Disclaimer: No, I don't even own a few acres of Narnian land, much to my chagrin. sigh
AN: You may picture a 25-7 year old Peter however you like (blush), whether that be a grown-up William Moseley or someone else entirely. Anyone but that fluffier version of the Burger King King at the end of the movie (no disrespect to Noah Huntley intended – it wasn't his fault). shudder
Also, any medical mistakes or ridiculous blunders are entirely my fault...
I. Blooded
Afterwards, everyone said it was a miracle he had survived. Around the camp and cook fires that evening, the Narnian soldiers spoke of nothing else, and each conversation, each description of the event, focused on his bravery, his courage, and his skill in battle. The giant had gotten in a lucky hit, everyone agreed, and they knew their High King would soon return to good health and lead them again to victory.
No news came, however, as the night wore onward – no tidings were brought of a miraculous recovery or an improving condition. In the chief hospital tent, myriad lanterns burned away the darkness but brought no relief, either to the suffering monarch or the physicians who tended to him. A small crowd of commanders, aides-de-camp, and messengers, who had come from battle as soon as they could, gathered restlessly around a fire pit outside. Only occasionally did hushed, terse conversations break periods of tense silence, as those assembled told anxious newcomers what had transpired earlier in the day, with gaps filled by the medical staff that had been present. It was almost too horrible for words.
Members of the royal guard brought their king from the last catastrophic attack, bearing him on their shoulders in a hastily contrived litter. The chief physician, an Archenlander by the name of Tristam, surveyed the damage before him and called loudly for the mail cutters. The High King had been at the forefront of the charge, the royal guard told Tristam, who gently straightened the young man's splayed limbs as he listened. His majesty had single-handedly brought down the first of the giants, the most fearsome, but had been wounded immediately after.
A dwarf handed Tristam the cutters then, and the physician began to carefully snip through the mangled hauberk. The guard continued, very nearly babbling with disbelief. Another smaller giant, unseen behind the first, had then struck his royal highness directly in the chest with his war club, knocking the king from his charger and very nearly crushing him. The attack had failed, and the army had been driven back from the gains they had made the day before. Unimaginable disaster, for the High King Peter, as a general rule, did not lose.
It took longer than he would have liked, as he had to move very cautiously, but Tristam finally removed the ruin of armor and underlying clothing. He was momentarily relieved to see only myriad bruises marring the young man's muscular torso and chest, huge and black, crisping corpse-blue and sickly greenish-yellow at the edges. No sucking chest wounds or impaled objects – a good way to start, if one had to, but the danger was still very real. The High King's lifeblood could be pouring out unseen inside and no one would ever know until he died.
Being in a campaign against giants had taught Tristam many things about injuries of this nature, although he had hoped to avoid using his knowledge to treat his commander and ruler. He saw immediately that most of the ribs had been broken in several places, and some on the right side had even separated, causing a small section to move oddly with Peter's breathing. He had initially been unconscious, but as Tristam and the aides began working to stabilize his injuries, pale eyelids fluttered, and the young warrior came around with a hoarse scream.
There were no words in his cries, but Tristam did not need them to understand his patient was in shock and half out of his mind with agony. He directed two aides to hold his king still while they worked, and though Peter fought them weakly, he had been soon defeated. "Your highness," Tristam said as calmly and as authoritatively as he could, and Peter's sky blue eyes struggled to focus on his face. "I know you are in great pain, but you must be as still as you can or you could further endanger your life." The High King nodded – oh, so slightly, blood trickling down his chin from the lip he was nearly biting through. "Mum…mother – please…" he managed thickly, and then his eyes rolled back into his head as oblivion claimed him once more.
Now, in the interminable early hours of the morning, with his back aching and his hands shaking with exhaustion, hardly aware of the dirt, sweat, and blood, Tristam stood at the king's bedside, watching Peter carefully. The young man was sleeping fitfully, having been given a dose of opium – precious stuff from Calormen and rare indeed up in these bleak Northern lands. He hated to use it, but keeping the High King relaxed and calm, thereby allowing his breathing to be as normal as possible, was imperative. The physician rubbed his chin, his fingertips scraping over at least three days' growth of beard. If he could just keep pneumonia at bay – a task indeed in wet, cold country such as this – there might be a chance of survival.
A rustle of cloth made him look up, a scowl on his lips. He had sent the aides to tend to the other wounded and given notice that the High King was resting and not to be disturbed. Ducking through the tent entrance, however, was Peter's valet, a faun named Palomnus who had accompanied his king to the front lines, much to the latter's initial consternation. He was graying and slightly on the stout side, but his face was honest and usually merry, and to Tristam's mind, his attentive service and quick wit gave the High King a much needed respite from the relentless warfare he waged. The faun had come as soon as he had been notified of the injury, and his presence had also served to bring some measure of peace. Semi-conscious, Peter had clung to his valet's hand like a man being rescued from drowning. Which, the physician thought, perhaps he was.
