Peter's first impression was that he might be paralyzed. Or at least, he didn't know how to move without pain.
His body did feel quite strange. Wrong way up, almost. The back of him felt floaty, cotton-stuffed, aside from the burning ache. His chest on the other hand pressed against a firm but giving surface, though most of his face remained open to the air. Warm heat from his skin met either cool air, or damp fabric. He realized the fringe of his hair was plastered to his face, while his throat was completely dry. Too dry to speak.
What came out instead was this pitiful rasp of a groan.
Something moved at the edge of his awareness. No, two somethings. One on each side of him. A sensation akin to hands grasped his arms, started to turn him. The agony took his breath away.
His whole back felt like it was covered by a blanket of coals. How could someone hurt this much? But he had no strength to break out of the grip, and his groan could only rise to a hoarse, keening sound.
Something solid touched his lips. Beyond his delirium he thought he could hear a voice telling him to drink, so he did. Cool liquid soothed his throat. Reflexively he wanted to gulp it down, make up for how parched he felt, but the rest of him wouldn't respond. In any case, a bit slipped down his windpipe, sending him into an unbearable coughing fit mixed with pained whimpering…the hands lowered him down again into darkness…
"Peter…? Can you hear me?"
More pain. This time his mind wasn't quite as foggy. Someone's hand brushed his hair from his forehead. He attempted to reach toward it.
"Try not to move. You're still pretty bad off."
Peter's eyes fluttered open. Susan sat the closest, with Edmund and Lucy pressing in next to her.
"Hullo…" he mumbled lamely.
His siblings burst into joyous grins and tears (Edmund appeared to try to hide that fact, unsuccessfully). Now that he was waking up, Peter discerned that he was lying face-down, propped with pillows under his body so he wouldn't smother. A stiff layer of material covered his tormented back, over which must be a blanket, judging by the peripheral touch of fabric.
"Where are we…?"
"The castle infirmary," said Edmund. "You're never going to believe it, Prince Caspian is alive. Both he and Lucy turned up just in time to interrupt your—well, anyway, Miraz has been done away with. And the Prince has seen to it that you get the best care available."
"The stories were real! I went out to the forest, and Aslan came to help me! He must have helped Prince Caspian too, I found them together," Lucy piped up.
Peter was dumbstruck. Not only was this a lot of information to digest at once, all of it was shocking. Caspian survived after all?! Legends were coming true? He couldn't keep up. This must have shown on his face, because Susan quieted the others down.
"We shouldn't overwhelm you in your current condition. The physician had to keep you sedated for days, since every time you regained consciousness you were in so much pain. What matters is that you're on the mend."
Slowly his memories churned up. Being led onto the platform in the square. The executioner readying his whip. Peter's back throbbed in confirmation.
"You're all okay?" he asked to distract himself.
"Yes, all of us are safe now," Edmund assured him.
Peter wanted so badly to hug them, but he knew he wouldn't be able to manage it. He had to settle for reaching out a hand—his wrist was bandaged as well from his time spent in captivity—which his siblings happily held onto in return.
. . .
Laying on his stomach quickly became tiresome. Peter couldn't remember any time when he had moved so little, for so long. The physician maintained that his back was fragile, the skin needed a chance to knit together before he could return to a normal sleeping position. But Peter grew restless. He didn't like being inactive. And once he had convinced his siblings that he was going to be okay, that meant longer periods of time spent alone in the infirmary while the physician was out.
The window was perhaps ten feet away. He decided to chance it. Despite arms shaking slightly to brace against the discomfort, Peter slowly pushed himself almost to a seated position on the bed.
"Are you sure you're supposed to be doing that?"
His head snapped up. Prince Caspian leaned against the doorframe. The sight still astounded Peter even after being told the news.
"Your Highness, I—"
"Oh come now, I think we can do away with the formalities here." Caspian shut the door and walked forward. "I do owe you to some degree for saving my life."
"I thought I had failed, I couldn't find any sign of you—"
"Then you took the blame for the whole incident—you don't have to explain, I've gathered the story from several others. I'm lucky to have such a loyal friend as you. I only wish I could have made it back to the city faster." The prince took in Peter's appearance. Only that morning had the physician switched from poultices to wrapped bandages, a tedious process owing to the need to cover Peter's entire back. Bruising still blackened his right eye, and both of his wrists were still healing.
"None of this is your fault," insisted Peter. "Although since you're here now, I wouldn't mind an extra hand."
"Is moving around really a good idea?"
"Just to the window. I'm starting to lose my mind doing nothing but resting."
Caspian fixed him with a skeptical look before taking hold of Peter's bare arm. "I'm only doing this because it'll be worse if you keep trying to do it by yourself."
Peter wobbled to his feet, steadied by Caspian. Gingerly they made it over to the window, which Peter opened, and relished the fresh air. Sounds of the city going about its business drifted up to greet them.
"Have you been sneaking up here much? Can't say I remember the first days," remarked Peter.
"More when it was touch-and-go, I wanted to stay apprised of your condition. I tried to give you and your siblings as much privacy as possible, however. And of course there have been matters of the kingdom to attend to."
"You're to be crowned king soon, I take it?"
"Yes, that's one of the tasks at hand."
"I daresay you've proven yourself, riding in on a live lion from what I was told."
Caspian chuckled. "Certainly a unique way to return from the hunt."
"How did you survive the waterfall, let alone with an injured leg?"
"To be honest I didn't think I was going to. I lost track of everything in the churning water. Must've blacked out at some point, I hit my head more than once. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the bank, near this otherworldly clearing, and the lion was standing to one side."
"You know, back in Narnia we had a legend that there was a great guardian of the woods who took the form of a lion, appearing to travelers in need," said Peter.
"Your sister said as much. I spent days out there—once the lion assured me I was safe in the clearing, mind you—nursing my leg until I could walk again. Then one night just as dawn broke, Lucy just appeared. I don't know how she got out that far so quickly, although it did seem like a much shorter return journey than I expected. Anyway, it appears there may be truth in that legend of yours."
Peter simply nodded. He realized he was using the stone framing the window to prop himself up. Caspian prodded his shoulder.
"We should get you back to bed. The physician won't be pleased if he catches us like this."
"If we have to." Peter didn't want to admit it, but his back was really beginning to smart. Enough to make him lightheaded. Even lying facedown didn't seem all that bad in comparison.
"You'll be on your feet again in no time, Peter. For now, it's our turn to look out for you. You've done your duty."
A weight lifted from Peter, a tension he didn't even notice he was holding. Caspian was right, on all counts. And it was a relief, frankly, to not have to be the strong one for once. At least, he wasn't the only strong one. Perhaps that's what made a person's spirit unbreakable—not strength they alone possessed, but the collective strength that people gave each other when needed.