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the-utter-east · 2 months

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A King's Ransom

Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia

Character(s): Lucy & Peter Pevensie

Rating: M (cw: major character death)

Summary: Peter knew what influenza looked like. And polio. He had read in medical textbooks about dengue fever and yellow fever and typhus. He knew enough to know that none of his admittedly limited medical knowledge would help Lucy.

Wordcount: 4.2k | ao3

Prompt: time loop (from @febuwhump ’s Febuwhump 2024)

Peter knew what influenza looked like. And polio. He had read in medical textbooks about dengue fever and yellow fever and typhus. He knew enough to know that none of his admittedly limited medical knowledge would help Lucy. She was faded – not in a pale way, but in a black-and-white way, like photographs. Her skin was light gray, her lips and hair a darker gray, and even the blankets of her bed seemed to fade in hue the longer he looked at them.

Edmund was holed up in the library with Mr. Beaver and Mr. Tumnus. Susan and Mrs. Beaver were in the kitchen, where Susan was trying to remember their mother’s sick soup recipe.

And Peter was stuck pacing Lucy’s bedroom as she slept fitfully. Someone had to watch over her and his skills were not useful anywhere else, so he was stuck here. Stuck watching her eyebrows twitch and hearing her shallow breaths.

He sat down in the chair beside her bed, eyes heavy. He had not slept in nearly two days. He would just briefly close his eyes, he told himself.

Within moments, he was fast asleep, head lolling down to his chest.

In his dreams, he stood in a dark cave in front of a shining pool. A voice whispered, not into his ear but into his mind: Just a drop, Son of Adam, will prevent your greatest sorrow.

He woke with a start, eyes immediately pulling to Lucy. She still lay in bed, chest rising and falling, and he breathed out slowly. Someone – Susan, likely, judging from the bowl of soup on the night table – had covered him with a blanket.

He thought back to the dream, shuddering at the way the voice had scraped through his mind. It was probably a sign that he desperately needed sleep, he realized. Reluctantly, he rose and poked his head out the door, just in time to see Susan turn the corner.

“I think I should rest,” he said as she approached. “Will you watch Lu?”

She nodded. “Did she wake up at all?” she asked.

Peter shook his head. “I think her breathing is a bit better though,” he added when he saw her face fall.

“All the remedies mother taught me,” Susan said, passing by him into the room. “Useless.”

Peter caught her arm, and she looked back at him. “It’ll be alright, Su,” he said. “Lucy’s strong. She’ll pull through.”

Susan almost smiled. “I know,” she said.

“Wake me if anything happens,” Peter said.

“I will.”

Peter managed to sleep for six hours before a tearful Mr. Beaver shook him awake.

As Narnia mourned her youngest monarch, Peter barricaded himself in the library. He didn’t tell anyone what he was looking for, and everyone mostly left him alone. Mrs. Beaver left him food. Mrs. Beaver told him to go see his siblings. Apparently, Susan was taking long walks alone in the forest and Edmund had thrown himself into the ins and outs of running a country.

One day, Peter waited until nightfall at the front gate for Susan to return. Her hair was unkempt, and her eyes were a little wild.

“How was your walk?” he asked softly.

She picked at the burrs that were stuck to her dress, avoiding his eyes. “The trees don’t offer their condolences constantly like everyone else,” she said, voice distant in a way that made Peter’s throat constrict. “They let me wander in peace.”

Peter nodded. They made their way through the courtyard together. Everyone in the castle tried to be respectful, but Peter felt their gazes as they passed by. He walked her to her room in silence. They never ate together anymore; she ate in her room, Edmund in the council meeting room, and Peter in the library.

“Does it help?” he finally asked when they reached her door.

She looked at him, eyes shining with tears. “No,” she said simply and left him standing in the hallway alone.

Next, he went to the Council meeting room and knocked on the door.

“Yes?” Edmund’s voice was steady, and Peter felt heartened as he opened the door.

Then he saw his brother – heavy bags under his eyes, piles of papers around him like a wall – and his heart sank.

“Did you find the census from–” Edmund stopped when he looked up. “Oh, Peter, it’s you.”

Peter made his way across the room, around the chests of books and rolled-up maps. “I spoke to Susan today,” he said.

“I hear she spends a lot of time outside,” Edmund said, his focus back on the paper in front of him.

