Umm...hi! It's been awhile-so sorry! I've had midterms, migraines, and no spare time, so writing has had to be put on the backburner for a bit, but I wanted to at least post something. This chapter was meant to be the requested Lucy chapter-that also was the next one scheduled to be posted, but because of my hectic schedule that did not happen. This is Peter's next chapter, and it's being posted now for the simple reason that it was partially written already because the first half was originally intended to be included in Peter's last chapter, but that ended up making it way to long. Anyway, I really do apologise for not having Lucy and Susan's chapters ready, but I am working on them now and hope to have them posted in the next week or so. Fingers crossed.

Aslan's Daughter: An explanation of Aslan in Archenlandish culture will be included t some point in one of Peridan's later chapters. I definitely have a lot to say on the matter, so stay tuned so to speak! Sorry about this not being Lucy's chapter; she is coming up next and it will be a long one!

12th.-13th. of Greenroof, 1012—Seventhday-Eighthday

Peter drifted through the next day in haze that barely felt real. There were council meetings, streams of strangers with sad faces pouring through the gates to offer their condolences, and running below it all like a treacherous current were the whispers. Everyone had their own speculations as to what had happened—everyone claimed they wanted to know, but scarcely anyone seemed to believe the truth.

It was one of King Edmund's tricks, the kinder of the gossips claimed, he was alive somewhere and it was all part of a plot to force the Calormenes into showing their true intentions. Alternatively, they believed he had been betrayed by one of his "disreputable Calormene informants" and Narnia was in terrible danger. Queen Lucy must have been involved, others insisted, she was missing—not dead—and would reappear with a fleet of pirate ships at her command. Or, she was being held captive by bloodthirsty buccaneers who would demand money for her return and then kill her once they had been paid.

Peter ignored them all. He responded mechanically to legitimate questions, did his best to reassure the squabbling lords on the council that Narnia would stand strong despite the losses they had suffered, and studiously ignored the pitying looks directed at him by everyone he saw. He supposed he must look like a mad man, considering the bruise left on his face from Susan's palm and his sleepless, bloodshot eyes. He supposed he must look the part of the desperately grieving older brother, and yet he could still not bring himself to cry—to grieve.

Susan had not left her rooms, had not spoken that he knew of since she had been told of Lucy's death, but he could not bring himself to offer her comfort either—he had none to give. He had failed Lucy, Edmund, and now he would fail Susan as well—how could he not? How could he face her knowing what he had done, knowing how she must hate him?

And then there was the crisis in the Lone Islands to be considered as well. In the shock and horror of Lucy and Edmund's deaths he had nearly forgotten, and utterly ignored, the reason for their departure in the first place. The arrival of a letter from governor Athelstan on the second morning destroyed any hope that he could continue to do so.

Athelstan, by the gift of Aslan, by appointment and by birth, governor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Narrowhaven, to Peter, by the gift of Aslan, by election, by prescription, and by conquest, High King over all Kings in Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion; Greetings.

Lord King,

Have I done aught to offend you? I had expected some aid to be sent after my last correspondence, and indeed, was assured by you that I would receive appropriate assistance. Yet, no troops or emissaries have come, and the situation here is delicate at best. High King, I beg you, aid me. The people are rioting, they are calling for my immediate execution, and I fear nothing short of full military force can now bring them back under the benevolent governance of yourself and your royal siblings.

Dear king, if I have given offence I cry your pardon, but please do not punish those who have not wronged you for my transgressions. There are still those in these Islands who are loyal to you and to Narnia, and I fear that they will be caught in the riots and torn apart by the mob for their steadfast belief in you.

I remain your faithful servant, Athelstan, Governor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Narrowhaven.

May the Emperor have mercy on both our souls.

Peter stared, unseeing, at the parchment in his hand for a long moment after he had finished reading it. This was what it had come to—a rebellion threatening to become violent, pirates sailing the sea, murdering as they went, and two dead siblings. He knew Athelstan both needed and deserved aid, but there was no way for troops to reach him. The pirates could be dealt with by force of arms, but certainly not in time to save the Islands from descending into violent, bloody rebellion.

And staring at crumpled parchment changes nothing. His gaze drifted involuntarily from Athelstan's letter to the other piece of parchment on his desk. "Consider this a warning." A warning of what—that no one is safe, that I have failed everyone I sought to protect?

He clenched his fists, biting his lip to keep from screaming as Susan had—though he suspected she had been driven more by grief than fury as he seemed to be. Grief was not an emotion he currently had the leisure to engage in, fury was simpler, and would likely prove more effective.

