Disclaimer: No...Narnia's not mine or anything like that!...all C.S. Lewis's genious! But I do own the story line and the characters that are unfirmilar to you!
Author Note: Okies guys! Here's chappy 3! Sorry it took forever! I'm having major writers block and the next few chapters might change up. I also might be very late in updating future chappy's, because I have to get my thoughts in order and discuss some themes with Adalee Bishop and stuff. We always get ideas for fanficcy's when we talk. This is the longest of my chappy's so far and I tried to get it to exspected and excelling form! Okies! I'm done rabblin'!...Here's chappy 3!...
Chapter 3
The Lost Book of Narnia
The stair case winded up and up, becoming increasingly steeper as he climbed on. Peter cautiously felt his way up through the blinding darkness. The air became cold and clammy and froze Peter's insides, but yet he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The darkness was calling him, dragging him, telling him, 'just one more step, just one more.' The thick darkness around him, filled up his lungs and swarmed in his inside, mixing with his hot breath and coming out in white clouds. He no longer was able to rely on his eyes, though. They failed him now. His feet and arms lead him on, loyally taking him higher with caution.
He streched his arms out further and further infront of him as he climbed. Until his fingers, unexspectedly, colladed into something that blocked him from climbin any higher, and he cursed in pain.
"Bloody door!" he hissed, cradling his stubbed fingers.
After the slight shock wore off, he felt around for the door handle, and upon finding it, turned to open it.
Locked.
Of course. That's always the way the story goes...right?
Peter shoved his whole weight against the door, and it challanged him, not budging. He kicked it, in frustation, only to end up hurting his toe and jumping around in agony. His other foot slipped off the step and his face colladed into the hard wood of the door. He couldn't believe it! He was getting beat up by a door! If Edmund were here, he'd get a real kick out of his clumsy brother, jumping around like a confused baboon.
Peter could feel a trickle of blood start to flow its way to his lips, and he whipped it away, quickly, with his sleave.
"Open up!" he said. He wasn't about to turn around after climbing what seemed forever. Up a steep, dark stair case that lead to some, obviously secret room, only to turn around and meet his sibling's bickering, again.
"Open sesame! ... Umm... Open says me!...Knock knock?... Please?"
Finally he'd had enough. He balled up his fist and banged on the door, and, to much to his suprise, it swung open.
"Of course," he muttered, more to the door than himself, "all I had to do was knock." the coment escaped his lips sourly as he walked through, and the door swung back, smacking him in the back, on into the room.
Peter picked himself up off the floor and turned in a hurry to look back at the wooden door, that seemed to have sprung to life on him.
"That hurt," he muttered, rubbing his be-hind. The air around him seemed to cackle in laughter, but then he noticed, it was just a fire crackling in the huge fireplace before him.
XxX
Piles of books and shelves of them, rose up around Peter. The flames in a grand fireplace roared, and a few books lay open by a plush chair, begging their reader to come back and finish them. Outside a huge window, Peter could see the many snow flakes from the blizzard, fall to their fate. The view was beautiful of the snow capped mountians, just barley visable at Peter's high postion in the mansion. Then he realized where he was.
He was in the tallest tower. He and his siblings had seen it from the outside of the house, but never found a way to get to it. Even in their great expidentional explores, they were unable to find the hidden room at the top. And now, here Peter stood, in the beauty of being the first to find it.
His thoughts were lost in the swarming snow flakes as he stood, lost outside the window. And his blue eyes, caught up in a gaze, travled with the blanket that covered the world outside the window. His thoughts drifted downwards with the obsessive flurries, and his mind stopped. His blood stopped. His heart stopped. Eveything stopped. And Peter was lost in the moment of the snow tumbling down, down, down. And he realized, it wasn't really the end of them. The ground wasn't really their doom.
His face was only inches away form the window pane. His breath had left a cloud on the window's glass. He felt childish as he drew a small smily face into it, and then smiled at himself and his work. So simple.
Suddenly, Peter snapped back into character. He shook the thoughts from him as though they were pestering flies. His attentioned turned to the room he was in and everything in it.
The books on the shelves were ancient and thick. Old world maps and posters were plastered on free walls and the book cases raised up into the high ceiling, like mountians, making him feel so small. So unimportant. But this place was perfect in its sucludeity. It was quiet, but thanks to the fire, it wasn't an eerie silence. It was homey in its spacousness, and Peter slowly walked to one of the many plush chairs and made himself at home, infront of the grand fireplace.
It danced joyfully infront of him as he proped his feet up on the ottomen. He was captivated by it for awhile before his hand rested on his pocket and his letter to his father screamed to be opened. He carefully took it out, throwing away a piece of lint as he did.
Dear Father,
Was that all he was able to write? Was that all he was able to say to his dad, off risking his life for, not only his family, but for strangers he didn't even know? Strangers that didn't even deserve to be saved? People, that only knew what was happing from their radios? Strangers that where so unappreciative of the people out there, dying for them.
Peter's insides turned cold, eventhough the room was toasty from the fire. He didn't want to think about this! He always felt sick to his stomache whenever the topic shoved its way back into his bussy head. And he turned his attention back to his mission. His mind always drew blank when he reached the end of that comma. What was he supposed to say? He never really knew his father in a way he could just strike up a conversation. Peter spoke to him, when spoken to, and that was all the only communication they ever had, other than the two watching the stars. And that, his father didn't mind. Though they didn't speak a word, not one, it was an unspoken agreement that this was 'bonding'.
Every new moon, little Peter would scamper after his father, down to the 'highest hill', though his father never asked him to come. And they'd spread out a blanket and lay there watching the bursting stars, so bright from the invisable moon. And well up into the night, so that his mother would have to come chasing after them and shooing them back to the house, ranting all the way home. His father would smiled to himself the whole way back, and would gaze every-so-often to his beautiful wife, as she carried on with her nagging. And then, Peter remembered, when they got home, and he and his siblings had been tucked into bed, snuggly, he'd hear soft music from downstairs. He'd climb down the small stair case and peek around the cornor to see his parents waltzing around to lite classical music, humming from the record player. And they would be perfect. Just perfect. Dancing around, with only the light of the tiny stars to eluminate them. But they glowed with a light all their own. And Peter would smile, his small dimples tracing his cheeks, and slowly trek his way back to his room, leaving them at a romantic, blissful, waltz. And one. two. three. four. turn. two. three. four.
Dear Father,
Peter lost himself in his thoughts again, until a book under his proped feet fell onto the floor, mad at his carelessness to move it out from under him before he sat up his lazy feet. Peter, hastily picked up the ancient book, and placed it on the table beside him, but not before his eyes caught sight of the old cover. And he took it back in his hands, and gazed upon it.
His heart froze up inside of his chest. His shaking fingers traced over the barely-there title, just to make sure he wasn't going mad. The green cover was hard and worn, yet its pages seemed to be dying for a reader to glance at its marvolus ink. T-H-E.
Peter traced and continued on with the rest, until he'd finally come to the conclusion that it was really there. It was really the title. It really was printed in curly gold ink. The Lost Book of Narnia.