Beloved
A/N: Set in the Golden Age, 4 years after Jadis's defeat. Good bit of angst, but more or less ends happily. Peter is 17 years old, and Lucy is about to turn 12. Though I know Lucy is Peter's favourite sister, I am by no means a supporter of P/L or anything.
Cair Paravel, Narnian year 1004Frantically, Peter grappled with drowsiness, trying to awaken himself. At last he won out, and with a low gasp of terror, jerked his mind into consciousness.
The stone and mortar walls of his bedroom in Cair Paravel were reassuringly silent. A pale shaft of light cast silvery pools on the floor, across his bed sheets, and onto his face, still damp with perspiration and white with fear.
Slowly, Peter sat upright, and, rubbing his forehead, tried to pace his frightened breathing. He had freed himself from his nightmare…but why, for the ninth time in as many nights, had it captured him? Every night, the same dream had seized his mind and hadn't relinquished him until it had choked every particle of serenity from his being. Why?
A swish of fabric and the pad of small feet momentarily distracted Peter. Recognising who was coming by the sound of the steps, he concealed his fear and called out, "Everyone's going to think you're a ghost, Lu, if you keep walking through the castle during the wee hours."
As she stepped into the light from the window, Peter's youngest sister, Lucy, emitted a mocking, ghostly howl. Lucy's shoulders were swaddled in a thick woolen shawl to ward of the night's chill. Her half shut eyes betrayed that she had just awakened as well. With a sweet grin, the twelve-year-old girl sat down on the edge of Peter's bed. "What's wrong?" she demanded kindly. "I was sound asleep, and I thought I heard you. You seemed terrified."
How, Peter wondered, did this girl always manage to find out when he was distressed, and in her sleep no less? He shook his head. "I'm fine," he mumbled. "Go to bed."
Lucy didn't move, nor did her eyes.
Peter sighed. "Had a bad dream."
"About what? Can you talk about it?"
"It's just a stupid dream."
Lucy spoke in a quiet, stern voice incongruent with her age. "Anything that could wake you up scared is not stupid."
Peter gave up. "I've had the same dream for nine days, Lu, and I can't imagine what…" He took a deep breath. "I'm out in a foggy glen, alone, with no sword. Suddenly I hear a Minotaur roaring, and you screaming. I try to find you, but it's so dark in that glen that I can't see two metres ahead of me. But then—then I can see you, and the Minotaur stabs you…" After a short pause, Peter continued. "You fall. The Minotaur raises his sword up, getting ready to finish you off, but I run up and cut his head off. And I try to pick you up and stop your wound bleeding, but you just look up at me and say, 'You didn't fight hard enough, Peter…didn't fight hard enough.' And after that you…" Nausea rose up in him, and he left the sentence unfinished. "I mean, I don't know why, but in that dream, for whatever reason, I always notice a particular scratch on my forehead, just above my left eye."
Lucy studied her brother's face, and compassionate tears shimmered in her eyes. "Oh, Peter," she declared, leaning forward and hugging him, "that's the worst dream you've ever had!"
Peter bit the inside of his lip to stop a smile. "Er—thank you, I think."
"Just lie down and forget about it, Peter," Lucy ordered. Obediently, Peter lay on his stomach. Lucy placed a small hand on his lean, yet strong back, and softly began to hum.
Finally Peter admitted what he never would have dared to admit: "I'm just so scared, Lucy."
"Of what?" Lucy asked gently.
"Of everything. Of leading Narnia, of going back to England, of not going back to England, of something happening to you or the others…of everything. Feels like I'm stuck in a losing fight."
For a full minute, silence reigned, only usurped briefly by a sigh from Peter, and then Lucy. At last Lucy spoke the first words she thought of:
"Peter, don't be so concerned about fighting all my battles and Susan's and Ed's that you try to fight yours alone. Aslan never meant for us to go through that. He fights for us."
As Lucy uttered the words that Peter needed badly to hear, something happened. The twisted, tight knot of fear and misery in Peter's psyche loosened; and as that knot unraveled, the High King of Narnia wept.
He didn't care that Lucy heard. He didn't care if the world heard. Hot tears attacked his pillow as he allowed agonising sobs to escape into the air. And while five years of hidden terror undid themselves, Lucy rubbed his heaving back and murmured vague consolation close to his ear.
Suddenly, another voice joined Lucy's; it spoke to Peter's mind, though, not his ears. "Courage, beloved Son of Adam," it said, softly as a summer wind, fiercely as a tidal wave.
Peter was in no doubt about who had spoken. "Aslan…" he whispered into the wet pillow, but that was as much as he needed to say. Those five simple words from Aslan left his soul cleansed, his emotions calmed. The conglomeration of horror he had carried was now departed, replaced by a tremendous peace. He knew that no matter, what he may battle in the future, he wouldn't fight alone. He knew Aslan would be with him. He knew he was Aslan's beloved.
With the peace came a warm, delicious drowsiness; and, releasing a quiet sigh of contentment, he gave into it. Secure in the love of his King, Peter slipped into deepest slumber.
Lucy noticed the change in his breathing, and, satisfied that he was asleep, she dropped a small kiss in Peter's gold-brown hair and silently retreated to the queens' chambers. She wouldn't tell Peter about the fresh scratch she'd observed over his left eye, or how it had disappeared when he spoke Aslan's name.