A Bottle of Whiskey

The amber liquid looked exquisite, a stream of numbing pleasure filling his, what was once empty, glass. The quite murmuring in the pub with the occasional bursts of rowdy laughter comforted his ears, reminding him of long ago days when he used to sit around a fire with his friends, drinking for pleasure.

Not like he drank now, out of necessity.

Liquid courage.

He wished he didn't need it so, but it was the only way he could face the drab gray colors of England. It gave him an excuse to fight, to be the soldier he once used to be. He looked out a window into the dark night and shivered inwardly. The Void outside unnerved him and he looked back at the amber liquid.

It wasn't amber so much as a golden ochre like the golden Trees and Lions that made up the Treasury, the golden radiance of the Southern Sun, the golden hairs on his head, the gold of that mane and the gold of those eyes.

The gold of Aslan.

"Aslan."

It came out reverently, as a prayer, as it always did, yet some people never understood. The sottish drunkard next to him asked him what he had said and when he refused, punched him. Yet he still didn't react and the drunk brought some more of his sottish friends.

He smiled. It was a battle and he was a general. He stood proudly, light reflecting off the golden hair he was born with, off the golden liquid in his hand which he quaffed down. The drunk spat at his feet.

He outright grinned. Then he let his arm swing and punch the man.

Later that night, standing outside the pub in the Void that unnerved him, staring into the glass with blue eyes and a purple bruise, he sighed.

The Golden glow of the pub enticed him, seduced him, bringing back golden memories of a Golden Age.

He stared at the amber liquid in the bottle he managed to grab before being kicked out of the pub. Not amber, golden liquid.

Gold like the crown he used to wear, like the Magnificence he used to emanate, like the ideal he once represented, like the Lion he would give his life for.

Walking down the drab gray England street, in the middle of the Void, while Peter Pevensie accepted the bottle of whiskey as gold, King Peter the Magnificent saw the liquid for what it was. Amber.

A poison. A false courage that he should have never needed, yet he relied on-perhaps for the golden light it reflected in the pub or the key to a solid fight it provided. Or perhaps most importantly the numbing that came with it, this amber liquid.

It just wasn't gold.

A/N: I'm not in the habit of writing author's notes but I should probably start writing them more often. This is a companion piece to A Deck of Cards. I was going for a rambling effect since it is supposed to show that Peter is drunk but I'm not sure it worked. Anyway, this story has gotten several hits, but I'd really like some reviews, especially to let me know if the rambling worked or not!

May Aslan be with you,

~Tia