A/N: I love stories that explore the Pevensies between Narnian adventures or during the golden age we don't hear much about and thought I'd write my own daemonic twist.

Peter

Most children fantasized about lions and swans and eagles but settled for cats and robins and squirrels. A few lucky people got bears or wolves as their forever forms but small, common-place or unheard of animals packed the train crowds.

Then there were the Pevensies.

Peter was the first, his daemon so close to settling when the evacuation started. She stepped on the train as a Newfoundland. At their stop the sweet, fresh scent of country air called out the African wild dog and she loped easily toward the massive mansion. The slightest urge to take wing prickled her back, but not enough to shift out of the comfortable canine form. The many wild shapes of childhood no longer held appeal.

Narnia happened. A wild, magical world his siblings and he stumbled in. Torn by war. Peter and Theodora stood before beavers and siblings, bleeding from a dozen wounds, while Maugrim and his police bared bloody fangs. A dog couldn't fight an entire wolf-pack, not even a Roman war-dog. They circled closer, confident against a single canine.

Until Theodora transformed.

Larger teeth. Larger claws. Dark fur grew tawny and the snarl of a dog became the roar of a lion. Theodora pounced, gripping the lead wolf in her teeth and shaking him like a hare. To one side, Lucy's Basil tried for the same form but the head and shoulders lost a muzzle and a griffon attacked the pack instead. To the other side Susan's daemon spat, targeting the eyes.

Distantly, muffled hooves echoed. The witch. Like foxes pursued by hunters, they fled the evil sleigh and the witch within. Maugrim howled and his wolves, though wounded, followed fleeing prey. Too quickly.

"They're gaining," Peter shouted. His lion was large, larger than any lion of the other world, but not large enough to bear a rider. Claws transformed to splayed hooves. Legs lengthened. Fur grew thicker against winter, white around the throat, brown elsewhere and Peter leapt on the back of a reindeer. Theodora could bear him in this form, though he was large for a thirteen year old boy. Clarence managed a similar transformation and Lucy's Basil flew ahead of them, carrying Mrs. Beaver. On these forms they raced for the river as winter's chains broke.

In the distance, a crack echoed like an earthquake. Ice split. A hundred years of pent up waterfall roared to life, bursting through the stagnant channel as a dam burst. The Pevensies couldn't slow down. Didn't dare stop. Not with the wolves and witch on their tails. They and their deamons could have fought the pack but petrifying magic would slay them. Peter urged Theodora to the water.

She leapt, wrapping herself in the Newfoundlander's comforting form, a breed perfect for rescues. But the strength of a hundred and seventy pounds of dog was nothing against the raging current, making up for a century of imprisonment. Larger. Stronger. Paws shifted to flippers. Her body swelled. Ice smashed against her walrus bulk like arrows against a shield. Fragile, white fingers clutched thick, rubbery hide as she dragged them both to the safety of the shore, transforming into a grayhound to flee.

Flee to the lion. Sighting Aslan, Peter knew this was no mere daemon—unless part of God's soul took animal form. Words hid in his throat. He barely had enough strength to bow. "We have come, sire."

"Well done."

At camp Peter trained to exhaustion with sword and lance, burdened by armor and shield in the scant time before they saw the enemy army. A horde of monsters straight out of myth and beasts from primeval ages.

"This is no place for dogs," Theodora said. Her canine body swelled, becoming something Peter had never dreamed of. Beating powerful wings, she joined the other griffons hauling stones to bomb the tyrant's army.

Not enough. Not with the witch's forces charging heedlessly around fallen boulders. A single rock smashed three or six or even a dozen enemies and a hundred more would boil over the dead. They needed more teeth. Freed of the stone, Theodora swooped to the ground, snatching and ripping a vampire apart as she flew. Leonine hind-feet hit earth and changed to massive talons. Light beak grew heavy, full of daggers. Her body swelled from pounds to tons. A tyrannosaurus rex charged alongside Peter, thunderous roar pausing even the mightiest.

Not enough. Not against the tidal-wave of numbers. "Fall back, draw them to the rocks!" Peter bellowed.

"Fall back to the rocks," Theodora echoed. The sheer size of the army alone would be enough to slaughter them in the open. They retreated, Theodora's steps heavy with exhaustion and pain. Though arrows and spears weren't enough to take down such a massive beast, they had tried. Beside her Lillina the unicorn bore an equally exhausted and pin-cushioned Peter who looked ready to melt, armor and all. Theodora gratefully shrank into the form of a dog.

