[ONGOING]
[THE CHRONICLES OF NARNIA:
PRINCE CASPIAN ➵ THE LAST BATTLE]
[EDMUND PEVENSIE × FEM!OC]
[HIGHEST RANKINGS:
#548 IN 'FANFICTION' OUT OF 116K STORIES
#164 IN 'FANTASY' OUT OF 22.4K STORIES]
･°*✧•.
𝗜𝗡𝗖𝗜𝗣𝗜𝗘𝗡𝗧
- 𝘢𝘥𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦
Begi...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
32 | FEAR + FURY IS THE WORST CONCOCTION
Outrage extends its wrath over every one of his senses, eliminating whatever 'control' that's left in his dictionary.
He sprints after the scurrying wolf that leads him deeper into the woods, to where the air only gets icier, balling his hands into a tighter fist every time his boot hits the soil and sword rattles at his side.
A team keeps up with him - his brother, sister, Trumpkin and the prince who's just woken from a concussion.
He isn't one to trust a wolf, but he can very well come to the conclusion that this creature has good intentions, even if it's just an iota.
It came to pester him with Susan's horn - in which Caspian has not yet returned - between it's jaws, then lead him to an unconscious prince. If it wasn't for the wolf, no one would have known that Caspian's been assaulted. Trufflehunter wouldn't have chimed in with the fact that he'd witnessed Elliott stalk the forest-bound Telmarine either.
It really didn't take long for him to fix the pieces together. Unconscious son of Adam, freshly cut skin, plunging temperatures and snow all only point towards what he's once read in Narnian libraries:
One drop of blood, and the witch shall rise from her grave.
He really shouldn't have had flipped to that very page of the book - he'd conjured up nightmare after nightmare from the thought of Jadis regaining her ability to lay a physical finger on him since then.
It's karma, perhaps, in retribution for the mistakes he made.
He can make sense of the queasy heat he's been feeling against his chest all day now - must've a caution from his amulet for the impending threat that is to come.
A figure comes into his field of sight, and at the same instance, the flame in his head combusts more intensely than it ever did, for it is Elliott herself.
His feet stop, boots settling into the snow-moist soil. The wolf de-tours with the termination of the kings's movements.
Traitor.The two syllables play in a loop.
Edmund spares a glance behind him, hands already in fists.
Peter is in lead of the party quite a distance behind him, an expression of pure trepidation written in his eyes as it registers the snow that splotches the wilting grass and the icicles that hand precariously from branches devoid of life. But he's pretty sure the look on his very own face is way more awful than his brother's is.
Turning back, the Just observes Elliott as she toils to throw her weight from the powdery snow beneath. She lunges for the rocky, arched entrance of an ominous cave, all the while applying pressure to her bloodied side.