"Have you no heart?" Peter could hardly blame Susan for her words, could hardly credit himself with having a heart, as he pushed the chair back from his desk and stood mechanically. He could not grieve, and so he must go on.

Orieus regarded him gravely when he arrived at the training grounds and wordlessly retrieved a sword and shield from the armoury. Peter knew his sharp eyed general could not have missed his persistent limp, but Orieus was familiar enough with his periodically dark moods to refrain from questioning his ability to fight. They both knew he would fight anyway—throwing himself relentlessly into the familiar rhythms of blows and parries until some sense of normalcy was restored to a world gone mad.

Orieus might not have questioned him, but by the fourth time he ended face down in the mud Peter found that he was reluctantly questioning his own ability to do anything more than gain a rather spectacular collection of bruises. He rolled to his feet, far more clumsily than he would have wished, and glared at his impassive teacher as he pulled off his mud-covered helmet.

"Five minutes?" His voice was rough and toneless, but that hardly surprised him given that he had been speaking as little as was possible. Orieus nodded shortly—his own armour was frustratingly free of mud—and slid the huge broadsword into the sheath across his back.

"You expect war with the Calormene?" The seeming non-sequitur was characteristic of Orieus and Peter found it strangely comforting that the Centaur's first words to him that day had not been an inquiry as to his health—when Orieus began wasting time with meaningless inquiries Narnia would truly be lost.

"I always expect war with Calormen, but yes, more so now." If they are bold enough to murder my brother, then surely they are bold enough to face us in battle, and when they do—

"If I may, High King, you are not currently in any state to fight them."

Looking down at his mud splattered armour while trying to keep his weight balanced mainly on one foot, Peter had to admit that—as usual—Orieus was right. He sighed and limped across the muddy field to sit atop the stone wall that bordered it, aware that Orieus was following with an impressive lack of noise. "What do you suggest I do?"

"Allow yourself to grieve, and to heal—you are no use to Narnia half dead, Peter." There was no trace of pity in the Centaur's voice, but his eyes were sad and the lack of formality in his method of address showed his grief more deeply than words ever could. Peter envied him that—the ability to grieve without feeling responsible for the tragedy and pain, without the whole world watching and expecting his tears.

"I can't."

Orieus sighed audibly, stamping uneasily at the muddy ground with one foreleg, and Peter glared up at him, knowing he wanted to speak and was restraining himself from doing so.

"What is it, Orieus? You have never shied from speaking your mind, if you do so now then you will be doing us both a great disservice." He was aware that his voice had grown sharper, transitioning almost unconsciously into the tone he used in council when one of the Lords was being particularly trying.

The Centaur's tail swished irritably—likely more in reaction to his own reticence than to being addressed as less than an equal—and he nodded, studying his interlocked fingers intently. "You blame yourself for what has happened, but you should not do so. No," he held up a hand as Peter opened his mouth to give voice to a quarrelsome retort. "You bade me speak, and now you must listen. Do you remember your sister Lucy's first battle?"

The question was something of a shock, but Peter nodded. He did not think he would ever forget the terror of knowingly placing Lucy in danger—even if it was at her own insistence. The overwhelming scent of death seemed to descend on the bright, fresh air of the courtyard and he shuddered involuntarily—remembering.

The battle was over, the bodies of Fell Beasts, remnants of the Witch's army run to ground at last, lay tangled among those of loyal Narnians—friends, soldiers, perhaps even family. That thought tore through him like an arrow, his knees buckled, nausea threatening to overwhelm him as he scanned the battlefield frantically. No matter how long he ruled Peter knew the feeling of terror and horror as he searched for familiar bodies among the carnage would never fade.

He pulled off his helmet, shaking sweat damp hair back from his forehead, and continued his search, stumbling—exhaustion and urgency mingling to make him clumsy. He found Orieus first, the Centaur was picking his way almost delicately between the clumps of bodies—stopping periodically to check the pulse of an injured soldier or slit the throat of a Fell too near death to survive the day.

"Peter!" He turned to see Edmund stepping disgustedly over the body of a Minotaur, and was relieved to see that his brother appeared battered but not seriously injured. Minor cuts and bruises were a soldier's lot, and Peter was certain he looked no better. "Where's Lucy?"

The unconscious echo of Susan's words after the Battle of Beruna nearly sent him into a blind panic and Edmund caught his arm with a frown. Peter shook his head, brushing him off almost absentmindedly. No. Lucy's first battle would not end as Edmund's had done—Lucy was safe, far from the thick of the fighting with the archers. But so was Edmund the first time.

