Well, here you go folks! The longest chapter I have ever written and the biggest pain in my tush that this story has ever given me. Big, huge thanks to all of my reviewers, especially Cass P. and Andi Horton who gave really long reviews. Thank you everybody!!

Disclaimer: I am merely borrowing C. S. Lewis' charming characters and world, and will eventually return them. The only thing that is mine is the plot.

Disclaimer 2: If this story in any way resembles any other fanfiction it is by complete accident, as I go out of my way to avoid fanfictions that resemble mine until mine are completed. My apologies to any other great minds.

Author's note: This story is set pre-, during- and post- The Last Battle. I am a first time fanfiction writer and any reviews are appreciated.

Chapter three: Confrontation

Peter looked around the dark streets as Leona fitted the key into the lock on the bakery door. The atmosphere had a sinister feel to it, but Peter had to wonder if it was just his overactive imagination at work. After all, the police only suspected that Gerard Conroy was in this area of London. If they had thought that there was real danger they would have a larger presence in the neighborhood, rather than the occasional patrols that were in effect. Nevertheless, Peter felt very uneasy. He wished for the second time that night that he had brought some kind of weapon; while his sharp little pocket knife was useful for opening packages and cutting string, it hardly counted.

Leona put the store key back into her pocket and turned to Peter.

"I'd better lead," she said. "As you don't even know where I live."

"True enough," Peter responded. "Lead on. How far away is your place?"

"I live in a little flat almost a mile from here. It isn't a bad walk, except in the worst of weather." Leona set a brisk pace and led Peter down the street away from the college and shops.

Peter thought that this conversation could be a good excuse to pry information out of Leona, who had been remarkably secretive about her personal life. "Do you live alone?" he asked, hoping that she would answer. Previous similar questions had been gracefully avoided. For such an open person Leona could be remarkably secretive.

"You mean, do I have a flatmate?" Leona asked.

"I suppose so. I was just wondering if you still lived with your family or if you have a friend that you stayed with." Peter was hoping that any 'friend' in her life was not male and her husband. "Come to think of it, I don't even know if you have a regular suitor or a fiance." He hoped she didn't.

Leona laughed. "If I did, don't you think I'd have mentioned it already?! No, there's no other man in my life, unless you count my cat. I do live alone, but I'm used to it. I thought about trying to get a flatmate, but the flat really is too small for two people, and I prefer the peace and quiet."

Peter kept scanning the alleys and side streets as they walked. There weren't many lampposts in the area, and his night vision wasn't the best yet. He would see what he thought were flashes of movement in the corner of his eye, but when he would turn to see, it would be gone. The feeling of being watched was increasing, and the hairs on the back of his neck still stood on end. The constant paranoia was driving him batty.

"What about the neighborhood? Do you have any problems?" Peter questioned. He didn't like the look of the buildings around them, they were old and rather neglected. He knew that the area west of the university was a bit of a slums, and there were rumors of gangs.

"Oh, there are a couple of periodical territorial disputes between me and some of the locals, but they are sorted out with a minimum of fuss on my part," Leona said. "There's a gang of boys that like to graffiti buildings and bother people if they get bored enough, but they and I have an agreement..." Leona trailed off. "That they apparently are in the mood to break."

Peter whirled around. They were in the center of a intersection, and from every direction young men started stepping out of the shadows. About nine of them, most armed with clubs or short knives, they surrounded Leona and himself. Peter cursed under his breath. Unarmed, he could possibly defeat nine if he was very lucky and managed to get a weapon from one of the attackers, but not while protecting Leona at the same time. He cursed himself a hundred times the fool for not bringing even a walking stick with which to defend himself and Leona. Nevertheless, he slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out his small pocket knife. The blade was only a few centimeters long, but it was better than nothing until he could get something more substantial.

One young man with a leader's swagger came closer and spoke.

