In a Battle

Weekend of Strange Updates, #9

Summary: He might have been a great king once, he might still be one. But in a battle, titles don't matter. Peter's thoughts before and during the battle on the plains. OneShot.

Warning: -

Set: Chronicles of Narnia – Prince Caspian of Narnia, during the battle on the plains

Disclaimer: Standards apply

He should have told them.

This thought was his last coherent one before he threw himself into the battle he knew he wouldn't win. He should have told Lucy that he believed in her and Aslan. He should have told Susan he loved her and knew her arrows would fly straight and true. He should have finished his sentence, earlier, with Edmund. He should have thanked him for always being by his side, for always taking his side again and again and no matter what mistakes he made. For always being there, in London and in Narnia. And he should have told Caspian that he, Peter, had been wrong, and that Caspian had been right.

There was so much he should have said. It was left unspoken as they launched themselves into the battle, threw themselves towards the huge Telmaran army which, they knew, outnumbered them one to fifty. They knew this probably was their last fight – but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

Heartbeats measured time.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

The distinct rumble shook the stone terrace they stood on as the caves beneath them collapsed and Miraz horsemen rode to their deaths. Suddenly, screaming, trashing horses and dry rubble and dust where everywhere. Peter long ago had learned not to let the dying screams of wounded animals and men get to him. But it still was terrible, every time he witnessed it again. Using his sword as an anchor, he clung to reality and launched himself forward.

His brain shut down.

Every part of him that was a thinking, hoping, and living being was cast aside and only left his basic instincts for survival functioning. His body knew how to fight, knew it so well it didn't matter he had spent a year in England before returning to Narnia. Skills, honed by years of practice, came back to life. Tired muscles and flesh and bones forced themselves to move in order to keep him alive. The duel had exhausted him, but adrenaline let his body move like he had just slept a day and a night.

Cold steel descended unto the enemy with silver fury, severed limbs, terminated lives. Every battle was the same, every enemy looked alike. He fought soldiers, knights, horsemen, bowmen and spearmen alike, lords and simple citizens. In a battle, there were no class distinctions, on a battlefield titles didn't matter. Birth right was forgotten. There were just men, beings, fighters and warriors. Enemies. Merely warriors and their swords and crossbows, their axes and lances and spears and shields. Narnians. Telmarans. It didn't matter as long as it was them and us.

An arm grabbed Peter from behind.

He used it as a lever, spun around it and used his shield to deflect the incoming blow while bringing his sword around in the same moment. The sound of crushing bones and tearing muscle would have made him flinch in another lifetime. Another enemy thrust his axe at him and he ducked. His sword severed the handle cleanly in two and, in a deathly, elegant arc, cut off the head of another man. Blood splashed on Peter and his sword hilt grew slippery with it. Not wanting to risk losing it, Peter threw his shield away (anyway, his arm still hurt too much to use it effectively) and temporarily distracted two Telmarans by doing so. Changing the sword from one hand into the other, he wiped his right hand clean, gripped his sword again and immediately had to parade a blow that had been directed at his head. With a speed that spoke of training and practice alike, he jumped over a fallen warrior and engaged the next opponent. A crushed spear and a dead soldier later, just like that, he found a caesura in the raging battle.

The sky was blue.

The roar of the raging, fighting parties was deafening, steel on steel and flesh and leather. Peter saw his surroundings with a clarity that seemed to sharpen even the most blurry edges.

Lucy.

Susan, a cloaked figure on the edge of the battlements of their makeshift fortress, saw him take in his surroundings with desperation written clearly in his eyes. She shook her head. This time, Peter didn't hesitate.

"Retreat! Retreat! Fall back into the caves! Retreat!"

He started running, fending off another warrior and shouting at a limping centaur girl to move faster. Repeating his order, he looked back and his heart stopped. His feet carried him faster. His sword should have been heavy in his grasp, but it wasn't. All around him, Narnians were fighting valiantly, covering up the retreating beings that weren't able to fight any longer. We're going to lose, he thought, and immediately banished the thought. No. He had to be strong. He had to believe, because if he didn't, nobody else would. They would make it. Lucy would find Aslan, and Aslan would... Aslan would save them, as he had done before. They just had to get into the caves and hold out until Lucy came, and then, they would…

But, deep in his heart, he knew.

