A/N: I am so sorry it's taken me so long to update this, please forgive me! My life turned upside-down in the past few weeks and I've been trying to sort it out, and exams are coming up too. I'm a bit rusty, but hopefully this chapter will be ok.
Since this is Chapter Ten, and that's kind of a marker, I'd like to dedicate it to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, my first proper full-length one. Please review, your opinions, as always, are highly valued :)
Before her words had fully left her lips, Galen grabbed Susan's face in his hands with bruising force and crushed his mouth against hers. He tugged angrily at her dress, planting hard, sloppy kisses along her throat as she bit down on her lip and tried not to scream. Think of Edmund. Her siblings were her whole heart. She had locked away the part that was Peter's, believing him to be lost, but while there was still breath in her body there was nothing she would not do to keep Edmund and Lucy safe. Galen's hands grabbed at her chest, and she wrenched herself away from him automatically, disgust shivering over her skin, sickness rising in the back of her mouth. He lashed out at her immediately, cracking an open palm across her face, and she tasted blood for a second time, tears stinging her eyes and blurring her sight. Edmund. She was doing this for Edmund. Without missing a beat, his mouth was once again smothering hers, as he squeezed her buttocks painfully. She gave a little gasp of shock, and he made a rough, lustful grunt, pressing himself against her. He snatched a handful of her hair, winding his fist into it, pulling her head back.
Abruptly, he froze and moved away from her a little, gazing unseeingly into her face, rubbing the dark, sleek hair between his fingers.
"They say that once you have tasted the fruit of paradise, you can eat no other fruit..." he murmured absently.
"W-What?" Susan trembled, confused.
"There exists no such perfection in Calormen, where I shall dwell once the conquest of Narnia is complete, and the Tisroc will surely desire such a fine prize for his own harem. No matter how many women I lay with, I would never be able to replicate a single night with you. It is better, I think, never to taste fruit that will dull the taste of all other fruit, but that you may never taste again. I want to be able to enjoy women."
"So...you will not have me?"
"No," He shuddered, reining in his desire, drawing in a deep breath and stepping back fully, but kept hold of her hair. Susan's heart clenched, half in immense relief, half in raw panic. This was the very last thing she had to give. What else could she possibly offer him for Edmund's life?
"You will not give me the cure for Edmund?"
His eyes glittered at her, coldly collected once more.
"I did not say that I would not give you the cure, Queen. We will find another price."
Hopelessness rushed through her. "What else can I give you?"
He leered at her smugly, running the strand of soft black hair through his fingers, laying it gently over her white shoulder. Her flesh prickled in anticipation of his answer, of what his demand would be.
"Your hair."
Susan's mind went numb with shock.
"My-my hair?"
"Your hair. I shall not lie with you, but I still need something to remember you by-your smell. Something to remind me that I glimpsed paradise."
"I-"
"Of course," he smirked, walking slowly backwards out onto the balcony, holding her gaze fast. "You could decline, if your hair is too high a price. With beauty comes vanity, so I've heard. If the loss of that lovely long hair-how long have you been growing it now? Nine, ten years? It must be a quarter of your beauty, of the most beautiful woman in the world. Is that worth your brother's life?"
He plucked the vial containing the cure off the balcony railing and held it out once more into the night, her slender dagger clasped loosely in his other hand.
"Your hair, Queen."
He tossed the dagger at her carelessly, and as she fumbled to catch it the blade sliced cleanly into her palm, leaving the blade glistening ruby with her own blood. She gripped the handle and swiped the blade angrily across her dress, staining the pale material. Dropping to her knees before the fire, she lifted a heavy lock of raven hair and sawed it quickly off at her jaw line. She held it out before her and dropped it deliberately on the floor, glaring at Galen defiantly, seething at his triumphant smirk. She continued, working her way around her head, savagely cutting away years of nurture and pride. Halfway around she stopped, and looked up at Galen.
"Here. You have half of my hair. Give me the cure, and I will give you the rest of it."
"Not a chance, pretty one. You have deceived me once before. Cut it all off, and then you will have your cure."
Susan continued, eyes burning. Before long, there was a dark pool of hair on the rug in front of the fire, and hers was cut into an uneven, ragged bob. She forced back tears and sobs with an iron conviction that her hair was a tiny sacrifice in return for her brother's life. It would be a lie to say that she was not a little vain, and her hair, a waterfall of dark, silky strands cascading down past her hips, had been her pride and joy for many years now. But Edmund would be safe, and that was all that really mattered.
"There. You have what you wanted. Now give me the cure for Edmund."
