The woods themselves breathed here. The bristle of leaves came half from the wind, and half from within themselves. As if they were truly alive. You ventured further, holding your arms closer, wrapping them around you. The weather may be nicer than back at the house, but it was still chilly here.
Above was a thick canopy. One where only a few rays of light streamed through. A mosaic of green filtered light. Your feet moved of their own accord once you got up. Your jaw unhinged and mouth open while your eyes drifted skyward.
Up ahead was something long, thin and black as night. A flickering flame of sorts at its very top.
"A lamppost?" You thought aloud, fingers skimming over its cold metal while you circled it slowly. A foolish thought had slipped into your head. One of being in St James's park or something of the sort. For where else would there be a lamppost in the middle of a woodland. Yes. You were in a dream. In St James's park. Any moment now you'd wake up.
Any moment now...
"–Are you lost, my friend?"
Yes! Finally, someone to help you! But your smile dropped the moment you laid eyes upon them.
They were a he . And he was dressed in the most peculiar clothing you'd seen, mounted atop a horse of brown fur and a lustrous mane. Brown leather boots laced up his calves, pale jodhpur like things for trousers that bulged over the top of his boots, and a tunic of deep wine red over chainmail armour, golden lion embroidered upon his chest. Silver pauldrons gleaming in the sun, broad shoulders, sharp jawline under the smattering of a close shaven beard. Deep brown eyes and thick chestnut hair, the top half swept hastily into a bun atop the back of his head. Yet there was something familiar about him. An image cast in your mind by words read not long ago, or even of a dream maybe.
This was not the man to help you.
"Nope. I'm just on my way back home, actually." You said quickly, delivering your curt words with an even more curt and tight lipped smile. A puff of air escaped his nose in what you would name humour. The cheek of it.
"I'll admit, in all my years I've never seen someone dressed in such attire as yourself." he chuckled humorously, swinging his leg over the back of his steed and jumping graciously to the grass. His words were strange, eloquent and well spoken, yet with a casual nature. Like he had left some baggage back home before coming out for whatever reason he was here now.
"You mean... pyjamas ?"
"That's what you call them?"
Your hands soon found your hips, mimicking the stance of a parent whom a fib had been relaid to. Disbelief. "Yeah...now if you'll be so polite as to be on your merry way, I'm trying to get home."
You turned on your heel, taking a few paces from the lamppost in the direction you came from. He spoke again;
"Where might home be?" If you heard his voice once more you swore to whatever force up there that you'd start hitting something. But, while your temper had a tendency to lash out, you kept your cool with a deep breath in– hold...two...three...four. And exhale.
"Back through a fucking wadrobe apparently." It was said in a quick muttering jest. Nothing more than a snarky joke aimed at yourself. But for some reason unbeknownst to you he seemed just as confused as you. But for all the wrong reasons.
"War Drobe?"
"Yes!" you snarked, "it's a big wooden box, with doors on, that you hang clothes in." Your sarcasm was lost on him, falling on deaf ears evidently.
"Pardon me for my avarice...where is War Drobe ? I've never seen it on any map of these parts."
"Oh, for Pete's sake–" You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose to ease the knots of tension behind your eyes. "It's not a place . It's a thing ."
"Regardless," he said quickly after, "where is it?"
"I dunno. In some spare room. Not here, where it should be! " You huffed in a raised voice and your eyes met him again while you frowned in a furrowed brow muddle.
The fall had left you slightly dazed. Enough to wonder if you'd just hit your head a tad too hard on the polished wood of the wardrobe floor. It would be much easier for you to fathom this all being a dream. Some delirious conjuring of your imagination while you lay still, knocked out on the floor back in that damned house.
His next words were a whisper, jumbled up sounds of what you had huffed in annoyance at him. "Spare Oom."
"Sure. Whatever you wanna call it." Too tired to argue, you just let him mutter to himself. All the while finding it rather amusing, strangely enough. 'It must be the shock setting in.' You thought to yourself plainly.
"Do you by any chance know the Pevensies?" The man watched while a deeper frown, followed by a glimmer of knowing crossed your expression.
"I don't know them, per say, but the name does ring a bell?"
You tried with all your might to think back to this morning and the afternoon where you stumbled across the hatch in the ceiling to the large attic. Boxes and chests full of papers, journals, letters. Addressed to some and signed by some under the name 'Pevensie'. Letters you and Alice laughed at. Ones that conversed magical lands, mythical creatures and a talking lion of all things! Bullshit collywobble in your very real opinion!
"Narnia?"
"Correct. You are in Narnia–" He said it as if it were everyday knowledge that any passerby would know. It was like asking a cockney if he was from London.
