Disclaimer: I do not own any of CS Lewis' books or characters or actors that play the characters.

Notes: Parts of this chapter were inspired by Emily Dickinson's poetry. Also, there are some TEENSY references/spoilers for the Prince Caspian book.

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed my story! You have no idea how happy it makes me, as an author, to know that you like my fiction. hugs all of u (also, sorry if I missed anyone in my replies)

Also, I'm really sorry to say this, but I won't be able to update again for about a week. 

WARNINGS: this story contains slash as well as several dark themes, such as non-consensual sex, violence, slavery, etc.

Chapter 4

The entire back side of his body felt like it was on fire. It was utterly dark around him and his limbs felt so heavy. Peter slowly trudged back to consciousness with a pained groan. He vaguely noted that he was back in the slaves' quarters, on his pallet. Thank goodness they had laid him on his front.

He coughed weakly. Someone was stroking his hair. He forced open his eyelids and squinted up at a rather small boy who was gently smoothing back the sweaty bangs from his face.

"Edmund?" he rasped.

"M-my name is Gilbert," said the boy with large eyes, and Peter could see that it wasn't Edmund, just another young boy with dark hair and freckles. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, next to Peter and had an inquisitive look on his face.

"Are you alright?" said Gilbert, and he made to remove the thin blanket that was covering the older boy.

"Don't," said Peter quickly, catching the boy's hand, even though the movement made pain ripple through his body. He didn't want the boy to see the fiery-red welts and be frightened.

"What did they do to you?" whispered the freckled boy, looking at Peter with curiously and a bit apprehensively.

Peter slowly raised his head off of his arm that served as a pillow, and looked around. He could tell by Gilbert's clothes that he was also probably a slave, also probably a Narnian captive. There seemed to be no one else in the warehouse besides him and the small boy. Though their sleeping quarters were windowless, the little light that came from the doorway told Peter that it was daytime. What had happened?

"Noth-Nothing I couldn't handle," Peter said, his words punctuated with a dry cough. Even that hurt. He tried to smile at the boy, and winced when he felt the dried blood that was caked on the inside and outside of his mouth.

"Oh. Your teeth's got blood on them," said Gilbert nervously.

"Sorry," said Peter, grimacing at the bitter taste in his mouth. "Where is everyone? And how did I get here?" He didn't remember much about the night before, only that he must have passed out while they were birching him. He did remember the prince, though…

"Everyone else is at work, of course. I was too, but I snuck away. You're here because the guards said they'd give you a day to recover."

"Guards?" wondered Peter. "Did they bring me here last night?"

"Yes," said Gilbert softly. "I thought you were dead, because they had to drag you in, and you weren't moving or anything. They said you had a day to recover before you've got to work again."

"Oh, how kind of them," Peter mumbled, burying his head in his arms again, trying to will away the sting from the numerous welts on his body.

"Then…you were really sick," said Gilbert hesitantly, idly drawing patterns on the ground with a finger. "You were kind of…. crying, like you were having a bad dream."

"I must have woken up the whole place," said Peter ruefully.

"You did," said the other boy. "You don't remember? You got really, really sick and you were shaking and moaning and everything. Mr. Jacob had to carry you to the bathroom."

"Oh," said Peter, his face turning pink. That sounded quite embarrassing.

"Are you alright now?" said the boy anxiously, leaning forward to look at Peter's injuries with a child's morbid curiosity.

"Now, Gilbert," called a voice from the doorway and both of them looked up. Peter recognized the elderly man whom he usually shared his pallet with. "Shouldn't you be running along? You know it'll be a beating for you if they catch you loafing about."

"I just wanted to see how he was doing, Mr. Jacob," said Gilbert with a little pout. He looked at Peter as if he was some kind of interesting specimen to be studied.

"Well now you have seen him, and it's time for you to go. Be a good lad," said Jacob, giving the dark-haired boy a firm look. Gilbert sighed, stood up, and scampered away. Jacob had a nice voice, Peter decided, a voice a grandfather would have, warm and kindly but stern at the same time. He looked rather nice too, with graying hair and a wrinkled face.

Now left alone with his pallet-partner, Peter looked up rather sheepishly from where he lay. "Um, Gilbert told me about last night, sir. Thank you for helping me, even though I can't really remember what happened. I must have caused quite a lot of trouble for you and I'm really sorry…"

"Nonsense, my boy," said Jacob, and he knelt down next to Peter. "We must look after one another, after all. No one else to look after us. And besides, you've become quite the hero in the last few hours, among us poor laborers, anyway, and I was honored to take care of you," this he said with a cheeky grin.

