Chapter Six

For Words, Like Nature, Half Reveal

Lucy spoke to the trees as they weaved through the forest toward the ford at Beruna. The way led by Trumpkin was a downward slope but not steep enough for them to slip easily. It had a kind of quiet that unsettled everyone, not because neither of them had said anything to each other since they left the gorge. Rather, it was because the farther they went, the trees became more awfully and deathly still.

The silence of the surroundings made everyone think they were walking in a vast empty space.

Everyone felt unsettled and alert as they cautiously moved. The louder they could hear the flowing waters at the ford, the more it seemed they were walking across an abandoned graveyard.

But the moment Lucy tried to speak amongst them, it was as if the whole forest was coming to life. They could hear the low songs of hummingbirds, the whistle of robins, and the twitter of magpies surrendering them—as if to greet their kings and queens with a warm welcome.

"Oh Trees, Trees, Trees," she called out to them softly. Almost pleading.

Agnes and the older Pevensies stopped in their tracks to watch the scene before them unfold, while Trumpkin lingered behind and eyed the valiant queen with mild interest.

A smile broke across Agnes' face as she observed Lucy's fond demeanor as the latter called out to the trees. She remembered the trees where the dryads emerged from. Back in the early years of her regency, the dryads would emerge in front of her in a flurry of leaves, petals, or both to recognize her presence. They would give her a graceful curtsy, a chivalrous bow, or simply just a wave of hello to her.

Most of all, Agnes absolutely adored those slender girls with soft showery voices from the pale birch trees that used to sing to her in times of despair. They offered her a much-needed comfort even for a moment through their ethereal and haunting melody woven from the essence of the ancient forests: when a monarch died, when famine struck, and when they had to retreat from a battle.

Now, she could use a comforting lullaby from them.

But just like what Trumpkin told them back when they were in the boat when they rowed down Glasswater, the surviving dryads had retreated so deeply inside themselves in their trees when the Telmarines led a thousand years' worth of genocide campaign against the Old Narnians after Cair Paravel crumbled. The remaining hid deep into the woods, using the familiar landscape as a tactical advantage to effectively scare off the enemies from going through the thicket of trees.

No one had heard from them since then.

It was only then they started to appear bravely when Caspian blew the horn. Not only did it summon their kings and queens, but also Agnes and the other Narnians who were in hiding to find their own people.

As they continued to press further down the path, the valiant queen reached out toward one of the trunks with a determined look in her eyes. "Oh Trees, wake, wake, wake," she chanted, her fingers running gently across the rough grooves of its bark. "Don't you remember it? Don't you remember me? Dryads and Hamadryads, come out, come to me."

The forest heeded the command of their queen, upon the sound of Lucy's voice—yearning and poignant. Louder with conviction. In response, a pleasant breeze circled and passed through them; then, rose in the air, leading them to move further where there were fewer trees and patches of tree stumps. It was as if the forest wanted to show them something. Everyone paused in their tracks once again, mesmerized by the change of their surroundings.

Then, the wind picked up speed, carrying with it a flurry of crisp oak leaves and spiraling upwards until the oak leaves formed a tall man before Lucy. The dryad's form solidified, its oak-leaf body swaying like branches in a breeze. It tilted its head towards Lucy, and though it had no discernible face, its gaze settled on her.

"Thimbles and thunderstorms!" Trumpkin, who has seen a dryad for the first time, gasped.

However, there was a groan of the tree branches, then a resounding thud on the forest floor echoing from the distance and shaking the ground beneath them. The dryad's mouth gaped open into a hollow hole of leaves, where it suddenly let out a shrill scream that pierced their ears before bursting into the thin air. The group reeled back in surprise, watching in silent frowning faces as the leafy remains of the dryad dissipated into nothingness.

Lucy stared at the spot where the dryad had vanished, her eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears. "Why did he—why did he die?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

"The Telmarines," Trumpkin said, his voice hollow, "guess they're chopping some ol' trees by the shore. The trees are afraid, and they have every reason to be."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant rustling of leaves and the groan of branches.

