"luna, luna, don't let em fool ya.
you're right on par with the stars."
or
peter falls for a girl who has lived in her sister's shadow her entire life.
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Gloria Faye believes that secrets makes you bitter. Foul, loathsome, and horrible to be around.
Gloria Faye also believes in family, and the sacrifices one must make to keep their family on top. It's all her mother has ever taught her since she was merely a child. It's in the forefront of her mind every time she goes out with King Peter.
Because her biggest secret will perhaps go to the grave, and his bubbles up onto the surface like a boiling pot overflowing.
His sneaky questions about Luna, and his want to give her a good life are all Gloria can read on his face most days. She's not sure if she's happy, or just plain angry.
She's done the work. She's hated her sister and obeyed her mother and insulted Narnia in a desperate effort to be free from this life her mother so desperately wants from her. What would her mother know if she provoked the king to the point of separation? If the king decided Luna was far more agreeable and lovely? If she was cast out of the kingdom and given the chance to live without any secrets at all, somewhere on the other side of Beruna; in all the places her mother doesn't approve of.
At ten years old, her braids were tightened against her scalp until little Gloria felt she couldn't close her eyes if she wanted to. A polished circlet of gemstones was set upon her brow.
Luna had a similar look, though her golden hair was left loose and long, in a way Gloria wished hers would grow. She received the white-blonde, wiry hair from her mother, and she always hated the way it blended into her pale skin.
"The boys will adore you," Ophelia had said, though Gloria was busy watching her father and sister play tag outside of the window. She's always wondered the obvious: was being her mother's twin as much of a curse as it felt?
Perfumes and nylons and lessons about how to properly hold your tongue, lest you make your suitor angry, filled Gloria's teenage years until she no longer felt the longing envy of a child to go play with her sibling. No, all that settles now is the bitterness of a life she'll never have.
Peter is in front of her now, sitting on a picnic blanket beneath the orchard shade, talking about some ride he took with Edmund. It's not boring, but Gloria isn't allowed to ride without proper gear and a side-saddle that's easily the bane of her existence, so it's hard to be interested. She tries to think of something cruel to say, something that would send Peter into doubts once again.
If he can just stand up to her mother, they could both get a happy ending.
Her thoughts are interrupted by Queen Susan, coming to offer them some wine. Her long, dark hair is curled, and Gloria reckons she could count every single freckle on the queen's cheeks if given the chance. Once again, that weird feeling of envy stirs up in her chest, and she feels angry all over again. Cursing her own fair skin and her own overprotective mother and the fact that Luna has the friendship of both of these monarchs and yet she still thinks she's the victim.
Gloria tips the freshly poured goblet over onto her dress. "Aslan's Mane!" She stands and brushes at her dress, pretending to be horribly bothered by the impromptu dye.
"Oh!" Before Gloria can register her own plan, Queen Susan grabs her elbow and pats away at the tulle around her knees. "Here, let me help you clean up!"
Gloria's cheeks burn under the shade of the apple trees. She snatches her dress away like she's been stung, and bitterness has always been there for her to fall back on, so she sets her brows. "Don't touch me! This dress is worth more than you'll ever know and I don't want your hands on it!"
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Gloria Faye has never been good at running. That was always Luna's thing. Conflict arises, she runs, she hides, and she returns to her home when the voices are lower and the fire is warmer.
Gloria never could quite leave. She always forced herself to stay seated. Even when her parents argued, even when her mother scolded her, even when she watched her lady friends get married to the same self-serving men year after year after year—
"Are you lost?" It's the youngest Pevensie this time, and Gloria thinks it's comforting that Lucy has a similar fair shade in her cheeks.
"I'm—" Running. Hiding. Trying to find somewhere to go before my mother finds me and starts an argument with the first staff member she sees over a damned dress. "No, I'm— I—"
"Come with me!" Lucy grabs her hand, and Gloria lets herself be led into a parlor of some sort. Only here, there's a daybed, and fresh biscuits on the table, and an open book rested beside a ring of tea left to dry in the sun. "This is my sun room! No one comes in here but me, so you can rest if you need to."
Gloria is hesitant, but she sits on one of the cushioned chairs. She eyes the book. "What— What are you reading?"
Lucy's eyes light up, and she reminds Gloria of a younger Luna, excited and ready to take on the world. "It's a romance! There's this princess who falls in love with her gardener. And the gardener brings her a rose every day, but the princess doesn't know who it's from!"
"Does he ever tell her? The gardener?" Gloria tries to make conversation. She picks at the burgundy-stained threads on her bodice.
"She, actually," Lucy corrects her.
Gloria's head snaps up so quickly, she is momentarily frightened she might have snapped something. "Is that— My mother said Narnians look down—"
"Of course we don't!" Lucy says. "Isn't Narnia a place where you can be whoever you please? Wouldn't that mean you can love who you want to love?"
"But an heir," Gloria is grasping at straws. Her mouth feels dry. One half of her brain is already formulating the cruel words her mother used to tell her, and yet the other is thinking about Queen Susan's freckles. "You... You need an heir."
Lucy snorts. "I don't know much about your side of Beruna, but Narnian heirs are anointed by Aslan! We don't need heirs, and even if we did, I'm not sure they'd have to be blood."
Gloria's head hurts. "Aslan doesn't eat you? If you like someone... like that?"
Lucy looks appalled. "Who ever told you that?"
My mother. And her servants any time I asked. And all the men I've been fruitlessly paired with since I was fifteen. And my own mind just before I sleep, when I can't picture a future with Peter but I can picture one just fine with—
"Thanks for the rest, Queen Lucy, but I have to go now."
