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siriusblack-the-third · 16 days

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Matching Misfortunes: Peter Pevensie

I binged read and watched the Narnia books and films, and idk what possessed me but I wrote. so. Let's go. Please check out the other parts for the other siblings!

Peter’s skin itches.

He heaves even breaths through his nose as he leans back to avoid the sloppy punch Easton throws at him, and stops himself from going for the throat for the third time in half as many seconds.

This is the fourth fight he has gotten himself dragged into since term began on Monday. It is Wednesday today, and Peter’s blood pounds in his ears, through his limbs and his flexing fingers as he holds back; doesn’t hit hard, doesn’t go for the liver or the heart or the head, does not give into the bloodlust that whispers siren songs of battle and blood-covered blades in his ears. He stops himself, clenching his fists and dodging the abysmal hits from the three boys that surround him, and refuses to lift a hand against these insolent children.

He is a King.

He is a boy stuck in a schoolyard brawl he did not start.

Peter’s skin itches.

He wants to claw it off— he imagines that this is what snakes must feel when their body gets much too big for their scales, and they have to go through the painful process of shedding their outer layer and come out stronger and larger. He suppresses a grim twist of his lips as he kicks out— harmlessly, wrestling against the lust that sings a song of death in his ears— at that idiot Michael’s knee to send him sprawling to the ground with a yelp, and thinks that what he went through was rather the opposite, really. He grew up, and then was forced into a body too unfamiliar, too awkward, too inexperienced. Too young.

He was a King.

He is a boy stuck in a body too unscarred to be a King’s.

Kenneth lunges forward to try and grab him around the waist. Peter easily steps out of the way, the part of him that is a seasoned warrior clawing to the forefront of his mind simply to scoff at the graceless flailing of limbs that these children call fighting. Lucy could do better.

Lucy did do better, twelve years ago. Or maybe it was five years ago.

The timelines blur together, in his mind; he can no longer tell whether he is in England or Narnia. He is wearing his school uniform and he is wearing his royal garments, he is walking the halls of Westbrook County Boarding School and he is walking the halls of Cair Paravel. He holds the blunted school practice broadsword in his hand and he holds the razor-sharp Rhindon in his calloused hands, he is a boy and he is a King.

“Fight back,” Easton snarls, dark brown hair falling out of its previously carefully styled place, and Peter thinks of how he has seen scarier Mice dig their teeth into the throats of Minotaurs and suck them dry of blood. He blinks, and the image of him sinking his own teeth into Easton’s throat flashes across his mind’s eye. He blinks again, and he’s back on this makeshift battleground where the mice are gone and his sword is gone and he is in clothes too uncomfortable and the skin is stretched taut over a body that is not really his—

“Fight back, Pevensie, you coward!”

High King Peter the Magnificent of Narnia, Commander of the Armies, Emperor of the Lone Islands, the Lionheart Warrior King, Protector of the People, wants to grab him by the throat and shatter his jaw into a thousand pieces for that grave insult upon his character. Instead, he laughs in his face and sticks out his tongue, like a small child.

He is nineteen, and he is thirty-three. He is not a child, in either world.

Sometimes, he wishes he was. Sometimes, he wishes he was thirteen and in his mother’s home, he wishes he had never left for Professor Diggory’s mansion.

Most times, however, he wishes for something he has almost given up hope for, something he was forced to give up five and a half years ago. He wishes, oh so dearly, for a faithful sword made of mithril in his hand and a heavy crown woven out of golden flowers on his head. He wishes for one last chance to step out of this world that was once his but no longer is, and into a world where he was once High King Peter the Magnificent, Commander of the Armies, Emperor of the Lone Islands, the Lionheart Warrior King, First of the Beloved Four, Protector of the Narnian People.

Easton yells as he lumbers forward, and Peter, too embroiled in old memories of running his fingers through the unicorn Ethrys’ snow-white mane while galloping through grassy fields, does not see the punch coming until it is too late. The loud smack of knuckles against flesh echoes through the school courtyard, and the impact of the heavy fist on his cheek is like an electric shock to his senses.

