Disclaimer: I just play in Lewis's sandbox, and I promise to put things back the way I found them (well, almost the way I found them…). So no sue.
VII.Arrival
"Peter…" the call was soft, gentle, echoing through delirious darkness. "Peter, my son…"
The young man's eyes fluttered beneath closed lids, but he continued to drift, afloat in a sea of black slumber, heavy and warm.
"Peter…" stronger and wilder, but still tender. "Peter, hear me…"
Again, a twitch – a murmur from parted lips, almost a response, but not quite.
"Peter…" a command now, with the hint of a growl. "Peter, arise!"
It was enough. This time, with an explosive shudder, the High King surfaced from his opium-induced unconsciousness, gasping and clawing for purchase, fighting to escape the void. His body jerked convulsively as his eyes flew open, and he inhaled violently, reflexively of hot, suffocating air, choking on dust. He found he could not move – his arms and legs were seemingly bound tightly together, while an unknown weight pressed down heavily upon the length of him. Panic clouded his senses, and he fought mindlessly with his restraints, becoming more tangled, nearly hyperventilating.
As he came more fully to himself, Peter gradually grasped that his struggles only served to snarl him further in what he finally understood were blankets, bandaging, and canvas bags of supplies. He coughed forcibly, and then with all the intensity and blazing heat of lightning it struck him – he was breathing and moving easily, without pain.
At this, the High King completely relaxed, dumbstruck. What had happened? Now that he had ceased thrashing about, he realized the ship's boat had been lowered into the water, for he heard waves slapping lightly against the hull and felt the gentle undulations of the ocean beneath him. Something must have gone horribly wrong with Tristam's plan, but he told himself firmly that wild speculation and worry were useless at this point and would do no one any good until he had examined his current situation.
The young man then began to extricate himself slowly from his wrappings, pausing every now and then to breathe experimentally, as if he were afraid of his injuries abruptly returning to him doublefold. When his arms were free, he gingerly reached up and touched his chest, probing beneath the splints for broken ribs and wincing in anticipation of what he would find. His questing fingers discovered nothing but hard, perfect ridges of bone beneath muscle and smooth skin – neither tender spots marking bruises, nor rough scabs covering lacerations made themselves known. A creeping dread stole over him, and he shivered in spite of the heat.
Peter had not been High King of Narnia for twelve-odd years without experiencing his fair share of strange adventures and unnatural occurrences, and such a miraculous healing as this, without an obvious catalyst like Lucy's cordial, greatly unnerved him. Moving him to the ship's boat from the berth had required him being dosed with enough opium to stun a small giant, but now he could move effortlessly, without the numbing effect of the drug and without even a splinter of pain. "Nothing good can possibly come of this…" he muttered grimly, shoving away the bags of supplies and blankets, wiggling to where he could half sit up between the benches, and unwinding the last of the bandaging around his legs.
Removing the boat's cover took a bit of doing from the inside, but Peter eventually worked it off and stowed it beneath the benches. He stood carefully, feeling the weakness in his legs from being so long abed, and gloried in the breeze coming off the ocean. Sunlight sparkled and danced off of foaming waves, and he shaded his eyes, searching for any sign of the Indefatigable. The horizon he faced was empty – hazy blue sky met hazy blue water in an exact line. Anxiety clenched at his heart. What had happened?
Undaunted, however, he swiveled to look behind him, and to his great surprise, there lay a long, white beach and forested shore, towards which the boat was swiftly drifting. "Must be one of the Seven Islands," Peter thought, remembering Captain Vettriano saying they were near. This was quite good luck. If it was the main island, Brenn, then perhaps the Indy had managed to make berth at its capital, Redhaven, or he would find news of them there. He found the oars, fitted them into the oarlocks, and rowed the rest of the way in to the beach, enjoying the delightful sensation of movement, of actually being able to do something for himself again.
With a harsh, grinding jolt, the boat reached the shallows, and the High King vaulted lightly over the side into the water, sending up a terrific splash. Grabbing the gunwales, he dragged the boat a fair way up onto the beach, his bare feet sinking to the ankles in the pale, smooth sand. He then fell to his knees, feeling a momentary pang at his lack of a sword.