"Well, look what we have here! Bringing a schoolboy into this side of town, Leona. Bad form that. You should know better then to tempt me, but then you were always a tease. Sauntering along in your pretty dresses thinkin' you was better then us. Even when we was polite and all you didn't want to hang with us real men. Still, I think the boys and me can teach you a lesson tonight. I did bring more friends than usual as you can see." He leered at Leona, who crossed her arms over her chest and glared impatiently.

"Fitzhugh, I am going to warn you once more. Leave me alone and I'll leave you alone. I don't care how many petty thugs you scrape off the dung heap, affairs are going to end the same way they always do." Leona's tone was angry and annoyed, as though the situation was familiar.

Fitzhugh's face turned an ugly shade of red. "You stupid bitch! We'll see about that! Get 'im, boys, the one to bring her down gets second turn."

The other men started snickering and circled the pair. Peter sank into a fighter's crouch and turned to tell Leona to run as soon as she saw an opening. Instead, he saw her reach down, pick up some stones from the pavement and mirror his stance. "Please, try not to get killed," she said to Peter, then, without any other warning, she attacked Fitzhugh.

All hell broke loose. He tried to keep an eye on Leona as he parried attacks from three or four men at once, but she kept moving. His distraction cost him. One knife got through his defenses and slashed a large gash in his upper left arm, and in short succession another nicked his leg.

Leona had been driven against several trash bins, but she dropped the rocks in her left hand, which she had been using to bash those who came within arm's reach, and grabbed a trash bin lid to use as a shield. Peter had the sudden flashback to his early childhood, playing knights and dragons with other children, using similar "shields". This was no childhood game however.

Peter was concentrating most of his attention on Leona, unsure of how good a fighter she was and determined to make sure she was safe. Leona seemed to be doing the same thing, casting more glances in Peter's direction than at her attackers. From her comments to Peter as the fight started, she was certainly unaware of his ability to defend himself against more than one or two foes. Because of this mutual distraction, the fight was going badly for the pair, neither being able to give their full attention to the battle in front of them. Then, in a brief space of time the fighting paused for a split second and Peter and Leona could look at each other, and recognize the others' talent. Peter gave a brief nod, acknowledging Leona's ability to take care of dealing with her own opponents. She nodded back, acknowledging his.

Peter suddenly gave a vicious grin. This was something he could handle. As long as Leona could fight well enough to finish off her own battles, he could win his. He switched from the defensive to the attack, swiftly disarming one man wielding a cricket bat and knocking him down with a kick to the stomach. The next two came in together, but Peter was ready and ducked down. In one smooth move, he grabbed the dropped bat, tripped one fighter and coming up under the others guard, drove the bat into his enemy's gut. With a gasp, Peter's foe went down.

Across from Peter, Leona was blocking knife thrusts from Fitzhugh with her lid, while dodging sweeps of a club from another fighter. A third man came up behind her and grabbed her, making her drop the lid as he lifted her up off of her feet. She snapped her head into his face, while using her feet to kick the club-wielder in the head. Howling, both men fled.

Fitzhugh looked around him at the wreckage of his gang. Only himself and three others were even standing, and he knew that he had lost. He swore and called a retreat.

As he ran out of reach, he yelled back at Leona. "One day I am going to catch you off guard, and when I do, you'll be flat on your back servicing me, where you belong!"

Enraged, Peter ran at the fleeing thug. At his side Leona picked up the bin lid, and grabbing it like a discus, she threw it at Fitzhugh. The lid rose up in the air, sank lower, then crashed into the back of the coward's legs. With a scream of pain, he fell and Peter ran forward, intent on finishing him off as slow and painfully as possible. Peter drew back his foot to kick at the fallen man, when Leona grabbed his arm. "No, Peter, don't. You'll regret it later if you do, and he isn't worth that. If he was, I'd have done it already." The red in Peter's vision died away, and he stepped back, sickened at himself for what he almost did. So much for his knightly behavior...

