A/N: Righto…phew, this is hard work…okay. I hope my notes in the previous chapters helped clear up any speculation. If not, well, I'll have to try again. This chapter is mostly about Peter's journey. I had to combine two parts into one because I think many people are anxious to get back to the real world, including Peter himself. I realize most people want this story to get more…well…normal, so the abstract symbolism will be over soon, I promise.

Warning: CHARACTER DEATH and vivid description of injury in this chapter. You have been forewarned...

Chapter eight

Peter stared, his heart thundering in his ears, making him feel slightly lethargic and nauseous. What the hell was he doing here, out in the trenches, in the middle of the war their mother had tried so desperately to shield them from? He felt detached, unreal, and yet his body was feeling more solid than it had in all his time on this…journey…or whatever it may be. His hands felt the dirt beneath his feet, he could smell the intoxicating fumes of the gas and the choking thickness of the air, and coughed slightly.

"…Peter…?"

Peter blinked wearily, and nodded slightly as he rose to his feet. Nearby, he could hear the other soldiers in the trench beginning to mutter.

"Poor blighter…gone off his nut, like the others. Shellings finally got to him."

"I heard him say that name afore, Peter, in his sleep. Along with others. Must be his family, you reckon?"

"Yeah. If he freaks, let him go. We don't have no time for no crazy nuts."

Henry Pevensie quite suddenly leapt upwards as though he had been given an electric shock, and vaulted the sandbag mound with slight difficulty. His comrades hissed for him to come to his senses, but he began to advance towards Peter, limbs emitting tremors of fatigue. Peter felt a wave of terror pulsate through him like poison. He could hear the slightly faded harsh voices of the enemy in the opposing trench just a few feet away.

"Etwas hat bewogen – hast du gehort?"

"Ja...sehen!"

Peter flinched from the sound of the foreign tongue, and felt his fear increase tenfold. He stumbled forwards, reaching out a hand to his father.

"No, don't! Go back!"

He froze, recalling a time which seemed so long ago now when he had uttered the exact same words.

'Go back! Go back, get the girls and get out of here!'

Edmund hadn't listened to him, either. And now, God knew what had happened to him. He could be dead, he could still be lying there on the field, cold and lost and forgotten, and here Peter was wasting his time gallivanting around in a world which probably wasn't even real!

Or was it? His father seemed so real, so close...so alive...

"No, Dad! Please...don't!"

"Fertig? Los!"

Peter felt, in that moment, that the last shreds of his tattered and torn childhood left him. He was suddenly deaf. It was not like the heroic, neatly planned deaths he had seen in books or even at the pictures. His father did not have the firm, resigned resolve in his eyes that actors had when they donned their roles. He was terrified. His body jerked and twisted in a sickening mimic of a dance, before contorting and becoming rigid as the second wave of bullets tore through him, embedded themselves in his flesh.

Peter could hardly feel the wet shower of blood which splattered over his face, covering his vision with clots of crimson. He didn't even blink the foreign liquid away as it mixed with salty tears and wound its way down his left cheek. Blood. Edmund. Father. Dead.

He was numb. The contours of every bone in his body shook with terror, his own blood seeming to freeze in his veins, his heart halt in its beating to mourn. He didn't really feel himself fall to his knees, or scramble over to grasp the coarse material of the soldier who could not have been his father.

He couldn't be.

He wasn't dead.

He couldn't be.

There was silence now, as though the entire world around him was holding its breath. Harsh breathing and the pulsating trickle of his father's life fluid pouring over his hands, slick and slimy and unbearably hot. He could feel every beat of the man's weakening heart, hear every torn gasp for air which made his body convulse and jolt awkwardly.

It was not a noble, nor an honourable death. There was no shared last goodbye, no token of farewell, no trinket given to return to their family. There were no utters of 'I love you' or last requests which could kindle hope. Nothing. His father only stared up at him, eyes filled with fear, afraid of death, too weak to convey his last emotions to his son. His bloodless lips twitched upwards in the shadow of a smile, which coupled with his sickly pallor seemed more sinister than comforting.

