❝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. )
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☾☽
GENEVIEVE HAD NEVER REALLY THOUGHT about what her place was supposed to be at a dinner party. Should she go around the room and introduce herself to people she didn't know or should she try and blend in to the walls? Parties with rooms full of strangers weren't her favorite kind. She was usually awkward trying to make small talk. The last time she'd spoken with a stranger and didn't say anything she'd wince about later that night was last November, when a handsome man approached her in the park.
Usually at parties like these, she stuck to the sides of people she knew and/or came with like glue, or she hovered around the table with the little chocolates spread across. At this party, in the early days of the new year, she chose the second, while her parents (who'd taken her with them as a plus-one) spoke with other attendees.
The party was being thrown in an art gallery in lower Manhattan, and it was being thrown in honor of soldiers who had fought in the still-ongoing war and had come home, whether it be with a beating heart or in a coffin. Genevieve thanked God every day her father came home alive, though he had been injured by shrapnel and used a cane now. But he was alive and he was home, and that was enough for her and her mother.
Genevieve's parents were across the room, talking to people she didn't recognize. She had stayed by them for about five minutes before noticing the table covered with chocolates, and after she noticed that, she began to slowly sneak away toward it, giving polite smiles and quiet 'excuse me's to everyone she had to pass by to get to the table. She loved chocolate and a table covered with so many different offerings was her weakness. As she came to a stop in front of it, she eyed the chocolates as she tapped her manicured fingers against the purse on her hand. Then she causally glanced around the room, grabbed one of the chocolates, and threw it in her mouth.
—
The rest of the soldiers being honored at this party were American. Peter's father was the only English soldier (though not the only English person, seeing as how his mother, Peter, and Susan were all in this room as well) present and it stuck out like a sore thumb. But his nationality didn't stop the hosts of this party from inviting them once they'd found out he'd fought in the war, and his parents invited him and Susan along.
So, here Peter was, standing in an art gallery as his parents spoke to the hosts graciously. Susan stood beside him, looking intently at a painting hung on the wall. He faced the opposite direction, eyes sweeping across the gallery. A room full of strangers wasn't intimidating to him; he'd been in many rooms like this in Narnia. He'd already spoken to a few people but had returned to see what his sister was up to, but so far she hadn't paid him any attention and he'd begun to think that she didn't realize he was there.
