Disclaimer: I don't own Narnia or any characters you may recognize from the books or the movies, I wish I did but I don't...

Summary: Children? Children to lead the army? Narnia? And one a traitor? This was not ideal. It was swiftly turning to impossible in the eyes of one Centaur.

Not Ideal

Part One

OOOOOOO

It was utter foolishness. Never in his life had he been presented with such a foolish, impossible task. But he dared not reveal it. He looked once at Aslan. He had not spoken since the Great Lion had bid him to hold his peace. A frisson of shame went through him as he recalled his outburst before the camp. "Then he has betrayed us all."

How was it that even the prophesied Four were not immune to treachery from within? Had there not been enough of that within the resistance during the Winter?

"Oreius."

Aslan's rich voice pulled him away from his bitter thoughts and he immediately bowed. "My Lord Aslan."

The golden gaze was penetrating as always and the Great Lion's voice was tinged with a rumbling purr as He spoke, "See that the Son of Adam receives training for the coming battle."

Oreius stepped forward. "The colt? We cannot take him into battle."

"Indeed, we will not. He will lead us into battle with you at his side." Aslan smiled slightly. "He needs your help, General."

OOOOOOO

What was everyone thinking? The Beavers, the Fox, even Aslan! They all kept looking at him with such expectation and he was such a failure.

"Is it satisfactory, your highness? Does it fit well? Can you move?"

He blinked and only just remembered to look down at the Rabbits, Moles, and Chipmunks gazing up at him. Their round dark eyes were fixed on him with a mix of expectation and utter wonderment. He swallowed hard then offered his best smile. "I am deeply indebted to you." He smoothed his hands over the practical and comfortable tunic. The leggings were a bit odd and a little too reminiscent of the nylons Mum wore for his personal taste but the boots were tall enough to hide most of it. He glanced at the little Animals again. "Ummm, can I help you with anything else?"

They made odd little snuffling noises and he realized they were laughing, their eyes shining with delight. The Chipmunk shook its head. "Oh, you're already doing it, your highness! You're going to save us! From the Witch! Save us from Jadis!"

"Save us!"

"We're so grateful you've come!"

"You are so brave! So kind!"

"Going to save us!"

"Going to save us! Thank you, Sire! Thank you!"

Peter didn't know what to do. He wanted to cry out that they were wrong. He wasn't anybody special. He couldn't even save his brother! He couldn't save them. He wasn't brave. But as they stared up at him with such trust, the words that would crush their hopes, that would reveal he was not the savior they seemed to think he was, would not come. Instead, he bowed his head and then strode out of the tent. He had to get away. He had to think.

He heard the whispers and felt the stares. A wild look around proved that more of the Narnians were watching him again, a mix of wonderment and expectation in their eyes as they paused in their various tasks once more. It took everything he had not to cower and run away. Oh if only they knew. If only they knew!

But his dad hadn't raised him to be a coward and he was still the man of the house even if home was far away (could they even go back now?). Head of the family. He swallowed hard. What was left of the family. Oh, Edmund. How he had failed him the most. Dad would be so disappointed. Mum would be devastated. Peter swallowed then forced himself to walk tall, shoulders back, and head high. He didn't know where he was going exactly but away from the tents seemed a good idea.

"Keep your sword at the ready if you intend to carry it. It is not an ornament."

Peter startled then whirled to see the dark Centaur with piercing eyes standing in the entrance of another tent. "Sir?"

The Centaur nodded to where he clasped the sword Father Christmas had given him in one hand. "It will only slow your reflexes if you continue carrying it like that. Put your sword about your waist if you mean to carry it or return it to your tent."

He stared at him almost uncomprehendingly. The Centaur sighed and shook his head a little, driving home Peter's ineptness. Throat tight with the hot words he could not, would not say, Peter mechanically buckled his sword around his waist. He reached up to adjust the shield but he had not put it back on. The Centaur still looked at him with far more questions in his dark eyes than the hope that had been in the eyes of the little Animals and even the Fauns who had first fetched the trunk of clothes. There was also something like a solemn disappointment in the Centaur's eyes.

Peter could not help but wonder if he was disappointed because they had failed to bring Edmund with them or because he saw Peter truly and certainly not as a savior or some sort of warrior. His disappointment in me would be well deserved then. The Centaur loomed over him as he approached and then reached down to tug at Peter's sword belt, shifting it over. "Your right hand is dominant. Make sure the hilt is an easy reach so you do not cut into your own arm when you draw it."

"Who are you, sir?" He almost didn't add the courtesy title, remembering how quick the Centaur had been to announce Edmund's treachery where any who had not heard Mr. Beaver still knew of it, but there was something about the creature's, the man's, the Centaur's manner that demanded respect as surely as any officer in the King's army.

The Centaur looked down at him, his angular face impassive and his dark gaze assessing. "I am Oreius. I serve as the general of Aslan's army." His gaze shifted to their surroundings and a barely perceptible sigh stirred the air. "Come. The rest of this conversation is best held in private."

He left him no choice but to follow as the Centaur left. They walked up to the hills overlooking the camp and only then did the General stop. Peter stepped forward. "Please, sir, you must understand that my brother is not . . . It is not solely his fault that he left us, that he believed her when she promised him . . . whatever it was she promised him."

A stern look was the only reply at first. Then the Centaur broke his silence but his tone was as stern and impassive as his expression. "Your mind should be focused on learning to wield your sword properly. If you hope to go into battle-"

"Battle!" He had imagined trying to enlist in the war effort at home; never mind he was but thirteen, he looked just old enough to pass for the older boys. However, he could never reason away the charge his dad gave him to be the man of the house while he was gone, that taking care of his mum and siblings were his task until Dad returned. It had just been a schoolboy's fancy to run off and join Dad in fighting, making sure Dad came home from the war.

He looked up at the Centaur, expecting a laugh or a smirk or some sort of sign that he was joshing him, but that dark gaze remained gravely serious. He gave a curt nod. "Battle. It is not ideal but we shall have to make do. Draw your sword."

"But you are unarmed," Peter protested, his sense of fair play refusing to do anything less than honorable.

A tiny smirk might have lifted the corner of the General's mouth but his stern tone did not change as he repeated, "Draw your sword, Son of Adam."

He stared at him then something in those dark eyes, a sense that the Centaur was confirming the fact that he was found wanting, pricked at him. Peter clenched his jaw. He dropped his hand to the sword but didn't draw it.

OOOOOOO

A/N: Please Read and Review! So this is not part of my ALitD-verse. In fact, let's go ahead and put this as being firmly in Sea of Deceit's Narnia playground. This was also requested by WillowDryad and is a month-late b-day present. :) Leave a review and let me know what y'all thought about this one.