The surface beneath me is soft, and the air around me smells almost sweet. Faintly, I can hear sounds of chatter, but close to me, I can hear no more than a few shuffled movements. I can feel myself about to drift back to sleep when hands touch my back.

My eyes fly open, and I attempt to scuttle away, a weak cry falling from my lips.

"Hush, hush, child, you're all right; you're safe." The female voice soothes.

My breathing is rapid, my chest rising and falling sharply. I stare straight into her chestnut eyes and see nothing but calm concern.

Slowly I lower myself back onto my stomach.

"Where am I?" I ask.

My voice feels considerably less horse but drier than parchment.

"You're in Aslan's camp, my lady; you and Prince Edmund were brought here by Oreius and his men."

"Is this some kind of trick?"

"What? No, of course not."

"The witch is trying to test my loyalty, right? Trick me into thinking I'm free so she has an excuse to beat me again."

"Lady Cressida, you're safe." She pauses, "My name is Celsa; I am a Dryad and a healer."

"You promise me you aren't lying."

"I promise you, Cressida, I promise you the Witch can't hurt you anymore."

I look into her eyes and see her conviction. She's telling the truth. A heaving sob rips through my chest, and tears spring to my eyes.

Celsa rushes to my side, brushing the hair back from my face and holding my checks gently.

"What is it? What hurts?" She pleads.

"Nothing," I sob, "I'm free."

"You're free, my lady, you're free."

"I have been her prisoner for nine years, and I'm finally truly free." I splutter.

The tears slowly trickle down my face as I try to control my breathing. Celsa soothes me, brushing her slender fingers over my hair. So soft, so gentle, so like Ephe.

"Now, let's try to get you sitting up, okay." She offers calmly.

"I'm sorry," I sniffle, "I'm not usually like that."

"I would guess you haven't been able to express emotion like that in quite some time, hmm?" Celsa smiles as she helps me sit up on the bed.

I nod my head, and the dryad brings me a goblet of water, which I drink eagerly.

"Okay, now do you feel any burning or tenderness?"

"No, my back just aches." I say with a deep breath, the relief of the water beautifully potent.

"It will for a few days, at least, I'm sorry to say. I'm good, but I'm not perfect."

"It'll scar, won't it." It's not a question.

"Yes, I'm sorry it will." Celsa sighs. "It appears the witch had some sort of herb applied, which had already mostly sealed the wounds as jagged scars. Even if I'd reopened and stitched them properly, the results would have still been obvious."

"You did what you could, thank you."

"I've bound your torso and applied a salve, which is what's soothing the burning, and as I say, the wounds are closed but still raw, clean though, no sign of infection."

I thank her again and slowly push myself off the bed, planting my feet firmly on the grass the tent is set over. My back aches, but it's bearable.

When Celsa decides I'll be fine to stand on my own, she crosses the tent and retrieves a gown hanging over a chair. The dress is a deep red, almost maroon colour, and with cleverly placed slits, it's clearly built for movement. With it is a simple white shift. Celsa has me step into the shift to protect my back as much as possible.

Just as she pulls it to my waist, we both turn to the sound of the tent flap opening.

Peter stands at the entrance, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

"Your Majesty." I bow my head as I attempt to turn my body towards him.

"I um," he clears his throat, "apologies, I'll wait outside until you're ready."

He's gone as quickly as he arrived, and I'm left staring after him.

"He's been asking after you." Celsa whispers as she pulls the shift up and turns her attention to the dress.

"After me? Why?"

"Wanting to make sure you're all right, I suppose."

"How long was I out?"

"You were only brought here a few hours ago. Oreius said you were unconscious when they found you, so I'm not sure exactly," Celsa explains as she helps me into the gown.

She finishes adjusting the dress as I admire the small embellishing. Tiny leaves and vines stitched in golden thread.

It's far more simple than anything Jadis had me wear, but in many ways, it is more beautiful.

"These were recovered also." Celsa brings over a small box.

Inside are the bangles from Aquilo.

"But how? The witch...she took them from me."

"They appeared in the tent. Prince Peter said they were yours; to be able to return to you like that indicates a very strong enchantment." Celsa muses as she fastens the jewellery around my wrists.

When she's done, my hand shoots to my neck, where, luckily, the necklace still resides.

"Would you like me to send in the prince?"

"Uh, yes, yes, thank you."

Celsa nods and leaves through the heavy flaps of the tent. I wait, facing the entrance, wringing my hands. Peter's head is downcast when he enters the tent, and the moment he lifts it and looks at me through his dark eyelashes, I feel my heart melting.

I remember myself and dip low into a curtsy,

"Your Majesty."

"We promised we wouldn't do that, remember." Peter says softly as he crosses the room.

I feel his fingers trail down my wrist to clasp my hand, pulling me upright from the curtsy.

"I'm just Peter, and you're just Cressida."

"Is Edmund all right?"

"He's fine; he's spoken with Aslan, and all is well; are you all right?"

"Me? Of course, I'm fine."

"You can be honest with me; Edmund told me something happened, and I saw the bindings," He pauses and sheepishly adds, "Sorry about that, by the way."

"I'm all right now; I can barely feel the pain."

"I watched Oreius carry you into camp, covered in blood and as limp as a rag doll." Peter sucks in a breath. "I thought you were dead."

I sigh,

"I wished I was when it happened."

Peter's eyes darken,

"Edmund couldn't bring himself to say much; what exactly happened?"

"She had me flogged, twenty-five lashes for insolence. I passed out at nineteen, small mercy's, I suppose."

"Who did it to you?"

"Ginarrbrik, the dwarf that always follows her around; he's vicious when he wants to be and bad-tempered."

"I'll bloody kill him." Peter seethes.

Before I can think better of it, my hand cups Peter's cheek, making him look at me,

"There will be war, Peter, and for Jadis and her people, there will be a reckoning. I know it. Don't let anger guide you; let fate play its course."

He looks at me, his blue eyes locked with mine, and for a moment, I can imagine him leaning in and brushing his lips against mine. I can imagine his scent around me and his hands softly moving through my hair.

I drop my hand quickly before I can act rashly on any completely inappropriate fantasies.

Peter clears his throat and steps back,

"Well, um, now that I know you're all right, uh, Aslan wishes to speak with you."

"Right, yes, of course." I cast my eyes down, flattening a phantom wrinkle in my dress.

"After you." Peter offers.

I walk past him out of the tent. Part of me wants to leave whatever that encounter was behind, and the other part of me knows I'll hold onto it deep in my mind for a very long time.