"How do you mean?" said Peter. Instead of answering right away, the old man lifted up a corner of his blanket. Peter pulled it back, blushing, as he was naked underneath.

Jacob batted away Peter's hand with a little scoff. "Don't be silly, lad. I'll need to be taking a look at those bruises." He lifted the cloth and clucked his tongue at what he saw. Peter was quite glad he couldn't see his own body, if it looked as bad as it felt. He looked at Jacob taking out a small jar from a hidden pocket of his shirt.

"Is that medicine?" Peter asked, trying to turn his head around to see. "That must've been hard to come by, sir. You shouldn't use it on me."

"Nonsense," Jacob repeated, waving his hand nonchalantly, and he began to spread a healing salve over Peter's body. The boy moaned quietly in pain, hiding his head and blushing again when he felt the old man touching his more tender areas; but soon, the comforting hands on his skin and the cool medicine took away the worst of it.

"What's your name?" the old man asked, gently kneading sore muscles.

"It's Peter, sir."

"Peter…" said the old man, his wrinkled eyes closing halfway as if remembering some far away memory. "Named after the legendary High King, I suppose?"

Peter snorted lightly. "Yes, just like every other single Narnian named Peter, I suppose." Jacob smiled as he continued to massage the young man's back, hearing Peter sigh softly as knots of tension released themselves.

"It is a valiant name," said Jacob, in an almost admonishing way.

"Well, I don't feel very valiant right now," Peter mumbled rather forlornly, burying his face into the crook of his arm.

Jacob chuckled lightly. "But you are, my dear boy. The whole castle must have heard the news by now. They say you struck King Miraz! Quite a courageous feat, and one to be lauded, especially among poor prisoners like us."

"They did?" said Peter in surprise. "How did they know so quickly?"

Jacob laughed. "You will soon discover, dear, that in places like Miraz's castle, the walls have ears and the news spreads quicker than the wind."

"I didn't really… I mean, it wasn't like I attacked him or anything," Peter said, blushing yet again. "I was just trying to defend myself," and he averted his eyes, remembering with shame, what had transpired in Miraz's chambers.

"Still," said Jacob, now replacing the blanket over Peter's body and tucking him in, "you did raise your hand against the king. Yet here you are, still alive, with only a whipping to show for it. Greater knights than you have been killed for less. What miracle kept Miraz from having you executed on the spot?"

Peter went silent, refusing to look at him, and Jacob could see a tremble run up the length of his body. He sighed. So the other rumors were true as well.

"Peter," he said softly, laying a hand on the boy's bare shoulder. A slight flinch. "When I saw them take you away yesterday, I knew what it was that Miraz wanted. There is nothing to be ashamed of, dear boy. No one here could have ignored your loveliness, especially not the king with his wandering eyes. And I will tell you, there have been many, far plainer than you, who have submitted to the king's desires with far less bravery."

A sniffle came from the blond boy and Jacob realized that Peter was crying. So young, so young, though he has endured so much. And so vulnerable, still.

"I am neither lovely nor brave," whispered Peter, still refusing to meet the other's eyes. "I just… I miss my family. I wish I was back home again." He chuckled humorlessly, making it sound more like a sob. "I am no hero, and I don't want to be one. I merely struck out because I was protecting myself. And look where it got me." His voice cracked a little, a bitter smile twisting his lips.

"Oh, Peter, my son," said Jacob sadly, gently stroking the blond locks. The old man's eyes were moist. "I miss my family too, sometimes, though the pain has grown less over the years."

"Your family?" asked Peter, looking up in curiosity. He had been sleeping next to the old man for days, but never once had he thought that Jacob would also, like him, have another life outside of Miraz's castle.

"Yes," said Jacob. "I had a wife, and a son. I have not seen them since the day they took me away."

Peter felt his heart catch at these words. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and took the man's wrinkled hand into his. "Where in Narnia did you come from?"

Jacob laughed lightly at this, though his eyes were still sad. "Do I look Narnian to you, dear Peter?"

"Why, what do you…oh," gasped Peter, getting his first good look at Jacob's face, just now recognizing the mild accent that was barely there. "You are a Telmarine? But…but why would you be here?"

"I was a great Lord of the Telmarine court, once," said the man, and he had a wistful look upon his face. "Formerly, Lord Erimon."

"But what happened?" asked Peter, eyes wide.