"How is he?" Palomnus asked quietly, coming to stand beside Tristam with a small wooden tray in his hands.
"Unchanged," Tristam replied, glancing at the small loaves of camp bread and the battered tin cups of dark, viscous juice. "He certainly is in no condition to eat."
The faun gave him a quizzical look and then almost smiled. "I brought this for you, sir. And for me. I know my lord would not begrudge me a bite or two while he is beyond such comforts. Wouldn't want another patient on your hands, now, would we?"
"What's one more?" the physician asked rather bitterly, but he pulled over two camp chairs and took his bread and cup. As simple and rough as it was, the smell of the bread made his stomach unexpectedly churn with hunger, and he wondered briefly how long he had gone without food.
"Eat slowly, and it will taste better," the faun said, eyeing the huge chunk of bread Tristam tore off and swallowed almost without chewing. He received a stony glare in return and amusement quirked his lips. "His highness regularly gives me such looks upon receiving my good advice, and yet such truculence does him no good, for I continue to give it," he said, his pointed beard bobbing as he carefully ate his own loaf. "He has not learned yet."
Tristam raised his eyes to the figure lying beside him, covered to his chin with a light woolen blanket, sweat-matted blond hair snarled and tangled, face bruised and lacerated, eyes sunken and blackened. The physician felt his heart constrict painfully. This was his sovereign – adopted, yes, but he had sworn an oath and owed none other his fealty and allegiance. His responsibility was to ensure that Narnia did not lose her High King and its three other monarchs, their brother. The chill dampness of the air and ground suddenly seemed to creep into his very marrow, and he fancied he heard already the rasp of labored breathing, saw a tinge of blue painting split lips, the fatal flush of fever creeping over pale flesh. Tristam slowly lowered his cup and bent closer to the cot.
Palomnus watched him sharply. "Is something amiss?" he asked intently.
The Archenlander sat back again in his camp chair as if he had come to a decision and drank deeply. "No," he said when he had finished, "but the High King cannot stay here. He must be sent back to Cair Paravel, out of this chill and dank wetness, back to warmth and…" he paused, "…to the Queen Lucy and her cordial."
"He has given strict orders," Palomnus said, "You know this – he would not wish to leave his army leaderless, and he would not desire the cordial for himself."
"He very well may leave his country leaderless for eternity if he sickens with pneumonia," Tristam replied harshly, "The rigors of the journey to my mind carry far less risk than lingering here – and what if our positions are overrun? Nothing will save him then, Palomnus."
"Aslan might," the faun said quietly, meeting and holding the physician's gaze. Tristam's expression darkened.
"Aye, indeed, Aslan might," he said, "and he might not. We cannot – we must not – leave this to chance, Palomnus. You of anyone know what the High King means to his people." He became reckless with intensity. "If Narnia were to lose him, she would be no better off than she was under the Witch."
"You forget yourself, sir," Palomnus said angrily, spitting out the words, his ruddy face coloring, "I will remind you: Narnia has four monarchs, two kings and two queens; all bound by blood and crowned by the Lion. Your words skate close to the edge, Tristam, and if his highness Peter were able to hear and understand, you would soon see what his family means to him!"
The faun had half risen from his chair, and Tristam abruptly held up his hands. "I spoke in haste, good Palomnus. You are right – I say again, my thoughts were only for his majesty. Forgive my rash words."
Palomnus gave a small snort, his mouth compressed in a severe frown. "We are all weary and sick at heart," he said, "but this is no excuse. We must do what is best – for my lord and for Narnia."
"Agreed," the physician returned, "and as I said, the High King must return to Cair Paravel. It is not his only chance, but it is his strongest. I tell you truly, Palomnus, I will not have his blood on my hands. Not while there is breath left in my body and a way to save him."
The valet stood and moved to Peter's side. The young man's face was contorted slightly with pain that invaded even his drugged sleep, and his splinted chest rose and fell shallowly, unevenly beneath the blanket. Palomnus tenderly brushed a lock of hair from the king's forehead and rested a roughened palm against his cheek. "By the gracious will of Aslan, this boy and his brother and sisters delivered us from the greatest, cruelest tyrant Narnia has ever known. You and I are not the only ones who love him, Tristam. We must confer with the other commanders, seek Aslan's will, and decide his fate."
He gave the physician one last glance, gathered the tray and cups, and left the tent.