Peter placed a hand on Lucy's shoulder, his expression unreadable. "We'll make it right," he said quietly. "We have to."

Trumpkin sighed. "Come on," he grumbled.

Agnes' chest tightened painfully as she felt the air stopped. Her skin prickled at the sudden change. Once more, their surroundings felt dead. She glanced towards Peter's way, who had a grim expression and his jaw was set shut. Sensing she was looking, his gaze turned towards hers in an unspoken understanding that seemed to carry an entire conversation's worth of meaning—and, something more in his eyes.

"Agnes," he began as he fell into step beside her.

She hummed in response, ignoring how her heart thrummed upon hearing her name in his voice.

"About what I said earlier—"

Agnes cocked her head. "Earlier?"

"Back at Glasswater River," he clarified. "Things about Lantern Waste. I shouldn't have—" He paused, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword as if searching for the right words. "It wasn't fair of me."

Agnes glanced at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her gaze shifted down to the hilt of his sword, the lion-head pommel glinting, before returning to his eyes. "It doesn't matter."

"It does to me," Peter insisted, his voice soft but firm. "Whatever happened out there, I know you stayed when no one else could. You led when no one else would. And I—" He hesitated, swallowing hard "—I just know it. I've no right to judge what you did to survive."

Agnes exhaled slowly, her gaze softening. "I understand, Peter. It's—" 'It wasn't right of you. It wasn't okay,' her thoughts echoed to her, "—it's in the past. You're here now."

For a moment, the air changed once again. The meaning of Peter's words hung like a chord had been struck inside them. Agnes exhaled quietly—a brush of hands, a lingering look—suddenly, she felt that she was somewhere far away with this aching feeling running through her blood.

He should not be the one to apologize, but if she did, he would know the truth.

Before they could say anything else to each other, Agnes advanced past forward, just behind Susan and Trumpkin. Her walking away had cut whatever momentum she shared with Peter. She did not need the apology of her High King. Regardless of whether or not he would, it truly did not matter to her because he would never understand and she could not expect him to do so. It was her duty, after all. A thankless job.

Agnes clenched her fists, willing herself to stay calm. Peter's apology had been earnest, but it did not erase the weight of her past. Lantern Waste was not just a battle. It was a failure—her failure. And yet, when Peter looked at her with those piercing blue eyes, as if he saw something worth fighting for, she felt a flicker of hope she did not know she still had.

It was terrifying.

They continued walking until they reached the strewn-stone shore of the ford. Carpenters, soldiers, and many other unfamiliar faces occupied the shore. Across the river, there was a partial bridge—less than halfway done to reach the other side of the shore—made out of logs.

"Perhaps, this wasn't the best way after all," Susan said as they hid behind the pile of freshly cut logs, watching the Telmarines work from afar.

Agnes could not agree with the gentle queen more. Her finger twitched at the feel of her rapier. The phantom wound on her shoulder throbbed in response. "We're outnumbered. Even if we just take out the soldiers, we can't take them all out from behind without being noticed."

"Yeah, it'll be too dangerous. We can't cross here," Edmund said, his voice laced with frustration. "Not with the Telmarines watching."

"We don't have time to go back," Peter argued, his gaze fixed on the incomplete bridge. "If we wait too long—"

"Then we might as well end up just like the dryad," Trumpkin said.

The silence that followed was tense, each of them weighing the risks. It was Lucy who finally broke it. "Aslan will show us the way," she said firmly, her voice filled with a quiet conviction unbecoming of her physical age.

Eventually, they all agreed to return to the river gorge. Once they reached it, Peter asked his sister to point them in the direction where she had seen Aslan earlier, much to her chagrin. However, the way that he said it made it seem like it was a matter of opinion, rather than a fact.

"I wish you'd all stop acting like grown-ups!" she snapped with eyes burning.

"I am a grown-up," Trumpkin mumbled under his breath in confusion.

"I didn't think I saw him. I did see him."

Agnes avoided her eyes, feeling conflicted by the conviction and disbelief. She remembered once again Trumpkin's voice when they were rowing at Glasswater. The emotional detachment in his tone when he told them that the Narnians had been abandoned by Aslan, the same way the Kings and Queens of Old had done before. She remembered the tremor of guilt in Peter's voice, the weight of it all clear as day in his eyes, and it was not even his fault for them to leave.