“Perhaps some fresh air will do us all a little good?” Peter suggested.

“It’s not like there isn’t air inside,” Edmund said, sarcastic and snide and sounding like his old self.

“Edmund,” Peter said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Edmund looked up. “What?”

“When was the last time you went outside? Or even left this room?”

“Someone needs to run this country, Peter,” Edmund snapped. “Susan’s out doing God knows what in the forest and you haven’t met with advisors for weeks.” He gestured at the papers on the desk. “A census is long overdue, Ettinsmoor is chest-thumping again, and nobody has been replying to the condolence letters from our allies.”

“I’m sure they won’t blame us for the delay, given the circumstances,” Peter said.

“That’s not the point, Pete!” Edmund exclaimed. “The world doesn’t stop spinning just because–” He swallowed hard and swiped a hand over his eyes. “It’s been a month,” he said, sounding far wearier than he should at his age. “We need– We need to get back on our feet. We can’t mourn forever.”

Peter moved a pile of books from a chair and sat down. “I know,” he said. “I just… Without her…”

“We’re monarchs now,” Edmund said. “Not just siblings. We’re not responsible for just each other anymore.”

Peter nodded. “Just make sure you’re getting enough sleep,” he said finally, getting up.

“Are you?” Edmund asked, looking down at the papers again.

“Of course not,” Peter said. “Goodnight, Ed.”

“Goodnight.”

Peter went back to the library, more determined than ever to figure out what his dream meant. There were books on dream interpretation, but they were all useless. Likewise, the books on Narnian geography and history held no mentions of anything similar to the pool he had seen in his dream.

Finally, in a small book – Mythical Waters – he found fallen behind a bookshelf, he found a drawing of a cave with a pool. The only words on the page read: The Weeper’s Well. He flipped through the rest of the book. Each page only had a drawing of some body of water with its name, no other description.

Outside, the stars were high. Peter glanced out the window and sighed. It was some progress at least. He curled up on a couch on the other side of the library and fell asleep.

Like every night before, the voice curled around his dreams: Just a drop, Son of Adam, will prevent your greatest sorrow.

The next evening, after another fruitless day of research, Oreius stopped by the library to see how he was doing.

“Oreius,” Peter said after he had been updated on the daily news. “What do you know of the Weeper’s Well?”

“According to legend, it is a body of water deep underground, surface smooth as glass,” he said. “It was believed to ensure that one’s greatest sorrow would not occur.”

Peter nodded.

Oreius frowned slightly. “Why does Your Majesty ask this question?”

“I’ve–” he hesitated. “I’ve been having these dreams, since before Lu–” He took a breath. “For weeks.”

“Even if it existed,” Oreius said firmly. “Which it does not, it would not be a place one would want to go, nor would it hold magic one could trust. Only the darkest tomes even mention it.”

Peter’s eyes wandered to a trunk in the far corner of the library, where he knew the most dangerous books were kept. Oreius followed his gaze uncertainly.

“Your majesty, I cannot say this strongly enough: pursuing this will only lead to more pain.”

Peter swallowed. “You’re right, Oreius.” He looked up at him. “I just…”

Oreius nodded. “We all grieve with you,” he said and turned to leave. “Your siblings too,” he added. “Do not let them grieve alone as well.”

Peter resisted the urge to open the trunk for a full week. For a week, he did his best to help Edmund in the Council meeting room. For a week he met Susan at the gates of Cair Paravel when she came back in the evenings.

He began to think that perhaps time was all they needed. Until he smelled alcohol on Susan’s breath one night. And the next night. And the next.

Susan’s out doing God knows what in the forest. Edmund’s words rang in Peter’s ears, and he stormed into the Council chambers.

“You knew Susan was getting drunk in the woods!”

“We all need a way to cope,” Edmund said, barely looking up. “I work, she drinks, and you… try to make sure we don’t die too.”

Peter nearly stopped in his tracks at his words. “Ed! Have you also been drinking?” he demanded.

When Edmund did look up, he looked exhausted. “No, Peter, I would never do something so irresponsible,” he said dryly.

Peter glared at him, and Edmund held up his hands.

“I haven’t been drinking, I promise,” he said.

Shaking his head, Peter left the room. “We cannot go on like this,” he said to himself.

