Disclaimer: You know the drill. No major characters or situations belong to me.
"Your Majesty! The kings have returned!"
She sprung up at the shout outside that had been reiterated by this messenger at her door. Gathering her queenly robes about her, she raced to the entrance of their castle, where several soldiers were filing in, dripping wet and coated with mud. Careless of her royal garments and heedless of the well-meaning attendants who tried to stop her, she, too, dashed out into the rain, searching each man's face.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and there was still no sign of those she sought. Her dress was clinging to her now, her hair glued to her face and neck. "My brothers," she gasped in the direction of Batu, one of Peter's Tigers.
"On their way, Your Majesty." He bowed respectfully and stepped back.
She glanced again toward the impressive gate, this time spying a shadowy figure—or was it two?—coming through the sheets of rain. Grotesquely shaped, she could not determine—then the figure came into the torchlight, and she sucked in a swift breath.
It was Peter, being carried by Edmund, both drenched to the core and covered with mud like the rest. All she could see was the lack of color in the elder's face and the blood. Feeling her own face pale, she stared, and it seemed as though she was looking at the scene from a great distance.
Her older brother wasn't moving.
Oreius and another Centaur General had followed them in, and Oreius was talking to her. She tried to listen. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty," he was saying, still from a distance. "He insisted—"
Then she snapped back to reality and the weight of the situation felt heavy on her shoulders. "What happened?" she managed out, and Edmund's mournful dark eyes bored into her.
They need to get inside, she thought. We all do. He had opened his mouth to explain, but she shushed him and pointed at the ornate door of Cair Paravel. "No. Inside first. Explanations later. Go!" she added, when he was still standing there after a brief moment.
He ducked his head, still bearing his burden, and began trudging towards the castle. It was evident that he was exhausted, and had no doubt also sustained injuries. Why had he insisted on carrying Peter? Why wouldn't he let—but then she knew why. Somewhere in the explanation Edmund would give her would be Peter's sacrificial move to save Edmund's life. He felt responsible, and so he had chosen to carry his brother, even if it further taxed his already depleted energies.
She sighed. Some things would never change.
Some time later, when they had all changed clothes and were struggling to be warm again, she walked slowly to Peter's room, where he was bundled in his bed, surrounded by Dryads trying to look busy and being carefully watched over by his faithful Guard.
"How is he?" she murmured to the Leopard standing erect at his door.
"Not much improved, I'm afraid, Your Majesty. The healers are doing all they can."
"Of course." She moved past him gracefully and swept into the room. Already, the air was heavy with pain and sickness. A wave of nausea washed over her as she thought what it could be heavy with—and she quickly pushed it away. There would be no death here.
Edmund was standing by the bedside, one of Peter's limp hands clasped tightly in his own. He didn't look up as she walked in. "It's my fault, you know," he mumbled.
"No, Edmund, don't—"
He shook his head fiercely. "It is." His eyes met hers, and she saw the anger and remorse shining brightly there.
She placed one hand gently on his shoulder. "Perhaps you should tell me what happened out there."
The young man gave a long, deep-suffering sigh. "I'm not sure you want to hear. War is an ugly business, sis. It's not something—"
"What happened?" she repeated, this time a bit more forcefully. "I must know."
He nodded, glancing away and back to the unconscious form in front of them. "It—everything was going just the way we'd planned. Our scouts had reported that the ogres were close, and it wouldn't be long before we would be able to ambush them and gain the victory. Peter and I were both so sure—" His voice caught, and he paused a moment to compose himself.
"We didn't bank on them being that close. They caught wind of us before we could properly prepare, and, before we knew it, they had swept in on our camp. It was a mess, and we may have lost more that day than we did the entire campaign." He drew a shaky breath, and she knew he was fighting emotion once more. It wasn't easy to be in charge of people and not have them come home. What would you tell their families? How could you look them in the eye and explain the attack went awry?
"There was one headed straight for me," he continued, in barely more than a whisper. "I didn't know it, though. He was coming up behind me when I was fighting another. If he had hit me, I would never have known what happened. Peter—he came just in time, and shoved me out of the way. He took the hit that was meant for me. That ogre was defeated afterwards, but there were so many more…" Again, he trailed off, and she realized that he was reliving it as he told her.
She laid a hand on his arm, seeing also that she had been correct about how her dark-headed brother felt responsible for the elder's injuries. "Obviously, you managed to gain the victory and make it home."
Edmund nodded slowly. "With many losses, yes. We are here. If only—" And he shook his head once more, kneeling down beside their brother's bed.
