AN: Extra points to those who recognize the poetry Peter quotes in this chappie… He would go for the lost causes and blazes of glory, wouldn't he? (smile)

Wake me up inside
Call my name and save me from the dark
Bid my blood to run before I come undone
Save me from the nothing I've become
Bring me to life…
+ Bring Me to Life, Evanescence

Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott ...
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott
+ The Lady of Shalott, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, lines 123-6; 132-5

XX. Burn Darkly

Peter did not know how long he lay curled on the crimson rug, but when his tremors finally stilled and he had calmed sufficiently to raise his head, shadows were falling through the narrow window and creeping towards him across the floor. Slowly he sat up, feeling sick to his stomach and rather lightheaded. Illness – lack of food, lack of rest, lack of sanity – had seemingly returned with a vengeance, though now he felt he deserved the discomfort. Sweet Lion, what had he done? Had it really been a vision? Was it of the future – of what he could – would – become? Would he – had he? – willingly commit fratricide?

"Aslan," he whispered hoarsely, "Help me, please. I don't know what to do – please – I can't vanquish this enemy on my own."

He ground the heels of his palms into his eyes, wishing that gouging them from his head would erase the image of Edmund falling bloody and limp, prey to the hunger of his own brother's blade. "I cannot oppose this enchantment on my own strength," he repeated, bending once more over his knees, his arms wrapped about his middle as he desperately pulled at his shattered edges. "Please. I am broken. I need you."

"Peter…"

The High King stiffened, his head coming up sharply as every fiber of his being thrilled, ecstatic, to the sound of that voice. Borne on a whisper of the wind, emanating from the stillness around him, his name drifted gently to his ears – at once a siren call and an undeniable command.

"Aslan?" he asked, his voice cracking with thankfulness. He struggled upright, fighting off a sudden attack of dry heaves. "Aslan, are you there?"

Silence reigned, complete and total. The young man could not even hear the sounds of the village, far below, or night birds, or the trees, or even the crows, and the voice did not respond. Peter was utterly alone, and as time passed, blurred, he began to droop, darkness intruding on his senses. As much as he fought against it, the pull was too strong. He was so very, very weary.

But when slumber enveloped him inexorably in blackness and cradled him at last in burning arms, the High King went happily. For he finally had heard a Lion's promise and held it close as deep waters closed over his head.

"I am here, my son…"

"…come, follow me."

With the return of conscious thought, Peter found himself suspended in what seemed to be a warm, clinging nothingness. He blinked several times, trying vainly to see, until he gave it up as useless and simply kept his eyes closed to eliminate the strain. Buoyant and unencumbered, he did several accidental somersaults before regaining control over the use of his arms and legs, although he had no real idea if he was right side up or down. He was mildly surprised that the disorienting ambiance wasn't causing him to violently expel the meager contents of his already disturbed stomach.

"Aslan?" he asked uncertainly, his voice echoing oddly – at once deadened by his surroundings and reverberating across unfathomable distances.

"Hear my voice, Peter," the Great Lion's response came gently, a resonant chord of hope. "I am waiting for you."

The young man kicked out, moving smoothly into a swimming stroke, slicing through oblivion. He angled in what he imagined was the correct direction, and much sooner than expected, his bare feet hit a hard and unyielding surface. Sparing a grateful thought that he hadn't arrived standing on his head, he dug in, moving doggedly to safety.

When he broke the surface, he struggled on for a few more yards and then collapsed, unable to go any further, his cheek unexpectedly striking gritty sand. He rested for a moment, feeling the maw of exhaustion sucking at him, trying to drag him back into its all-encompassing embrace.

"Peter…" Aslan's voice came again, insistent and firm. "Peter, come."

Slowly, Peter raised himself from where he lay, half-in, half-out of an inky ocean, and viscous water ran from his head, arms, torso, and thighs in long, thick streams as he crawled unsteadily forth. Coughing and shaking the excess sleep from his body, he looked up and a smile of pure joy suffused his face with light. He had found whom he sought.

"Aslan!" he cried gladly, his gaze traveling up from the great paws to the forelegs to the thick mane, the noble face, and the endless, golden eyes.

The Great Lion bent and touched his rough tongue to Peter's forehead. "Welcome, my dear son," he said.

The High King acted then without thought; he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around one of Aslan's forelegs, burying his face deeply. His shoulders shook, and tears fell; trembling, deep sobs welling from the depths of his being, muffled by the thick, richly scented fur. There was no shame in weeping thus, at the Lion's feet, and he trusted he would not be condemned for his actions.

Aslan waited patiently as Peter spent his heartache, and finally the young man sat back upon his knees, his eyes red and his face blotchy. "I am delighted beyond words to see you, Aslan," he said, "Thank you, thank you for hearing me. Oh, I am so very glad you have come."

"You called," the lion replied, "And you are in need. Truly you say this battle cannot be won by strength alone."

Peter shuddered. "Aslan," he said shakily, "Please, what have I done? Have I…" he paused, fear swelling in his breast, moisture staining his face. "Will I – have I… murdered my brother?"

A very quiet growl came from the Lion, and the air trembled. Peter cast himself face down, nearly overcome, his breath coming in hoarse gasps. "Oh, Aslan, Aslan, Aslan, forgive me, please forgive me, forgive me…" he babbled almost incoherently, his fingers clawing into the coarse sand as he waited for judgment, neither desiring nor expecting mercy, wanting only death.

"Peace, Peter," Aslan said, "No, your actions were confined to your vision. Edmund lives."

"I swore I was there," the king whispered, "I could taste the blood."