For a second, he blinks dazedly. And then his brain registers it properly. The pain flares, and with it so does blinding hot bloodlust.

‘Fine,’ he thinks as he lifts a hand to wrap his fingers around Easton’s forearm in a death grip, a high-pitched whistle echoing in his ears and red creeping into the edges of his vision as it zeroes in on the many weaknesses in the three boys’ defenses. ‘You want a fight? You’ll get one.’

It takes him four seconds to get the three imbeciles on their backs, one howling in pain from a dislocated shoulder, the other because of a broken nose and the third from a bruised kidney. His fingers flex around the hilt of a sword that he no longer owns, and he reminds himself that he is not allowed to kill, not in this world where he is not a King and does not lead wars.

He stares down at Easton, the image of a blood covered sword and a slain warrior at his feet flashing behind his eyelids when he blinks. He opens his eyes and the boy stares back, hand clutching his shoulder and face becoming paler and paler the longer Peter holds his terrified brown gaze.

“Don’t bother me again,” he says flatly to the three of them, and turns away, ignoring the teachers that are hurrying across the lawn with yells of his name tumbling from their lips. He lifts his gaze and locks it with Edmund’s for a second, brilliant blue meeting identical brilliant blue, before both of them turn away. One royal brother melts into the crowd of students without a whisper, and the other stalks off towards the dorms with blood on his ever-bruised knuckles and memories of a different world singing through the veins of a body that is too young for the mind it contains.

He is a King, celebrated and honoured for his services to a hallowed land.

He is a mere boy sitting on the roof of the boarding school, fingers flexing around the hilt of a sword that no longer belongs to him, nothing more than a memory he cannot let go of: a memory he refuses to let go of even after five and a half years.

#peter pevensie #the chronicles of narnia #lww #the lion the witch and the wardrobe #the pevensies #pevensie siblings #narnia #amrut writes #narnia meta #my first time writing for this fandom so uh. lmk what you think!#matching misfortunes #edmund pevensie #lucy pevensie #susan pevensie

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kingorqueenofnarnia · 3 days

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Narnia headcanons

High King Peter the Magnificent

Was the only one that got married out of the four siblings. He married for love, which is extremely rare for Royalty. He had no children, but he loved his spouse/(s) dearly (you may hc his spouse to be of any gender you'd like. Personally, i think Peter is bi.)

Epithets given to him by the narnians include but are not limited to: the Dragon Spirited King, King Peter the Kind-Hearted, Protector of the People, et cetera.

A few of his unofficial titles given to him by people from surrounding countries are: the Warmonger King, the Berserker, and the Bloody Barbarian. He had a reputation of fighting bloody wars and emerging victorious, and was feared all over the Mainland.

Earned the epithet the Bloody Barbarian because he wore blood red war paint on his face every time he rode to battle. It began right under his eyebrows, fanned out over his temples and down to his cheekbones. His blue eyes shone like gemstones against the dark colour; it made him look like terrifying.

Had long hair— it reached the back of his knees at its longest, but he got caught in a fire and had to have it cut to above his shoulders right before they fell out of Narnia.

Became obsessed with braids when he saw dryads braiding each other's hair the day after the coronation. He set up a tradition for himself— with every battle or duel he won, he would add one braid to his hair. It looked very intricate, and the braid count reached close to forty by the time he fell out of Narnia.

Had severe PTSD from all the wars he fought and from being a child ruler. He hid away when the terrors hit, either in the royal library or in Lucy's chambers. He wouldn't speak for hours and hours, and only got brought out of his thoughts when all his siblings gathered to form a cuddle pile to warm him up.

The chief battle strategist of Narnia, taught by Oreius and assisted heavily by Lucy. Came up with truly ingenious plans and formations. From this, stemmed his love for chess. You would often find him and Susan or Edmund holed up in a corner of the castle with a chessboard between them. He and Lucy refused to play each other, because they knew each other's strategising style too well and the battle on the board always came to a stalemate.

