Disclaimer: I own nothing. I think if I did, the world would be a much different place.

Notes: First off, I don't why in the world seems to demand that whatever I write need be double-spaced. My appologies. Anyway, this is probably rather pointless, but it got stuck in my head and I felt the need to write it. I'm really not that sure how I feel about it, so please let me know. (Constructive crit is always welcome and hey, helpful.)

Peter's throne was no different than the other three. It was just as beautifully crafted from the same white marble, inlaid with the same gilded patterns. It, like the others, had a red velvet cushion with little golden tassels, and in the wintertime would be adorned with furs for extra warmth. On the back, a lion had been carved; just the symbols of his sibling's sovereignty had been etched into their own. It was set no higher, was no bigger, had no extra furnishings, and was no less splendid.

And yet no one could ever deny that it was Peter's, and Peter's alone. This was the throne from where the High King looked upon his people, listened to their needs, and passed decrees to better their lives. This was the throne from where he spoke to foreign dignitaries, to those seeking alliances, to those on the brink of war. It was where Peter would smile gently and warmly, or from where he would thunder in an outrage. It was where he sat tall and noble, a symbol of good fortune itself in times of happiness and prosperity. It was what kept his back straight and his head high in times of despair, when the weight of his kingdom slumped his shoulders like some physical presence.

It was also this throne that sat empty most often. For when Peter was gone, no one sat there, not even his brother or sisters, nor his close aides when they acted as stewards. The throne itself would somehow retain a quiet dignity, as though knowing its owner was far away, shedding his blood for his country. The people moving about the great hall would look upon it, seeing it empty save for a folded crimson banner, removed from the rampart where it normally hung when the King was home. They would look and see this symbol of their King's absence, of his sacrifice, and many would stop and bow to the empty throne, as though bowing to his majesty himself.

This was the throne that knew the most tears; its arms were salty from where Susan and Lucy would cry, comforting each other with quiet words of their brother's skill and wit and assurances of his swift return. Its base was damp from where Edmund would weep, falling to the floor and praying to Aslan to keep his brother safely between his paws. And when the Peter was home, it was this throne which felt the pitter-pat of falling, magnificent tears when the hall was empty save its King.

But it was also the throne that knew the most joys. When Peter would return to Cair Paravel, glorious in his victory, the throne would be there, ready to uphold his tired body so his country could celebrate the safe return of their King. When great celebrations were upon them, it was on this throne Peter would laugh with his family as he held his court. It was where alliances of deep trust and friendship were made, and where tidings of joy where brought. It was from where the High King could look upon his country; his people, and know that he had done well, and that it had all been worth it after all.

This throne was no different from the others, and yet, it was more splendid than any. This was the throne that held High King Peter the Magnificent.