In the end, just as Trumpkin said as well: it did not matter now.

Just before her thoughts could stray far, Agnes heard a twig snap, a scream, then a muffled thud as the ground just inches behind her heels crumbled and fell into a dull and hollow rumble.

She felt her heart caught in her throat as she realized that it was Lucy who fell. But when she looked down, Agnes saw the wide smile on the valiant queen's face as she triumphantly called to the others.

"Here!" she yelled from below.

The older Pevensies exchanged relieved faces upon realizing their youngest was safe.

"Well, this is where Aslan wants us to go," Peter chuckled as he looked down.

As it settled, the collapsed ground revealed a steep narrow path that went into the gorge between the rocks. Edmund stepped forward and surveyed the area. He tested the ground's stability with stomps of his foot when he got down the path. Satisfied that the path was safe enough to pass, he helped the others cross, beginning with Susan. Peter joined him when it was Trumpkin's turn to help Edmund lift their dear little friend—or their D.L.F. as they had mentioned endearingly to him, much to the red dwarf's chagrin.

When it was Agnes' turn, Peter held out his hand, his fingers brushing hers. Agnes hesitated for a heartbeat, then let her palm settle against his. The warmth of his grip sent an unexpected flutter through her chest, and she gritted her teeth, willing herself to focus as he helped her down. His hand lingered, steadying her, but neither spoke.

For just a second, her train of thoughts halted when their gazes met. His eyes caught hers, steady and unyielding, and for a moment, the words she had prepared to say scattered like leaves in the wind. Perhaps, she was supposed to tell him a 'thank you' for helping her cross? Nonetheless, she did not say anything. She forced herself to look away, her pulse thrumming in her ears in the quiet.

"You've got it?" Peter asked, his voice steady but noticeably quieter than before. His other hand hovered at her elbow to steady her if needed.

Peter helped her down the path, bracing himself as she descended onto the narrow path.

"I've got it," Agnes replied curtly, determined to appear capable.

The edge of her boot wobbled slightly against a loose rock, and Peter's grip tightened instinctively, pulling her closer. She was highly aware of the solidness of his presence and the faint scent of pine and salt that clung to him.

He murmured in her ear, "Careful." His voice was low, almost tender.

She nodded, breaking the gaze and stepping fully onto the path below. "Thanks," she said briskly, trying to mask the tumult of emotions she was uncertain of.

The moment broke when Edmund loudly cleared his throat from below. "Would you two hurry up? We don't have all day!" His voice echoed throughout the gorge.

Peter released her hand reluctantly.

Agnes felt her pulse quicken again but kept looking straight ahead, afraid of what she might see in his eyes. She pulled away, stepping past him as if the distance could somehow silence the thoughts swirling in her mind, to join Susan and Lucy at the bottom of the path.

As she passed Trumpkin, she heard him muttering under his breath about humans fussing too much.

Lucy shot their regent an inquisitive glance. "Are you alright, Lady Agnes?"

Agnes nodded a little too quickly. "Yes, Your Majesty. Why wouldn't I be?"

Lucy's lips twitched as though she were suppressing a knowing smile. "No reason," she said lightly before joining Edmund further ahead.

The sun was low when they had gotten out of the gorge. Stars slowly crawled into the Narnian sky as the glowing shades of amber and gold in the clouds took in the shadows of purples and blues. When the twilight deepened and they could hear the sounds of Glasswater Creek nearby, everyone found sense in Susan's suggestion to set up a camp where they could rest on the forest ground for the night, instead of venturing further with their plan to find the other Narnians.

With multiple attempts, too many to count, they had caught enough fish by the creek for all of them to feast on. They caught pavenders, a type of fish that have scales shimmering with various colors of a rainbow blending with each other down to its tail and are abundant near Cair Paravel. It was Trumpkin who wanted to find fresh fish since they had found fishing tackles back at the Telmarine soldiers' boat; Edmund was relieved that they finally had a respite from meals that only consisted of apples. Others went ahead to gather firewood for warmth and to roast the pavenders after they had been cut open and cleaned.

