Lady Vhala paced the room, her heeled footgear clicking softly against the stone floor. The room was sun-lit, with its high vaulting ceilings, wide windows, and balcony that faced the eastern seas. The weather was also pleasant, soft whirls of sea-sweet and forest-green scents mixing with the candle-spice and tapestry-cloth fragrance of the palace.

But despite this warmth and light, she felt cold and closed. She hugged herself, feeling her velvet sleeves rub against her fingers. Her dark green dress and gold girdle about her waist looked splendid, worthy of the noble status she bore. On her brow sat a delicate metal crafted by the best of the smithies: a gentle crown that captured the light of the afternoon sea-sun. Her dark wavy tresses fell past her back, a mass against her neck.

She bit her lip as she passed through the halls, eventually arriving at the throne room. It was a large, cavernous arena where court was held, official businesses discussed, and discord settled. The four thrones sat at the dais, a comfort and steadfast as the four cardinal directions. She herself had been present at many of the court gatherings, sitting amongst the nobility. She wasn't allowed on the dais, of course, unless summoned by the royal four.

But the throne room was empty now. She climbed the several steps that separated the entire court from the thrones. Her form stopped before the throne second to the left. Her hands rested on the arm of the throne where his hands had worn the wooden handle smooth. She could almost feel his touch as her hand lingered on the handle.

A sharp pain emitted from the center of her palm as she drew back. She sank to the floor, resting her head on the seat of the throne. Her eyes rested on the tapestry of the Great Lion, hanging halfway down the hall, the vibrant and heavy portrayal emanating a soft glow.

Keep faith, the tapestry seemed to speak to her. The Great Lion's eyes shone, describing both great triumph and immense sorrow. His mane, a golden volume of sun, tresses, and light, waved in the cool sea breeze.

"It's difficult," Vhala whispered to the tapestry. Worry, agony, and fear had gnawed a tear in her heart. Nights were filled with "what-if" dream-mares, of battle-losses, of piercing wails of defeat. She would be shaken awake by the Queens Susan and Lucy. Wordlessly, they would take her in their embraces, sharing the disquieting fear that they dared not speak of. They acknowledged the possibility of the kings' battle-loss, but held tightly to the assurance that this particular quest was issued from the Great Lion himself.

She curled herself into a ball, still sitting at the foot of the throne. Months had passed, but she felt as if was just minutes ago when she had formally said farewell and God-favor to the male monarchs. King Edmund reassured his sisters and the court that he would watch over the High King as he always did. "Have faith," was his adamant creed.

The High King had turned to her last. She thought he wouldn't acknowledge her, for the Queens and the court were present. He had taken her hands in his, a gentle, warm, and comforting pressure around hers. He had leaned down and whispered something in her ear, his week-old beard tickling the sensitive skin. When he pulled away, he placed a kiss on the inside of her palm and curled her fingers over it, closing it. "Keep this for me, until I return."

She stared at the palm as she had so many times since he kissed it.

Sharp blasts of trumpets filled the air. She lifted her head quickly, ears straining. She listened to the melody, to the intended message. When the final note rang through the air, ending with a triad, she quickly got on her feet, bunching her skirts in her hand as she ran to find the Queens.

She found them standing on the balcony facing west, an open bay where already a considerable number of the nobility and soldiers had gathered around the female monarchs. She ran to a stop next to Queen Lucy, following where their gazes rested.

"They're back!!" exclaimed Queen Lucy, jumping up and down with ecstasy. Queen Susan's face was serene, but a curl on the edge of her lips was enough to tell that she was pleased. She lifted her gaze to the skies where two war-hawks landed on the sill of the balcony. They quietly conversed with Queen Susan. Then she lifted her war-bow, thrusting it twice in the air, a sign of jubilation and conquest. The nobility and soldiers roared in exultation. The Narnian armies were now just outside the gates. Below, the crowds' shouts and bellows of welcome echoed through the air. The armies were now close enough to see the holders of the flags on their steeds, the he-Centuars' head-gear gleaming in the light, the dark spots against yellow of the cheetahs, and the metal-clad chests of the rest of the armies.

But the gleaming white unicorn was missing. The familiar tip, the head of the march was gone.

She gasped, holding onto to Queen Lucy's arm. The Queens gasped too, realizing that it was only King Edmund who rode in front of the company. King Edmund waved up at them, his smile wide and sincere.

Her brows furrowed. She glanced at the other soldiers in the march and saw that they too wore the same elated beams as the king. She shook her head. What was happening?

Suddenly, her thoughts drew back to the whispered words of the High King, just before he placed the kiss on her palm.

She gathered her skirts in her hands, the velvet blotting the gathered slickness in her palms. She raced through the palace, down toward back gardens, to the winding path that led toward the forests. The waves of the eastern sea crashed to her right, echoing the beat of her thudding heart. Each breath was a spear to her throat. As her feet carried her over grassy plains, she prayed she was right.

