The gilded confinements of the High King's new cambers were a far cry from the familiar and comforting walls of Cair Paravel. Although two months of renovations and Susan's taste in decor had left the new castle just as stunning the Cair, Peter could not shake the feeling that he should have acted on his instincts and not appeased Edmund and Susan's wishes of living in the abandoned castle.
In the darkness of the night, Peter's senses heightened like a pointer-hound spotting his mark. The royal family had arrived at the newly renovated second castle that afternoon and as a moonless night swept over the swamplands of the North East, a feeling that the first night spent on the premises would not be a restful one. Lucy, who was still unconvinced that the vision she saw two months ago was a hallucination, was beside herself as the night drew close. Peter's youngest sister had insisted that the castle was haunted by a spirit of some-such and brought up the "evidence" of Uncle Fungus' fall into the swamp muck, her disturbing hallucination of a fox and Susan's tripping on the stairwell as fact. Her insistence, of course, was getting on Susan's, (who denied being pushed on the stairs) last nerves and Edmund had rolled his eyes at the notion of spirits so much, it was likely they would never cease from their circles.
To this effect, the Magnificent had spent a good portion of his evening quelling his sisters' anger, given the fact that he was in all terms and purposes, the neutral party. At length, he had calmed Lucy enough to get her to sleep in her chambers with the promise that the candles would burn for the night's course and that any of the other three were in the same wing as Lucy's chambers.
The pressure of a body sitting on his feather mattress brought the High King out of his light sleep. Thinking it was one of the litter that the Elderly Gentleman had adopted a year back, slipping in to curl up at the foot of his bed as they had done with him and his siblings in the Cair, Peter rolled over to his side. Even though many cats had the gift of speech in Narnia, the smaller felines still enjoyed full reign of the castles even in the dead of night. It was not uncommon for them to make their rounds to ensure the safety of everyone in the castle nor was it uncommon for them to take quick naps on their rounds. The small cats made lazy night watchmen but they were effective nonetheless.
"Cephas," Peter greeted with a groggy mumble, bracing himself for the nightly occurrence of the cold nose of the small silver tabby bearing the aforementioned name to press against his in an attempt to determine if the High King still breathed. When the cat did not reply, it struck Peter as odd. Although the adopted son of the Elderly Gentleman, Cephas had picked up the older cat's tendency to underline every action with a genuine concern for the monarchs' well beings. Even in simple interactions having nothing to do with duty to the crowns, the notion that Cephas and the Elderly Gentleman were observing with critical eyes still rung true.
For a moment, the notion that the pressure seemed to come from a body bigger source than a cat seemed to raise a slight alarm for the king. But it was quelled with the reminder of how in a new unfamiliar surroundings, paranoia could set in. Peter turned on his stomach fitfully as if inflicting some sort of vengeance on the unfamiliar mattress. Several moments passed with the pressure of the cat sitting on the edge of the bed as Peter began to slip into sleep's embrace once more.
With out warning, the High King felt his silken covers being pulled off from their positions just below his bare shoulders. The thought had occurred to the groggy king that perhaps one of his sisters had a night terror and were climbing in bed where it was safe. Lucy was intimidated from the castle and her presence would have explained the not-so-cat-size pressure on his bed. Sitting up, Peter called his sister's name but was met with a stony silence. The embers from the gilded fireplace, it was clear to the High King that nobody was in his chambers yet alone on the edge of his state bed.
Tentatively, Peter got out of bed and called for his youngest sister. "Lu?" The inquiry only just escaped his mouth when the same raspy whisper of the wind softly beckoned as it did the first time he saw the castle. "Peeeeteeerrr, Peeeeteeeerrr". It was soft as was before but the windows were shut to the windless night. Within a moment, it was obvious that the visitor was not Lucy. Instinct told the eldest Pevensie to grip an unsheathed Rhindon's hilt yet his senses reminded him his fear and the dim lighting could cost the life of a subject or worse, his sister, should he raise his sword.
In his brief moment of indecision, the disembodied voice whispered once more, "I am always present, Little King…" Peter backed up into his washbasin, sending the porcelain bowl smashing onto the floor as he witnessed his sheets press down in the form of a feminine body reaching across from the far side of the bed.
The shards of porcelain dug into the soles of his feet as Peter groped in the dim room for the sword Father Christmas had given him. The Magnificent dared not take his eyes off of the imprint on his bed. His hand enclosed around the hilt of his sword. The imprint on his covers shifted to what seemed like a sitting position as the High King boldly raised his sword to the unseen foe.
A degrading laugh echoed through out the confines of his chambers and with his eyes transfixed on the invisible intruder, Peter did not notice light from a lone candle bounce from the hall way. "Foolish boy." The voice taunted. Evil seemed to drip from every word as did the feeling that it was taking pleasure in the High King's carefully concealed fear. "You think a mere blade will stay me?" There was a pause as a familiar voice from the hall called out for Peter.
Susan appeared at the threshold, her shawl drooping from her shoulders and a candle raised high in her hand. Confusion was painted on her countenance, displaying that the crash from the washbasin awoke her. "Peter, what the-" She began to inquire but paused mid sentence as her eyes fell on the imprint at the edge of the bed as it disappeared as quickly as it had formed.
"My roots have already dug in, Little King." The voice continued for both brother and sister to hear. Footsteps on stone resounded despite the lush Narnian carpet that covered the floor and the High King caught the Gentle's fearful eyes. Without warning, Susan gave a great shudder as if a sudden deathly chill had fallen upon her. Anxiously, she took several shaky and rushed into the room.
It was as if the Magnificent had found his legs as he sheathed Rhindon and climbed across the large state bed. It was obvious that the night time visitor had left their presences and the eldest queen flung her arms around her brother, muttering about an unearthly chill that seemed to suck the very warmth out of her bones. The two sat at the edge of the bed with Susan able to do nothing but weep into her elder brother's shoulder and Peter incapable of doing anything but comfort her by his presence. Although neither could bring themselves to speak, they knew what had to be acknowledged: Lucy's claims, just as before, were genuine.
A/n: yes, it is an extremely short chapter and for that I apologize. I have more thrills in store and if I placed the rest of the chapter that I was planning in, it would turn out to be a little too long and draggy. So for all terms and purposes, I apologize for the painfully short chap. Thanks to all of my reviewers and hitters. My roomie has also been flippin amazing to listen to my writer's rants. And a humongo thanks goes to Bob Saget. Because its my fic and I can thank him if I want to. Thanks guys!