An Old Man at heart, truly. He loved to sleep early and wake up with the sun and have a nice, hot cup of well steeped tea as he listened to one of the castle servants read out the news of the day. Early nights and calm mornings were his favourite. Sadly, he did not often get either of those.

Epitome of academic jock. Very well read and had lots of knowledge and always studied diligently, but he preferred being out on the battlefield or in the arena with Rhindon in his hand and his shield on his arm. Introduced rugby to Narnia, and was the Jousting Champion at the annual Inter-kingdom tournaments for eight years straight til Edmund finally gave in to his pestering and participated, and took the trophy home.

His favourite subjects are History, Strategy and— weirdly enough— the Languages. He and Susan especially enjoy calligraphy. Both of them have extensive collections of luxury writing instruments and inks.

Had so many titles that he started hating writing formal missives by the fifth year of his reign. It was too tedious to write out all of them, so he simply hired a court scribe and called it a day. Even now, he considers hiring that faun the greatest idea he ever had.

#narnia #the chronicles of narnia #pevensies #pevensie siblings #the pevensies #the pevensie siblings #peter pevensie #peter pevensie headcanons #susan pevensie #edmund pevensie #lucy pevensie #narnia headcanons #amrut writes about narnia #the chronicles of narnia headcanons

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introvertedbisexualgirl · 11 months

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Pevensie Headcanon

• Susan goes into battles with her siblings despite her being the peaceful and gentle queen (she can’t stand knowing that her siblings are all risking their lives in battles while she remains in the castle safe)

• Susan favors Griffins, she prefers to ride into battle on one since it gives her more advantage to oversee the battlefield

• Susan is the element surprise in battle (i.e. On the battlefield it’s only Peter, Edmund, and Lucy so the enemies believe that they have a better chance -they don’t since the three are easily the best warriors in Narnia- without the archer queen on the battlefield but then suddenly it starts hailing arrows and the enemies are so confused because they don’t see a single archer on the field, they quickly realize they’re fucked when they see the three Pevensie looking up at the skin with a grin on their faces. It is only then do they know that the archer queen is in the sky, leading her own army in the sky)

• Edmund is the best strategist out of his siblings with Susan following second

• Lucy is usually sent with Susan for diplomatic meetings with other kingdoms since the two of them can disarm even those of the coldest heart with their gentle, easy, caring aura

• Peter and Edmund are very protective over their sisters especially when it comes to suitors trying to win Susan’s hand in marriage - it took Caspian awhile to get the approval of the three other Pevensie siblings to court Susan-

• Susan like Peter with Rhindon is very possessive of her bow and arrow and doesn’t let anyone ever touch it or use it with exception of the time when her siblings used it in a dire situation (Peter used it when Susan was stabbed in battle -she had joined her siblings on the ground that battle- and Peter had rushed to be by her side despite that the battle was still happening but knew that his siblings and his people had it handled, an enemy was making its way towards them and Peter didn’t want to leave Susan’s side to fight the enemy so it haste, he quickly apologized to Susan for using her bow and arrow and shot the guy dead. Edmund had used it when Susan was kidnapped by an enemy territory and he had used it to shoot an arrow to send out a message to his sister to let her know that they were there to save her. Lucy had used it when Susan was poison -an attempt assassination- rendering the older Pevensie girl unable to do anything, Lucy had used the bow to kill the assassin)

• Susan is the best archer out of all her siblings and in Narnia but she knows how to do hand-to-hand combat like her siblings and she and Lucy learn how to wield a sword just in case they get parted from their favored weapons, Edmund, Lucy and Peter also learn how to wield a bow and an arrow for the same reason why the girls learn to wield a sword

• Peter goes to Susan for advice on how to deal with diplomatic situations or to Edmund if Susan is busy with her own diplomatic situations

• They all prefer to sleep near/next to each other (too many times did all of them nearly died so they want to know that they’re still alive and with them)

• They have enhance senses but some of the senses are stronger (i.e. Susan has stronger visual and auditory- hearing & sight- sense (making her great in aerial fight) compare to her other senses and it’s much stronger than her siblings. Peter has stronger tactile- touch-sense (making him great in battle) compare to his other sense and much stronger than his siblings. Edmund has stronger gustatory- taste- sense (making him immune to poison). Lucy has olfactory- smell- sense (allowing her to be able to track down anything). All of their specialized sense all fit their abilities.