"Oh, Aslan," he prayed, "Please, show me mercy. Great Lion, keep your servant safe, and give me wisdom and a measure of your courage. Make me sensitive to your leading and sensible of my surroundings. If it is your will and by your grace I am healed, my thanks are yours. If someone else wishes me harm, keep me ever beneath your paw." He paused and bent forward, pressing his forehead to his open palms. "Wherever they are, I ask your protection for my subjects and those who serve me – for the crew of the Indefatigable and for my good Palomnus and Tristam. Bring comfort to my family – please see fit to reunite us soon. Aslan, I commend them all to your care, as I place my trust in you."
Almost before he had finished, a most delicious smell came suddenly to him over the ocean breeze, causing him to look up immediately, wild hope lighting his eyes.
"Peter…" the voice came again from his dreams, insistent and firm, pulling him to his feet, seeming simultaneously to come from inside him and all around. "Peter, my dear son – come – follow me…"
The young man closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, joy etched on his face, confidence replacing his fear. If Aslan went before him, who – or what – could stand in his way?
With a clearer head and renewed purpose, he climbed back into the boat and set to work packing himself a bundle of ship's biscuit, dried fruit, and several small, empty water skins from the canvas sacks that had hidden him. After he finished there, finding fresh water was first priority. He ate a handful of the apricots and apples and then took up the long, dirty-white strips of bandaging and binding cloth.
Peter was well aware that with his fair skin and coloring, he was a natural candidate for horrible sunburn, and as he was clad only in long, loose linen trousers, something had to be done or he would be the color of an overripe tomato by nightfall, especially if he kept to the beach. He found the widest pieces and wrapped them around his torso several times over, winding more over his upper chest in a criss-crossing pattern.
Making certain of easy movement, the High King tied the ends off and tucked them into a fold, draping one of the lighter blankets over his shoulders as a mantle. He also bound his feet, knowing that mere cloth was not going to do much in the way of protection if he chose to enter the forest – or even if he stayed on the sand, but he figured something was better than nothing.
Quite satisfied, Peter jumped back out onto the beach with several more blankets and the supplies made up into a bigger bundle, and he managed to drag the boat up further and, after several tries, overturn it to cover the remaining sacks and the oars. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he glanced up at the sky, discerning that the sun was just past its zenith. As he did so, he saw several large black birds wheeling there in the clear air. "Merry, but that's odd," he breathed, squinting, "Those aren't gulls, nor any type of seabird I know. They look like crows." Peter paused, puzzled, a slight frisson of unease crawling down his spine, but then he shrugged and began to make his way down the beach.
As he walked, he thought perhaps it was safer to assume he had landed on one of the northern Islands rather than Brenn. They were fairly sparsely inhabited, if he remembered correctly, but they were also smaller in size than the southernmost Islands. Along with Susan and Lucy, he had made a state visit to each of Narnia's vassal kingdoms a year and a half ago, and they had visited each of the Seven to speak with the people, feast on local cuisine, and tour the small industries of fishing, trapping, and mining.
That had been a good trip – one of the last times just he and his sisters had traveled together before news came of the giants gathering on the northern frontier. Edmund had been ill with something suspiciously like the chicken pox at the time, and he had not been happy about being left behind to itch in solitude. Lucy brought back an elaborately carved back-scratcher for him as a joke, which had not improved the younger king's mood one iota. Peter smiled wistfully. It seemed so very long ago.
The High King glanced back over his shoulder to where the ship's boat was stowed and noticed the black birds had gone – all but one, which flew lazily overhead and let out an abrasive 'caw' as it passed above him. His prior disquiet returned in full force, and for the second time he keenly regretted not having the comforting weight of his sword belt slung around his hips. Shrugging his bundle up higher on his shoulder, he plowed ahead, forcing himself to concentrate on one thing at a time. First thing was finding drinkable water – then he could worry about baleful black crows…
AN: No, this really isn't a deus ex machina! There's a reason Peter's walking with no pain, there really is! And it does have bearing on the plot+hiding in bushes to escape thrown Velveeta cheese+