"Peter!" He barely had time to recognise Lucy's shrill cry before she crashed into him, alive and seeming unhurt, but very far from where she was supposed to have been.

"Lu! What the blazes do you think you're doing?" He gripped her shoulders, holding her at arm's length as he glared down at her dirt streaked face. "You were supposed to stay with the archers!"

Lucy frowned as she pulled her shoulders free of his grip. "I was, and then I saw a group of wolves trying to flank a troop of Fauns, so I brought some of the Dwarves down with me to help them."

Peter gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to grab her shoulders again and attempt to shake some modicum of sense back into her. "You could have been killed!"

Her frown lasted only a moment longer before she nodded, as if understanding his anger for the first time, and threw her arms around him again. "But I wasn't, and it was the right thing to do."

"King Peter?" Orieus' voice shook him out of the memory and he nodded, brushing aside the concerned hand the general had placed on his shoulder.

"I wouldn't let her ride to battle with us for months after that." Lucy had been angry as she very rarely was, accused him of being over protective, and had eventually convinced him to change his mind by threatening to go along without his knowledge or approval. Lucy had always been someone who would do what she believed to be right—regardless of the danger, or the approval of others.

"I do understand what you're trying to tell me, Orieus, but this is different. Lucy would never have gone to the Lone Islands if I had not sent her. She didn't want to go, she—" his voice broke and he drew in a shuddering breath, refusing to lose control now. "I can't—I can't be here right now."

Orieus did not comment and Peter shook his head as he limped clumsily back towards the castle—he did not need to look back to know that the general was still watching him with quiet understanding.


There was laughter once, light and airy and filled with such youthful life and joy. Once there was gold—the flash of Lucy's hair in spring sunlight as her running footfalls thumped merrily down through the halls and her hair, tugged free from its confining braids streamed after her. There had been another laugh—less carefree but equally filled with joy—as Edmund rushed after her, caught her up, and spun her until her bare feet left the worn stones of the floor. Breathless, disheveled, and beaming with the simple happiness of a warm spring day they turned to Peter reaching out eager hands to beckon him to their side. He reached for them, fingers trembling as his hand paused an inch from Lucy's and he looked from one beloved face to the other. One was fair and rosy—blue eyes sparkling with joy and face shining with innocent joy. One was dark and pale, and in his eyes too there was joy and love, but it was quieter—the joy of a traitor redeemed, the love of the prodigal returned.

He reached for them, longing and pain misting before his eyes, and breath shuddering in his chest until he felt his heart would stop. They crumbled to dust—Edmund and Lucy vanishing in an instant as his fingers brushed theirs. There was laughter once—once, but never again.

Peter jolted awake violently—starting forward in his chair with a cry, hands still reaching out as if he could recapture the moment, as if, by strength of will and love he could recall those he loved from the depths of sea and the torment of captivity.

The fire had burned to a few faintly glowing embers—he had not meant to sleep, had not meant to do anything, but must have sat dreaming for hours. It had seemed mere minutes to his desperate mind and he drew his hands back, clenching his shaking fingers into fists.

I do not wish to dream—I do not wish to remember, but to forget. He gritted his teeth against the shudder that tore through him—against the warm rush of tears that struggled to overflow. He forced his fists to unclench and reached for the wine flask and crystal goblet beside his chair. Brickle had frowned and tugged at his beard when commanded to bring them, but Peter knew he would not refuse—no one dared cross him now, not for any fear of temper, but for fear that he would shatter like a dropped crystal glass himself.

The wine was dry—it burned his throat and settled like lead in his stomach—but he refilled the goblet as soon as he had drained it, and raised it again to his lips with shaking hands. The pain would dull—the agony of loss would ebb—he would forget for precious moments until a dazed stupor overcame him. He would wake, half fallen from his chair, to a cold hearth and a head that ached as if a horse's hooves had trampled it. He would wake to Susan's scolding—perhaps that would be a blessing, for it would signal that his sister had left her abject grief and taken charge once more. It would signal that he was not needed, that he need not remain as he was—an emblem of a strength he did not possess.

At least, he wished with all the weary and dogged determination of a grief weighted mind that this was what would be.

He reached for a third goblet of wine, though the pain had yet to ease and the curious swimming of the room before his eyes had more to do with tears than with the effects of the strong Narnian vintage.

Lucy. Oh Lucy. His eyes caught upon the gold of Rhindon's pommel, the sword lying carelessly where he had flung it down, and its brightness seemed a cheap imitation of Lucy's wild curls. What did I last say to her? What comfort did I give her for her fears, what words of love to bear with her?