• They all sleep with their weapons next to them (too many times did people try to assassinate them and nearly succeeding had it not been for their favored weapons by their side and their enhance senses)

• They are never seen without their favored weapons, it’s always on them as if it’s a part of them

• Lucy had used her cordial way too many times on herself and siblings (thank Aslan for it being infinite)

• They all speak different languages. Edmund and Susan know more than Peter due to their love of learning the different cultures and languages plus being the diplomats of their family. Lucy technically knows more than her siblings bc she also speaks the language of the plants and tress.

• They learn how to navigate by stars, to tell time by the sun, the months by seasons (when they go back to England they have to relearn that they have clocks, compasses, and maps to navigate them and tell time)

• Edmund is the best navigator out of his siblings despite the fact that it’s Lucy who has a stronger sense of smell but it’s Edmund who can find his way around anywhere

• They can all sing, Edmund and Lucy enjoys it while Susan and Peter are more shy about their voices

• It is instinctive now to stand in the oder they stood when crowned Kings and Queens ( Edmund, Peter, Susan, and Lucy)

• The older Pevensies are known as High King and High Queen while the younger Pevensies are known as King and Queen (it establishes the hierarchy between the siblings)

• Edmund gets insulted whenever someone refers him and Lucy as Princess and Prince, often correcting the idiot who mistitled them

• They celebrate every Narnian holidays and traditions

• They still bicker and banter because it is their right as siblings to annoy and tease each other

• They would die for each other (thats not really a surprise given how protective they are of each other)

• The boys ordered the Royal guards to guard the girls chambers when they sleep ( in doing that, Lucy and Susan often sneak out of the castle when they are unable to sleep or when nightmares plague their minds)

• They all have matching rings

#narnia #pevensie siblings #the chronicles of narnia #headcanon

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pevensiegiigi · 8 months

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— It is my Rhindon sword — he said, — with which i slew the wolf

There was a new tone in his voice and everyone else felt that he really. It was Peter the Great Monarch again

#chronicles of narnia #cs lewis #the chronicles of narnia #peter pevensie #narnia #edmund pevensie #lucy pevensie #susan pevensie #The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian

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depressedbagpipe · 1 year

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Enchanted (Prince Caspian x you)

Part I

Words: 3547 Warnings: i do not live in nyc so i have no idea what i'm talking about here. some family trauma, mentions of calories and wine. pretty tame, nevertheless. no use of (y/n), but it’s kinda written in second person. also, i believe this is rather gn, but again, i wrote this while i was sick so maybe some other pronoun for reader has slipped my mind A/N: based on this request i got, i decided to turn this into a multi-chapter fic based on the movie 'enchanted' (2007)

Part II -- Part III

One minute, Caspian was easily strolling around the Narnian woods, weirded out by the strange small metal tower with the faint light shining on top. Next thing he knew, he was standing right at the center of a giant square, surrounded by the tallest buildings he had ever seen, showcasing light scenes that danced around without really moving.

The thick needles of the Narnian trees had somehow turned into bumping shoulders, and his feet, instead of walking forward in a single straight line, were now desperately fighting to keep him while the sea of brown and black crashed into him.

A few of the many people dressed in suits looked at him unbothered by his looks, but Caspian’s eyes were wide in confusion and fear at all the unrecognizable faces. He prided himself in being a kind king, knowing every single citizen who walked his kingdom, yet, for the first time in years, he couldn’t tell who anyone was. Or where he was, for that matter.

