Never

He never sought her out. Even when she stood, like the pure darkness of a night which is cool and soothing and perfect, looking at him with her eyes veiled. Even though he felt a tug in his body that pushed him towards her. Because he had known. Because it was all too good to last.

Everything was good and pure in Narnia and after the first time he met her he felt tainted. When he woke from the dreams of those veiled eyes and dark hair like the night sky and skin of moonlight, sweating and breathing hard, he felt as though he was betraying the spirit of the land he governed. And so in vain he tried to forget her.

He took long rides and dueled for hours and when it was all over the only thing he could see through the sweat-covered strands of hair that covered his eyes was her face and her shape standing on the balcony of Cair Paravel in her white mantle.

It was new and it was frightening and he had never thought this way before about a live, breathing woman but the moment he looked into her eyes he saw flecks of gold in the dark brown of their orbs and they looked so like the colour of Aslan's mane that he knew that he was pure, that they were both pure.

And they had danced and they had laughed and later in the night when the castle was quiet they had danced a different dance, one more wild and more soft and more desperate, with rhythms and a melody far more ancient than the faun-songs of Narnia. She had tried to get up to leave afterwards but he had gathered her to him and then he was lost.

He had never thought it would be this way. When he first discovered his impending kingship he had thought only of glory and of tournaments and of crowns and wars and honour. He had never thought of peace-time, of the wonders of this sweet war he waged in his own private chambers when the rest of the world was far away in slumber.

He had never thought he would plant a tree especially for her in the orchard, that they would take day-long rides with each other and that the horses would tactfully wander off during lunch to find the nicer grass, and that he would not only not be embarrassed but that he would laugh and silently thank them for their not-so-subtle help.

Above all, he never thought he would love her. Never thought that the days of battle in the North and nights around a fire telling ancient tales with weather-beaten men and beasts of lore would feel so lonely without her. He never thought that he would begin to turn to her in the night, finding only the back of his younger brother, who would tease him the next morning.

He also never thought that he would leave.

Oh no, he always knew that it would end, that he had somewhere he belonged that wasn't about heralds and hauberks and palaces. The look in Aslan's eyes when the crown was placed upon his head had said plainly, "Don't get too comfortable." But he did. Too comfortable.

When that night came, oh, that night when he was entangled in her arms and legs and they didn't know where they began or ended, the way it always was, now that he loved her, he was unprepared. The dream that showed him flashes of something lost and forgotten and roads and a country lawn with a big house that was familiar but so alien to his Narnian mind shocked him. And Aslan's beautiful golden eyes, staring into him before he woke caused him to twitch and shudder and in the morning, he didn't want to leave his bed because he knew that the sun was high and the day was ripe for a change that he did not want to admit was happening. And so he stayed with her and drank her in, every drop, until he was sure that this much of her would last, would sustain him forever, no matter what befell him.

But then the knock came and it spelled doom, but it was only Edmund, and he spoke of the Stag and there was a heaviness in his heart and he couldn't say no because Aslan's eyes burned into him still the way they would until he was ripped from life and so he kissed her goodbye and teased her and promised to return. But he knew, that she was lost to him, although he didn't think it. Couldn't think it. Couldn't let it be real.

And when he rose with goosebumps all over his bare shoulders that she loved to kiss and trace and caress, though the reason was lost to him, he didn't look back. If he looked back all his courage would fail him, because although she had made him a man she could be the undoing of him if she so chose, and perhaps even if only he chose. So he resisted the pull of her eyes and her lips and her legs and her hair and her hips and ignored the pang in his heart and the warning in his mind and closed the door on her forever.

When Lucy wanted to go on an adventure he gamely carried on, saying goodbye to her, saying the words that had never escaped his lips. He loved her.

Years earlier or later, if you counted the age of his body or the time that had passed, he woke, trembling with fear and love and regret and longing and despair. He didn't know her name anymore. His body, only a shadow of the one he knew was to come, had a tingling he knew it had never felt before, though it seemed so familiar. He ached with need for something that he could not remember. He loved something which had no name, no shape except for darkness speckled with gold. His slender shoulders, imperfect babies of the ones he would be so proud of for a far-off and forgotten reason, shook with the weight of his grief, as tears fell onto his restless, twisted sheets.

A/N: Hello, all. Thanks for reading and please review to support my first foray back into fanfiction in over a year! It's the only polite thing to do…

On another note, this is a companion piece to another one-shot I wrote called Always. It is the mystery girl's perception of Peter and their rather weird relationship. Please read that one and tell me what you think! Okay. Last note. I promise. If I get some positive feedback from these two one-shots I'm going to write a little cookie for everyone about Christmas (since Christmas is coming up).