Disclaimer: C.S. Lewis'.

Rating: G

Notes: Er. I have no idea where this came from, so please don't hurt me. A really-mini-epilogue-esque-ending. I don't want to say what I had in mind when I wrote it; I'd rather you read it, and if you have a clue as to what I was trying for, please review and tell me. :) Thanks. :)


The slam is like a butcher's cleaver through his body, clean and quick and ripping him from skull through spine to pelvis,

it's sturdy silver against bronze and copper, and in his hands, his weapon can be stronger than his very soul

as, somewhere, screams curdle blood and horror-gasps echo through the whirling tracks of his mind,

and in battle it's all about adrenaline, throbbing like an anthem through his veins, he knows

and he hears, distantly, the oh-so-familiar gasps of Lucy and Ed like before,

like before, when they were just growing up in the pale shadow of the Witch, in their long-ago lives

and he hears, loud, the drumming of his heart in his throat chest eyes ears

growing up in their Narnia, and the thump-thump of the war drums and the thump-thump of racing hooves

and when he closes his eyes, it's like home once again, and he tastes salt

and it's Aslan Aslan Aslan

tears – salty like the dirt of a war, only it's the metal crumbs of a wrecked railway smashing into his jaw

and finally

Finally, Peter remembers the taste of freedom.