irrelevant. || peter pevensie || complete

twenty four

✳︎

Phoebe cried herself to sleep. When she woke, with salty tear tracks dried on her face, it felt as though she was drowning. There was a weight on her chest which made her breath difficult, she had enough thoughts to fill an ocean, and there was a terrible, wrenching ball of regret curled deep within her. Essentially, when she woke, she felt like crying.

She had to tell Peter, she knew she did. It was just as unfair to him and the Pevensies not to know that she was going to die, as it was unfair to her to know. She had to tell someone, just to get this terrible weight off her chest. Phoebe's breathing was still shallow, and she wished for a few more moments like those with Peter last night. Moments where she could escape. She felt tears prick at the back of her eyes and she bit her lip, hoping to distract herself enough to chase away the tears.

She got dressed slowly, almost as if she was in a trance. Nothing felt real. It was as though she was dreaming. She'd wake up tomorrow, right? And she'd be back to her normal routine, doing the laundry, trying (and failing) to cook, cleaning the house. All of this was just a bad dream, she thought to herself. But was it really so bad? Phoebe didn't know. She had Peter, she had the Pevensies, she had seen Narnia.

There was a difference between living and existing, and for the first time, Phoebe was living. And wasn't that a marvellous thing? At least, at this point, Phoebe could say that she'd lived and died. Perhaps that was more than she would've been able to say back in England. The thought made her smile.

Still, she needed to tell Peter - but was it so wrong of her to want to keep the secret? Kind Peter, good Peter, the Peter who she'd imagined kissing far too many times. She worried for him. Phoebe knew he cared for every person who would be going to battle. Every life lost would be a personal battle lost for Peter, whether it was Phoebe, his siblings, or a nameless centaur or faun. And, damn it all, she was afraid for him.

Afraid that if she told him, he'd try to save her. He'd put himself in danger for her, and if he got hurt, Phoebe wouldn't be able to live with herself - not that she'd end up living anyway. Peter was naïve, in a way. He believed he could cheat destiny, avoid his own prophecy, and likely hers as well. So maybe it would be best if he didn't know. Phoebe knew that even if it would be best, she still had to tell him - but the battle wasn't for a long while yet, why should she have to? She would tell him later. Yes, later was good.

Phoebe stepped out of her tent, making a bit of an effort to try and wipe away the dried tears on her cheeks, but she knew her puffy eyes would still give it away, no matter how hard she tried. Besides, gossip spread through Aslan's camp like wildfire. She wouldn't be surprised if half the creatures there already knew about her meltdown on the hill the night before. In fact, she wondered if any of them had known what would happen to her before Aslan had even informed her.

The cold air hit her remarkably rapidly, and instinctively she went to draw her coat tighter around herself. It was meant to be spring, so why was it so bloody cold? Phoebe decided then that she'd go look for Peter and Edmund - she wasn't hungry yet, and she doubted they were either. She also thought they probably ought to know that their sisters had vanished overnight. She began to walk towards their tent, her feet carrying her almost on muscle memory alone.