Disclaimer: The story has up to this point insisted on its own way, and has now left me hanging with no direction at all I've very little idea what's going to happen in the rest of this tale, and can hardly claim it as mine. Frustrating story.

Beta'd by trustingHim17 - thank you!

OOOOO

Their circumstances had hardly changed from a few hours ago, Peter reflected grimly as he listened to the Squirrel. More bruises, more information, but basically unchanged. No, the only thing that had changed was what had to be done. He closed his eyes, taking a moment to breathe through the pain. He began counting the scratching footsteps and his brow furrowed. Patterfeet wasn't running. That was odd. Unless—Peter scrambled to his feet, hissing softly as his weight rested on bruises, reaching for the bars. Surely the Squirrel hadn't been harmed?

One step. Then another. And a sound that hadn't been there before, the sound of metal slowly dragging over the dirt floor. Peter's heart winced; what if the Squirrel was chained? But - why wouldn't there be people with him. Peter almost called out, but pressed his lips together. It would not be good for Patterfeet if Dagguer knew Peter valued a fellow prisoner.

Two more slow steps, and another slow dragging. Peter, holding the bars for balance, moved achingly over to the far side, so he could see at angles down the cave, watching for the first glimpse. It was a tail first, Patterfeet's brown, busy tail, held almost straight up. The Squirrel was facing back the way he came, dragging something, Peter realized, as the hind feet came in sight and the Squirrel's back strained itself into view, pulling something. But it was a rope around the Squirrel's waist, looped, not tied. Peter closed his eyes for a moment in relief, then opened them once more.

The Squirrel was dragging the large, heavy bucket of water down the hall. Straining to move something larger than he was himself, Peter could hear Patterfeet grunting as he fought the barrel for every inch.

"Patterfeet!" Peter called softly, and the Squirrel jumped, turning in midair, the rope dropping from his waist.

"King Peter!" Patterfeet ran down the hall and through the bars in moments, Peter feeling small claws catch on his clothing and instantly releasing as Patterfeet climbed him. The Squirrel's small paws patted all over Peter's face, gently avoiding the cuts, the Squirrel mumbling, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I hid, I remembered you said to, and I wanted to come out, to stop them, and I jumped down, but Oreius said we have to obey, and I went back up again, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, so very sorry, King Peter." Tears were splashing down from the bright black eyes and around the tiny nose.* Peter lifted up on careful hand and wiped them away, one side and then the other, than back again as the Squirrel blinked and more fell.

"Be at peace, good cousin. I am well. Bruises are not so uncommon for those who defend Narnia, and bruises and a bit of a blood are all I have. See?" and Peter patted the Squirrel's head comfortingly. "I yet retain motion in all my limbs and there is nothing broken inside. It is well, little cousin."

"But you're bleeding," the Squirrel protested, and Patterfeet's paw patted gently at Peter's cheek.

"Not much; 'twill stop soon."

"I brought water," Patterfeet remembered, nearly jumping off Peter's shoulder in eagerness to go get what he'd brought for his King. "I can help; I couldn't help before, but I can help now. I can drag – King Peter, what is it?" For the High King had put one large hand over the Squirrel to stop him from moving.

"I must ask your help for another task, and one which will displease you," Peter said softly. He moved to the back wall, sitting down very slowly, but not letting a single sound of pain escape to distress the Squirrel. He took one paw and led the Squirrel down his arm and into his lap, the Squirrel standing on his legs and looking at him seriously. "How many of the words in Uvayeth's chambers reached your attentive ears?"

"All of them, my King. I didn't know if you wanted me to do anything, and I was listening for it, sir" Patterfeet explained.

