A/N: I know, I know, I'm already writing a story. But that's a multi-chapter story and I'm just on the Lone Islands. I have a couple months left to go on it. And this one promises to be about three chapters, and it won't go away, and (to quote Loki) I do want I want.

Well, not really. I try to do what I should do, but there's nothing that says I should wait till Home is finished to write one-shots, right? As long as I keep updating Home at least once a week?

On to the real author's note. One, writing Peter's perspective always makes me nervous, so no promises on the quality of this story. But I promise to try my best and keep him as in character as I can. Two, it's also my first time writing something more angst-filled. So...try to be gentle? Or better yet, don't be gentle and give me constructive criticism; tell me what didn't work and why, or even just what didn't work and I'll try to figure out why.

You might start by pointing out that very long author's notes aren't the best way to begin a story, right?

Disclaimer: I would never claim even half of Lewis's talent. We're just both kneeling before the same King, telling His stories with what skill He has given us.

OOOOO

Prologue: Given A Sword

"Those who truly command know they serve someone higher than themselves."

Father had a book on knights. When I was very young, before Edmund was born and Susan was trying to walk with a lot less grace than Aslan gives her now, I saw a picture in it. A man in grey armor in front of a grey background, a white shield with a red cross held firmly in one hand. It looked taller than he was. Because he was doing something funny. He had his sword in hand, one knee pressed to the ground, his head bent down. I took it to Father and asked what the man was doing. He told me the man was kneeling.

"Why?"

"In service," Father said. I looked back on the picture, confused by a word. Serving was what people did when they had uniforms, and sometimes guns, and were not allowed to leave without someone telling them. People said they were in the service. But they didn't look like this man. Father noticed my confusion. "He kneels because he knows there is someone or something, like a law or a captain, above him who can tell him what to do, and he is ready to listen and obey, to put himself completely under that command." Oh. I liked that idea. I wanted to try it.

I could walk better than Susan, but it took my little toddler body days to learn to kneel. I kept falling over. Father, when he found me trying, threw his head back and laughed, then made me my own little shield to lean on, and that made it easier. Mother painted it with a red cross and, at my request, a fierce lion. It was before the war, when metal wasn't so rare. I loved it. He was going to make me a sword, but then Edmund was born and we were poorer, and I found two sticks of very different sizes and he used a worn-out leather strap to bind the small one across the large one, making a hilt. I played with them for hours. It made it easier on Mother, probably, having the other kids amusing themselves. I liked the weapons enough I soon forgot about the kneeling part. Until I learned that weapons should be wielded only by those sworn to the service of something good. Otherwise, there are unjust wars. But that was a lesson I learned later.

OOOOO

First was Narnia. There Father Christmas, big and glad and solemn, found three of us on our way to Aslan's court, and there he handed me a sword of metal, sharp, with a golden hilt. With it was a silver shield with a rampant lion, the color of ripe strawberries the moment they're picked (1). He told me they were tools, not toys; and something drew my heart to the lion. I carried them but did not use them, not till I first found the One who could command them. I brought these tools to Aslan.

And, on meeting him, I drew them, walked towards Him, saluted Him and told Him we'd come. And He named me, He knew me, and in that moment, though I said nothing, I knew I was sworn to His side and His service, by heart if not by word. And shortly after, my sword still drawn, I used it as His command to save my sister and slay the wolf who tormented her.

Then, my courage proved (though I would have said I felt none of it, just sick), my sister was safe. And I learned the first lesson of the sword, that it is not glorious to use it, but ugly. But it must be done, there's nothing for it, and I am often the one to do it. And then my sister was safe. And I was shaking and white-faced, but we won, and Aslan came. I had forgotten to clean my tool, and at his bidding I did so. Then, at His word, I knelt, and received from that position of humility a knighthood, and a silent promise to always fight under Aslan's authority. I had sworn my service to Someone good.

OOOOO

Edmund, too, Aslan saved, and Edmund too learned to wield a sword. He proved his courage fighting the White Witch herself, and Aslan knighted him, and he rose bearing the same sworn service as I. (Even if we went about it different ways.) We knelt again, the four of us, to receive our crowns. Soon after is when this story begins.

OOOOO

Aslan left, as was His right, and we puzzled our way through ruling and fighting in His name. First, of course, we had the remnants of an evil army to destroy. There was plenty of use for my sword, in battle and in training. Perhaps a year into our reign, however, attack became defense. Because there was one of the White Witch's minions, a former general who had been sent to Archenland to prepare for invasion, who returned. His sword was sworn to destroy everything Aslan loved.

And he sent several of his soldiers near Cair Paravel and took two of my siblings.

OOOOO

() Paraphrased from The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe p. 104

Response to Guest on "Am I loved?", if you read this: I am so glad that story was good. Thank you for reviewing!