“Please, I, pardon me, my lord, uh, hey!” he yelled at a particularly strong push he received from his back, making him stumble forward.

“Get out of the way, freak!” someone barked at him, but when Caspian turned to face the person, they were already gone, their face blending in with the next person who came behind them.

Caspian was still dazed and confused, even feeling wounded at the person’s words. He was no stranger to blasphemy and disrespect, but even in his short time as a king he had managed to live in peace and harmony, had learned compassion and tenderness in his early years, and those were the only values he deemed important to preach.

He managed to get out of the ever-flowing river of people, standing in a corner while he looked around. It dawned on him that he did not recognize the place, despite having walked through every corner of his kingdom as well as the neighboring ones. His previous hurt psyche turned to disorientation once again, his gaze jumping from one spot to another in mere seconds. It didn’t matter where he looked, life and movement seemed to spring from every angle. The sky was dark above him, yet the black ground under his feet reflected all the lights around him. Looking up, he felt claustrophobic. He couldn’t even see the Spear-Head, Narnia’s brightest star. He couldn’t know which was the way home.

In his stupor, he completely ignored some of the weird looks he got from the rest of the passersby. He wore Rhindon by his side, still sheathed, for he had not felt any immediate danger despite the place he found himself in, and his riding attire contrasted greatly with the people around him.

“Hey, pretty boy, did you lose your princess?” someone called from the other side of the street.

The man was sitting down on a worn-out mattress and was missing a few teeth, but Caspian went to his side regardless.

“No, not princess, but my way home,” he spoke.

The man looked at him weirdly, not expecting Caspian to even listen to him in the first place.

“You British have a weird sense of humor,” he said, taking a sip from what Caspian imagined to be a small covered goblet.

“British? What is that?” Caspian wondered, sitting on the man’s mattress.

“Boy, I don’t know what game you playing, but better leave my mattress alone. It’s been a hard night already,” the man pushed Caspian out of the mattress.

He fell to the floor, flabbergasted.

“Pardon me, my lord, but need I remind you who you are talking to?” he gripped Rhindon a bit tighter.

The man snorted. “Yeah, another lunatic from Times Square,” he chugged the rest of the beverage and threw it to the ground.

“Times Square?” Caspian asked again.

“Don’t tell me you’re lost in New York. You’re good as dead, boy,” the man grabbed another can.

The man burped loudly, making Caspian cringe at the sound and his attitude. Certainly, nobody had ever behaved that way in his presence. Maybe Peter.

Peter. The Pevensies. Caspian’s mind suddenly filled with hope. He remembered Peter’s stories about their true world and promptly wondered if he too, somehow, had switched places as they had all those centuries ago.

“Where am I?” Caspian suddenly stood straighter, with panic evident in his voice.

The man looked at him weirdly. “Times Square, New York?” he responded.

“Where are the Pevensies?” Caspian tried again.

“The who?”

“The Kings and Queens of Old.”

The man paused again, his drunken state not helping the situation. “England, I guess.”

“England…” Caspian whispered, the name sounding familiar in his head. “And how do I get there?” he asked the man again.

The man shrugged. “I don’t know, boy. Go to Central Station, I guess. It’s just down the street,” the man pointed in the direction and continued burping.

“Thank you, kind man. May Aslan protect you,” Caspian replied with a renewed glow in his eyes, bowing slightly at him.

He immediately left running in the direction the odd man had pointed to, despite not knowing what a Central Station was.

He now expertly avoided the rushing people, wheezing past them and dodging the horseless carriages that seemed to come for him. His mind was blank despite burning with blazing thoughts. He only had one goal in his mind: to find the Pevensies.

You, on the other hand, just wanted to get home. The train ride from New Haven was, incredibly, the highlight of your trip. A whole weekend spent at your parents' house for Thanksgiving, criticized for eating too much, not eating enough, working too hard, not working at all. Every family reunion was enough to send you spiraling again, and on nights like these, New York City had a bit of a habit of treating you even worse.