The trunk beckoned. Peter closed the door of the library and set his jaw. If there was a chance to get Lucy back, to make their family complete again, he would take it. Consequences be damned.

He crossed the room and reached out to open the lid. A chill very similar to the one the voice from his dreams gave him ran through his blood. It was accompanied by a sense of incredible foreboding, but Peter ignored both and pushed the lid open.

Inside were several neat stacks of leatherbound books. He felt his gaze pull to one near the bottom.

Knelt on the floor, he flipped through it until the words The Weeper’s Well caught his eye on a page.

The Weeper’s Well Rhyme Weary Weeper, do not plead Just one drop is all you need Far inward do the waters reach Within its grasp is what you seek To make right what is now wrong Weary Weeper, you’ve been so strong Come find my depths, far below And what was will again be so

Peter read through it several times, then copied the rhyme onto a piece of paper. Most of the rhyme seemed unimportant, except for the third and fourth lines. Those, he thought, were clues to the location of the well.

Waters reaching far inward sounded like a bay or a cove. Peter looked up at the map of Narnia painted on the ceiling.

The largest bay in Narnia was Glasswater Bay, which did reach far into Narnia. It also kind of looked like a hand at the end. Within its grasp could describe the piece of land that cropped out into the bay, looking like the space between the fingers and thumb.

Surely there were caves along the shore there. If he looked long enough, he was certain to find this Weeper’s Well.

And what was will again be so.

It was all he wanted. He wanted to see Lucy’s bright eyes and hear her laugh. He wanted to hear them all laugh again.

The next morning, Peter saddled his horse, Ferdinand, and loaded him with a pack of food, clothes, and blankets. The trip down to the bay would take five or six hours, so he wanted to leave early.

Edmund was unsurprisingly already awake, skimming through a pile of correspondence. He looked up when Peter entered, noting his travel clothes. “Where are you off to?” he asked.

“A short trip,” Peter said. No point getting anyone else’s hopes up. “I need to clear my head.”

Edmund nodded. “That’s probably a good idea,” he said. “Stay safe.”

Peter nodded. “I will.”

He stopped by Susan’s bedroom next but found it dark with the curtains down. There was a blanketed lump in the bed, so he quietly closed the door.

He departed as the sun was still rising at a brisk trot down the main road south. Only ten minutes later, he heard a familiar voice singing in the woods.

“Susan?” he called, bringing Ferdinand to a stop. He looped the reins around a low-hanging branch and followed the sound into the forest. In a clearing he found her, lying in the grass, feet bare, dress muddy, swaying her hands above her head in slow swooping motions as she sang to herself:

“…sure of a big surprise. If you go out in the woods today, You’d better go in disguise. For ever –”

“Susan?” Peter said and she stopped singing and looked over at him.

“Peter!” She smiled, wide and dreamy. “I’ve had the most lovely night.”

“Have you been here all night?” Peter asked, kneeling beside her.

“I have been everywhere, Peter,” she sighed. “I made some friends.”

“Who? What kind of friends?” Peter demanded. “And where are your shoes?” From close by he could see that her feet were cut, and her legs bruised and scratched.

“We run barefoot through the forests to feel it breathe beneath our feet,” Susan rambled. “We sing to the stars, and they sing back to us. We–” She stopped when she heard joyful shouting in the distance. “My new friends!” she exclaimed and sat up, promptly losing her balance so Peter had to grab her shoulders to keep her upright.

Into the clearing trotted a donkey carrying a squat man with vines curling through his hair and beard. Following him was a troupe of nymphs and fauns.

“My queen!” he called out. “Will you join us in our revels?”

“Bacchus,” Peter said, nothing but cold fury in his voice.

The man hesitated a moment before exclaiming, “My high king, you are welcome as well, of course.” He hopped off his donkey and ambled over with the stride of someone who had already been indulging themselves. His companions stayed back, chattering with each other.

Peter rose and stood in front of Susan. “Absolutely not,” he said. “And neither will she.”

“My lady,” Bacchus said mournfully. “Are our larks at an end?”

Susan began to protest, but Peter spoke first. “They are,” he said firmly. “If I hear of your contact with my sister again, you shall be banished from his land in perpetuity.”

Bacchus nearly stumbled. “But Aslan–”

“Aslan put us in charge of Narnia,” Peter interrupted. “If he sees fit to pardon you after, so be it. But until such a time, my authority stands. You will have no contact with any member of my family from this day forward. Do you understand, Lord Bacchus?”

