moving with purpose. My mind sings with a burst of terror as my body crumples in on itself, one arm out in feeble defense and eyes tightly shut.
Time stands still.
Everything goes still.
Except the water. The water rushes past me, drowning my skirts and filling my ears with it's flood.
The stream doesn't whisper my name, though.
Peter.
My eyes snap open as I come back to myself and instantly meet his. Shame demands I glance away, so I do.
"I'm sorry…" we both say on top of each other, then I look up, disbelieving, and find his expression matches my own.
What do I say? What does anyone say?
I step out of the stream, gracelessly slipping on both slippery rock and my clothes elongated by the weight of water.
He's still crouched over, on his knees, unmoving, as I stand out of reach with my back to him.
I've removed my apron and I've started wringing out my dress when his voice reaches out, raw and weighted. "_, I'd never...please know I'd never…"
"I know," I interrupt, short. Realizing how harsh it sounded, I soften, trying for an explanation. "It's just…" I swallow down the dryness in my throat and force myself to turn around. "It's not you," is all I can get out once I see the gentle recognition on his face.
It's quiet again, so I return to squeezing my skirts. He stands, slowly.
"My left shoulder is my downfall. It dislocates easily ever since I injured it."
I look up, confused. He continues.
"That's my weakness. Not my only, but my most prominent. Every opponent has them if you look hard enough. I can teach you… if you'd like, how to find them on others. How to defend yourself, should the need arise."
I stand still as his words compute.
"I...now?"
"If you want. Although it works better with dry clothes."
My lip quirks up, despite my still shaking hands, fueled by adrenaline.
"Can I think on it?" And oh, did I have things to think on. He's sharing his battle vulnerabilities with me now. Surely that has to be a liability to give that information.
He nods, solemnly. "Of course, whatever you need."
"At the moment, I'd like to sit, if that's alright?" I didn't wait for confirmation as I seated myself back down on the courtyard floor.
He returns to his knees, first sending a concerned glimpse my way, before picking up another piece of clothing and breaking off a new piece of soap.
"Peter, don't, I can do it later."
"You're in no condition to do anything but rest at the moment," he says, almost parental in tone.
I attempt not to bristle as I stand. "I'm fine."
He shakes his head. "No, you're really not."
My reply is terse, no longer trying to not be annoyed. "I'll say what I am, thank you very much."
He angles his shoulders back to me and has the decency to look guilty before taking a deep sigh.
"_, I've seen your eyes before. After battles. And between them."
He closes his eyes, but doesn't stop, even as his throat bobs. "Aslan, I've felt them in myself." A pause. Swallow. "Soldiers. Warriors. I send them on mandatory leave, even if for a day, if it can at all be afforded at the time. Because I know too: how exhausting it is to fight demons you can't see and then pick up a sword the next day. Or just go about life like it didn't happen." Tears fall down his cheeks, even as his wrecked voice continues, and I feel liquid emotion on my own face. I fall to my knees next to him.
"And I just remember wishing that someone would let me stop while the world keeps going on. So while I won't demand you do anything, I'm pleading with you, let me do this. _, please…."
"Yes." I barely recognize my own voice from the rustiness.
The indecency of my own action didn't even occur to me until much later as I lift my hand to his face, wiping his tears and grazing his jaw with my thumb. He leans into the touch, covering my hand with his, and it decides it for me. I wrap my arms around his neck, tucking my head into his shoulder as my hand soothes the hair at the nape of his neck.
He arms encase me, and only then do I turn my head to murmur in his ear, "Thank you."