It was a quiet dinner over the campfire, except for the occasional passing of the one pocket knife shared among them for the fish.

Agnes picked on her roasted pavender with her fingers. She had been used to eating hot fish with no forks back in the old days of war. Metalworks were allocated for producing arsenal, armor, and other war-related necessities. That meant that she and the other monarchs in those days had to open the royal kitchens of Narnia beyond food distribution. Consequently, the royal dining hall and the servants' refectory became temporary shelters for Narnians displaced by war atrocities.

Agnes internally winced at the memories of those difficult years. She fought earnestly to think about anything other than the tingling sensation in her hand, remembering how Peter's hand felt on hers earlier. At the same time, she tried to avoid letting her gaze stray towards his hands. The campfire illuminated his fingers in a soft orange glow with sharp shadows that made her more mesmerized than earlier.

He was not even looking at her all throughout.

Agnes' lips set into a thin line. He was one of her reigning monarchs. They would be under another bloody war in a few days' time. She could not afford to think such thoughts or even entertain such a notion. Her palms flexed before her fingers curled into a tight fist, still conflicted by the memory of his touch on hers. With that, she returned to picking off the soft flesh of the pavender from its bones, letting the heat burn her fingers.

After they had finished off with a drink from the water flasks and a few apples—except Edmund, of course, saying "I'd rather not see an apple anytime soon"—everyone was already too tired to sleep. Trumpkin had already dozed off, snoring contentedly from his side within the large beech trees they had pulled together.

On the other hand, Agnes and Edmund sat across from each other and took the first watch in case any Telmarine or another wild beast would attempt to attack the others while sleeping.

The just king fed the embers more firewood while she sharpened and polished her golden rapier with a whetstone and cloth. She admired the handiwork as she ran the stone across the blade, relieved that time did not blunt nor rust it. The strap of her rapier's sheath lay across her lap, and her parrying dagger was just in front of her crossed legs.

"You have an interesting choice of weapon, Lady Agnes," he said after he rubbed his hand over the flickering sparks in the cool air. He leaned back on his hands against the birch tree log. "A rapier and a parrying dagger… You don't see many soldiers, let alone swordsmen, wielding those, especially in battles."

She smiled appreciatively, turning her rapier slightly to inspect the sharpness of its edge as she set the stone down. "No, you don't, Your Majesty," she replied. "Most soldiers and warriors are inclined to brute strength. My choices had been broadswords, axes, and the like, but I've rather favored precision. They think it's because it's elegant. Less intimidating, but it's a commitment. A rapier is light and quick, so it demands discipline, strategy, and balance."

Edmund nodded thoughtfully. "Balance… That's a good word for it. Not all swordsmen would consider it as a required quality, especially a rapier is not just a weapon you could pick up on a whim and learn, is it? Even Peter, who had been given Rhindon by Father Christmas. He already picked up fast in sword-fighting. Seems like a rapier is something you have to train with for a long time."

A fond memory surfaced in her thoughts, making her smile even more. "Since I was a child, actually. My mother believed in being prepared for any danger, and in her mind, that meant learning how to defend myself. She trained me harder than any fencing instructor would have, even better than my father, who's the head of the Order of the Garter."

"Your mother, wife to the head knight of England, taught you?" Edmund's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Now that's something I didn't expect. Most people would imagine girls from nobility learning embroidery, not swordplay. No offense to you and other noblewomen, of course."

"None taken. Mum taught me both," Agnes replied, her tone wry. "But she made it clear which one was more important. I learned how to parry before I got to learn what was a shadow work embroidery technique. She always said that one day, I'd have to protect myself when no one else could. She was right."

And then, as if from a far distance in her mind, she could hear the resounding crunch of her shoulder being stepped on. The strong smell of her bleeding wound…

She willed the memory away and focused on her childhood, instead.

Edmund studied her quietly, the flicker of firelight reflecting in his dark eyes. He leaned forward slightly, his curiosity piqued. "And the dagger? Most people don't bother with a secondary weapon. But you carry it like it's just as important as the rapier."