Leona looked down at the whimpering thug at her feet. "As for you... If you ever come near me or any other woman again, I will give you such a thrashing that this will seem like a treat." Fitzhugh tearfully whined an agreement. She picked up the bin lid and turned to put it back on its bin.

Peter gestured at the gang members who had waited for their leader a few meters down the street. "Take him away, and remember tonight if you think of such antics again. Come on, Leona, let's get you home."

He picked up her packages from where he had dropped them, and he and Leona continued down the street.

"Does this sort of thing happen often?" Peter asked.

"About once a month or so. Fitzhugh is stubborn and incapable of taking 'No' for an answer." Leona sighed. "He'll pull the same stunts as soon as his wounds heal and his pride has repressed the memory of his beatings at the hands of a woman." She grinned up at Peter. "He usually doesn't bring that many thugs, though. I think a part of him doesn't like the men seeing him whipped. I do fine by myself if he only brings one or two friends."

Peter gave an answering grin. "You're not bad in a scrap, where did you learn to fight like that?" he said.

"Oh, here and there. Where did you learn?" she responded.

Peter grinned. "Here and there." He would have liked to ask her for more details, but as he was unable to divulge the fact that he was centaur trained, he decided not to.

"I will admit that it is easier to fight when you don't have to worry about your companions. I was concerned at first," Leona said. She looked as though she might have wanted to say more, but they had reached Leona's flat and she was fitting a key into the lock.

Peter looked up at the darkened building and the single unlocked window about four feet up. "Do you usually leave a window open?" he asked.

"I usually leave it propped open for the cat, but with it getting cold and this madman on the loose, I'll be locking it when I am away." She looked at the cracked window. "It's in the same position it was when I left." She shrugged and opened the door.

"You better come on in, and let me treat your wounds." Leona took off her coat and turned the electric lights on. Peter looked around and saw that the flat was small, but fairly clean, with little or no personal objects. In any other home one would see mementos of vacations or old toys from childhood laying around, but Leona's home had only the bare necessities.

She led him into the kitchen and sat him down at the table after making him take his coat off. She set her purse on the table next to him, then said, "I keep the medical things in the loo, I'll be right back." She left the kitchen and headed down the hall.

The kitchen was very small, and had the usual things that a kitchen has; dishes, a butcher's block with a selection of knives, and a dishrag left on the counter. The table was rather too large for the room, and was very heavy. Peter wondered absently how anyone had managed to get it up the front steps or if they had just built the house around it.

Suddenly, he heard a bump from the hallway and a smothered cry from Leona. In a heartbeat and without realizing it, Peter snatched up a large knife from the butcher's block and ran down the hallway towards the lighted bathroom. He turned the corner to see Leona kneeling on the floor, muttering savagely under her breath, picking up rolls of bandage off the floor and putting them back in a large tin that she had obviously dropped. There was no one else in sight. Peter gave a huge sigh of relief, lowered the knife and helped her to pick up the spilled equipment.

They sat back down at the kitchen table. Peter set the knife on the table next to him, and presented Leona his injured arm. She swept a wet rag across the wound to clean away the blood. "This isn't very deep," she said, reaching for the gauze. "It shouldn't take me but a moment..." She looked up at Peter's face, then turned white. "Peter, behind you!!" she screamed, keeping hold of Peter's arm and pulling him to the side, off of his chair.

Using reflexes he didn't know were that honed, Peter fell to the floor just in time to avoid the large butcher knife that split the air right where his head would have been. He rolled to his feet and grabbed the knife off the table next to him and turned to face the attacker.

Fitzhugh had been a bully; the man entering the kitchen was a killer. He was stocky and ugly, with dirty clothes and an evil expression. This man had the look of one who enjoyed pain, blood, and death. He leered at Peter, "Didn't think she would have found a man just in time to meet me, but no matter. More the merrier, and man bleeds just as red as woman." Gerard Conroy attacked Peter, giving great slashing blows in the younger man's direction. Heart pounding, Peter ducked and moved in trying to get close enough to use his shorter knife, but Conroy simply reached out and grabbed Peter in a wrestling hold. They smashed back into the heavy table that Leona was trying to get around to come and help, driving the table back and pinning Leona between the very heavy table and the counter.