The only thing you wanted was to get to your quaint apartment, take a much-needed bath, order some takeout, and drink your anxiety away until the bottle of rosé was empty. You had thankfully asked for the next day off from work, but it honestly felt like you needed at least ten to eleven working days just to recover. You loved your overbearing family, but it was simply too much, especially with Christmas just around the corner.

With a big sigh, you exited the train, dragging your suitcase with tired movements. You really weren’t looking forward to the overcrowded station and subsequent streets, but you knew that, with some dissociation, you would soon enough find yourself at home. Walking towards the exit, a familiar logo caught your attention, and whilst, under any other circumstance, you would’ve avoided the overpriced bakery, you now felt an overwhelming sensation of wanting to reward yourself with a couple of cupcakes. Thankfully, there were few people at the shop due to the late hour, and you quickly found yourself on your way, absentmindedly bringing a cupcake to your mouth and enjoying the melting chocolate fondue that was on the inside after taking a big bite.

Your eyes closed momentarily, enjoying the sweet flavor, completely ignoring your aunt’s shrilling voice in your mind about the calories. Maybe you should’ve paid attention to her annoying voice because you suddenly found yourself on the floor, the cupcake now staining your conveniently white shirt.

“Ah, shit, watch where you’re going! Look at my shirt!” you complained, overlooking the tingling in your knee from where you landed. You groaned when you saw the mess you’d made on yourself, your hands too covered in frosting.

“I am so very sorry, my lady,” the stranger spoke in a comforting voice. “Are you alright?”

You looked up at him. The man had long, raven hair, with the darkest eyes you’d ever seen. He dressed weirdly, with a sword by his side, almost as some sort of medieval knight. He was certainly attractive, and he was staring at you with a deep frown and what you could only classify as real concern in his features.

Unluckily for him, you’ve had a bad day, and it was only getting worse.

“What do you think? I fell on my butt and now I’ve got expensive cupcake smeared on my shirt! So no, I’m not alright, thank you for asking,” you huffed, a small part of you feeling guilty that you were taking your anger out on him, but an even bigger part of yourself urging you to let the steam off on the poor man. That’s what a good New Yorker does, anyway. Even if you technically weren’t.

You struggled slightly, using your suitcase as leverage, cringing at the sticky sensation on your fingers due to the sugar. The man held his hand out to you.

“I don’t need your help, thank you, I’m quite capable of getting up on my own,” you said, only for the wheels on your suitcase to roll unannounced and send you down once more. Only this time, the stranger was holding you a few inches above the floor.

“Easy there, we do not want you to hurt yourself further, do we?” he spoke with serenity and empathy. That only angered you further.

“Yeah, alright, I’m not a kid so you can let go,” you said once you were standing on your own too feet.

You huffed, noticing the small crowd that was seemingly enjoying your little show. Your face felt hot in embarrassment. “What are y’all looking at?” you yelled at everybody.

The audience quickly dispersed as you looked in your bag for some tissue to clean yourself with. Yet the man kept standing there.

“Can I help you?” you asked with an overly-sweet smile, hoping he would catch the drift and finally leave you alone.

The man shook his head as if shaking himself out of a daze. “Actually, yes. I seem to be lost. I was hoping you could help me find the way to England.”

You stared at him for a few moments.

“Listen, if this is a joke or something, I don’t have the time or energy for that, so I’d appreciate it if you left me alone,” you thrust the now-dirty tissue back into your bag and grabbed your suitcase, with every intention of leaving the man and the day behind.

“My lady, please, I’ve been asking around but nobody seemed to listen. I do not know where I am or how I came here and you are the only person who even stopped to talk,” he begged.

Despite the exhaustion and your anger, your gaze softened ever so slightly at his words.

“I mean, England’s a long way from here. You either get a plane or get a boat, but that’ll take longer,” you replied after a few seconds, still with a tight grip on your suitcase.