"You said…no place…for dogs."

"One last time," Theodora panted.

Lillina jerked. Peter started, touching a shaft protruding from her side as the unicorn lost strength and footing. He flung himself away, rolling to a stop and staring at the setting sun silhouetting the top of a helmet. "Lillina," he whispered. No answer save silver blood sinking into sodden ground. Probably dead. "Theodora."

"Get up now. The witch is breaking our army, splintering our tactical retreat to full-out flight."

The armor had gained a ton since Peter first put it on. His arms were numb. Fauns and leopards and centaurs and falcons, the mighty army Aslan had trusted him with, fled the white witch. Defeated.

A crack, like shattered glass magnified a thousand-fold, echoed across the battlefield. A soft, familiar groan of pain. Peter stood just as Edmund crumpled to the ground, Elanor falling beside him. No. Not now. Not his brother. The witch raised a sword against Edmund.

Peter's armor felt light as paper, his sword a feather. Theodora transformed into an eagle and he matched her, bound for beat of wing. The witch drove the sword down. He leapt like a lion. Steel clashed against steel as they landed beside Edmund in a tangle of armor and weapons. Peter slammed metal-clad fists into her face, her throat, any bare flesh he could. She grabbed his arms, twisted her whole body and reversed their positions. The eldest Pevensie brought his sword between them and the witch leapt away. He was on his feet a second later, catching a lethal blow with his shield.

He barely matched her. Peter hadn't used a sword outside fencing until Narnia but the witch had grown too reliant on her wand. Her form was excellent but her timing was slow, her movements jerky. He barely caught stroke with shield, keeping it between himself and her as he gave thrust for thrust. Without protection, she would have cut him to ribbons but the steel plates sapped his strength. The tip of her sword hit below the shield, sliding into a groove between two plates of armor. His knee. Peter fell screaming. Theodora hit the witch with all the speed and strength of a golden eagle, driving talons deep into vulnerable facial flesh. It felt worse than drinking raw sewage, though thick talons could barely feel. Both fell slack with agony but the false queen staggered away, clearing her eyes. She slashed. Blood splattered. Hitting the ground, Theodora shakily shifted and Peter mounted a unicorn once more. They charged, Aslan's name erupting from two throats. The remnants of their shattered army surged, Oreius in the lead. Distant thunder rumbled but the sky was clear. Reinforcements. Not enough. Not against the bulk of the witch's army charging like a damned river burst. They needed more.

Werewolves pounced. Theodora gored the first and trampled the second but the third knocked them apart. Jadis stabbed. Peter parried, gritting his teeth against every shriek of severed tendon and slashed bone. His arm trembled. The witch pressed him down. Wound hit stone and his knee spilt blood and agony afresh. Peter twisted on instinct. She over-balance. He slammed his shield against her blade and slashed clumsily upward. Jadis twisted and the blade sliced her collar-bone, missing her throat. Rolling away, she snatched another fallen sword and leapt to her feet, slashing with both blades at once.

Needed more.

Narnians shouldered forward under Oreius's orders, spears and shields in a phalanx. The first wave of enemy crashed. Between giant slabs of stone, the monsters couldn't bring their full force to bear but the sheer weight of minotaurs and vampires and werewolves and more horrible beasts was like a battering ram. The Narnian formation staggered back.

Peter blocked one sword with his shield, another with his own blade but the witch drew back and struck again like lightning, using her greater mobility against him. Move or die. Every step stabbed his knee afresh. Another blade caught his arm. Strength flowed with blood out of him.

More.

Theodora changed.

Deep inside Peter, something cracked. His daemon was turning and he could feel the echo of her effort—bones stretching to fill something too big for either of them. Claws grew into massive talons, more massive than the t-rex. Fur turned hard and thick. Ten thousand shield-like scales covered her body, straining them both. A hail of arrows flew. They bounced off. Great wings shot out from Theodora's sides. She raised jaws able to swallow the witch whole. Peter's vision grayed. Too much. Too big. Lungs burned like he was drowning. Heart pounding like he climbed a mountain. Body weakening like they he was bleeding to death. Peter couldn't feel his knee as it hit stone a second time.

Her next war-cry brought forth fire.

Black spots ate his vision but Peter clung grimly to his daemon.

A/N: Hope everyone enjoyed. Since Peter is so often portrayed—and from what little we get in the books—shown as a knight and warrior as well as a king, I thought it fitting to have him settle on the battlefield. I'll be posting the others in the order they settle. Thanks for reading.