"Then you know of the evil Dagguer brings on our people. Uvayeth and his men I can take well enough, once healed; they distress me not. But the evil this plague of kidnappers visits on Narnia must be ended, and that soon. If Aslan wills that Igteroth not return with the fifteen slaves (and I would rescue them as well, if Aslan permits) and I am to be delivered to those who eat us, then we know not where the Giants of Harfang reside, and have not time to scour the Northern lands to find them in time to save my royal head from becoming pie. But we have five days till then. We are not in Narnia," and Peter cupped his hands under the Squirrel, lifting the large Animal closer to his face. "There is no other land where kindness is oft accorded to Animals, and when I send you, you must be cautious. Hide from all those you do not know. Head south, praying to Aslan to guide your paws to Narnian lands, and from there seek help to fly to Cair Paravel, and tell my sisters and brother all this tale. Mark your path as you go, that you may lead them back, and Dagguer and his lot, and Uvayeth and his grasping companions, may learn of justice in Narnian courts, or at the end of a Narnian blade."

"But who will look after you, King Peter, sir?" The hind feet were clenching around Peter's fingers, and the dark eyes had grown bigger in the pointed face.

Peter laughed; he could not help it, for it was a question (or accusation) that had been said to him more than once. "Aslan's paws hold us all, little cousin. If I am left with none but Him, I am still safer than if Oreius and all his guard were here."

Patterfeet frowned, thinking it over. "No," he said at last. Peter raised an eyebrow. "No, sir. No. I mean yes, sir, you're safe that way, sir, but Oreius told me not to leave, sir, till someone else could watch you, and I don't think he meant Aslan, sir, and he told me not to let you talk me out of it. And he said you'd try, and I'd have to listen, and be respectful, and obey, unless I thought it wasn't safe for you, and I don't think it's safe here, sir. So I can't leave, but can I please go get the water, sir?"

Peter closed his eyes. He knew why Oreius had said that, of course; this was a training exercise for the Squirrel (and a way of keeping an eye on the King), and not meant to be an actual mission where yes, Patterfeet would need to obey orders. But why, Aslan, did You have to allow this on top of everything else? The King debated arguing it out for that moment, but he'd seen children—and Patterfeet was little more than that, no matter his courage—turn stubborn before, and knew reason and commands would both be useless at this moment. And the Squirrel might feel better if Peter was at least attended to. "The bucket should be put back, little cousin, so none stumble across it, but I would accept a cup with thanks. Understand our discussion is not finished," he said, once more catching Patterfeet with one hand before the Squirrel could bound away. "There is yet more lessons you must learn about the authority of Kings, even over generals, and I fear this lesson must be learned now. But water first, as thanks for your kindness in pulling it so far."

The Squirrel—having realized the barrel would not get through the bars—lifted the cup out of the barrel and brought it to the cell, and Peter asked for his help in washing off the blood and dirt on his face, since the King couldn't see it very well. That finished, and Patterfeet having made the laborious journey to put the bucket back and dusted the prints away with his tail, Peter settled down against the wall once again, the Squirrel standing at attention in front of him.

"I understand you have been given orders," Peter began. "Your orders are from Oreius. You listen to him because you are pledged to his authority, are you not?" Patterfeet nodded. "He is pledged to mine, and through him, you also are pledged to me. All Narnians are, for Aslan gave them to me to guard, and in return they must give me their obedience. You must obey what I command of you. And I tell you, as your High King and Aslan's appointed authority, to go back to Narnia, and lead my brother and sisters here." Patterfeet's tail curled around his feet as he looked at the ground.

"I know that, sir, I do, I do, but-"

"But?" Peter asked after the pause continued.

"I don't want to leave you alone here, sir, and I haven't seen Aslan. Couldn't He show Himself, before I left? Just so I know you're not alone, sir, and if they come again—I wasn't much help, sir, but, but, they hurt you, and I don't want you to be alone, sir. Aslan made four of you, sir, so you'd not be alone, and sir, sir, couldn't I just see Him before I left?"