You had learned distrust and wariness from a young age, especially in a place such as New York City, and the fact that the unknown man was dressed as if he had come out of a fairytale was making your internal alarm blare as loud as it could go. But his eyes… Those were the eyes of a scared kid.

“Pardon me, a… plain?” he asked, with confusion written all over his face.

You tried to keep the laugh in. “No, a plane. You know, this thing that flies?” you made the small notion with your arms, weirded out at the stranger’s ignorance.

“Fly? As… a bird does?” he asked again.

You frowned. “Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that, but yeah.”

“What kind of world is this?” he whispered to himself, but you heard him nonetheless.

You shook your head. “Alright, look, I have no idea if you’re being legit right now, or if you accidentally hit your head too hard at the LARP convention, but I really need to go. You wanna go to England? Go to JFK, someone will help you there. Now, if you excuse me, I need to leave and get some sleep. Nice to meet you,” you said with another huff, and quickly grabbed your belongings and left the man standing right at the center of the station without another word.

You didn’t even want to look back at him, but you had no choice when one of the strips of your bag fell from your shoulder and a few of the contents fell to the floor. With a groan, you crouched and picked them up. Your little compact mirror had rolled to the top of the stairs, and you quickly grabbed it after turning around to reach for it. But then, you down, at the center of the main hall.

The man was still there, successfully failing to gain anybody’s attention, asking loudly how to get to the airport you had directed him to, with his eyes wide and shoulders tense. You bit your lip at the sight, your heart breaking slightly at the sight of his state.

You suddenly remembered your first night in the city. A blackout in your old studio apartment had left you standing in the middle of the street arguing with the cable guy from the electric company. If it hadn’t been for good old Antoinette, your downstairs neighbor, who had listened to the entire conversation and had let you spend the night at her apartment after giving you some homemade soup, you wouldn’t have stayed in New York. You groaned again, cursing your humanity, and quickly made your way back to the man.

You tapped him on the shoulder, making him turn around in desperation. His eyes widened when he saw you again, and a light smile grazed his lips. If you weren’t so tired, you would’ve found that cute.

“Alright, you’re clearly lost and it wouldn’t be nice of me to let you fend off for yourself. Is there anyone you can call?”

He seemed relieved, quickly nodding his head. “Yes! I am looking for some friends, the Pevensies. They’re from England. Something about… Spare Oom, or the city of War Drobe, perhaps?”

You regretted walking back to him immediately. “Are you drunk?”

“Drunk? No, I barely like wine,” he said earnestly.

You slowly nodded, trying to follow along. “Right, Spare Oom… I do have a wardrobe but I don’t think that’s the one you’re looking for,” sarcasm flowed out of your mouth, but the stranger didn’t seem to understand it. “Do you need cash? I can call a taxi for you,” you offered.

“I am afraid I do not understand what you mean. Taxi?” the stranger replied.

“I’ll repeat myself once more. Is there anybody you can call to help you, other than me?” you added.

The man closed his mouth in thought. You then noticed the little stubble on his chin. You thought it looked nice, but you also wondered what a full beard on his beautiful face would look like.

A migraine was making its way into your head, the tiredness mixed with whatever that was, leading you to make a decision that, otherwise, you wouldn’t have in a million years.

“Okay, I’ll probably regret this later, but I can let you call your friends in England from my house phone. Otherwise, the bill would skyrocket if we did it here. So, um, if you want, and if you promise you won’t murder me on the way there, I can lend you the phone. I don’t normally do this, but, I don’t know, I’m tired and not thinking straight,” you rambled, suddenly insecure and quite aware of your surroundings.

But in your youth, you had also learned how to never back down. And to always help someone in need. And he clearly needed help.

His face glowed after your words. “Oh, Aslan, that would be lovely, thank you so very much! The kingdom of Narnia will forever be indebted to you. And fear not, my lady, for my intentions are only pure,” he grabbed your hand and softly stretched in his own. His fingers were surprisingly soft, although you noticed faint lines and scars littering his palms.

You almost forgot his words when his thumb softly caressed the back of your hand.

