A/N: As the summary says, this is designed to be a prequel to "Kings in Exile." Believe it or not, I actually conceived of this story and wrote the prologue about two years ago, because I've always thought one of the cruelest plot twists in all of literature was Peter and Susan's (and subsequently Edmund and Lucy's) exile from Narnia. I wanted to explore what justifiable reason there was for exiling the High King. Now I'm finally picking up the story again, because of course I've seen the movie. I love the book Prince Caspian. I also love the movie. I realize that there were a lot of plot changes, and I'm a bit of a purist, but frankly, those plot changes were cool. Peter fighting, Peter having some teething problems with Caspian--it all fits in very much with how I imagine his character. Ergo, this story will be somewhat book verse, somewhat movie verse, and sometimes a melding of the two which is my own version. Such a lovely world fanfic is. Enjoy! And let me know how you like it, if you care to.

The weather was unusually hot for late September, and there were bees buzzing merrily near the ivy outside the window. More than anything Peter wanted to be running across the lawns, free from drudgery for a little while. No, not more than anything. The thing he wanted most was to be running across the fields in Narnia with his sword in his hand, helping Caspian learn how to govern the land. Though who knows? Perhaps by now Caspian had lived some two score years…

The professor's high droning voice cut across his thoughts. "Now, gentlemen, who can tell me what happened to Napoleon after his defeat at the battle of Leipzig? Ah, yes, Mr. Eversham."

"He abdicated," Eversham said smugly. Peter sighed a little and started to doodle in the corner of his notebook.

"And did the Allies accept this abdication?"

"No. They wanted him to surrender unconditionally, and so they had him sign the Treaty of Fontainebleau," Eversham continued. Peter heard Edmund mocking him in his head. Imagining what his brother would say made Peter smile, and he bent his head further over his notebook, continuing his idle doodles. He realized he was tracing the pattern of the lion rampant on his shield, and he started to work more intently, so much so that he was quite startled when Potter poked him from behind and hissed "Pevensie! Haven't you got ears? He's calling on you."

Peter looked up at once, and the professor was staring down his nose at him. "Sorry, sir?" Peter asked politely. He fought down the surge of annoyance at the condescending expression.

The professor's face melted a bit; Peter had developed a talent for making teachers like him. He's so polite, they said. So respectful and mindful of his duties to the school. They wished that he could teach his brother to follow in his footsteps. Peter often chafed at these glowing letters, but now he was a little grateful. The professor rarely repeated questions, he merely docked points. However, he said in a crisp voice, "I asked, Mr. Pevensie, what the conditions of the Treaty of Fontainebleau were aside from utter surrender."

Peter fought to keep his face impassive and not blush. Lucy did this often, and he had the same tendency as her when embarrassed, he just hid it better. "He was exiled to Elba," he said in a steady voice.

"And did he stay there?"

"No. He sailed back to France and began the Hundred Days."

"Precisely. Very good, Mr. Pevensie." He strode back to the lectern at the front of the room. "Napoleon still had so much support in France that the story goes he rode alone on horseback to greet the army the King had sent to stop him and, dismounting said, 'Friends, you know me. If any of you would shoot his emperor, do it now.' The men did not shoot, they cheered 'Vive l'Empereur!' and helped him march to Paris and take the city, and thus the nation. Naturally the British and their allies were not about to let Napoleon seize power again, and so they sent soldier to the field. The resulting campaign culminated at Waterloo, where the Duke of Wellington…"

Here Peter started to tune out again. He had bent over his notebook again to write a note about the soldiers shouting "Vive l'empereur!" and wound up staring at his half-drawn lion.

He was properly British in some ways, and he knew enough to consider Napoleon a tyrant of the continent. He celebrated the fact that Nelson's column still stood tall in Trafalgar Square in spite of all the efforts of the Germans to raze London with bombs. Still, he couldn't help feeling a moment of empathy for the Emperor. That moment where the armies cheered his return must have hit him straight in the heart. It must have been the exact sound he was longing to hear. Who knew the love of a people better than Peter, who had Trumpkin introduce him at every turn as the High King and the Old Narnians welcome him with strained and joyous excitement. And then of course came the second exile for Napoleon, farther away to St. Helena, and the knowledge that he would never see his beloved France again. Maybe Peter didn't love France the way Napoleon did, but he knew what it was like to love the country you ruled, and now he knew what it was like to live with the knowledge you'd never see it again. He made a promise, if he ever got to Paris, to visit Napoleon's tomb and pay his respects. He knew Napoleon wasn't all peerless glory; he, Peter, would never crown himself, snatching the crown from Aslan to do it. Yet if he ever chanced to meet the French Emperor, he couldn't help but feel they'd have quite a lot to talk about.

The professor dismissed the class, and as Peter closed his notebook he took one last glance at the lion rampant and the line he had scratched next to it: "Vive l'empereur!" In his head he heard the roar of the people, his people: "All hail Peter, High King of Narnia!" He could see the vision before his eyes. The Narnians, flushed and jubilant with victory, raising their glasses and their voices to him. Beside him, even Caspian joined in heartily. The huge bonfire crackled, sending sparks up into the velvet sky. Peter lifted his eyes as if he could see it, but instead he saw the plain white ceiling of the classroom and a musty cobweb in the corner. The sounds around him became not the harmonious roar of Narnians in their thousand voices, but the braying of schoolboys let out for the day. Peter sighed wearily and got up slowly from his seat, taking up his notebook to examine his old heraldic arms one more time before going to seek his brother.