"Daddy?"

There was a last shudder, and the body beneath him went impossibly still. Peter heard disembodied voices howling in the silence.

"By God…"

One soldier made the sign of the cross over his chest, staring with disbelief at the apparition bowed beside the fallen soldier. He was a young man, only seventeen. He had lied about his age, joined the army to fight for his country. He had never seen death before the war.

An elderly soldier, world wearied by the sorrow, placed a wrinkled hand on the young man's shoulder and squeezed gently.

"Now, lad. Do you see what we are fighting for?"

And as the young man watched the golden haired boy, who to his eyes, appeared to be a guardian angel weep silently over the man's body, he nodded.

"Yes. Yes, I know now what we're fighting for."

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Aslan stared evenly at the wolf, a messenger from the Queen, and the creature lowered its gaze and raised its hackles, snarling. It hastily dropped a large scroll of parchment bound by an ice blue ribbon, then darted out of the tent and towards the edge of the encampment. Borius, the centaur general, reached down and retrieved the fallen document, then unrolled it and bowed slightly to Aslan, tearing off the ribbon, unfolding it and laying it flat on the low wooden table in the middle of the main tent.

Aslan frowned as he read:

The High Queen of Narnia, Empress of the Lone Islands and most worthy monarch of the Land addresses Aslan, Lion of lands unknown.

I am not an ungracious host, Aslan. Though it seems you defy death, it has not aided you in your quest to place Humans on the throne of Narnia. I am in possession of something very precious to you.

You have violated our bond. I have not received that which is my right to own. I have not had a sacrifice, none which remained valid since you re-entered this world, I have not received the blood owed to me.

I have every right to slit both of the Son's of Adam's throats, and make no mistake, I will not hesitate to do so. However, as I also am a merciful Queen, I shall extend the hand of peace and offer you a truce, on these conditions:

The sons of Adam will not be harmed, unless the following agreement is violated. If that is so, I will immediately cut their throats myself, without hesitation nor negotiation.

The Land of Narnia shall be split into the North and the South. The upper land shall be owned by me, with the border joined by the landmarks of the Lampost of the Wild woods of the West, the Dam belonging to the Beavers, the tributary where the Great River splits, and the summit of the Ettinsmoor Mount.

Therefore, I shall own: Lantern Waste, the Great River, Owlwood, Northern Marshes and the River Shribble to the East.

The rest belongs to the Daughters of Eve and all Narnian creatures loyal to them. If any such creature were to venture over the border, the truce is violated and my army shall attack, while the Sons of Adam will be executed.

If you agree to these terms, the Daughters of Eve must place a drop of blood each upon the seal below to bind their will.

QUEEN JADIS

Aslan turned to Borius, who nodded and left the tent in one swift leap. This did not bode well, not at all. This whole business should have been over and done by now, the witch dead and gone and the four thrones in Cair Paravel filled. He wished he could offer some form of guidance to the daughters of Eve, but what more could he do? He could not dictate their answer.

Presently, Susan and Lucy entered, looking tired and flustered. Lucy especially appeared utterly exhausted, her clothes rumpled and dark smudges beneath her usually shining eyes. The aftermath of the battle was taking its toll.

Aslan jerked his head at the parchment, and Susan bent down and held it in both hands, while Lucy leant on her sister and read over her shoulder.

Their eyes widened in distress, and both looked to Aslan with pleading eyes. The great lion lowered his head in sadness, then shook it slowly from side to side.

"Do not look to me for counsel. It is not my choice to make."

Lucy stood up abruptly, eyes filling with tears.

"Oh, but Aslan-!"

Aslan stiffened and his voice grew less gentle, but not angry.

"Daughters of Eve. This is your country, your time, not mine. You must decide. Which do you value most? Your Kingdom, of Narnia, or your blood kin?"

The sisters looked to each other, then back to the parchment now gripped tightly between Susan's trembling hands. They shared one last glance, then nodded resolutely, and Lucy reached to her belt and drew her dagger from it's sheath, placing it in her palm, the blade already digging into the soft flesh.