He could not remember and that seemed a mockery. He could not forget his pain, could not forget his loss, but the one thing which might have given him comfort—the recollection of their parting filled with embraces and loving words—escaped the grasp of his mind.

The wine burned his throat and his eyes burned just as fiercely in seeming sympathy as he struggled to hold back the tears. He was a man, a king, and a knight—he had no time for such weakness. If he began once to weep he would never cease—it fell to Susan to grieve, to him fell the planning, the revenge, and the guilt.

But revenge upon whom? A faceless enemy who steals ships and attacks by chance upon a sea I have not the stomach to bear sailing? Revenge upon myself, who sent out a girl—scarcely more than a child—my sister, to do the work which ought to have been mine?

He pressed his palms against his aching spinning head and wished that it might end—that he too might sink beneath the waves of a warm sea to find peace somewhere far beyond a world left colder by the absence of Lucy's light.

Peace. There would have been no peace for Edmund—no warm sea pushing him under and carrying him away. Peter had heard drowning was nearly painless at the end—once you accepted and ceased to struggle, and though he could not recall from whom he heard the words he had always trusted them. Now he had to trust them, for he could not bear to think that both brother and sister had died in fear and pain.

"He called out to you—for his brother to save him. He begged for death—screamed till his breath left him", so claimed the elegant and beautiful script decorating the heavy parchment next to the wine flask.

Peter could not quite believe it; surely this was more Calormene embellishment and dramatism. Edmund did not beg, did not scream save in nightmares that tore viciously at his unconscious mind. But he did call out, he did call Peter's name in pain, in desperation, and in fear. How many times had he jolted awake at night, tormented by a distant and insubstantial demon, how many times had he groaned in agony, sinking to his knees upon a bloody and mercy forsaken battlefield, and how many times forced open heavy eyelids and cracked, bleeding lips to form a single word. "Peter."

Lucy called out for Aslan in pain, in sickness, or in a rare nightmare. Her loving, valiant spirit reached ever to the Lion for comfort, and He, in His boundless love for her, would answer.

Susan called for their mother—the distant shadow of love that she clung to, even as memory failed her, with all the tenacity of her gentle heart. Peter could not begin to guess what comfort a distant memory might bring his sister, but she always calmed and smiled to dream of more peaceful things and, perhaps, distant memories that he had forgotten himself.

But Edmund—Edmund never called for their mother, nor for their father, nor for Aslan—though no one could doubt he loved the Lion as utterly as Lucy did—nor did he call for his sisters. Always, on battlefield, sickbed, or shuddering in terror through the darkest watches of the night he called only for his brother.

Peter knew why, and before the knowledge had brought him comfort, pride even, now it was a reminder merely of his all-consuming guilt. Once Peter had asked Aslan to help his brother—begged him to send him aid, to take away his pain. The Lion had replied—the Lion always replied, but never it seemed in the way Peter expected, or even wished.

"My child," Aslan's voice had whispered once, ever so gently in Peter's ear as he felt the warmth of the Lion's breath. "I have helped him; I have given him you." He been frightened then, afraid Edmund would not recover from trauma suffered at the hands of the Northern giants, but Aslan's words had comforted him. He had known then, as he knew now, that he was Aslan's gift to Edmund. He was protector, confidant, friend, and brother—he was the one whose duty it was to guard his brother, in battle and in peace. And in all respects he knew himself to be an utter failure.

Edmund was dead—had died calling out to him, still trusting that his brother would save him—still trusting that Peter would not fail him.

And I did. I wasn't there. I sent you to Calormen—sent you to endure torture and death at the hands of a brute who I knew meant to do you harm. I have killed you, brother, and you sister.

"What have you done?!"

"No use crying, Peter? Have you no heart?!"

He threw the crystal goblet with all his force against the cooling stones of the hearth—it shattered musically, the shards spraying upwards in an explosion of needle-fine daggers, and he was left staring at the spreading stain of red where the wine splashed against the rich blue carpet beneath his feet.

Oh sister, I have a heart—but what's the use if all I touch turns to spilled and cooling blood, or crumbles to ash as I reach for it. What's the use Lucy? What's the use in loving, in laughter, in joy when in the end there is nothing? What's the use, Edmund, in justice, in forgiveness, in steadfast faith, if the betrayer must become the betrayed and perish in the flames lit by my own foolishness?

"What have I done?" His voice was foreign to him—ragged and hoarse with disuse—he had not spoken since ordering Brickle to bring him wine, before that not since he had left Orieus on the training grounds. "Oh Aslan! What have I done?"