Aslan narrowed his eyes. "Such is her power," he said, and anger limned his words.

Still possessed with shame, Peter kept his forehead pressed to the ground. "I wanted it, Aslan," he said guiltily, his face coloring. "I enjoyed it – I delighted in taking life – in ruthlessly delivering death, to others as well as to Edmund. Should I not be punished even so, for these misdeeds of my heart and mind?"

The Great Lion flicked his ears back and then forward again, but otherwise remained absolutely still. "You have done well," he said, "To admit wrongdoing takes courage, and your trial came at a moment of great physical pain and weakness. But have you not already repented? What is your fear and trembling but a loathing for that which you felt and desired? Again I say to you, peace. This have I forgiven."

Amazement and sweet relief flooded over him, and the High King spent a few minutes trying to digest the Lion's words before he straightened. "Who is she?" he asked, "And what has she done?"

Shaking his mane, Aslan stood without making an immediate reply and began to walk down the narrow stretch of sand. The young man climbed unsteadily to his feet and followed after, realizing that this dreamscape was very like the place where he had first made landfall on Murano. Was he dreaming? He fixed his gaze on the sedate pace of the Lion's walk, the rippling of powerful muscle beneath the golden coat, the splintering of the dim, diffuse light from his mane. No, this was no dream, and it was no vision such as Lady Rua had shown him. Aslan was real.

They proceeded in silence. Peter was content to wait – already he felt refreshed by Aslan's presence, and he was happy just being with the Great Lion.

"The ancient one who calls herself Lady Rua is well known to me," the Lion began eventually, "as is her passion for slaughter and destruction. She has indulged her craving for such things to the end where her mind has become unhinged, and I placed her on this island in the hope that a respite from her activities would bring her healing."

The High King clenched his jaw, the madness in Rua's eyes coming unbidden to his memory. "It has not," he said quietly.

Aslan glanced at him. "No," he replied. "It has not. For she has no desire to restrain her appetites and thus fights against me."

"So that is the reason the villagers cannot leave," Peter said, "She tried to break free – and trapped them as well as herself."

"Yes," the Lion said, and the young man took a deep breath.

"You know she seeks to claim me for her own," he said.

"Yes," Aslan said again. He stopped walking and turned to face Peter, sitting with a big cat's fluid grace and wrapping his tail around his legs.

"Then what must I do?" the king asked, falling to his knees and spreading out his hands, "I will not join her, Aslan, not of my own volition. She herself has shown me that the consequences would be dreadful beyond imagining. And I wish to free those under her heel. They are a people in distress – my people. I can do nothing less. Please, what must I do?"

The Great Lion paused, and his expression became very grave. "Peter, High King over all kings in Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands, and Lord of Cair Paravel," he said, "Do you love me?"

Peter answered immediately, conviction firm in his voice. "Yes, Aslan, I love you."

"Then you must be prepared to follow me."

"I am," the young man replied, "and I will. Wherever you ask."

The Lion made a rumbling noise low in his chest, and his golden eyes deepened. Peter bowed his head, sensing that Aslan was not yet finished.

"Sir Peter Wolfsbane, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion," Aslan said, "Do you love me?"

"Yes, Aslan," Peter said softly, still certain of his reply, but confused about the repetition of the question. "I love you."

"Then you must be prepared to lose yourself."

"I am," he said, slower this time. "I will be."

This time the Great Lion almost smiled, and the rumbling turned to something very akin a purr. "Peter Pevensie, Son of Adam," he said, very gently and very patiently, "Do you love me?"

For a long, long moment, Lion and king looked into one another's eyes. "Yes, Aslan," he whispered at length, "You know I love you."

"Then you must be prepared to give your all."

The High King swallowed. "Then I will do so," he said, although his face had gone pale. "If you ask it of me."

Aslan bent forward and breathed over him, and inhaling deeply of the wonderful scent, Peter felt his blossoming fear calm and his burgeoning sorrow abate. Warmth shivered its way through his body, and marvelously, the throbbing cold of the tattoo on his right arm dissipated entirely. "Be strengthened, my son. I am with you."

Peter smiled faintly. "'Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die'?" he questioned, and then the smile disappeared and he was silent for another heartbeat. "Am I to die?" he asked, finding that he very much wanted to live; thinking fleetingly of Susan, Edmund, and Lucy; steeling his heart; resolving to be obedient.

The Lion said nothing and merely looked at him. "It is given that all things must face death," he said, and Peter knew not to press any further.

"Aslan," the young man hesitated. "You know I am still wounded. Is there a spell – an incantation – a working of magic that will defeat her and break her hold? I cannot fight her." He exhaled, slightly frustrated. "I hate this weakness."

This time the Great Lion did chuckle, little rolling grumbles of thunder. "Son of Adam," he said, "In your weakness you are made strong. Do not forget you are my representative here in this world. You reign as my king, my knight, my champion. Do you not exercise my authority, day in and day out? What you order bound is so; when you say come, they come; when you say go, they go."

His brow furrowed, the king was thoroughly flummoxed. "I don't understand," he said.

Aslan fluffed his whiskers in amusement. "Ah, Peter, my dear son," he said, and the complete, absolute love in his voice and in his beautiful, terrifying eyes made the High King laugh through sudden tears. "It is quite simple, after all. Tell her 'no'."

Peter opened and shut his mouth several times before he managed to put together a coherent thought in reply, stunned at the obvious answer. The Lion chuckled again and tenderly touched his tongue to the young man's forehead. "You have much to do on the morrow, and dawn will break soon," he said, "Sleep now, Peter High King. Rest quietly, peacefully, and without dreams."

And Peter did.