₁.₀ YES TO HEAVEN; peter pevensie ✔

028.

Birdie despises every second of it, for with each one it feels more and more as though her heart was the one in danger of being pierced through.

In a way, it is.

Each time Miraz swings his sword, she feels downright nauseous, her palms balled into fists so tightly her nails are bound to leave marks upon her skin. The sound of metal against metal, sharp and clear, carries through the open field with nothing to overshadow as all spectators hold their breaths, and Birdie forces herself to remain collected and keep herself from flinching each time the noise reaches her ears. It's almost funny, in that cruelly ironic kind of way - for she might hate it, and still be thankful. At this point, silence would probably be worse, not to mention the horrible anticipation that comes with awaiting the proof of the impact of one weapon against the other, resulting from the fear that it might be replaced by the sound of a sword finding its destination among the flesh, followed by a breathless gasp and a thud of a body falling to the ground.

It's not that she doubts Peter's skills. Hell, there's no one else she would put so much faith in, aside from herself (though her talents are that of a different kind, far less useful in battle). It is said that, in a profession where many die young, a man advanced in age should be feared, having kept himself alive for so long, yet the eldest Pevensie couldn't possibly ask for more favourable conditions. Miraz might be his senior, but Peter has far more experience than the current age of his body should allow and a body far more agile than than a man with so much practice has a right to have. In failing to acknowledge it, the usurper king should bring himself closer to his own ruin, Birdie expects.

So, no, it's not Peter's abilities she questions. It's just that she doesn't doubt Miraz's malice either.

A startled gasp finds its way out of her mouth when a particularly impactful blow lands against Peter's jaw. He staggers backwards, a strained grunt pulled from his lungs unrestrained as his headpiece is knocked off; the garment is yet to clatter to the ground when Miraz swings his sword barely shy of his neck, for which he responds by striking a hit to the tyrant's leg.

A good spot, Birdie thinks. It's just too shallow, not enough to truly impair Miraz, only irking him instead.

Silently, she pays that next time Peter will manage to aim for an artery.

It's beyond her comprehension, how they all manage it - Edmund, Peter's marshalls, all those who know how to put their weapons to use and stand watching now... If Birdie was skilled herself in terms of swordfight or - even better - if she had a confident hand with either a bow or a crossbow... She knows it would bring more death and destruction, serving as an incendiary factor for the battle to erupt, and yet she would have a hard time stilling her hand, keeping herself from forging her fear for Peter's life and her fury towards Miraz into direct and reckless actions.

She wants the Telmarine leader dead, there's no denying. With a hatred so intense it should probably terrify her to acknowledge that she's capable of feeling it towards another being. The White Witch, all those years ago, was not a human, and so it was somehow easier to distance herself from wishing to see the usurper queen meet her demise in some gruesome way. There was the prophecy, the general sense of magic lingering in the air, and different measures could be applied. Miraz, however... he makes the distinction between a man and a beast impossible to ignore, and Birdie would lie if she was to say that to see him stand a fair trial for his crimes against the Narnians would please her more than to see him beheaded.

That feeling only intensifies as Peter is knocked to the ground, his back crashing against it in a way that surely tears all the air out of his lungs. Before he has a chance to recuperate, Miraz brings his foot down onto the back of his shield; a sickeningly loud crack echoes through the air as Peter's arm, still joined with the object thanks to leather strips, gives way underneath the force of the abrupt movement, twisting into an angle that can't be natural. An iron fist wraps itself around Birdie's insides as a cry escapes him, an unmarred proof of pain carried by it.