He bowed his head. “I do, your majesty,” he said, suddenly solemn. “If I may but say one thing more?”

“Very well,” Peter said.

“You mustn’t fear the prospect of joy after tragedy,” he said. “The time will come for happiness once again.”

“Perhaps,” Peter said. “But even then, it will not be your version of joy I seek. I have seen your joy undo even the best of men.”

He held Bacchus’s gaze until he bowed again. “Your majesty,” he said, then bowed to Susan. “Your majesty.” Then he turned and led his donkey and entourage into the trees.

“You’re such a spoil-sport, Pete,” Susan whined.

“You’ll thank me someday,” Peter said grimly. “Come on, let’s get you home.” He hauled Susan to her feet, supporting her as she swayed slightly.

“No, not now,” she protested.

“Yes, now,” Peter insisted, forcing her forward. “We need to get you cleaned up.”

“I can’t–” she stumbled, and Peter just managed to catch her. She grabbed a handful of his coat, and he looked down at her. “I can’t go back inside those walls with a clear head, Peter,” she said desperately.

Peter clenched his jaw. “We can organize other accommodations, Su, but for now–”

“Please, Peter,” she begged. “I’ll stop drinking, I promise. I just can’t go back there.” Her eyes welled up with tears. “I see her in every room. I wake up every morning and have to remember again that she’s gone. I can’t go back there.”

Taking a breath and looking away to blink away his own tears, Peter relented. “Fine,” he said and thought for a moment. “I’m headed south. Along the way there’s a system of dwarf tunnels. Would you maybe want to stay there for a bit?”

Susan thought about it. “I suppose that might be alright,” she said finally.

“Good,” Peter said and helped her the rest of the way to the road. There he lifted her onto Ferdinand and took the reins in hand. After checking that Susan was secure and stable, he began walking down the road, leading Ferdinand behind him.

It was well past noon when they reached the first entrance to the dwarf tunnels. Peter left Ferdinand and Susan at the opening of the cave and walked a small distance inside.

“Hello?” he called. “I was hoping to ask a favour.”

An until-now-invisible door opened in the earthen wall and a red dwarf stepped out.

“Your majesty,” he said, bowing low. “What would you require of us?”

“Not require,” Peter said quickly. They had worked hard to repair relations with the dwarves but things were still sometimes tense. “I was hoping you could help me.”

The dwarf nodded.

“My sister is… not… well,” he said, stumbling over his words as he recalled saying a similar thing weeks ago about a different sister. “With her grief,” he added quickly. “She finds it difficult to remain in the castle, so I was hoping she could perhaps spend some time here.”

He looked surprised. “Of course,” he said. “We would be honoured to host Her Majesty for a short while.”

“Many thanks– What is your name?”

“Rakror, your majesty.”

“Many thanks, Rakror. This will not be forgotten.”

With Susan safely in the cool tunnels, Peter set off again. He would have to make good time if he were to make it to the bay before nightfall.

The slight sense of foreboding he had felt before grew as he travelled. He prayed to Aslan for some guidance or sign that this was a bad idea. He had expected Aslan to appear every day of Lucy’s illness, and every day after her death. He could bring her back, he knew. But perhaps he expected Peter to handle this, he thought. Why else would the location of the Weeper’s Well be so clear to him?

The sun began to set as Peter reached the banks of the bay and turned to go inland along the shore. It was fully dark by the time he neared the end of the bay, but it was a clear night. The half-moon reflected off the water, which rippled with its light and that of the stars.

Glasswater Bay ended in a steep cliff dotted with caves. Peter left Ferdinand tied to a tree and set off on foot. He had had the presence of mind to pack a torch and lit it as he approached the first cave.

The dark mouth yawned before him, but he felt a pull further to his left, so he continued down the rocky beach. There, what could better be described as a hole, not a cave, opened at his feet. A tug in his gut like vertigo told him it was the right place. He held the torch to the entrance and saw that it did not plummet down as he had feared. It was, however, quite steep and not near large enough to walk through.

Peter looked back to where he could see Ferdinand, calmly waiting for him at the shore. He took a breath, then got down on his hands and knees, hand holding the torch extended out front, and crawled into the cave.