Jacob smiled cheerlessly. "That is tale best left untold, my son. Suffice to say, that I displeased his Majesty, the king. But you must listen to me now, and listen well," he said, and he looked a great deal more somber, so that Peter looked at him attentively.

"As one of Miraz's former courtiers, I know a great deal about how things function in this castle. And let me assure you, Peter, you got off easy this time, with merely a birching. The reason, the only reason you are still alive with all your limbs intact, is because the king favors you and wants you to become his lover. But, if you resist him a second time, he might not be so generous."

"But what are you saying?" cried Peter, shocked. "That I should just… let him…?"

"I know this goes against everything in your heart," replied Jacob, "Honor, virtue, love. But you must understand that here, in this hellish place where we are all kept prisoner, it is the king who rules and it is he who can snuff out your life as easily as a candle's flame. You must not refuse him again, if you wish to live."

"You can't be serious," said Peter, shaking his head disbelievingly. "You can't be suggesting that I give him my body?" and he began to shiver at the very thought of Miraz's fingers against his skin again.

"As soon as you entered this place," said Jacob, looking sadly at Peter, "it was never yours to give, but his to take. You are young. You have not seen some of the things that I have, the horrors and violence which Miraz wrecks upon those that do not obey him. Though Miraz is by no means a kind lover, he is a thousand times worse as your enemy. As his lover, however, you would gain privileges that no one else has. Most importantly, you will have his protection, for as long as he is still taken with you."

"Maybe so," whispered Peter, so quietly and sadly that Jacob almost didn't hear him. "But I would end up losing my soul, wouldn't I?" A tear rolled down the boy's fair face.

The room was silent as Peter turned his face away from Jacob, unable to look at the man. Jacob sighed, as if his heart was breaking. "Tell me, have you ever been with anyone before? Ever had a lover?"

"Of course not," Peter said, his voice barely audible.

"Oh, my poor boy. This will not be easy for you. What you must think of me, for suggesting you be with him," Jacob said, shaking his head sorrowfully. "But believe me, please, if you cross Miraz again, this world would be losing a brave and compassionate young man with the purest heart I ever met." The old man stood up with a tired groan, and turned to leave. Peter's quiet voice made him pause.

"Jacob? Thank you. For looking after me."

The former Telmarine Lord looked down at Peter, and he smiled gently. Then, hesitating, almost as an after-thought, he took another small vial from his sleeve and bent down again, helping Peter lift his head up.

"This will help you sleep, and perhaps, keep the nightmares away," he said, and poured a few drops into the boy's mouth.

It felt nice, the warmth going down his sore throat. Peter immediately began to feel drowsy, but it was a nice kind of drowsiness, not the sick, sinking feeling he got from drinking Miraz's wine. His eyes started to close, and he felt Jacob press a kiss to his cheek.

"Rest well, my dear," and Jacob left. As he slipped into asleep, Peter thought he was falling, hard and fast, into another world.

It was the garden again, green and magnificent. Yet, his way was still barred by the golden gates. Susan, or rather, the queen, was there again, and gold flowers still crowned her lovely head. She was still holding the strange cup, white as ivory and decorated with carvings on the outside. Tongues of flame still burned from within it, red as blood, quivering, quivering.

As before, Peter heard the lion's roar, but it was so much louder this time that it shook the ground he was standing on. And by the force of that roar, the gates flew open and revealed the garden, as beautiful as Peter had imagined.

With the queen watching him solemnly and silently, Peter passed through the gates and into the magical garden. He waked up a path, which led to a hill covered in green grass. The hill was so steep, almost a mountain, and Peter felt there was no way he could climb it.

But then, a Lion, glorious and golden and so very large, appeared next to him. His solemn eyes stared into Peter's and the boy felt, rather than heard, Him speak.

Would'st climb, my son?

"With you?" Peter asked, and saw the Lion say "yes" with His eyes. Peter was allowed to lay a hand on the Lion's magnificent mane and together, they ascended the green hill.

Up and up, higher and higher they climbed, yet Peter never got tired. There was something on the crest of the hill, something that shone like a star, and when they finally reached the top, Peter saw that it was a sword, embedded into the earth.

He gasped at the beauty of the weapon, so elegant and noble. A silver lion's head decorated the pommel and there was an inscription on the blade, but he could not understand the words.

"Rhindon," Peter whispered reverently, though he had no idea how the name came into his head. The sword glowed all the brighter as soon as he spoke its name, as if it had been waiting for that exact moment for ages and ages. All was bright around him and he had to shield his eyes from the dazzling light.

"I am dreaming," he thought to himself. "This is a dream."

