"I say, could you be a good chap and lend a hand?"
It had been a queer sort of day in a line of rather queer days, in Peter's estimation. It had begun not unlike the other days here, everyone getting up to go about their daily business tending to flocks or fishing or tidying — Or at least Peter imagined. (Imagined because he'd only been about a rather short time himself, barely a handful of days.) He had disappeared from several places several times before, and while this might have been the strangest result of all (for he felt rather certain it was neither Narnia nor England), experience had taught him to get on with it. He really had very little control over these things, and there was no sense in crying over spilt milk, as they say.
But the getting on wasn't the queer part. The queer part had been the ant. Or rather, the bite from the ant, and the incredible strength which had followed. He'd felt quite out of control of his own self, which is a terribly worrisome affliction, if you've never had the displeasure. He'd meant to go hunting, as he liked to think he was rather a dab hand (White Stag aside), and had ended up with a kill a bit larger than he'd intended.
Quite a bit larger, in fact.
Presently back to himself, if winded and a bit sick to his stomach, he was attempting to carry the elk back to the inn and making a very poor job of it.
no subject
It had been a queer sort of day in a line of rather queer days, in Peter's estimation. It had begun not unlike the other days here, everyone getting up to go about their daily business tending to flocks or fishing or tidying — Or at least Peter imagined. (Imagined because he'd only been about a rather short time himself, barely a handful of days.) He had disappeared from several places several times before, and while this might have been the strangest result of all (for he felt rather certain it was neither Narnia nor England), experience had taught him to get on with it. He really had very little control over these things, and there was no sense in crying over spilt milk, as they say.
But the getting on wasn't the queer part. The queer part had been the ant. Or rather, the bite from the ant, and the incredible strength which had followed. He'd felt quite out of control of his own self, which is a terribly worrisome affliction, if you've never had the displeasure. He'd meant to go hunting, as he liked to think he was rather a dab hand (White Stag aside), and had ended up with a kill a bit larger than he'd intended.
Quite a bit larger, in fact.
Presently back to himself, if winded and a bit sick to his stomach, he was attempting to carry the elk back to the inn and making a very poor job of it.