𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝑨𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑, peter pevensie

𝒙𝒙𝒊𝒊 . . . fables of frank and nova

𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄 what plan he was following when he kissed Charlotte, but he was sure, what ever plan it indeed was, it failed. Quite clearly. He blamed it on the late hour messing with his head, but in reality, he didn't need to blame anything.

It was an impulse decision, and Charlotte had kissed him back. He also wasn't expecting her to say everything she did about her liking him, and he did really feel bad about not going to see her during the last week, but needs must.

And the last thing he wanted was for her to think he kissed her out of guilt. Peter was confused, and it wasn't like he could talk to Susan about it either, as she and Charlotte weren't exactly on the best of terms. He just didn't understand.

Women were confusing.

Charlotte had no idea what to do. For the past week, every minute that wasn't spent working, or taking long walks through the gardens with Lucy or Edmund, was spent sat in the vault infront of the two statues on the cold stone floor.

Many a time she had started to mumble, and then raise her voice so she was speaking properly towards the marble figures of her mother and father; telling them about the bits of her life she could remember in England, the battle of Beruna, her coronation, council meetings, balls and anything else she could think of that happened in between.

In some way — and Charlotte thought this was unbelievably stupid — she felt like the statues were listening to her, and could have possibly been talking back to her, though Charlotte was sure that her brain was playing tricks on her. After all, she was there early in the mornings and late at night, people must have thought she'd gone bloody mental if they were to see her in that state.

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𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 the day had dragged on yet again, Charlotte found herself hastily excusing herself from the company of Edmund during one of their long walks over the cliffs surrounding Cair Paravel, talking of nothing but the various Lords looking on the verge of falling asleep in their chairs during the morning's council meeting, and ran — she found it easy, leather trousers and a blouse were truly wonderful things — with her sword swinging slightly by her side, into the vault infront of the statues.

Something caught her eye as she was just staring at the marble replica of the sword carved into the figure of her father that was hanging around her own waist.

There was a large brick, a funny purple colour, embedded into the wall of grey stone, and curiosity got the better of Charlotte, and she knew it shouldn't because she had read Alice in Wonderland far too many times, and she stood up from her place on the dusty ground, and stepped forward.

There were two flickering torches either side of the purple brick, and Charlotte had to turn her hand and poke the brick with her index finger to avoid her fingers getting covered in small burns.