"That is ours to ask, but not ours to demand. Whether He shows Himself or not, little cousin, you must be His page and obey. Narnia," and Peter laid both hands on the tiny shoulders, "is what you must be concerned with now. Will you listen to me, obeying Aslan, and go where someone must?" Patterfeet gulped but nodded. "Then back to the hall with you, good cousin, and Aslan go with you." Peter again painfully got to his feet, but paused at the sound at the end of the hall. The door, he realized, and without a second's hesitation threw Patterfeet up towards the hiding place the Squirrel had made in the cell's ceiling. Patterfeet scrabbled at the dirt, bits raining down on Peter as they crumbled, but caught his balance quickly and vanished with a flick of his tail. Peter looked down as he realized with apprehension he was far to clean, and scooped up some dirt from the floor to rub on his hands, and smeared one hand on his face. He curled back against the back wall, lying down and hoping his captors would think he was sleeping off the pain.

Footsteps—a single pair this time. They approached the cell quickly. Peter did not stir, even when they paused.

"Ah, I'd be acting asleep too, King of Narnia, that I would. Though mayhaps it's not an act. And it's sorry I am for the beating, but there you are, nothing for it! The men must be kept happy. Nothing broken, though, by the way you're lying. Good, good! Now I thought you'd like to hear the news, for news I have, you see. Igteroth—Calormene names are strange, aren't they?—will be off in half an hour, and we've royally frightened him—ha ha, royally, do you get it? Ah, the payday must be making me giddy. Fifteen slaves'll be enough to set me right up, see? So I thought you'd like to know it's like as not we'll get them. Igteroth is a sheep, coward through and through. A coward and a fool, I don't like dealing with their likes." Peter could hear Dagguer shaking his head. "I like you better. But business is business, see? But I came to tell you it looks like it's Calormen for you, and not the Giants. Just as well. More men for us, in the long run. Right! Well, I'll be off. I've a ship to see sail." Peter still didn't move, even as the footsteps retreated. Not until the sound of the door closing echoed down and the hall remained silent did he open his eyes, pushing himself up (silently) and shaking his own head. Dagguer was mad, he was quite certain. Fond enough of a prisoner to bring him good tidings, but not enough to stop him from selling the prisoner to giants to be eaten.

"Sir?" questioned a timid voice from the ceiling.

"Down, good Patterfeet, if you would," Peter responded. He knelt once the Squirrel was before him. "Many of the men will be watching the ship sail; 'twill be easier to leave the caves. Watch the stars, good cousin, and mark by the Leopard which direction you travel." Patterfeet nodded again, and hiccupped. "Aslan give you courage, good cousin. Five days."

Patterfeet bowed—the same bow Peter had seen in the halls of Cair Paravel, a bow that reminded the King of his station in the midst of a dirty cell—and left with a scurry of his claws.

"Aslan, keep him safe, and Narnia free," Peter whispered, listening till the door again shut softly. And thank You, that Patterfeet did not leave earlier, and be caught by Dagguer on the way. Peter paused. The Squirrel had been about to leave—he would have left, if he had not earlier stubbornly, annoyingly insisted on staying. A slow smile grew, till it filled Peter's bruised face. You made Patterfeet stay till it was safe for him to leave, did You not? For all it had annoyed Peter—it had been for their safety. Though he had not seen Aslan, Peter saw again proof that Aslan guided them even here. Thank You, King above all High Kings.


The next few days dragged for the High King. Once a day, some of the band brought him food, and a few times Dagguer came to chat—unwelcome company, but one Peter bore with fortitude. He learned nothing new from the man sitting on the stool outside the door, save that Dagguer owned pigeons. He'd sent these with his sailors, and the (normal) birds would occasionally fly back with news from the journey attached to their legs. Igteroth had arrived in Calormen, going straight to Uvayeth's estate to collect the slaves. One of the band—Beten, Dagguer said—went with him. Dagguer expected another pigeon the following day, telling them the men had set sail ("with the slaves, o course, see, King?"). Dagguer seemed to think these visits were comforting to the High King. Granted, Peter did not relish the thought of being eaten, but it was the healing of his bruises (though they bloomed in many colors), and the limbering of his muscles that gave him the most comfort, for if the slaves came he wished to be ready to take his freedom by force from the Calormens.

