Their anniversary. Whoop dee doo. It wasn't like they'd never had one before. And yet they made a big spectacle of it with a huge party every year. All it meant was that they had put up with eachother for another year, and Edmund found himself hating them for it. Six years, so what? He turned his back on them and retreated to the nearest balcony.

No one else was around and it was peaceful and quiet; his only company the night sky and the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. He looked up at the moon, hanging lazily in the ocean deep blue sky, her soft silver glow reflecting on the restless tide.

Here, he could think of Elaina.

He remembered standing right where he was now with her standing in front of him, his arms around her, as they watched the sunset. He remembered pressing his nose into her hair and wondering how she always smelled of the sweetest flowers. He remembered dancing slowly out here, no music, with her head on his chest and his arms around her once again, their bodies against eachother. He remembered how the purest, sweetest kisses seemed to have taken place out here. He remembered—

"Uncle Edmund!" he turned to see Maylea running to him, her short, pigtail braids bouncing on her shoulders and her big blue eyes wide with fright. "Something's wrong with Mama! Come on!"

"C'mon, Cal, you're going to be alright. You will. You have to," Peter whispered, trying to convince himself more than Callida. But they both knew she would not make it. Maylea sat next to him, holding both parents' hands.

"Liar," she managed to cough out jokingly. "I'm dying, Peter." She looked at him, her dark eyes bloodshot and dry.

"I don't know what I'll do without you." his voice shook. He stroked her cheek with his free hand then kissed her gently.

"Maylea, be good for Daddy. Try not to get into too much trouble." She erupted into a coughing fit. "Peter," she croaked one last time. "I—I" she fought to keep that one spark of life in her for a few more moments. "Love you." No sound came, be he could read her lips. Her eyes fluttered slightly, her breathing stopped, and her grip on Maylea's hand slackened. She was still staring up at him, her onyx eyes blacker than ever. Peter felt his heart being shredded to nothing.

"No, please," Peter said in horror. He had known that it was coming, but he still could not believe it actually happened. He caressed her hair, almost believing it would bring her back. "Cal, Callida, please, don't go." Tears brimmed his eyes as he brought her body to him in a desperate attempt to bring her back, gritting his teeth. He watched his world shatter before him in her cold, lifeless eyes.

Maylea looked at him, her mind too small to understand anything but the words,

"Is mama gone?" he held back anymore tears he had. They could wait.

"Yes, baby," he laid her back down on the bed and closed her dead eyes. "Mama's gone." He picked up his little girl and held her as she cried herself to sleep in his arms. Of all days, she died on Maylea's third birthday.

"I hate funerals," Tumnus admitted to Lucy as they walked along the seashore. Callida's had been a particularly awful affair. Practically everyone in Narnia was there. In the front sat the six of them: Peter, Maylea, Edmund, Susan, Lucy and Tumnus. Peter's face was stony, ashen, and emotionless. Maylea curled up in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, tears falling onto his ebony black tunic. It was not until the end, while people were slowly filing out the entrance, did Peter break. He stood, walked to the coffin and looked in for a moment. A tear fell onto her silky green grown.

"You always did look lovely in green," he whispered to the body. And for a moment, he could feel her hand in his, see her dancing, hear her laughter, smell her perfume, taste her kiss...all in a moment. Then the moment was gone. He tried to clench his jaw and keep what he felt from showing. All he did was stand there as a few silent, lonesome tears streamed slowly down his face. Edmund had seen him cry only twice before; first when their father was sent off to war, second when he almost died in a tousle with the White Witch. Several watched him in detached sadness and pity.

Peter sat alone in the throne room, staring ahead, arms crossed. It had been about three weeks since Callida died, he was not sure. It felt like an eternity since he had last seen her. He looked out the window at the moon. It must have been around two in the morning.

"You mourn, Son of Adam," Peter jumped to see Aslan looking at him. Usually, Aslan's presence would bring some sort of joy to him, no matter the circumstances. Not this morning.

"I still can't believe that she's actually gone. I keep thinking she's going to walk through that door and make fun of me for something, the way she used to," he chuckled. "I remember one time, I had been fencing with Edmund in the courtyard, and he beat me; the only time he's ever really beaten me. She had watched us. Neither of them let me live it down. Callida, she..." the reminiscent smile faded as he came back to reality. That was the first time he'd said her name since it happened. "This just doesn't seem real."

"Do not be troubled. This will pass."

"Was there something I could have done Aslan? Something that might have saved her? What if I had—?"

"How many times must you be told? I do not tell what may have been, for what is done is done. Have faith; it is always darkest before dawn."

"Do you think—" he looked over where Aslan had been to find an empty spot. With a little sarcasm, he added to himself, "Well, that's Aslan for you."