"You need to go get some rest yourself," she spoke softly.
"I want to stay here. With Peter."
He looked so forlorn, she almost let him. But then she noticed anew the bags under his eyes and the way his clothes hung about his thin frame. She set her face determinedly. He would not get out of it this time.
"No, Edmund. Go to bed. I'll stay with Peter." She hoped that her tone meant no-nonsense. Almost as an afterthought, she added, "And you did get your injuries bandaged up, didn't you?" Peter had taken up their time and energy for the present; she had nearly forgotten that there were others that had been wounded.
The young man gave an assent, and got up carefully from the floor, wincing briefly as he did so. "Maybe just a little bit long—"
"No. Bed. Now." This time, she left no room for discussion, and he sighed. Casting one last somber glance at the figure in the bed, he headed to his own apartments.
"You too, Lucy," she told the fair-haired Queen also kneeling beside the eldest, her brow knit in consternation. And, with a reasonable amount of protest, her sister was convinced to go, also.
One by one, the healers finished with what they could and filed out of the room, her assuring them that he was in capable hands as she stayed beside him. At last, she alone was left in the expansive chamber.
Then, and only then, did she allow her composure to waver. When there was no one to be strong for, then she could be weak. The only one who was stronger than she was lay unmoving in his bed, and she wept bitter tears over his chest. His breath was still coming in shallow gasps, and the color was still gone from his face.
"Aslan, why? Why him?" she muttered, the emotion still evident in her voice. "Why any of them?"
Getting up hurriedly, she began pacing the room, walking from his bed to the window and back. She did this for hours, spending several minutes by Peter's bed, holding his hand, then going to the balcony doors, staring out into the inky black night. Back and forth. Back and forth. Walking, praying, crying. Desperately entreating Aslan to bring him back.
After four hours, perhaps more, there was still no change. No movement, no fluttering of the eyelids, no whispered pleas for something to drink. No progress.
"Aslan, please help him. O Great Lion, hear my prayer…"
She stopped for a moment at the doors, watching the beginning tinges of pink appear on the horizon. Any time now, the Dryads and Badgers and doctors and Fauns would come back, and the room would be filled once more. Would that she could tell them he was doing better.
Stealing another glance at her brother, and seeing again that nothing was different, she turned dejectedly and slumped into a chair. He would pull out of it. She had to believe as much, or else she would go mad. But maybe it wouldn't be today. Maybe—
"Su? Susan, is that you?"
She was on her feet in an instant at the sound of that feeble voice, rushing over to his side. His eyes were partially open, the icy blue still clouded with pain—but he was awake. Oh, praise Aslan. He was alive.
Tears spilled over onto her cheeks once more; but this time, they were tears of joy. Thank You. Thank You for bringing him back.
"Is there something to drink? I—"
He barely needed to mention it and she had the goblet to his lips, holding it steady, taking care not to let any drip out.
For the first time, it seemed, he looked into her drawn face and saw the worry and tension etched there. He chuckled mirthlessly, painfully. "You were here beside me the whole time, weren't you? How long have I been away?"
"Not long," she murmured. "Everything's better now."
He nodded—and winced. "Or will be, at least. But don't ever forget, my beloved sister," he clasped one of her pale hands in his, "that Aslan does not neglect His chosen ones. He will provide, one way or another."
She wondered if he realized how cryptic he sounded, then decided that it didn't matter. Surely he would be back to his normal self soon.
"He told me to come back, you know."
"Sorry?" She cut him a sidewise glance. Who told him to come back?
"He told me to come back. Reminded me of my duty to Narnia. I couldn't leave just yet. It wasn't my time."
Understanding swept over her, and she nodded, seeing clearly how close they had been to losing Peter. "No, not your time," she repeated in agreement, smiling.
Then there were two soft taps at the door, and in walked the first of the Dryad healers. He started at seeing the king, eyes open and grinning, not quite sitting up but obviously improved. His eyes flitted to her face, haggard but reposed, and back to Peter's, which was still fatigued and pale, and he bowed respectfully. "Your Majesties. I am pleased to see that you are doing better, my liege." And he carried on with the customary remarks and examinations.
Meanwhile, she stood back and thought about what he had said. "Aslan does not neglect His chosen ones." She nodded almost imperceptibly. No. Of course He doesn't. And He will always be our strength, no matter the circumstances. Thank You, Aslan...
Warmth washed over her, and her smile widened.
"Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning." –Psalm 30:5
Thanks so much for reading another of my attempts to play in Narnia! I hope you enjoyed it and will let me know your thoughts.