Forewords:

At last, the long expected chapter has been completed. Thank you all for patience, and for not tracking me down and murdering me for taking a year to write this. I had to set me passion aside for school, work and other such trifles. I hope this is satisfying, and I'll get right to the next chapter ASAP.

Chapter 6: Awakening

… Peter…

The faintest trace of a whisper alighted on his ears and lingered until he understood it. Awareness was slow in coming.

…Peter…

It was stronger this time, less distant, more commanding. Peter's mind was a confused jumble of emotion and senses in turmoil. He was blind and unfeeling: the only things real were the whispers, so he clung to them, focused everything on them.

Wake up, Peter.

As if forcefully pulled from the emptiness by the now deep and powerful voice, his body, almost too quickly to fathom, passed from feeling nothing to feeling everything, and more. There was a hole in his chest, and he could feel every inch of muscle and skin out of place, ripped open and bleeding. The ground beneath him, the sweat on his face, were such tiny sensations they only put into perspective and intensified the pain. Brow knitted in agony, Peter slowly slid his eyes open and sucked in a gasp of fresh air through his teeth.

It was as though the fog and the rainy gloom of that dreaded pine wood had never existed, and it had all just been a horrible nightmare. Sunlight gleamed from behind the silhouette of sweeping mountains in the distance, casting colours over an early morning sky. Just a few feet in front of him, Peter could tell that the ground dropped away very steeply, and that far, far below there were rolling hills and lakes and rivers and wondrous forests. Immense trees of all kinds, cedar and pine and maple and birch, were around and about him, but spread apart, keeping the scent of the place, sweet and woodsy, from being old and stuffy, though the smell was certainly not new, either. With each breath of air, Peter felt himself getting stronger, despite the tear in his flesh.

When he turned to look beside him, his eyes met the stunning beauty of an enormous lion's face, with ageless eyes full of terrible wisdom and strength. Peter didn't jump: it was as though he'd known all along that Aslan had been sitting beside him, watching him. And yet for some reason, he could not seem to meet the Great Lion's eyes. Instead, he focused on looking at his giant, golden paws, set squarely on the ground a few feet away.

"Do you know where you are, Peter?" Aslan asked, his deep, booming voice sending a chill through Peter.

The young man, who at that moment looked like a small boy in a great deal of trouble, folded his arms gently and protectively around himself and answered a very quiet "No."

He could not remember the last time he'd felt so insignificant and afraid. Under the terrifying scrutiny of Aslan's shining black stare, he felt like a wriggling little bug. How was it that sometimes in His presence, he could feel as great and as powerful as the king he was (or was supposed to be) and at other times the very thought of greatness was laughable, because Aslan was there and it showed him just how small and worthless he really was (or should be)?

A silence stretched out between them, deep, foreboding and thick with strain. Peter, sitting propped against a tree and struggling to keep his breathing steady despite the intense pain it caused him, waited uncomfortably for Aslan to speak, and when he didn't, and after what seemed like a very long time, he asked, "Where am I?"

Aslan leant down closer to him, as if to tell him a secret, his face stern and wonderful. "You are with me," he murmured, and it sounded like a growl. "Be at peace." He sighed out a puff of air, and Peter breathed it in and felt better.

The Great Lion stretched and settled himself on the ground and even so towered over Peter just the same. The young man found such closeness to him unbearable, burning with guilt and shame over what he'd done. He concentrated on the tips of his muddied black boots in front of him, avoiding Aslan's piercing stare.

"Some call this the Mountain of Aslan. It is where I reside when I am in need of rest." -and, as if he could tell what Peter was thinking – "Yes, even I need rest, Son of Adam." There was a trace of amusement in his deep, sombre voice. So many emotions in one sound.

Just like those screams. So many emotions. Fear, pain, confusion. Betrayal.

He could feel tears brimming in his eyes. Helpless to stop them, he turned away from Aslan in shame so that he wouldn't see. Foolish, he realised. Aslan knew everything.

Then the air seemed to thicken around him with menace. "You weep for the wrong reasons, King Peter!" Aslan boomed with sudden anger, and Peter was so taken by surprise that he jumped and turned to face him. And when their eyes met, he was hit by such a rush of understanding that he nearly collapsed. For a long moment, all he could do was look into those endless black windows and think about what it was he had done.

He was not to be ashamed for leading all those faithful, eager Narnians to a battle that he hadn't even understood, as he had though. He was not to be ashamed for running when the enemy struck, and leaving his men to die in senseless violence, as he had thought.

He was to be ashamed for despairing, losing faith, and claiming his life. He was to be ashamed for selfishly, thoughtlessly and hopelessly putting a stop to his own beating heart, a heart Aslan had deemed good and true and righteous, capable and willing to lead Narnia through every hour of his life thereon after until he could no longer. To have disregarded his duty to Aslan and to the entire nation under his protection, and to have willed himself out of existence, was a crime more grievous than any other possible of him.

He thought of all those Narnians who would be without their King, wondering, waiting for his return, all his subjects who needed him. He thought of Edmund and Susan. And Lucy. What would she think of him if she ever found out what a coward he was? What a selfish coward, to have killed himself?

Then Peter did begin to cry, sobbing quietly with his face in his hands, and the pain that engulfed him then was far worse than what it had been before, and far worse than his still open and bleeding chest in which he'd plunged his own dagger. Aslan said nothing; he simply lay there and watched unblinkingly.