He threw the delicate glass bottle at her, and she snatched it out of the air, cradling Edmund's salvation to her body. She staggered to her feet and dashed towards the door, leaving a heap of raven tresses on the floor, slamming it behind her just in time to see him gather some up and hold it to his nose, smelling it, like a hideous parody of how Peter used to gather her in his arms and bury his face in her hair, inhaling the scent.
Peter gave a low growl and flung the Archenlandish arrow away.
"I am Peter, High King of Narnia! I demand that you show yourselves!"
"We know who you are, King!"
A harsh, rough voice echoed back to them. Peter exchanged taut glances with his captains, and pushed Rook slightly more behind him. He lifted his chin, and decided on a show of bravado, lacing his tone with superiority.
"Then you should know of the power I have at my command. Show yourselves! Or are you too cowardly?"
"Power, King?" No longer echoing, the voice was suddenly close to him, intimate through the fog that had rendered the moor a white wasteland. "You have sixty-two soldiers left alive, and only fifty-three in decent enough shape to meet us in battle. We've been watching you since you left the forest."
Alarmed at this, Peter spared a moment to berate himself fiercely for not having noticed them being followed. How disappointed Oreius would be.
"Then tell me, who are you? And what do you want with us?"
A rugged figure stepped suddenly out of the fog into Peter's vision. He was a hulking bear of a man, with coarse black hair and beard. His armour was dull and dented, and the Archenlandish eagle screeched forlornly on his tabard. Rook gave a small gasp of recognition from behind Peter.
"We are Archenlanders. Our King sent us to die in a war that was not ours. It's your concern what happens in the far North, not ours. Why do you expect honest Archenlanders to fight and die for you? To spill their blood on Narnian soil?"
"What are you talking about? The Archenlandish assistance was murdered by Calormenes. We saw the tree. We buried them."
"Those that were fool enough to stay were, aye. Them as believed that it was our duty to you Narnians through the alliance to help defend your territories were all slain and strung up in a tree. But us-we've got some proper sense. No point in dying for a useless cause," the strange man sneered.
"You're deserters!"
Rook's voice, high and thin with emotion, burst out from behind Peter as he pushed to the front. "You're the ones that ran away from the fight!"
Sure enough, other shadowy shapes were emerging from the fog. Groups of surly-looking men bearing the eagle of Archenland slunk out of the hazy whiteness. The huge, hairy man turned a menacing gaze on Rook, recognition sparked in his face, and his lip curled in disdain as he took in the Lion that had replaced the eagle on Rook's tunic.
"Oh, it's you, runt. Got picked up by this lot, did you? I thought you'd have been right up there in that tree with your Sir Roderick. And you, King. They call you Peter the Magnificent, don't they? Finest warrior in the North. Never would have had you pegged for a softie who went around picking up useless runts."
Peter bit back a sharp reply, restraining his anger, determined to keep calm and grasped Rook's shoulder, pushing him forcefully back into the security of the Narnian huddle.
"So you're deserters from the Archenlandish assistance."
The man rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.
"Oh, you're a bright one, ain't you? Yes. There we were, trotting up into some forest with those idiot knight-in-shining-armour types insisting that we'd bump into you lot any minute, when we were suddenly set upon by a bunch of Calormenes. Pretty vicious they were, too. And me and the boys, well, we thought that seeing as there was no sign of you, and it wasn't Calormenes we were meant to be fighting anyway, what was the point in hanging around to get killed? So we deserted."
Peter opened his mouth furiously to begin a tirade about cowardice and dishonour, repulsed by their leaving their comrades to die, and then noticed the comparative sizes of their forces and closed it again.
"Name's Brighend, by the way. Thanks for asking," Brighend added, tone doused in sarcasm. Peter glared, and most people would have trembled in their boots at that glacial blue gaze, but Brighend merely lifted an eyebrow, refusing to be intimidated.
"Well, what do you want with us?" Peter asked coldly, with just a hint of I-am-a-king-and-you-will-fear-me in his voice. "Since you've made it quite clear that you have no interest in Narnians or their affairs, what are you doing here? Why didn't you just scurry off home to Archenland? Why bother to follow us all the way up north across marshes and moors and through every kind of hardship?"
It was only now that Brighend looked even remotely uncomfortable. He shifted uneasily, glancing awkwardly at his boots.
"Even the common folk have heard about you in Archenland. The mighty High King Peter of Narnia, the great northern warrior. They tell stories. Travelling minstrels bring songs about your exploits south into our country. All the stuff we've heard about you, at least some of it must be true. You're meant to be the very best there is. And, well... the fact is, we need your help."
A/N: Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! I wonder what the deserters want with Peter... Please review, I'd love to know what you thought :)