Agnes' fingers brushed over the hilt of the parrying dagger as she picked it up. "The dagger's not just a secondary weapon. It's a shield in its own way, especially when up close with the enemy. My father used to say, 'A sword wins the fight, but a dagger wins your life.' I guess I took it very literally when I came here for the first time."

Edmund let out a low whistle, nodding in admiration. "Your parents sound like they knew what they were doing when raising you."

"They did," she said wistfully. "My father believed that excellence is earned and cannot be handed down, and my mother… Well, let's just say she was more skilled than most would expect from someone so reserved."

Edmund chuckled. "I think I would've liked to meet her."

Agnes smiled faintly but did not reply. Evelyn Beckett née Wellesley was a scary woman.

In the pleasant silence that followed between them, the only sounds were the crackling fire and the distant rustle of the trees as they fell into comfortable silence. Then, Edmund's face shifted into something more pensive.

"Balance," he repeated with a hint of hesitation as if he was trying to test the waters of the conversation. "That's what Peter needs right now."

Agnes glanced up sharply in surprise, her green eyes narrowing slightly. "What do you mean?"

Edmund leaned back, exhaling slowly as he stared into the flames. "He's been… Frustrated more so since we returned to Narnia... You've seen it, haven't you? The way he carries himself—like the whole weight of the kingdom is on his shoulders. He believes it's not our fault that we all left, but he feels he has to fix everything all on his own."

Agnes did not answer immediately. Her mind flickered back to Peter's tight jaw when she rebutted him, his clipped tone during their argument, and the way his shoulders seemed perpetually tense.

"I've noticed," she admitted cautiously. "But he's the High King. That weight is his responsibility."

"Doesn't mean he has to carry it alone," Edmund said quietly, his voice unusually somber. He met her gaze, his expression open and sincere. "He won't admit it, but I think he's struggling. He's got too much pride and anger in him. I mean, we all were affected by our abrupt leave, but with Pete… It's more painful for him, perhaps the same with Su if not more. And I think—I think you're the only one who might be able to get through to him."

Agnes stiffened slightly, her grip tightening on the rapier. "What makes you think of that, Your Majesty?"

"Because you're like him," Edmund said as if it was a simple matter of fact. "You both put duty above everything else. You both care about Narnia more than you care about yourselves. I could see it with the way you chased that Telmarine who escaped. And you both have this fire in you that won't let you give up, no matter what. Perhaps, being a regent and being a High King have a bigger common ground in more ways than one. With the way that your experience in Lantern Waste affected you—I see you turn pale every time like you have seen a ghost—it has scarred you to the point you became sacrificial to a fault. Peter has always had this bloody independence that irritates us because he thinks he is the only one who can solve everything, and I guess you're the same… I'm not saying you should open up in an instant, but all I am saying is you can trust Peter at least, even if it's not going to me and my sisters… I could see that you'll lean on each other more than towards us, sooner or later."

Agnes looked away, her jaw clenching as his words sank in. She thought of Lantern Waste, the years she had spent fighting for Narnia's survival, the moments she had shared with Peter—moments that felt like they carried more weight than she wanted to admit.

"I'm not sure the High King and I see things the same way," she said. "We have different approaches in leadership, so I think he actually finds me frustrating.

Edmund smiled faintly, his sharp gaze catching the flicker of something unspoken in her expression. "Maybe. Maybe not. But that's a good thing. You challenge each other, which is why I do mean it when I say you're more alike than you realize. I stand by it. If anyone can balance him out, I believe it's you, Lady Agnes."

Agnes opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. The campfire crackled between them, filling up the silence. She found herself turning Edmund's words over and over in her mind.

Balance. Discipline. Precision.

Agnes stared down at the rapier in her hands as she thought about it again and again. She had to put her duty above all. Whatever was between her and her High King would have to wait.

For now.

Hours later, she dreamt.