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"I had a dream," said Susan, and her voice was met with silence. She was sitting on Peter's now-empty bed in their house, and Lucy was on her lap, looking intently up at her. Edmund stood sullenly off to the side, with his arms crossed.

"Not two weeks ago, I dreamt of Aslan. I was standing in front of a green hill, and I knew somehow that I was meant to climb it, but I couldn't. It was too high, so I lost hope and walked away. And then, He appeared. I knew it was Aslan even before I turned my head and saw Him. Isn't that strange?"

"Weren't you afraid?" asked Lucy, her eyes wide and curious.

"Yes I was," said Susan, "but not for long. When He stood by my side, I felt as if the sun was warming my every bone, and there was such goodness radiating from Him, oh, I can't explain it."

"And what did this good lion do?" asked Edmund sardonically. "Let you pet him, like he was a cat? Play with you? Ask for a bowl of milk?"

"No, Edmund," said Susan, giving her brother a rather reproachful look. "He walked with me, back the way I came, until we were at the foot of the hill again. Would'st climb? He asked me. Would'st climb with me, Daughter of Eve? And even though I was afraid that I would fall, I could not answer 'no.' He let me take His mane in my hand and we walked up the hill, and it was so easy, because He was with me."

"And then what happened?" asked Lucy.

Susan looked at Edmund's scowling face and sighed. "And then…nothing. I woke up, Lu."

"Well I don't believe a word of it," Edmund snapped spitefully. "And I don't believe in Aslan!"

"Oh, Edmund!" gasped Lucy fearfully.

"Don't you believe in a word she says, Lu!" Edmund said, pointing an accusing finger at Susan. "All she's ever done is lie! Again and again!"

Susan gently set Lucy on her feet and stood up. She was still taller than the 12-year-old, but she marveled at how much he'd grown since she left, two years ago.

"I'm so sorry, Lamb," she said, and tears welled up in her eyes as she beheld all the pain and rage in her little brother's face. "I'm so sorry for leaving you. But I'm back now, and I promise-"

"Promise!" yelled Edmund scornfully, looking so fierce that Susan took a step backwards. "You promised to never leave! You promised to take care of us after Mother left! You held Peter's hand and promised to help him keep the family together! You even promised Mother, looked right into her eye before the Telmarines took her away, and promised to look after me and Lucy!"

"Oh do stop yelling!" Lucy whimpered, her hands over her ears, and she started crying too.

"I hate you!" Edmund cried, fists clenched in rage. "And I hate that you look like Mother!"

"Well I'm NOT Mother!" Susan yelled back, just as loudly. "And you are not my child! Don't you think I have a right to my own life? My own honor? Don't you?!"

"Shut up!" Edmund yelled, and stamped his foot. He grabbed Peter's deck of cards off of the bureau and threw it to take out his frustrations, the brightly colored pieces flying out everywhere.

"Do you believe," Susan forged ahead, relentlessly, "that I enjoyed sitting around the house each day, doing the cleaning, doing the sewing, all the while knowing that I could be out there, helping to fight? Sitting here idly while others were dying for our cause? No, dear brother, my conscience would not allow it!"

"Your conscience," sneered Edmund, "should have made you stay! Peter didn't go running off to join the Resistance as soon as he was of age!"

"Well Peter isn't here now either, is he?!"

Lucy wailed, her voice rising to a shriek, and Susan immediately stopped her angry tirade. The older girl seemed to lose all her energy at once as her face crumpled down into a sob. Lucy ran to Susan and embraced her waist with her small arms and Susan hugged her back, sinking to her knees.

Edmund plopped down onto the floor, wiping furiously at his eyes. His rage was spent, but his anger still smoldered as he glared at his older sister.

"Oh, Ed," sobbed the elder girl, looking more like a child than ever, her hair disheveled and her eyes red. "You know I don't mean that, right? You know I love you both, so much it hurts. I would never have left if I hadn't thought it was right."

"And what about Mother?" said Edmund, his voice hoarse from shouting. "Did you ever try to find her, or were you too busy chasing after your stupid dreams?"

Susan looked at him with so much sorrow in her eyes that he felt his stomach drop. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I did find her. She's dead. They say she died in the prison, because she was sick."

"You're lying!" screamed Edmund, pounding the floor with his fists with all the strength he could muster. "Stop lying, you horrible…!"

He was so choked with emotion that he could no longer talk and he fled, red-faced, from the room. They heard his footsteps pounding up the stairs and a door slammed above them.

