Darkness and cold. For the longest time he knew nothing else, a dull, starless night tempered by a chill wind, empty save for his presence. Gradually he became aware of his body, numbed by the cold. Self-consciousness brought with it memory and he remembered who he was: Peter Pevensie, a Son of Adam, a university student, the High King of Narnia, a child of two worlds. But perhaps now it was three worlds, for he seemed to be standing neither in England nor in Narnia, but in some lifeless void between the two.

Lifeless? What, then, did that make him? Was this strange, unfeeling state of awareness more than just a dream? He raised his hands, trying to see them through the gloom. As he stared the darkness seemed to lessen, as if dawn was approaching.

Light, faint and gray as moonlight, crept into this world from two directions. He looked to his left and saw far away, yet with astonishing detail to the left, his home in England: He saw his house and the yard, his grandparent's house with his grandmother out in her garden, happily planting flowers, his grandfather sitting in a chair not far off, reading his paper. There was the beach that held so many happy memories for his family, the hospital, his drab hospital room, a weeping Susan waiting for him to wake up and his bed. Was that really he lying there? And where were Edmund and Lucy?


In the other direction, crystal streams flowed from snow-clad mountains, and clear rivers ran through lush green grass. The fruit trees were laden with mouth-watering fruit and the meadows were bursting with all types of beautiful flowers. There was Beaversdam, Cair Paravel, Anvard and all the good places from Narnia.

The chilling merciless wind of this place pushed hard against him, pushing him closer and closer to Aslan's country. He fought hard against it. People needed him; he could not leave them behind. Yet for every step he took towards England, he was twice that much closer to the country of Aslan. Finally exhausted he collapsed to his knees and wept. Bitter rain pounded hard against him as he sat there, but he did not feel it.

"Aslan!" He was wasted. He could go no further.

Suddenly a patch of brilliant golden light appeared banishing the night with the warmth of summer, and out of it Aslan came towards him. His golden eyes were full of understanding and compassion and rays of light reflected off his face. A wonderful fragrance emanated from his shining mane He slowly padded up to Peter, a sense of awe, fierceness, love and gentleness exuding from him with each step he took.

"My son," the Lion rumbled softly, his presence comforting.

"Aslan! Oh dear Aslan," exclaimed the High King, his shaking voice full of delight and gladness.

"Why do you weep, Son of Adam?"

"Because I'm spent, Aslan. I can go no further. My family… I have already left them once, I don't want to leave them again."

"Would you go back to my country if I asked you to? Would you give up your will for mine, King Peter?"

"Yes Aslan, if you ask it of me. But I can't move, I need your help," Peter said, his eyes downcast.

"Let me help you. Let me decide what's best for you," Aslan said, breathing on him. Peter's fear disappeared and a measure of strength returned. With His help, Peter was able to pull himself up, leaning heavily on Aslan. Together they walked back towards England and his family. He soon realized that with Aslan the wind is not as strong or biting as it had been and there was something he hadn't felt before in this strange emptiness: pain. As they neared, Peter felt a weariness overtaking him.

"Sleep now. Rest, Peter Wolfsbane."