Aslan closed his eyes and sighed wearily.

"So be it."

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Peter didn't really register the fact that the hard packed battlefield had faded, and that he now stood in a semi dark, ordinary kitchen. He didn't know how much more he could take. His body was shuddering with emotion and grief, and his heart had slowed, as though it, too, wished to just give up and allow him to curl into a ball and die. A single thought wrenched itself up from the impenetrable blackness to make his head rise.

Edmund. Remember Edmund, and Susan, and Lucy. They need you. You cannot just give up.

But Peter wanted so desperately wanted to. He didn't care any longer if this was real or not, he just…couldn't keep fighting forever. With each breath he drew, he felt he was losing a piece of himself. He was being pulled this way and that, and there was no salvation either way. It would never end. Even if he returned to Narnia, there would still be a battle to be fought. And he would have to be the one to lead. No matter where he went in this world, there would always be evil to conquer, people to protect.

But maybe that was what growing up meant. To accept responsibility. To accept the right to make your own choices, and make them wisely, selflessly. His father was dead. There was no kindly leader to look up to for his family, any more. Peter could not go to anyone to cry on their shoulder when he fell and grazed his knee. There was no one he could go to, to solve his problems, to ruffle his hair and tell him he was being silly when the monster under his bed crept out to eat him at night. His mother could not take any more sorrow any better than he could. He had to be strong. He could be strong.

Peter clenched his hands together and brought them to his forehead, taking deep breaths, allowing all the hurt to slip away with each exhalation. He could do this. He wasn't a child anymore. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, stiffening his muscles to quell their trembling and bringing the soft material to his face. The blood had turned cold now, was drying and becoming crusted like scabs on his face. He closed one eye and wiped it off. Some crumbled, some he had to scrub vigorously to remove.

He dropped the material once he was sure his face and hands were clean, firmly refusing to acknowledge that it had turned a deep crimson. If this was a dream…then he must be asleep. And as he was not dead, yet, he must be safe. There was nothing to be afraid of.

After all, dreamers are only believers in their sleep. He had told that to Lucy many times when she had woken in tears from a nightmare and wished she was unable to dream. He had to heed his own words. And find a way to wake up from his own nightmare. He reached behind himself and grabbed hold of a cold metal handle of the cabinet he was leaning against. All the tears had been wiped clean along with the blood. He would shed no more children's tears tonight, or ever again.

He smiled stiffly, wiped all expression from his face, and strode swiftly from the room into the dark, hauntingly familiar hallway beyond.

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Cifel doubled over in pain as the emotions being emitted from the eldest son of Adam suddenly increased tenfold and bombarded him with turmoil. There was utter chaos for a few seconds, before some foreign force suddenly slammed up, cutting off the connection violently, and Cifel cried out as all readings he had been receiving were cut off. The youngest son of Adam frowned, sighed, and turned over onto his back in his sleep.

Cifel put a hand to his aching head, trying to calm the pounding in his skull and drawing his aura back to its normal state. He stared at his shaking hands, then turned to look out of the frosted window down to the courtyard below.

What the bloody hell was that!

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A/N: Phew, that was difficult…I hope I got all of the dynamics of Narnia right…I checked a map on the internet. If you want a clearer picture of the witch's demands, go to Google and images then type in 'Narnia map' and have a look! There's now only one more chapter to go before Peter and Edmund are back in Narnia for good (as far as you know). The weird dreams will stop then, I promise! The story gets simpler after that…thanks for hanging in there!

Translations for the German soldiers speech:

Etwas hat bewogen – hast du gehort? Something moved – did you hear it?

Ja...sehen! Yes...look!

Fertig? Los! Ready? Go! (as in, shoot)

Next up, poor old Peter gets yet another shock, Cifel actually does something useful, Lucy and Susan encounter emotional turmoil, and Edmund has his second to last beach dream (only one more to go after this, I swear!)

If anyone can predict precisely where Peter is now, let me know! I want to see if anyone has figured out the pattern…

Review if you are feeling charitable!