❝yours truly, genevieve chen... sincerely yours, peter pevensie.❞
a heartbroken woman writes letters to her deceased fiancé... and a deceased king responds to the letters written by his grieving fiancée.
( post the last battle. )
January 5th, 1950. That is today's date. We were supposed to be married on this day.
I had hoped it would snow today. It is now. It's nearly midnight and here I sit by the window, watching the flakes fall from the sky. The streetlamps give it such a beautiful, surreal feeling to it. The only comfort I've gotten from this entire day has come from that. This whole day, ever since I woke and realized what the date was, it's been...
I don't think I have the words for it. I can't help but wonder what today would have been like if things had happened the way they were supposed to. What would your face had been like when you saw me in my dress? Would we have announced my pregnancy at the reception to the shock of our families? Would it still be snowing?
The answers to these questions will never come. I will never know the answers to those questions or the others that have crossed my mind today. Would we have moved to a house, perhaps in Brooklyn, with a backyard and space for our child to run and play, or would we have stayed here in Greenwich Village, and raised our son or daughter in the city? I imagine you and I would have gone back and forth on that quite a bit before coming to an answer. I'm sure it'd be different than what I'm doing now.
The white dress I was supposed to wear today is still in Susan's closet. She's kept it safe for me, as my maid of honor, but it can't stay there forever. I think I should ask for it back. I don't know what I'll do with it yet. Maybe I'll return it to the shop, or I'll make something from the fabric. What could I make with the fabric of a wedding dress? Maybe some kind of toy for our child.
It's a beautiful dress, Peter. I wish you'd seen it. I felt like a true fairytale princess when I was wearing it. I keep fantasizing about how today should have gone, and the thing I keep coming back to is what your face would have looked like when I walked down the aisle with my father at my side. I've heard stories of grooms bursting into tears at the sight of their bride and I wonder if you had been one of them. The thought, I'm afraid to say, is a bit hilarious, actually. I'm sure you would disagree on that.
Maybe I should stop dwelling on "what ifs" and stop saying "I wish." It only seems to bring me more pain. It was supposed to be our day, Peter. Now it's just a day.
Yours truly, Genevieve Chen
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PETER PEVENSIE. ASLAN'S COUNTRY.
My dearest Genevieve,
I remember that January fifth was the only date you and I could agree on for our wedding day. You wanted snow on our wedding day and I wanted for your dress and my suit not to wind up victims of dampness from the snow when it eventually melted. You had playfully hit me with a newspaper and said you didn't care about your dress getting wet so long as there were snowflakes in your hair. The date was right between New Years' and Valentine's Day, and the fifth was the only day we could book at the church.
I suppose you wound up winning that argument, love. I can imagine your voice now, excitedly pointing out the window at the snow and telling me you told me so. You'd probably pull me out and we'd have probably had our first dance as husband and wife out there in the snow.
Today was supposed to be ours, the beginning of the rest of our lives. We were going to grow old together, have children, grandchildren, all of it. But on this day which was supposed to be the happiest of our lives we are worlds apart. You think you're writing to someone who will never respond and you don't know that I'd write to you forever, even if you never know it. Even if you never read these letters I'm writing to you, even if I'm the only person who will ever see them, this forever, through these words we've written, will be ours if we can't have the real one.
Did you know I'd already written my vows? I put them away in one of my medical textbooks because I knew you'd never stumble across them and read them before the wedding. I wish I could tell you how to find them so you can at least read them. Maybe when I see you again, and that will be a very long time from now, I'll tell them to you. I thought they were romantic. I remember I let Edmund see them once to get his opinion and he used the phrase "disgustingly romantic," which I took to mean they were acceptable.
Our life together, if we'd had a chance to live it, would have been one everyone we knew would aspire to. We definitely would have moved to a house with great big lawn, and our child would have grown up with a dog (a golden retriever, this I won't compromise on) at their side. The dog's name would have been something brilliantly generic, like Spot or Goldie. You probably would have named it. And I'd have laughed at you and you would have given me one of your smiles, the ones that could make the coldest man alive feel warm. Maybe you can still make some of that a reality.
Before this, I might have disagreed that I would burst into tears upon seeing you in your dress. As I sit here now, I fully agree that's what would happen. I'm tearing up now just imagining it. Just the thought of seeing you again...
Go to sleep, my love. You need it. You'll feel better in the morning. I promise.
