The Golden Witch || Peter Pevensie x OC

51. Your Life

Walking across the open field, Valera, Edmund, Glenstorm, and one of the half-giants all clutched a stem of white poppies in their hands to avoid being struck down with arrows.

A necessary precaution for any peaceful negotiations prior to battle.

It went firmly against Valera's honour to be the one approaching with a symbol of peace whilst trekking over her own land.

But it had to be said, Miraz held all the advantages right now.

So honour was put aside.

"Are you going to be okay?" Edmund asked from beside her.

"I'll be able to hold myself together long enough to get Miraz to agree to our proposition", Valera replied.

There was both a truth and an unpredictable notion to her words.

Coming face-to-face with Miraz again for the first time since her escape would prove to be difficult.

She faltered just standing at the castle gates, let alone revisiting the man who tortured her in the most recent years.

But it was vital she didn't crack, nor even show him she was broken.

Not only would she refuse to give him the satisfaction, but she was supposed to be the one posing the greatest threat.

Miraz had to fear her, not see her in the same way he used to.

A weak girl locked away in a cell under his control.

Now she was the powerful witch that he was too afraid to let his people even believe existed.

However, despite all this, her emotions were not totally within her control.

Perhaps something Miraz said or did would be enough to set her off, ruining the entire point of her presence.

To make sure a war was avoided, and as few of her people died as possible.

Luckily, Edmund being by her side would help her with that.

"I'll take the lead on the declaration. It'll mean you interact with that sorry excuse for a man as little as possible", the king proposed.

"Thank you", Valera replied in a grateful whisper.

Edmund glanced over to her, giving her a reassuring nod, just before they reached the forest line.

There were Telmarine soldiers littered all over the place, weapons being made in front of their very eyes, tents placed that housed armouries which put theirs to shame.

As the group of Narnians approached, everyone stopped what they were doing to stare.

Valera did her best to look forwards. To keep her head held high. To stop herself from using the surrounding nature to disrupt the peace they were supposed to be coming with.

Occasional whispers hit her ears.

Ones that were in awe of the centaur and half-giant in front of them, believing such creatures to be myth until now.

Ones that wondered about whether the young human boy was one of the Narnian kings.

Ones that boasted of their involvement in Valera's torture when she was held captive.

Ones that made her blood boil.

But it was reduced to a simmer as one of the faces she recognised stepped forwards to greet them.

It was Lord Glozelle. Miraz's right-hand man.

Valera had only ever seen him in her cell.

When he would stand to the side and say nothing as she was beat and burned.