The rocks were sharp and snagged at his clothing and scraped his skin. The proximity of the torch’s flames made him sweat and made his hands slick. He lost his balance and nearly bashed his face into the ground multiple times.

Soon he could no longer see the mouth of the cave when he looked back. He wasn’t sure if the cave was actually getting smaller or if it was only in his imagination that the walls were pressing in on her.

Still, he forged onward, as his clothing tore and his skin was cut. The front of his hair singed, and from the heat on his face, he thought his eyebrows might be suffering a similar fate.

Eventually, after nearly setting himself ablaze when his grip slipped, he decided to put out the torch. In his dreams, the pool had glowed anyway, so he wouldn’t need it.

So he crawled on in the dark, feeling his way forward on bleeding hands. He had no idea how long he had been down here. Hours? Was it growing light outside again? His limbs were tired, and his eyelids were heavy, but he refused to stop for even a short rest, afraid he would never get up if he did.

When he first saw a faint blue glow far ahead, he thought he was imagining it. But as he got closer, the light grew stronger, until he could see his hands and the rocks they left dark stains on.

Before he knew it, he was blinking in the light as he entered a large cave. He rose on shaky legs, pulling himself up with trembling arms.

The pool was just as it had been in his dreams. Perfectly round, with a glassy undisturbed surface that emitted a blueish glow.

Just one drop, the rhyme and the voice in his head had said. Peter stumbled forward, falling to his knees again at the edge of the water. He reached out a scratched and bleeding hand, only hesitating for a moment before plunging it into the cold water. He cupped his hand to hold the icy water and brought it up to his mouth. But before he had ever touched his lips to it, that now-familiar cold voice cackled in his mind. “You feed me well, Son of Adam,” it said gleefully.

“What?” Peter asked, letting the water trickle between his fingers back into the pond.

“It was not a drop of my waters, but a drop of your blood, required. And once again you have quenched my thirst.”

“What do you mean, once again?” Peter demanded.

“My magic does not just solve your problems for you. It simply allows you to fix them yourself… before they happen.”

“So you send people back in time,” Peter said, then stood. “Will you show yourself, so we can talk face-to-face?”

“Do you think this is the first time you’ve come to my shores, desperate to give me your blood?” it crooned, ignoring him. “Do you want to know how many times I have sent you back in time to save your precious Lucy?”

“You’re lying,” Peter said, but his voice faltered.

“Why would I lie? You’ve already given me what I want.”

“Then why send me back at all?”

“Because it is a magical bargain that I must hold to,” it snapped. “If you request to be sent back, I must do it.”

“But I won’t remember any of this.”

“No.”

“So how will I know to save Lucy?”

“How indeed?”

Peter scowled at the condescension. “What’s the point then?”

“So, you don’t want me to send you back?” The voice was sickly sweet.

“I didn’t say that,” Peter said quickly and swore he could hear the whatever-it-was smile.

“So you do want me to send you back?”

Peter took a deep breath. “You remember every time,” he said slowly, thinking as he spoke. “You somehow live on in any repeated time. You feed every time.” He looked up. “That is our trap, keeping desperate people stuck looping that time over and over again, while you get fat off their suffering.”

“Clever boy,” the voice said, then, like a beast licking its teeth: “And yet?”

Peter gritted his teeth. And yet, he wanted to do it.

Despite what he knew – that there was no chance by design, that this was set up for failure – if there was even the slightest chance to save Lucy…

“I want you to send me back anyway,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Are you sure?” it purred.

“Just do it, damn you!” he cried out, tears spilling onto his cheeks.

“As you wish,” the voice said. The pool’s waters suddenly rose into a tall wave that Peter just saw his reflection in – clothing tattered, skin torn and bleeding – before it crashed over him, cold and stifling.

Peter awoke in his bed to a fierce knocking on his door.

“What?” he said groggily.

The door burst open, and Lucy rushed in. “Still abed?” she asked, bounding to the windows to open the curtains.

Peter made a sound of protest, protecting his eyes from the blinding sunlight. Despite the rude awakening, he felt a sudden joy and relief at Lucy’s smiling face when she turned to look at him.

“The workmen just came to tell us the Splendour Hyaline is finished at last!” she exclaimed. “We must go on a short trip today!”

Peter found himself smiling too as he sat up in bed. “Indeed, we must.”

#*shameless rb from my writing blog*#fic #mine

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