At last, she broke through the tree line, the shadowy embrace of the canopied tree-roofs cooling her burning skin. She slowly walked the familiar path, the path she had dared not set foot on until today. The memories were too painful and fresh, knowing that if she came there in the past, she would never find peace or rest. Her longing would torment her too much.

She came to the small clearing, where a small river ran through. By the water's edge she saw the sun's brilliance reflect off the steed's flanks and flowing mane. She caught her breath: Haereil!

She felt her arms go heavy by her side as she took slow steps toward the unicorn. She could feel her heart rise to her throat: the rider wasn't with the unicorn. She wanted to sink to the forest floor, but an unexplainable tug pulled her toward the steed. She reached him, gently taking his head in her arms. She felt him nuzzle her stomach.

"Where is he?" she whispered, leaning her head against the wide plane of Haeriel's forehead. She clutched at his mane. A sob wanted to escape, but she swallowed it down. She lifted her head and softly patted the steed's forehead. "Did he fight well?" she asked. She expected Haeriel to answer. After all, he was a Narnian, a beast gifted with Speech.

"My Lady," exhaled Haeriel, "Ask him yourself."

"How do you mean?" she stepped back, wondering if the steed was playing. Her eyes caught movement behind Haeriel. She recognized the walk, the swing of his arms, the lifted chin, the glint of golden locks flattened against head with sweat. Most of all, she saw his iron steel-green eyes shimmer as light reflected off his lashes. His lips were curved up in a distant grin.

"He means me," he nodded at her. She felt her breath lock in her throat. She could hardly take a step toward him, as if her feet had grown roots and her dress suddenly weighed ten times than usual. As he drew closer, she could feel her chest flutter. Her lips had gone dry. She barely noticed that she was gaping at him with her jaw dropped to the floor. Very unladylike.

She wanted to shout, jump, celebrate, and throw her arms around him, but she found she couldn't. Stunned by his presence, she had to concentrate to breathe. It was only when he stood directly in front of her and took her hands in his did she feel a bolt of electric fizz run through her.

"You're here!" she whispered, afraid to speak too loud unless he was just a vision, smoke, a trick of the light or the cruel tease powered by her longing for him.

"I told you I'd be waiting here," he drew her closer, pulling her to him. She willingly joined him. He brushed a hand against her cheek, smoothing her hair around her face. "I see you've been running."

"You said to come here," she remembered his whispers. She inched closer to him, the familiar scent of leather, woods, earth, and underlying sliver of eucalyptus wrapped around her nose. This tang, uniquely his, undoubtedly him.

"I believe you have something of mine," he smiled, placing his warm hands around her torso. She wrapped her own arms around his waist, feeling muscle and taut firmness beneath his clothes. She registered what he was saying and lifted her right hand to him, palm upwards.

"This," she presented her hand to him. He took it in one hand and placed his lips on the sensitive skin. She softly gasped as she felt his lips' pressure against the center of her hand.

"Now I place it where it belongs," he lowered her hand and faced her. Before she could ask what he meant, he gently held her chin between his thumb and curled forefinger. He lowered his head, his nose brushing against hers. Then he placed his lips over hers. She felt him tenderly apply pressure on her chin with his thumb, softly opening her mouth to him. She didn't need anymore encouragement. She raised both her arms and wrapped them around his neck, pulling him closer to him. His arms encircled her, lifting her up against him as he deepened the kiss. She could taste him inside her, making her dizzy and ecstatic, breathless and weightless. Her hands raked through his hair, her hands holding onto his broad shoulders, her body wanting to melt into his, her legs wrapping around his waist. She pulled back slowly, swallowing large amounts of air. She felt her lips pulse from his kiss. She breathed out a smile at him, placing a hand on his cheek, once and for all convincing that he really was there in her arms.

"High King Peter," she sounded winded. She blushed harder, feeling her cheeks heat up.

"Vhala," he chuckled, wringing a loose lock around his forefinger. "I believe we're past the formalities by now."

She took a deep breath, feeling as if her chest was going to burst from over-happiness, if there was such a thing. "Peter?"

"Yes?" his eyes slid half-shut as he looked at her with tenderness and love.

She pulled him into a fierce embrace. In that lock she poured out all her fears, her worries, all those nights where she would sit up praying for his and armies' safe return, the time she had to act strong in front of the Queens and court, and the stabbing loneliness that nearly drove her beyond reason. Her arms ached, but she ignored the sensation, concentrating only on him.

"It felt like a long time, waiting," she admitted, rubbing her cheek against his muscled shoulder.

She felt him tighten his hold around her, a comforting crushing awareness that almost made it hard for her to breath. She welcomed the discomfort, the pain only reminding her how alive she really felt.

"I love you."

His words washed over her, catching her off guard. She pulled away in surprise, eyes wide. She searched his face, and all she saw was true devotion. She couldn't help but smile. "And I you, Peter. Welcome home."