back, again | prince caspian

five

Peter's question cut through the murmurs of the gathering like a blade.

"If I can rally your troops, can you handle the guards?" he asked the centaur, standing tall despite the strain in his voice. His confidence looked almost carved onto him, brittle at the edges if one stared long enough.

Lucy and I exchanged a look—one of those instinctive glances siblings share, except we weren't siblings. We had simply grown used to reading each other, even in the middle of uncertainty like this. Her eyes flickered with worry; mine must have mirrored it.

The Narnians surrounding us shifted uneasily. Some whispered to each other, some tightened their grips on weapons, and some merely stared at the ground. Their doubts spread through the air like a cold draft. It made my stomach twist.

War never felt like freedom to me. It felt like what you did when you cared too much to stand aside. And yet Peter spoke of it like it was the only doorway left standing.

The centaur squared his shoulders, meeting Peter's gaze with fierce loyalty.

"Or die trying, my liege."

That sentence punched something hollow into my chest.

"That's exactly what worries me," Lucy said, stepping forward. Her voice rippled through the crowd, pulling everyone's attention to her.

Peter's irritation rose before he even turned to her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Lucy's eyes darted to mine. A silent help me.

I nod once—her cue.

"You're framing this as if there are only two outcomes," she began, stronger now.

"Dying here or dying out there."

Peter scoffed, heat rising in his cheeks. "I'm not sure you've grasped the situation fully."

"No," I snapped before I could stop myself, "you're the one not listening."

It came out sharper than I intended, but I didn't swallow it back. These weren't times to stay quiet.

His glare locked onto mine—steel-blue, unyielding. He was the High King, but right now he was also a stubborn boy refusing to face the truth.

So I rose to my feet, meeting his height with my own steadiness.

"Or have you forgotten who defeated the White Witch, High King Peter?" My voice didn't shake; it rang across the tomb, echoing off stone and memory.

Beside me, Lucy slipped her hand into mine, her small fingers grounding my rising temper.

Peter's jaw clenched. "Just because you wear a title doesn't mean you're invincible."

"And just because you wear a crown doesn't mean you get to shut down everyone who disagrees," I shot back, leaning in just enough to let him feel the challenge.

A flush crept up his neck—anger, frustration, perhaps even fear.

"I think we've waited long enough for Aslan," he declared abruptly, dismissing us all with one sharp pivot.

The argument hung in the air like smoke, bitter and unresolved.

Yet—I followed. We all did. Because silence wasn't helping anyone.

After the meeting ended, we drifted toward our respective tents with an unspoken heaviness pressing down on our shoulders.

Lucy tugged me toward mine before I could protest. "Sit," she ordered, pushing me onto the wooden stool in front of the mirror. Her hands were already in my hair before I could breathe.