❝ there was a difference between living and existing, and for the first time, phoebe felt like she was living. and wasn't that a marvellous thing?❞
[book 1]
in which a boy calls a girl irrelevant, but somehow manages to fall in love with her anyway...
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"Aslan." The White Witch had a voice which sounded just as cold as her heart undoubtedly was. Phoebe could've sworn she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. The Witch had barely looked her in the eyes for a few seconds, but Phoebe's blood felt cold, and she had an overwhelming sense of dread. "There is a traitor, here in your midst." Almost in perfect synchrony, Phoebe and the other Pevensies snapped their eyes to Edmund. "Have you forgotten Narnia's laws, old lion? Is your age finally getting to you?" Lucy was practically shaking with anger, but Aslan simply growled at the Witch - a warning. Still, she admired the lion for just how calm he was. Then again, she supposed he'd had centuries of dealing with the Witch. He was well practiced.
"You think to cite the Deep Magic to me, Witch?" The great lion's voice was edged with knives, a deadly sort of humour. A warning was etched into every word. "I was there when it was written. His offence was not against you." The Witch laughed - she laughed! Had Phoebe been in her place, she had no doubt that she'd have been a shivering puddle of tears by that point.
"His offence makes no difference." Her smirk was back again, winding across her face in a way that made Phoebe's skin crawl. "His blood is my property, as you ought to remember well." Phoebe felt Peter tense by her side, and she knew almost instantly that one of his hands must have been resting at his hip, on the hilt of his sword. Peter's fiercely protective streak was positively shining.
"Try and take him then." Peter's voice was strained, emerging from between gritted teeth, his grip on Phoebe's hand tightening. The Witch glanced over to them with cruel disdain in her eyes, as though they were bugs she was looking forward to squashing between her fingers.
"Naive little king," she said, her voice as cold as the ice she controlled, "Your brother will die on the Stone Table, as Narnia's law demands. Or would you rather overturn the deep magic, little boy? Unless I have blood, all of Narnia will perish." The edge of the White Witch's smirk looked sharp enough to cut stone. Phoebe could feel the tension crackling in the air, until a low growl from Aslan cut the silence like a knife, rumbling around the clearing.
"Jadis, enough. Stand down." His voice was colder than Phoebe had ever heard it. Even when he was fearsome, there was usually a hint of buried warmth. Here, there was nothing but a harsh warning. "I will speak with you alone." Phoebe heard a wave of whispers echo around the clearing, and the two canvas flaps of Aslan's tent parted as he entered, not waiting for a response from the Witch. Aslan moved with purpose, and the Witch had barely any choice but to follow. Once both figures had disappeared into the tent, Phoebe felt Peter relax almost immediately by her side. However, when Phoebe looked up to his face, he was practically the same shade as Narnia's winter snow. The blood had left his face.
Peter's hand was still clutching Phoebe's hard enough that his knuckles were almost as white as his face. Slowly, they both sunk to the ground, Phoebe putting her other hand on top of their two joined ones. Peter's gaze flashed to their hands, and it seemed to break him out of whatever trance he'd been in. His grip on her hand loosened, but only slightly, and he shot her a guilty smile. She shook her head at him, returning his smile and squeezing his hand with both of hers. She knew she didn't need to say anything. All they could do was wait. The other Pevensie children were sitting near them, clustered in a small, circular group. Phoebe leaned over to rest her head on Peter's shoulder, still holding his one hand with both of hers.
