The past few months had been more than Peter could handle. First, there were the seemingly endless skirmishes with the giants to the North, the duties of court that never ceased, and then the worst had come. Lucy had fallen ill. However, this was not a simple cold. This evil inside of her wracked her with chest-shaking coughs, made her delirious with fever, and flushed her face with an unhealthy, over-bright red. When the fever had reached its highest point and the healers had warned him of what may come to pass, Peter sat with his youngest, beloved sister. He stroked her damp, auburn hair that had once been so vibrant and willed her green eye to open. When hours passed and there was no change, Peter simply broke down. He cried for his brave soldiers, for his country, and most especially for his sister. His sweet Lucy. A small squeeze broke his sorrow, and he blinked down at the confused face of his sister.
"Peter. Oh, my King, what troubles you? Fear not, for Aslan is with us."
Peter could only nod and more choked sobs shook his body.
The fever broke that night.