"Ssshh, Darling," Susan said gently, rocking Lucy back and forth. The little girl seemed to be in shock, no longer weeping but shaking uncontrollably.

Susan stroked her back with hands that were callused from holding a bow and wielding a sword. She, herself, had no more tears to spend, having already wept herself dry when she first found out about her mother's demise.

Two long years. Two years away from her family, battling, desperately trying to stay alive, struggling and fighting, all for a faint glimmer of hope, the hope of restoring a free Narnia. Was it all worth it, to come back to such a broken household?

They sat like that for a long time, while the sky grew dark outside. When Lucy finally stopped her terrible trembling, Susan gently pushed her back and looked into her pale face.

"Do you want to know a secret, Lucy?" she whispered, brushing a wisp of her sister's hair behind her ear. Lucy nodded numbly and Susan pressed her lips to her sister's ear, whispering as if the truth would escape.

"In my dream, I walked with Aslan, up the hill. Higher and higher we went, until we came to the top. There, He bade me kneel, and when I rose again, there was a crown of golden flowers on my head. Then, He bade me look out over the hill, towards the west, and I saw a great wood. Aslan roared and the trees themselves quaked as if they were dancing. Then He bade me look north, and I saw the great dark castle of the Telmarine king. He roared again, so loudly, and the entire castle broke and shattered like glass." She laughed, and wiped the dried tears from her Lucy's face. So pretty.

"Do you know what this means, Lucy?" The little girl shook her head. "It means that the time has come. The Resistance grows stronger with every passing day as the Telmarine king corrupts his own kingdom from within. Narnia is growing stronger. The time grows near," Susan said, her blue eyes blazing with the glint of battle, "to take back what is ours."

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True to their word, the Telmarine overseers put Peter right back to work after one day of rest. He was in pain most of the time, the strain of lifting heavy bricks pulling at his injuries in the worst way possible. He would shiver uncontrollably at night, his body cold even though his head was burning up. Jacob would hold him tightly during the worst of it, smoothing back his sweaty bangs from his fevered forehead while humming him to sleep. He was so lucky to have so good a friend.

It was now the third day that he was back at work, and his condition did not seem to be improving. Peter's arms trembled often, and many times, he nearly dropped the heavy bricks that he was made to carry. He was sweating and freezing at the same time, and could barely control the chattering of his teeth.

The rough material of his shirt rubbed against his raw skin with every movement and he could feel his head pounding. The guards were in a particularly nasty mood today, and they gave Peter no quarter, yelling at him and flicking at his flanks with their whips if he moved too slowly.

As he trudged back and forth, from the oven and back, he felt his vision beginning to swim and bile pressing up against the back of his throat. He wondered how long it would take for him to collapse.

There was a sudden commotion to his right, and Peter realized that someone else had beaten him to it, collapsing onto the ground. It was Gilbert, the small boy that had watched over him the day after he had been whipped.

Peter looked over and gasped at how red the younger boy's face was, and quickly dropped his load. Despite his own dizziness, and the guards yelling at him to get back to work, he ran to Gilbert and stooped down next to him. Gently, Peter ran a hand over Gilbert's face.

The boy was gasping and he looked like he was having chills, despite his flushed countenance. His lips were chapped and cracked. Dehydration, Peter thought.

"Water!" gasped Gilbert from a throat that was dry and scratchy. The boy twitched, his arms flailing out, and Peter caught one of his hands, giving it a comforting squeeze.

"Please, he needs water!" Peter called to the guards, who were watching with mild interest.

They laughed at him. "We have none to spare!" they jeered, while filling their own cups from a readily-available barrel. "If the greedy boy is not satisfied with his own share of water, then he'll have to go without. Now get back to work, slave!"

Peter looked around, hoping that the other laborers would come to his aid, but they all averted their eyes, wishing to stay out of trouble. And since Jacob worked at another part of the castle, he couldn't help either. Peter looked down at Gilbert, who was now groaning with his eyes closed.

"This boy is sick and he needs water" Peter said, looking steadfastly at the head guard. Annoyed at the Narnian's impertinence, the guard stalked up to Peter, whip in his hands, but Peter refused to budge. Even as the large Telmarine loomed over him, Peter simply stared back and said, "He needs water, or he will faint. His work will go undone."

The head guard looked angry and raised his whip over Peter's head, and Peter, despite his brave exterior, felt afraid for his life. But the other guards were laughing, thinking the whole situation to be highly amusing.

"Come now, Captain," they said. "The boy wants to be the big protector, for the smaller one. Heart of gold, he has. Give him a splash of water."

