A/N: At Fierce Queen's request (I hope it doesn't disappoint), here is a continuation of "14. Another Dungeon," wherein Peter and Edmund were being held captive and Peter was badly wounded and then they were Rescued but nothing more was told.

Hopefully more coming in the future. My writer's block has vanished like the southern snows.

Enjoy.

17.

The light from the door which had been flung open stabbed into his eyes like poisoned darts. It took all his strength to raise his arm to shield himself from the brightness, and for a moment, it seemed as though it was the Lion, shining like the sun, answering his frantic prayers with His glorious presence.

It was, in fact, his rescuers. He'd heard Edmund exclaim in surprise and joy in the next room, but somehow his vision was muddled and his brain was filled with cobwebs and he cringed away from the dark shapes that moved in front of him, blocking the light from the door. Then there were soft hands brushing against his face and unshackling him, pulling him to his feet, and then the pain returned.

He tasted salt tears on his lips before the darkness came, then nothing more.

Peter had been near death enough times to know the sorts of dreams that come when a man is on the verge of the next life. Often they were dark and filled with frightening images (for when a man is nearly killed multiple times in bitter battles, his head tends to collect these images subconsciously), and this dream (though it was more of a tempestuous fever-dream than a near-death-experience sort of dream) was no different.

He was at the bottom of a pit with a line of jackals hovering about two yards away on all sides. This particular image was likely derived from the time he'd been thrown from his horse (which spooked at a viper and kicked up its heels most unexpectedly) while riding alone on the southern border of Archenland. His mount had fled after he'd knocked his head against a rock, and he'd awakened (with a dreadful headache and blurry vision that turned out to be a concussion) to see the leering faces of jackals hovering inches away from his face. He fought them off as best as he could, and apparently it was enough, for at last they drew back and waited for him to die of his head injury or of dehydration. Fortunately, Edmund had found him in time.

This time, however, there was no Edmund. The sky was black and the walls of the pit were steep. He kept flinging himself against the walls, seeking something to hold onto to pull himself up, but his fingers slipped every time he caught a protruding rock. This, he eventually realized, was because he only had one hand. The right hand, (which had been beaten and broken repeatedly by his captors in the not-dream world) had been cut off.

That was when he began to scream. He dared not examine the rest of him, for who knew what had become of his twisted ankle, the dislocated shoulder, the broken ribs…he was a monster. Misshapen, handicapped—not the king his country needed him to be.

"ASLAN!" he screamed, falling to his knees (his kneecap shattered under the impact). "I have failed you."

He had done his best, and they had done their worst. He had given his all, and even so, it was not enough. Now Narnia would only have Edmund (who was wise, but was he strong enough?) and Susan (who was strong, but was she patient enough?) and Lucy (who was patient, but was she stubborn enough?). It was as though the sword of Narnia had been broken, and what is Narnia with but a shield to guard it against its foes?

Peter despaired. It was his greatest flaw, that he despaired. He did not know it, but his way of thinking held to a greater span of emotion, so that in victory, he was jubilant, and in defeat, he was crushed. It was a flaw, but it was not his undoing.

For even as he cowered in the pit of his undoing, a light appeared.

"Peter…he's coming around…hand me that towel…more water…"

A soft wind brushed across his face, smelling of summer flowers and hope. Suddenly the jackals vanished, he was enveloped in the sun, and his spirits lifted as a well-remembered voice chided him gently for losing heart and commended him for his actions.

"You would not be my king if you were not willing to offer everything for my land," said the Lion, in a voice as smooth as honey. "Never doubt that my plans for you are, though they often lead through sorrow and suffering, good."

"Fever's broken…more ice…Peter, it's alright now…Cair Paravel…"

"Why?" Peter asked, basking in glory yet still bewildered. "Why must we suffer and have sorrow when you could give us joy?"

"Because," Aslan breathed. "If I gave you joy, would it not be easy for you to follow me and rejoice in my plans? Yet for every sorrow and every pain you suffer, your obedience to me grows a hundred times lovelier in my sight."

This was Peter's thought upon awakening. This was what he eventually tried (and failed) to describe to Edmund and Susan and Lucy during supper in his bedchamber one evening, while he was still too weak to leave his room. Of course, Edmund had the audacity to nod as if he knew it all along, and Lucy grinned and sighed, "Isn't that just like Aslan to say something so lovely?"

Only Susan seemed to consider this deeply, as something freshly learned. It would mean something far greater to her in later years…but that is another story for another time.

All that remains to be told of this one is that Peter's hand (and knee, and shoulder, and ribs) was soon restored to normal (with some help from Lucy's cordial) and that both he and Edmund decided that next time there was a situation like this, they would simply not get thrown into the dungeon at all.

As if it was that easy.