ELYSIAN ▸ peter pevensie

━ [𝟬𝟮] no one made me. i made me.

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chapter 2
no one made me. i made me.
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Andy learned to hunt by being hunted first. A scholar of observational learning, she remembers all the lessons delivered by the turning of the earth, the whisper of nature as it feverishly worked its way through its creations, the bite marks in her calves and villages turned to graveyards at her back.

She supposes she has the White Witch to thank for this one thing, even if it means she lives out the rest of her life running. (She has a fast pair of legs, a tireless beating heart, and all the anger of a child turning her back on her home.)

It must explain her tossing and turning throughout the night – and no, it was not the groans of pain from all the rescued Narnians in the infirmary tent that kept her from sleeping. Sounds like that are just white noise. There must be a better reason for why the shadows of tree limbs looked like reaching claws or the imagined growling that made the cold night air tremble. She could tell herself it is a hallucination of nights spent chasing down hunting parties but Andy lives on honesty as best as she can and she will not betray herself.

The sun barely bleaches the sky before Andy is already up, tugging on her boots, tucking in her swords and tying off her belt, everything done in the quick practised succession of a veteran, her motions guided by Rayburn's voice in the back of her head.

She knows exactly how to tie which knot and where, because of his tutelage and every movement is just an increasingly stern reminder of his aching absence. Andy could survive anything, but she cannot survive it completely without her brother who is also the only mother and only real father she has ever known.

Cloth rustles as she lifts the flap of her tent and exits, the fresh layer of snow throwing back the morning light in her face. She squints and surveys the immediate vicinity with a barely contained tension in her muscles. The trees stand guard silently, watching and listening expectantly, spectators to her visible paranoia. The wind tugs at her hair and she whirls around, catching the barest traces of a laughter that quickly dissolves back into the tranquillity of the forest in the morning. Nymphs, Andy recalls fondly and turns her attention to the horizon.

"Up early, are we?"

It's Oreius, a polite interest in his voice when he speaks to her, which is an improvement from the usual civil indifference that he uses with her. He has his sword strapped to his back, his armour glinting as the sun's reflection marks its course over iron. There is a certain restlessness to his hoovesteps this particular morning, a perturbed flickering across his face that does not go unnoticed by Andy, who chooses to keep silent about it, lest it be either interpreted as concern or contempt.

"I have a letter from your brother again," Oreius says, and this sufficiently catches Andy's attention to turn her gaze to the slip of paper in his hand. Rayburn is not due to write for another day, but there must be a necessity of urgency if he has written back so quickly. He is not known for his promptness as he is for his easily-excitable nature, which could warrant this letter a half-delirious needless missive sent into the dark.

Dear Andy,

It's finally happening, I think – and it's not like the last 4 times. Meet me at the iron tree just before sunrise.

Love, Rayburn.

"Well," Andy begins speculatively, rehearsing the right words to say so that she doesn't sound so cavalier because she can tell from the look on Oreius' face that he has already read the letter. Hope takes so many forms, every time Andy thinks she has seen each one, a new one sprouts and catches her off guard, just like this one.