The forest floor was damp beneath her bare feet, the soil clinging like quicksand. The sound of steel rang in her ears—sharp, relentless. She turned, her vision blurring as shadowy figures loomed. Then came the weight—a crushing, suffocating pressure as something cold and sharp tore into her shoulder. She screamed, but no sound escaped her lips, only the metallic taste of blood.

The ground rushed up to meet her, and she fell endlessly into darkness. As her body made contact with the ground, Agnes woke up in cold sweat as she gasped for air.

Without a second thought, she grappled for her rapier, only to find it resting against the birch tree log while a campfire lit a warm glow around her surroundings. The fog in her mind lifted as she glanced at four sleeping forms huddled near the fire within the four birch tree logs. She remembered where she was.

They were in Glasswater Creek.

Slowly, she stood up, careful not to wake Susan beside her, and surveyed her surroundings. On the other side, Trumpkin was still snoring, and beside him was Edmund, who was sleeping upright on the birch tree log across her with his arms crossed. However, she could not find Peter, who was supposed to be the next on guard for the night's watch.

Her eyes darted towards bracken and branches, trying to make semblances of shapes and lines through the bleak woods. Her heart thrummed in her chest with anxiety. She could see a patch of water in the creek and the grey Narnian sky above it. As she approached the creek, she finally felt relief when she finally saw him standing near the edge.

She sighed, feeling the throb in her chest as her heart rate returned to its normal pace.

Before she could turn around and silently return to the camp, Peter sensed a presence behind him. He turned and the frown lines on his face smoothed upon seeing her.

"Agnes," he started, and her heart skipped. "Couldn't sleep?"

She crossed her arms, suddenly self-conscious. Her cheeks felt red hot. "Something like that."

"I saw you earlier… You were having a nightmare," he admitted after a pause. "You looked… Troubled." The hesitation in his words caught her off guard, and for a moment, she could not bring herself to respond."

Now, her whole face was hot. "Oh," she replied stupidly, hoping she was not mumbling at least. "It's just—it's difficult being back here."

He nodded, regarding her words. "I wish I could understand."

There was something in his voice that she could not decipher once again. Guilt? She was not sure. But for one thing, she would never talk to Edmund again about Peter in a vulnerable way. It was messing with her thinking.

'He's my liege. The High King…,' the other voice, the more reasonable one, in her mind reminded her.

"You know, you never told me how you first came here," he said.

Agnes searched deep into her memories until her head throbbed, some either faded or disintegrated completely since they were all a long, long time ago. "When the evacuation thing happened, my parents decided that I had to be evacuated rather than stay in our estate in Surrey. My father dismissed our household staff for their safety, so he and my mother could serve their country as much as they could.

"However, the matriarch of the home that took me in required me to do chores as payment for my stay, of course, my parents didn't know, or they would've been very cross. When I was doing the laundry, a White Stag suddenly came out of nowhere. I tried to chase it, but I slipped into a fountain, and when I rose to the surface, I found myself in Narnia. As far as I can remember, it was five years before the assassination of King Peridan the First. Or, perhaps, Queen Swanwhite the Second's failed line of succession."

She pressed further into her mind, trying to claw into more memories of her past in Narnia. Everything was befuddled. All she could remember was chaos and blood. Hard decisions she had to make that no one could.

However, she was grateful that finally someone from her kings and queens finally asked about her past. She was beginning to worry that the Pevensies had trusted her so easily than she initially thought without prying her for information.

From the corner of her eye, she could seemingly read the sympathetic thoughts that her king had over her. Her arrival in Narnia was not a joyous occasion. It was a preparation for the dark days ahead. She left every time with guilt and anxiety.

After a long beat, he broke the silence but sparked a range of emotions in her.

"It's about Lantern Waste, isn't it?"

In a flash, she could remember remnants of her dream. The sickening sound of her body slamming hard against the ground, the overwhelming metallic scent mixing with petrichor, and the dread creeping in her chest as her rapier fell from her grasp. She winced at the vividness of those sensations.

