Sinking to the Depths

Summary: A look into Peter's mind after being sent home. This story is post LWW and pre Prince Caspian. Possible three-shot.

"The secret side of me I never let you see

I keep it caged but I can't control it

So stay away from me, the beast is ugly

I feel the rage and I just can't hold it." ~ Skillet.

Part One

Fade

My fingertips clench around the hard edges of the countertop as I lean over the sink, strands of hair falling into my eyes. The sharp edges feel as if they might be cutting into my palms, but I ignore them – I had much worse in Narnia. Releasing a hard and shaky breath, I lift my head to look into the mirror.

My initial reaction at the reflection that greets me is disgust, as it so often is these days. This is not my face, no. This is the young, unlined face of a mere boy. It isn't me. This is not the High King, not Peter the Magnificent.

In the back of my head, a small voice chides me. It sounds like my brother's, but it could be anyone, really. The voice tells me that I shouldn't be thinking of myself in such a way, even if I am a king. I'm not above anyone else, it says.

But, another irrational part of me insists, I should be. I am Aslan's chosen one, so why would he send me home? Why would he send Lucy home? It isn't fair. We had done nothing to deserve this… no, we had been planning a grand reception for the Archenlanders that would take place upon their arrival next week. The princes' birthday was coming up. We'd been … happy…

Not. Fair.

I struggle away from my thoughts and try to force myself to see past the boy's face in the mirror, stomach churning. When I do, the face staring back at me is only even more of a stranger.

He is still not me. I don't look like that. This boy's face is blank and empty. His eyes are distant in a way that makes them look almost sunken. What light there used to be has been completely drained from them, leaving even their color different – the irises seem to be a shadow around the pupil, a dark shade of blue that is only a little lighter. My eyes used to be light. There is an unhealthy pallor to his skin, as if he is wasting away before my gaze.

My thoughts are abruptly cut off when the mirror seems to explode before me. My mouth falls open and I stare blankly at it – the mirror is now just a web of cracks that fan out from a single point in the center. It takes me a moment before I realize that I must have hit it again – if Edmund tells Susan, she will be furious with me. I know, and yet I feel somehow detached from the situation.

Nothing matters.

xxx

Boom.

My fist swings to connect with the other boy's mouth. When it meets his lip, it busts the skin, causing blood to spurt forth and spatter over my knuckles, but it doesn't matter.

I feel nothing.

The boy's eyes widen and then close momentarily while he stumbles back against the wall of the lunch room, arms flailing briefly.

The audience that has gathered around us watches, seemingly captivated by the display of violence. Somewhere in a corner of my mind, I wonder where the professors are. Surely they should have been notified by now.

Boom. Boom.

He has tears in his eyes. To his credit, he does not allow them to fall, but instead launches himself off the wall and back at me. His fingers wrap around the collar of my shirt, yanking futilely. I can feel the pressure as it jerks at my head and neck, but it doesn't hurt.

Numb.

His hand slams into the side of my head, causing black spots to temporarily obscure my vision. When they are gone, his fist is already swinging in my direction again. I catch it, twisting it around behind his back and forcing him up against the wall. His wide-eyed gaze meets mine for just a fraction of a second, and I snarl. It is inhuman and would alarm me if I could actually feel something.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

I want to beat him into a bloody pulp, but logically, I know that I don't have time for this. Someone has probably run to get the teachers – or Edmund, for that matter – and it would take up far more time than I currently have to finish this.

I can hear them cheering.

My hands are moving without my permission. I can feel them wrapping around something, and then – pop! – my textbook is striking the boy's shoulder. His mouth opens as he gasps, and it seems as if he might retaliate, but I'm already hitting him again and again and again. When he falls, I pull my foot back and then let it swing forward so it collides with his jaw.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

His head snaps back and his eyes drift closed. There's still blood on his lips from where I struck him earlier. I expect him to open his eyes and try to rise again, and I am ready to hit him.

Only he doesn't.

He lies on the ground, not moving other than the rise and fall of his chest.

My hands curl slowly into fists, and my gaze moves up to study the faces around me. The cheers and chanting have subsided, to be replaced with shocked murmurs. They don't seem to know how to react.

I can feel.

But all I feel is rage.