Finally his tears subsided, and he wiped his face clean with the back of his hand, feeling like a child. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried. He glanced beside him to look at Aslan, but he had vanished. He thought briefly of getting up to look for him, but then remembered the state he was in and decided it best to just wait until he came back.

Peter closed his eyes and leant his head back against the tree, noticing for the first time how very quiet it was. There was no birdsong, no rustling leaves, not even the sound of the wind swooping about underneath the cliff's sheer drop. Peter felt warmth seep into him from the sun high in the sky, and took a deep breath of the clean forest air to clear his mind.

What is to become of me now? he wondered. I really am dead, aren't I? Am I simply to sit here with this hole in my heart forever? Until the end of time?

"Your knife, King Peter."

Peter's head jerked up. Aslan had returned, and in front of him, nested in the lush grass, was the very blade Peter had used on himself, glistening red against the light. He had no idea where it had come from: he couldn't recall having it in his hand when he'd woken. It laid there between Lion and Man as they both watched eachother.

"What am I to do with it?" asked Peter, peering at it warily.

"You must drive it back into where first you felt its touch."

Peter blinked in surprise. "Why?"

"It will send you back to the time and place you belong. This was not meant to happen, Son of Adam, and it will cost you greatly before this is ended, but go back you must, and do what it is that is needed of you."

"But I'm dead, aren't I?"

"No," Aslan rumbled. "You are not dead." Peter opened his mouth to speak, but the Great Lion rode over him. "I knew what you were about to do, and so I intervened in Time. You are an inch from death, though not quite there."

"You mean, you stopped time?" Peter asked, amazed.

"Time is nothing where we are, Son of Adam." He turned away, pacing along the edge of the trees. "One day I will explain it to you, but now it is enough to know that you are still alive and that you must remain so. Return the knife to your heart, and return to Narnia."

Peter looked down at the glistening blade, pressing a hand to his still bleeding chest. The pain was excruciating enough as it was: sweat dripped from his face, tense with the pain of the slash between his ribs. Moving made it even worse, he realised, when he leant over to grasp the hilt of the dagger and pull it up to his eyes. His blood still soaked the blade, oozing over the carved black handle.

Just slide it back in, and you can go back.

"Do I have to?"

Behind him, walking slowly away through the trees, Aslan stopped and turned half around. The shining, depthless black specks, even from a distance, told him more than any words could. He seemed almost disappointed that Peter had asked that. Then he disappeared behind an enormous trunk and Peter didn't see him again.

Peter sighed, sending a fresh jolt of pain through his lungs. It wasn't the pain of the dagger that he feared: that he could take. It was the pain of returning to what he had so completely been the cause of that he didn't know if he could stand: going back to face the guilt of those hundreds of Narnians who had died for nothing, all because of his mistake. He spun the knife between his fingers, hating himself. The hate turned to frustration. And the frustration to anger.

He'd been right: he was a coward. Not only because he'd left his men to die, but that now he was too afraid to go back and live with what he'd done. No. He owed it to everyone to be there and take responsibility. He had no right to escape their judgement like this. Peter's eyes narrowed with sudden fury and resolve. He would go back. He would go back and somehow make things right again.

Closing his eyes, he braced his grip around the hilt of the knife and once more sunk it into his heart.

Lucy sat up very suddenly in bed, her hand against her breast and her eyes wide. She sucked in a gasp of air through her open mouth and for a moment forgot to breathe as her eyes darted about the familiar corners of her expansive bedroom. And then she let the breath out again, feeling her heart starting to return to its normal pace.

She must have been having a nightmare, though what about she hadn't an inkling. She was horrible at remembering her dreams.

Lucy rubbed a hand across her eyes to rid them of sleep. Now that she was good and awake, there was really no point in staying in bed. She slipped out from under her covers, shivering in the cool autumn air. She would have to move into her winter room soon. Enveloping herself in her night coat and a pair of pearl-studded yellow satin slippers, she went to her morning table to brush out her hair, more out of habit than for any other reason, for it would be a long time before daybreak.

The flame of the candle she'd set down on her table lit up her looking glass as she ran the pick through her tresses, calm, even strokes to settle herself after the rude awakening. She closed her eyes against her reflection, and thought of Susan and her unexpected burst of hostility toward her siblings. There must be a reason. It couldn't simply be because she had so much power now that Peter was gone. There had to be something more.

Where had the times gone when she could have just stormed into Susan's room, started a row, have a go at if for awhile, get tired and have everything return to normal? She wanted so much to simply ask Susan what it was that was making her like this. The very idea seemed ridiculous now.

She set down her pearled brush and reached for the daintier comb. Instead of touching the cool silver of the handle, her fingers scraped against a smooth, soft piece of parchment. Taken by surprise, she snatched up the note and held it close to her face. It was only two lines.

Lucy,

Don't touch the ruby charm.

Lucy felt her body tingle with excitement and curiosity. This was neither Edmund's nor Susan's writing: Edmund's print was far larger and Susan's far loopier. She couldn't place it on anyone else, either. Tumnus the fawn, quite possibly her dearest friend in the palace, was accustomed to leaving her little notes, but he placed them on her pillow rather than her morning table, and his were much longer and less mysterious.

Don't touch the ruby charm.

Why not? What is the ruby charm? And who was it that had given her this? Was it a warning? Or a threat? Or a riddle? Or all at once?

Lucy tucked the note under her sash and dashed out the door. Mysteries like these were far too intriguing to be tossed aside.