Peter noticed this and took a step closer. His hands reached to touch her arm, but his hand twitched and it fell to his side. Nevertheless, his voice was filled with concern. "Agnes, are you quite alright?" he asked urgently. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"No!" she rasped quickly, too quickly that it made him visibly flinch. She put a hand on her forehead, trying to steady her scrambled thoughts. In a softer tone, she clarified, "It's not even your fault…"

She tried to breathe and counted numbers backward in her head. But she felt light, as if her body was not here but her mind was somewhere else. Far away in time. Her eyes kept on shifting on Rhindon, which was strapped to his side. The sight of the lion-head pommel made her chest feel more constricted as if she was about to implode.

"I wish I could know what's hurting you," he said, his hand that had tried to reach out to her curled into a fist. "I want to know what hurt you so much that you could not bring yourself to talk."

"But why?" she cried. "It happened, so it doesn't matter you—"

"It matters to me!" he snapped with frustration. "You think I don't notice how your eyes keep finding my sword whenever this is brought up or mentioned, or even when you look my way?" His hand found the pommel and gripped it tight until his knuckles blanched. "Somehow, I feel it has something to do with me, but for Aslan's sake, I don't even know. I want to help you because you look at me as if you have done something for me that I didn't know. Yes, you sacrificed yourself for Narnia, but there's something deeper. I'm not going to force you to speak, Agnes. Yet, I can't get that feeling out of my mind that I want to know."

When he was done, Peter was breathing heavily, as if the weight of the words had him drowning for a while and he just got up to the surface.

Agnes was stunned. Her head swirled with overwhelming thoughts and emotions. But she looked away, clenching her jaw. "It's nothing," she said through gritted teeth.

"It's not nothing. You're hiding something, Agnes. If we're going to trust each other, you need to tell me the truth."

She hesitated, the words burning in her throat. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "I lost it—I lost Rhindon. But I tried to take it back. It's my fault…" She trailed off, unsure what to say amidst the tumultuous emotions crashing through her.

The flashes of memories came rushing back. She wanted to run away and hide. Her years of battles had not prepared her to face this, let alone him.

Peter froze. "You what?"

Agnes was about to walk away or say something else when she saw the look on his face. The confusion and frustration etched on his face was enough to seal the deal for her. Before she knew it, the tears sprang freely from her eyes, more than she had anticipated.

"I—I thought it wouldn't affect me much. It didn't at all even during the siege, but when I got back here," she swallowed thickly, "Everything that happened there came crashing back. I don't know how to stop feeling this way. I want it to stop, Peter. But I know it won't change anything because it happened. It was my fault."

She did not know how much she was shaking until Peter held her shoulders, the strength of his grip was enough to bring her back to reality. Her eyes stung with hot tears, but she found herself staring into those blue, blue eyes of his. She felt grounded, despite the pain of remembering her past seared worse than the phantom pains on her shoulder from time to time.

As soon as she realized his fingers held her up by the shoulders like an anchor, the old wound under his touch was icy.

No one moved, and she was lost in his gaze. His eyes were much different than the likeness in his statue. Those blue eyes staring back at her with genuine concern—and something else she could not be sure of, but it must be pity or guilt—were so different from the coldness of the unrelenting statue.

She thought about their first meeting back at the underground station. The strange pull she felt talking to him. And for the first time, she finally understood their encounter. She waited for them.

She waited for him.

Her belated benediction.

Now, he was standing close to her and holding her like he was lifting the weight of her world.

The water shimmered under the faint starlight, its quiet murmur filling the silence between them. His silhouette was framed by the creek's reflection. It made it more impossible for her to believe he was real and not a hallucination of her prayers. The world felt smaller, fitting just the two of them and standing on the edge of something unspoken.

Then, they heard a twig snap from a distance. Peter broke from the trance and looked back at the camp. Meanwhile, she felt as if she had been through a vacuum and recalled how to breathe again. Agnes' chest tightened as she scanned the camp, her mind still reeling from their conversation. Realizing Lucy's sleeping form was not beside Susan, he turned back and gave a quick command.

"Wake them up," he ordered, stepping away with his hand instinctively hovering his sword. "I'll find her."

The rest of the conversation had to wait.

The stakes rise! Hoping to hear your thoughts on this one. Please rate and review! I'll try to finish Chapter 7 by next week :D