Three Years Later

Susan opened the door into Peter's study where he sat with maps spread out in front of him, but his eyes were not on the maps. They were fixated somewhere in yester year. His chin rested in one of his palms.

"Peter?" she said quietly after a second or two. He turned and looked at her, bringing himself out of his reverie.

"Yes?"

"We need to talk," she entered the room and sat across from him.

"I don't need to have some kind of soul searching lecture."

"Yes you do," she looked at his tired eyes. "When was the last time you slept?"

"I don't know." he answered after a moment. "Look, Susan, I'm busy and-"

"Have you cried?" she interrupted. "At all?" They stared at eachother for what seemed to be forever. Finally Peter broke it by looking down with a sigh.

He looked back at her. "I haven't. I...I can't."

"I'm not sure if I should tell you this, but if it was me, I would want to know," she took a deep breath. "Callida...was pregnant."

All he could do was gawk at her. His stomach dropped.

"Peter, please, try to understand why she didn't tell you. She was afraid she might have a miscarriage because she knew her body was too weak to carry a child and she didn't want you to..."

Her voice seemed distant and quiet, and eventually it disappeared all together.

In the few moments that it took him to stand, walk to the door, and put his hand on the latch, he saw every image of Callida he had burned into his memory drifted in front of his eyes like clouds passing over the sun. He stood with his hand on the latch for about a minute. Susan watched him with curiosity. His head dropped and his shoulders sagged. He felt the despair he had put off for so long boil inside him. The tears came slowly and silently at first. His shoulders began to shake and a whimper escaped his throat. He dropped to his knees and sat on the floor, finally grieving the loss of his beloved Callida. Susan went to him and held her brother as he cried.

"Three whole years. I can hardly believe it." Peter sat in a chair across from Tumnus. He seemed to be Peter's counselor on the anniversary of Callida's death. It was what he had expected: Peter sat, eyes ever distant, gazing not only past Tumnus, but through him. Lost in thought and memory. "It feels like yesterday. I say that about a lot of things don't I? It feels like yester day that I fought the White Witch. It feels like yesterday that I became king of Narnia. It…it feels like yesterday that I met Callida…that we got married. We had nothing in common, absolutely nothing," He chuckled to himself for a moment. "But she was amazing. What's most amazing to me, though, is that…it feels like yesterday that…I first held Maylea in my arms. Would you believe that she's six already? It's bizarre. You know what she asked me a few months ago? 'When's Mama coming back?'" He stroked his short beard and shook his head.

"Peter," Tumnus began. He was of the few minors to still call him by name. "We all miss her. I know that no one does quite like you do, because not everyone understands what it is to lose a wife and for that matter, for Maylea to lose her mother, but we do understand, at least to some degree, the pain that you and your daughter go through."

"I just…" he put his head in his hands, sighed and looked back up at Tumnus. "I just wish that I could see her again." Tumnus nodded his head. He had no response to that. Just then, the door opened and a guard stepped in.

"My lord, there are three dwarves to see you. They seem to have brought a gift and they say that they must see you as soon as possible."

"Send them in."

"Their gift is too tall for the door."

"Oh, alright. Very well then." He stood and left, Tumnus following closely behind. Upon entering the foyer, he saw the three short men and a tall…something covered in a white sheet.

"Yes?" Peter inquired to the older looking one. They all dipped their heads in reverence.

"Your Grace, I am Jirair. These are my sons, Bardo and Bronson. We have brought you a gift." He went to the thing and whipped off the sheet. "In memoriam of your late wife."

For a moment, Peter could not breathe and his eyes widened. It looked exactly like Callida. Exactly. Down to each individual curl on her head. These dwarves were more skilled than most, for she did not look like a sculpture, but a goddess. Instead of using only marble to erect this statue, they accentuated each feature by using precious metals and gems to give it color and life. Where her skin showed, they had used some dark, chocolate colored stone, the precise color of her skin. For her dress, tiny, perfectly shaped emeralds had been set with strands of gold to create the same dress she had worn when they first danced, and at her funeral. For her lips, minuscule, flawlessly cut rubies pulled her face into a small smile. But her eyes, those eyes… They had used onyx and ivory to give her the most perfect eyes possible. With a trembling hand, Peter reached up slowly to stroke her cheek. Although the stone was cold, he could feel her warmth. He closed his eyes and felt a tear fall down his face. He looked at the tiny men.

"She's…perfect." He whispered.

"It took us three years, but we finally got it finished."

Peter looked at the base of the statue on the podium on which she stood. A gold plaque read "QUEEN CALLIDA: THE COMPASSIONATE".

"Guard, get my brother and sisters. They won't believe this." He turned to Jirair and his sons. "Thank you."

A/N: ok so i was looking over this and i realized...maylea was 3 when she died...3 years later shes 4?? yeah, im not a mathematician