Only the next day came, and the pigeon did not. Dagguer was uneasy, Peter could tell, but still reassuring. "Lots can happen to birds over the sea, see? And Beten, he don't write so well, and maybe he lost his ink. Not like you, King. No worry yet, see?"

"Not for you," Peter responded. "For all your heart can worry for is the loss of your gold. Fool, for you cannot see that all that you have will be taken! Gold, freedom, and mayhap your life, as you have often taken what is not yours. This is your first warning, Dagguer. Take heed of it. This will not go to your plan."

Dagguer looked at him, studying. Peter let him; the man could no longer discomfort him, for he had no more Narnian lives to threaten Peter with. "So sure," Dagguer muttered. "So sure in this. Why? What 'ave you, King of Narnia, as makes you so sure? Look at you! Captive, hungry, and possibly meat. You've everything taken from you, not me!" Dagguer kicked his stool back as he stood, suddenly menacing. Peter looked at him calmly from the inside of the cell.

"You cannot take from me what Aslan has entrusted me with," Peter responded quietly. "There is reason you call me 'King' even here."

Dagguer clenched his fists, mouth opening to retort—and then closing with a hiss. The madman turned, striding away from the cell. He did not return the next day, though Peter wondered if the bird had returned, and what it's message would have said. He did not think Dagguer would have any regrets about selling him to the Giants now.

The fourth day passed, hour by crawling hour. Peter spent it reworking an old Narnian poem—a cry for help to Aslan, actually, written before their reign—and calming his spirit to the idea of either fate. It was Aslan's choice, not his enemies', and he would gladly accept whatever Aslan sent his way. He settled himself down to sleep on those thoughts.

He woke on the fifth day to grinning men—one of them Siseke, if Peter remembered Dagguer's shouting aright, the gravel-voiced man who acted as the second-in-command—rattling the bars. "His High Kingliness is awake," the unknown man sneered, his hand already at the knife on his wrist. "Just waking up in time for the news, he is."

"And what news is that, good hosts?" Peter inquired, sitting up.

"No bird's come," Siseke grunted at him. "Fifth day's come. No ship by sunset, and we'll be moving ya."

"Dagguer's already givin' orders," the second man rejoined. "We've come to treat your bruises, we 'ave. 'Wouldn't do for the meat to spoil,' he said. Up!" the man ordered, opening the cell door. They had grown bolder on seeing Peter had kept his word, even during the beating. "Jar, e's bringin' ice." Peter stood quietly, allowing them to treat the colorful spots on his arms and face. He showed none of the fear the men kept trying to provoke with their jeering remarks. Aslan guides my fate, he reminded himself, thinking of the song he had rewritten. There is nothing they can do to me but what He allows.

Finally tiring of their jeering, and not daring to bruise him further, his captors eventually left. The quiet was almost worse, Peter thought wryly. It was much easier to silence his fears when defiance was needed. But when defiance vanished, trust could still be had. He looked out the cell door, ready to be gone, but praying he left as one rescued, not as a captive. Aslan, he asked, let my siblings and my people hurry. Freedom calls to me strongly, and I am ready to see evil workings cease.

OOOOO

*I could not, upon Googling, find out whether or not squirrels have tear ducts, and attempting to look up them "crying" just came up with the way they make sounds. I am therefore decreeing that in Narnia they are capable of crying.

A/N: By the way, Patterfeet's (as-yet undiscovered) fate is not entirely my fault. It hadn't occurred to me to do anything to him, till SouthwestExpat asked me to be kind to him. And, well, that tends to give the more evil of authors ideas. Please feel free to share the blame. ;)

Response to Anonymousme: I tried to make that less of a cliffhanger; was that better? Because I do unfortunately have to end somewhere, and this was better than anywhere else. Life's busier now (spring's here!) so I usually have time to write about 5 pages instead of seven; but I'm thinking we should finish this story in 2 or 3 chapters. Hopefully. Maybe. If it behaves. Have a lovely week, and I hope your weather is warm and sunny!