The two men grappled, too close to use the knives effectively, but getting in small slashes or strikes with the butt when openings were found. The hands that didn't hold weapons were punching and hitting any flesh they could get to.

Peter had originally thought that the kitchen was cozy, but he changed his mind. It was a death trap. He couldn't move anywhere without crashing into a counter or the table. Knife fights might be able to take place in tight surroundings, but they still needed some space. Conroy out-weighed him by quite a bit as well and was using his weight to advantage.

Leona found herself in a conundrum. She couldn't reach any weapons other than the few medical supplies that weren't knocked off the table when it had crashed into her, and those she couldn't throw for fear of distracting Peter. The table had her pinned very tightly against the counter and she couldn't get enough leverage to move it. Peter was losing, she couldn't help and she didn't know what to do. The feeling of helplessness was driving her into a panic.

Peter twisted in Conroy's grasp, trying to get a good enough angle for a disabling blow. He was getting struck pretty often, but the blows were all from the handle of the butcher knife or shallow cuts. Conroy had the weight and size advantage, and there wasn't enough room for Peter's natural agility to be any help. Then, miraculously, Conroy tripped over the spilled box of medical supplies. Peter saw his chance and took it. When Conroy's arms loosened to try and regain his balance, Peter struck, sliding his knife up under his enemy's rib cage. Still locked in a parody of an embrace, he gripped the knife handle tighter as blood gushed from the wound and covered his hand. Conroy seemed surprised at first and he locked eyes with Peter as his face went slack, the eyes dulled, and he slid to the kitchen floor, dead.

Peter staggered into the nearest counter, panting for breath. He hadn't been in a fight like that since his reign as High King. He didn't have the muscle memory that he had had then however, and the fight was far closer than he liked. He reached over and pulled the table away from Leona, who ran around it grabbing another knife off the butcher board, ready to join the fight.

"He's dead, Leona," Peter panted. "It's over."

She walked to Conroy's body, looked down and kicked it as though to make sure. She looked up at Peter. Her eyes were strange, as though they saw something other than the kitchen. "I hate rapists," she said passionately. She started shaking, but her eyes stayed dry. They were hard and cold, with the look of a person who had seen things, evil things that should never exist but do - like so many other survivors of the War. Peter wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her tight. He could hear her muttering something barely legible. "...thought I was safe..."

Peter rocked back and forth in Leona's kitchen, holding the shaken woman, and softly soothed, "Shhh, it's alright, I'm here, it's over, it's over." He was not surprised that she fell apart in this fight rather than the spat with the gang. The gang members were petty cowards who were for the most part just looking for a easy win, and she obviously didn't have any difficulty in denying them that. This was different. Conroy had clearly been stalking her, looking at her flat and learning her habits. A madman had been watching her, entered her home and she had almost not known until it was too late. Peter would have been more than a bit rattled himself if he had been in her position. He did wonder what she had meant by "thought I was safe".

After Leona had calmed, he sat her down at the table and washed the blood from his hands at the sink. He couldn't do anything about the blood staining his shirtfront and trousers and he wished he had a chance to change clothes.

He picked his coat off the floor and turned to her. "Do you know of a place we can call the police from?"

She wiped her face on a rag and mentioned the corner store a few blocks down the street.

"Let's go, then. We need to get this taken care of." Peter didn't know if he was talking about Conroy's body or the whole situation in general. The corner store was only a short walk, and the shopkeeper was more than happy to let Peter use his phone for a few pence.

Peter was slightly sickened by the night's events. He hated killing. He was a warrior and had to kill many times, but it make his heart clench every time he saw the life go out of a person and after every battle his shoulders felt heavy from the weight of the dead.

TBC.