“The what now?”

“The Kingdom of Narnia,” he dropped your hand.

“What, you’re some sort of prince or something?” you snorted loudly, readjusting your bag and grabbing your suitcase once again.

You started walking toward the entrance, with the man hot on your tail.

“A King, actually, my lady,” he said, readjusting his posture.

You nodded, hiding in your light scarf as soon as you stepped out into the street. “Well, your majesty, no need to use titles here.”

“Then you must call me Caspian.”

“Caspian? Like the sea?” you wondered out loud with a frown, more preoccupied with hailing one of the taxis that flew by every time you tried to reach for one.

“There’s a sea named after me?”

“By any means, you would be named after the sea. It’s been around far longer than you have,” you continued, the pain behind your eyes only growing with every question the man–Caspian, threw your way.

Caspian remained silent for a few seconds. “What an odd War Drobe,” he kept following you around, looking up at the skyscrapers, wondering where, out of all the places Aslan could have sent him, was he. “And your name is?”

You suddenly remembered that you still hadn’t introduced yourself. He tasted your name on his lips, and you couldn’t deny that you loved the way it sounded coming out of his mouth. You couldn’t deny it, but you could blame it on your migraine, and that’s what you were going to do.

It didn’t take long to reach your apartment once you managed to catch a taxi. Your corporate job had so gracefully given you an incredible space right by Central Park on the Upper West Side, much to your parents’ delight. Caspian had been too busy looking out the window, marveling over the horse-less carriages, and getting bewildered at the sight of the driver at the front of the yellow car. You were still massaging your temples on the elevator ride to your floor, all the while Caspian talked about a metal tower and an old man and a talking lion –whatever that meant.

Taking your coat and scarf off, you motioned Caspian forward into your apartment. You had thankfully cleaned before leaving for the weekend, therefore there was no dirty laundry accidentally on the floor.

“Are these your quarters?” Caspian asked, looking curiously around.

He also looked tired, even though he was clearly trying to hide it. Just this morning he had been waking up in his quarters in the old castle of Telmar, and now he was standing in a complete stranger’s living space with no clear way of going back.

The pounding in your head was only getting worse, so you just nodded. “Sure, let’s call them that. Look, the phone’s over there. There’s a pad right next to it with the international codes, so just type in the UK one and be done with it.”

You quickly got your suitcase and went to your room. You knew that you weren’t being smart about this. You didn’t know this Caspian, and everything that came from his mouth seemed to become weirder by the minute. Some part of your brain still thought he was messing with you. Maybe he was too much of a method actor, taking his acting a bit too far. But those eyes… Whatever dark color they were made you want to trust him. But then again, you had never had a perfect stranger standing in the middle of your living room dressed as a medieval king claiming to have friends in England that he so desperately needed to reach.

Your stomach grumbled in hunger, and you looked down at your shirt, remembering the big chocolate stain on it. You changed into different and more comfortable clothes with a sigh, making sure you were still properly covered before stepping out.

You don’t know how much time had passed, but when you stepped out into the living room again, you found Caspian half laying on the couch, light snores coming from his mouth, and the phone slowly slipping from his hand.

“Damnit,” you cursed under your breath, taking careful steps toward him.

You shook him a bit, trying to wake him up in the most comfortable yet ‘get-out-of-my-house’ way you could muster, but the man was clearly a heavy sleeper, for he made no move. If anything, he sunk deeper into the cushions and made himself at home at yours.

Against better judgment, you grabbed one of the blankets at the end of the couch and threw it over him. You looked at him for a few seconds, yet another sharp pain in your skull reminded you of the situation. But then again, you were too tired. Despite your slow movements, you managed to grab some painkillers from the bathroom, relieve yourself after the long train ride, and throw yourself under the covers of your bed, not without locking your bedroom door first, because it would be stupid to leave the door unlocked when a self-titled king was sleeping just outside.

With that, you too, fell asleep, dreaming of talking lions, dreamy princes, and wardrobes.

Part II

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