The head guard, still looking angry, lowered his whip. He stalked off, and returned a moment later with a large wooden bucket. With a growl of annoyance, he threw the heavy object at Peter, who barely managed to catch it from knocking him in the head.

"If the boy wants water, you can go fetch it for him. And you better hurry," the guard said with a nasty smile. "If the small one faints, it's you who will be finishing up his work."

"Thank you for your kindness, sir," said Peter, barely managing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Gritting his teeth, the boy struggled to his feet, riding out a wave of dizziness and pain.

Peter walked off as quickly as he could without falling over himself. The bucket seemed so heavy in his hands, and he had to heft it with both arms as he headed for the nearest well.

He was panting before he even made it halfway, and he often stumbled, having to catch himself on a wall or nearby column. Fortunately, no soldiers sought to hinder him in his quest, and the ordinary passer-bys just looked at him strangely and continued on their way.

When he reached the well, Peter let himself sink to his knees for a moment, wiping at his dripping brow with his sleeve. Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet and lowered the bucket into the well. Pulling it up was much harder than he thought, but he managed it in the end.

The return trip was much slower. It was awkward, carrying the heavy bucket and trying not to spill it. He could feel the exhaustion of the last couple of days catch up to him, and the injuries on his back were positively throbbing, aggravated by hard labor and not enough rest. Once, he had to set his burden down as he fell on one knee and retched, his body shaking and covered in a cold sweat.

The thought of the poor boy, so like his own Edmund, kept him going. He finally got back to the construction site, and he hurried over to Gilbert. As the guards looked on, Peter gently wet the near-unconscious boy's lips with his fingers first, to revive him. Then, he helped Gilbert sit up as he fed water to him in his cupped hands.

"Are you alright now?" said Peter concernedly, rubbing Gilbert's back soothingly.

"Yes, oh yes," said Gilbert, who was looking much better. "Thank you."

Having witnessed the entire scene, the head guard walked over to them purposefully, a smirk on his lips.

"How touching that you care so much for him," he said, with a sneer. "But tell me, is it not wrong for a slave to drink while the masters go thirsty? You will have to fetch some more water for us, Narnian."

Peter glared up at the head guard, while the other soldiers laughed. He eyed the full barrel of water that was already provided for the soldiers.

"Oh no, not that," said the guard, already seeing where Peter was looking. "It is unseemly that we drink this stale stuff while fresh water can be brought to us. Go fetch us some water from the well."

"There is still plenty left," said Peter, defiantly pushing his bucket towards the Telmarine.

With a snarl, the guard kicked the bucket over, spilling the water over the ground. "We do not drink what is left over from slaves," he hissed menacingly. "Now pick yourself up."

With a groan, Peter pushed himself up on his hands and stood shakily. He managed to give Gilbert a reassuring look when the boy glanced at him with worry. Picking up the bucket, Peter walked away again, hearing them call after him "Better hurry back! Your bricks won't move themselves out of the oven."

When Peter reached the well for the second time, his teeth were clacking together with cold and his entire body was trembling. His head however, felt like it was on fire, and he could barely see through the haze in front of his eyes. He fell on his knees and retched again, bending over and clutching the ground with his hands. The injuries on the back side of his body, that should have already healed, felt like red-hot brands being pressed to his skin. Moaning wretchedly, he stayed on the ground until the shivering subsided.

Heaving himself up again, Peter lowered the bucket into the well, then had to use all of his strength to draw it back up. He lifted the bucket into his arms and started to head back, but was only able to take a few steps before his legs gave out and he fell to the ground, water splashing everywhere, and couldn't get up again.

Of all people, it was Caspian who found him, quite by accident. The well happened to be the prince's favorite thinking-place and he was paying it a visit, pocket full of pennies for throwing. He stopped short when he saw the blond form, sprawled on the ground, soaking wet and barely breathing.

"Hey!" he called out, not knowing the Narnian's name. The prince rushed to Peter's side and gently lifted the boy's head, alarmed when he felt a raging fever. "Are you alright?" he said, gently shaking the prone body.

Peter opened his eyes, barely making out the shape of the Telmarine prince. He was so cold and he couldn't stop shaking. "Prince… Caspian?" he murmured, before his eyes slipped shut again and his body went limp. The last thing Peter thought he felt was the prince lifting him up gently with his strong arms and caressing the side of his face while calling frantically for help.

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Thanks to everyone for reading my story! Sorry there's so little of Caspian/Peter, but there'll definitely be more coming up. Please review and let me know what you think!