He fell forward from his chair—knees pressed against the damp carpet as he beat his fists against the cold, wine-stained stones of the hearth. Shards of crystal cut his skin, embedded themselves in his knuckles, but the sting of the dozen small wounds within his flesh was lost in the throbbing, agonizing abyss of pain that was his heart. Tears fell, mingling with wine and blood, and offering no abatement of pain though the force of his grief drove him down until his forehead rested between his bloodied fists.

"Oh Aslan," his voice was broken, the words welling up from his soul like blood from a gaping rent in flesh. "Oh Aslan, what have I done?"

Through shattered sight he saw golden fire beside his filthy, bleeding hands—great paws, one on either side of him and found that he lay, huddled between the front legs of a lion; of The Lion.

Aslan bent His head over Peter's own bowed and shaking shoulders, rested His muzzle upon the disheveled head of the High King, breathing upon him. Warmth flowed through Peter with the tenderness of the gentlest of all caresses, and though it did not ease his tears he felt some measure of strength return to him.

"My son," the Lion whispered softly, a great tear dropping from one golden eye to splash heavily next to Peter's own tears. "My dear son."

Peter felt his grief suddenly seem to magnify, for how could it ever lessen, how could he ever be whole again if the Lion too wept?

"I weep for you," Aslan said softly, breathing once more upon his bowed head. "For your grief, and for your agony—not for your brother, nor your sister, High King."

Peter turned, lifting bleary eyes to study the Lion's face and found such sorrow and such kindness there that he could barely bear to look upon Him. "For me?"

"For the pain you now feel, and for the trials of the path you now must tread. My son, there may come a day when you must weep for the loss of those dear to you, but it is not now. Do not grieve for those who remain, as they have always been, in My keeping."

He could barely dare to hope, did not think he could bear the blow of loss—of hopelessness—a second time, but looking into the loving eyes of the Lion he could not dare not to hope. "Are they—" his voice shook and broke as a shuddering breath forced its way from his lungs and he fought to hold back another sob. "Are they not dead, then?"

"No one who believes in Me, and loves Me, and strives to follow Me can truly die, Son of Adam."

"I-I know, but Aslan, please, have they not yet gone to Your Country?" Peter could not now look into the Lion's eyes—could not bear it if he should see rebuke there, or worse, if he should see the truth of his siblings' death somehow reflected in their golden depths.

"You must depart now on a journey, High King—on the business I will appoint to you. Your sister Lucy has another path to take now, it will be long and difficult, but when she reaches the end of it she will return to you. This is my promise to you, Adam's son."

Peter could not doubt the Lion's words, but what He had not said seemed clearer than what He had. He promised that Lucy would return to us, but not that Edmund would. He forced himself to draw in a long, steadying breath and unclenched his fists. "And Edmund?"

Aslan sighed, His breath warm as it brushed through Peter's hair, offering silent comfort. "There is little honesty to be found in the words of desperate men, Son of Adam, and the Tarkaan is truly desperate. His soul is no longer his own—all he does is for a single purpose, and in service of a foul Master. "

"But Edmund—" Peter paused to take another breath, trying to push back the panic that tore at his control. Lucy is alive—if there is grace enough in this world to grant me the return of one who is dear to me then surely there is grace enough for Edmund as well.

Aslan dipped His head until Peter had no choice but to look directly into His eyes—there was no rebuke to be found there, no confirmation of hopelessness, and once again Peter could not help but dare to hope. "He is not dead," the Lion said quietly, slowly—as if choosing his next words with utmost care. "But neither is he alive. There may yet be a way to reach him, but to do so you must go to Tashbaan. You must search for him there in secret, and if you find him he will tell you what you must do to save Narnia. trust in me, Son of Adam, and do not delay."

"But Aslan, surely he must be one or the other? How can some one be neither dead nor alive?" But the Lion's face was rippling, as if Peter was suddenly seeing a reflection of Him, and a moment later He was gone, but an echo of His voice drifted back, quiet and calm.

"Remember, High King, you have been given great power and the authority to rule these lands, but who you are is not defined by your power, but rather by what you choose to do with it."

Then Peter was alone, still kneeling among the shards of crystal and spilled wine, with his hands still stinging, but his heart pounding with near frantic hope.

"Brickle! BRICKLE!" There was no time to waste. A ship could be ready to set sail by the morning, he would talk to Susan at once, and once he reached Tashbaan he resolved that nothing would stop him from finding his brother.

Well, there we go. Apologies for grammar and spelling errors; it's late and I am determined to post tonight, but I will come back and clean up the grammar stuff as soon as possible. Leave me a review if you can and let me know what you thought and any theories you have about what is going on with Edmund! I always love hearing from all of you :-)

Cheers,

A