"Are you high?" The question caught him off guard, for it fired through your lips faster than you had the ability to contain them behind the backs of your teeth.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You know? On drugs? Blasted. Stoned. Wankered."
"Wankered?" The man seemed offended by your accusation, though he didn't know what the meaning of the word was, tilting his head. You shook yours, looking up at the lamppost, as if the answers lay in its meek little flame.
"No, you're right, that would be if you're drunk." You raised a brow at him, "Are you?"
"I can assure you the last sip of wine I had was with my dinner last night."
"Okay..." a sharp sound came from your lips as you kissed your teeth in annoyance. Suspicious still, you gave him – and subsequently yourself — the benefit of the doubt. "So if you're not high, or drunk..." you paused mid sentence, mulling it over in your mind. But every outcome you thought of all made a muddle of your head more. "I must be dreaming. Or dead." Still, you found it hard to believe with how cynical you'd been in your 30 something years of life, that you'd end up in a good place once passing.
Despite muttering these words only to yourself, not caring if he had to strain to hear them, he answered you once again with an unflattering snorting chuckle.
"You're not dead."
"Well where the hell am I then?"
"Narnia." He repeated. And you groaned. You are a dog chasing his tail in pathetic little circles.
Your fingers skimmed over the tender flesh of your temple, a bone deep ache shooting through your skull at even the lightest of touches. Your new companion stepped forward at the sound of a hiss from you, brows raised to crease the skin of his forehead in concern.
"That's a nasty bruise you've got there." And you glared at him, creating distance between you two once again with a swift step back, dismissing him coldly.
"It's just a bump." But you knew, when you woke up from this madness, you'd be greeted by a lovely egg shaped lump on your forehead.
"Trust me, I was once where you are now?" You scoffed at that, throwing him a look. One that read 'sure you have pal' with sarcastic intent.
"You fell through a wardrobe, did you? Ended up God knows where?!"
"No–"
"Then you haven't!" You snapped. "You don't have the slightest clue, and quite frankly I can't think of anything worse than this right now. I want to go home!" If you'd have punctuated your sentence with a stomp of your foot and clenched fists you would have looked even more of a child than you did to him now. Furrowed brow, slight pout.
"Oh, come now. I was only trying to help."
"You're not."
The corner of his ip quirked up at the humour of it all.
"Well, let us start fresh then." And he closed the distance again with a few hurried steps, holding out a single hand for you to shake. "King Caspian."
You snorted, arms crossed. But the hopeful look in his deep hickory eyes had you sighing and reaching for his hand begrudgingly, the offer of your name, given with a silly title of royal status to match his.
"You are royalty too?' Caspian– sorry, King Caspian, replied in surprise.
"Oh yes," You snarked, "High royalty." Once again, your sarcasm fell flat to the floor.
"Well then we must make haste– Reepicheep!"
"Sorry what?" But it was too late, for whomever he called had very much made haste, scrambling through the thick bracken to your side.
A mouse, or something of that nature, with a feather at its ear and a sword at its waist scurried on all fours to Caspian's side, raising to its feet.
"Yes, your majesty?"
A shrill scream ripped from your lungs, a fluttering of birds departing from a tree branch at the clamorous sound.
"It talks?!" The mouse's ears twitched and he looked between you and Caspian with a bewildered look.
" He does talk. Yes." Caspian chuckled, shifting on his feet with an amused smile.
"My liege," Reepicheep started, "may I ask who this is?"
"Royalty." he replied, looking you over with a raised brow. "Though it may not look like it. They came from another land such as the high Kings and Queens."
You would have corrected him, but not only was the lie spinning far too out of control for you to grasp it, but a mouse of all creatures had just engaged in conversation. And an abnormally large one at that. The words came second in your muddle, rendering you speechless. But nevertheless, Reepicheep bowed lowly, causing you to go a little lightheaded.
"Your majesty." The mouse said grandly,
"Oh, this must be a dream." You whispered to yourself.
"We should get you something more suitable to wear for your visit." Caspian announced in suggestion. You didn't know if he was talking to you, or the mouse, but seeing the pyjamas you were in, fluffy socks and all, you nodded. "And perhaps some food and drink if you're up for it?" He looked at you expectantly.
"Oh yes, why– that would be lovely." And you inwardly cringed at the fact you were trying to sound royal.
Neither took notice, Caspian offering his hand to you and helping you up on his horse. You'd ridden once before as a child, and you were young enough that it still gave you a jolt to think about. Sat atop this great creature who had a mind of its own. All of a sudden the acid in your stomach was grumbling mercilessly, churning away in nerves. And as he rode, Reepicheep not far behind on foot, for he kept up with the slow plod of the horse, your eyes were trained back on the lamppost. And the thick clustering of trees where the wardrobe once lay.