He had almost reached the entrance to the caves, the dark hole that marked it, when the first missile hit the ancient stone.

It crumbled.

And Peter watched their only chance of survival collapse.

This is it.

He could read the same thought in Caspian's blood-streaked face, in Susan's shoulders and in the desperation in her eyes. Their last refuge was barred, their last hope shattered. More and more stones and rocks came flying at them, shattered the old cave walls and crushed earth, dust and bone. All around them, Narnians were staring at their lost hope, eyes wide with dawning understanding. Now, they would be crushed by their enemies, would be overrun by Miraz' forces. They didn't stand a chance. Peter had seen many battles and he knew when he stood a chance of winning even though outnumbered. But he never had been as outnumbered before as he was right now and he knew when he had lost.

Feeling Caspian behind him, he wanted to apologize. He had come back, happy to return to Narnia once more, expecting to be the High King Peter he had been when he had left. But he wasn't like that anymore, and he had found they didn't even need him as Peter now. Caspian was there and he wasn't needed. Narnia needed Lucy, because she believed, and Susan, because she gave certainty. Narnia needed Ed because he served, and Caspian, because he led into a new age. Narnia didn't need him, Peter, who ruled and represented. Seeing that young guy Caspian take his place had hurt like a thorn in his flesh. He had envied the Prince, had been jealous and had tried to coax him into doing what he, Peter, had wanted to do. Look, he thought bitterly. Look what I've gotten Narnia into. Look what my pride has brought to you.

Ed stepped beside him, his gaze fixed grimly on the oncoming Telmarans. Throwing away his crossbow, he looked at Peter intently and drew his sword. Next to him was Susan, her bow ready in her hands, arrows already on the strings. Her face was a mask of determination, the fear pushed back into a corner of her mind. The entrance to the caves behind them was sealed up. There was no way they would be able to retreat now, they literally were standing with their backs to the wall. Peter straightened up and lifted his sword, and as he searched for Caspian's eyes, he found the same determination he felt deep within him. There, finally, was their connection. He smiled. And started running.

"For Aslan!"

Hurry, Lucy.

Breaking bones. Dust and earth, grass and stones. Blood everywhere. Every battle, deep at its core, is the same. He should have been tired – he had been fighting Miraz before – but there was no exhaustion in his body. There was nothing on his mind except the knowledge that his siblings were close behind him.

Still, he was alone.

He would die knowing he had done everything he had been able to do so, and he would die alone. Maybe Susan would die, too, maybe Ed and Lucy and Caspian. But he would be on his own, lonely and alone, because he was Peter, the High King.

High King Peter, the voices whispered in his mind. High King Peter.

Blood. Swords. Dying Telmarans, dying Narnians. Too many deaths, too many dead. He detested himself, felt sick. This is your war. High King Peter. He buried his feelings in blood, drowned them in it. This is necessary. High King Peter. Save your country. Save your people. Save your siblings…

Susan. Edmund. Lucy.

Deflect. Parade. Attack. Retreat. Deflect. Duck. Parade.

Save your country.

Don't tire. Continue. Duck. Deflect. Kick. Shield. Attack.

There is no pain in a battle, just instincts. Feel the enemy's attack, know where it came from. Know who will strike next and how.

Be faster, quicker, stronger.

Stay alive.

Save Narnia. Save Susan. Save Edmund. Save Caspian, too, save everyone. Lucy – is Lucy safe? She has to be.

You haven't even had the chance to say good bye properly.

He should have told them.

Thank you, Edmund.

I'm sorry, Caspian.

Shoot straight and true, Susan.

I believe you, Lucy. I believe in you.

Lucy… Lucy… Lucy…

The trees come to life.

Suddenly, cries of triumph turn into screams of horror as Narnia wakes from her slumber once again. Slowly, Peter lets the tip of his sword sink to the ground. Only now he notices the numbness in his left arm, he various wounds he has received, the heaviness of his arms and the absolute exhaustion that threatens to overwhelm him then and there. Peter refuses to give in to the pain and the exhaustion.

A country claims back what is rightfully hers.

Peter smiles.

Lucy.