(I've got a thing for Peter rn besties- also this is kinda sad. I mean there's a lot of death and blood and um sad things, so please don't read this if any of those trigger you :)
Injury Recall
A ride through the woods was what the doctor had ordered, not a romp through a field of dead bodies. You weren't sure what happened, but by the looks of it an army had ravished the country side, cutting down the defense that had been set up with ease.
But curiosity about the battle is not what has trying to ignore the sea of death surrounding you as you pick your way through the lifeless bodies. Instead, your curiosity was piqued by a body leaning against a tree.
It's sitting perfectly upright, heavily leaned against the truck of the oak, that much you can tell from a distance. Usually dead bodies fall in such an unordinary way you can tell they have passed on, but here you can't. The body looks so lifeless, but it's so perfectly placed, investigating your find is imperative.
You make your way slowly towards it, stopping at the man's feet - as you can now tell the body belongs to a man, by the distinctly male features. The man's head is turned to one side, downturned slightly. His eyes are closed, but his mouth is wide open. You kneel next to him, the sound of his faint, shallow breathing not reaching your ears.
Your hand reaches out, finding his blood stained, dirt caked fingers in the leaves fallen from the trees. You curl your fingers into your palm, all except for two that you place on the inside of his wrist, feeling for a pulse. You gasp at the same time he does, jerking his hand away, only to immediately groan in pain.
In the split moment his eyes were open, you could see beautiful blue eyes clouded with angst. The groan that slips past his chapped lips catches your attention, as does his hand that flies to rest against his stomach.
You gasp again as you look down, unable to keep the horror from your eyes. The armor is made to protect from injuries, but a carefully calculated move has lodged half a spear in the stomach of the man with the gorgeous blue eyes.
You look up, finding that his eyes are already on yours. His face is stern, but his eyes are begging you. You're not sure if it's a plea for mercy or to be put out of the misery he's in, but he's asking for one.
"I'm not gonna hurt you," you whisper. "What's your name?" You ask, trying to figure out how in the world you're going to get him out of here. He's much larger than you are and trying to move him would cause the poor man agony.
"P...Peter," he whispers, watching your fingers hover over his body. "Wh," he swallows. "What are you doing?"
"Well, Peter, I'm going to take you home." He gasps and shakes his head.
"No!" He grunts as he sits up, trying to disappear into the trunk of the tree his still pressed against.
"But you're gonna die," you whisper, placing a hand on his leg. One he is quick to shrug off.
"How do I know I can trust you?" He asks, his eyes filling with judgement.
"Why wouldn't I haven't already killed you then? I mean why would I wait." The man -- Peter -- thinks over your claim, nodding slowly.
"That's fine," he stops, leaning his head against the tree trunk, losing his wind. "But how are you going to get me 'home?'"
You think, having not been able to overcome that question quite yet. "My horse," but he shakes his head.
"That would kill me," he says, well aware it would hurt less to walk than he jostled by the less than smooth motions of a horse. "How far is it?"
"A little ways that way," you say, pointing back the way that you came. He pales, more than he already was, looking at the bodies that litter the ground, many of them wearing a shade of red close to his. "Or we could go around, it would take longer though."
"No," your surprised at just how firm his objection is. "No, this way is fine." You watch as he bends his knees, the slightest movement causing him to choke on his own groan. You hurry to stand, holding your arm out to help him. He places one hand on the trunk behind him, using his leverage and his feet resting flat to push himself up.
He cries out in pain as he stands, those blue eyes sparkling now as a side effect of such pain. He stumbles forward and you're just barely able to keep him from hitting the ground again. His chest heaves as he gasps, his sweaty forehead resting on your shoulder.
"Are you alright?"
"Quite fine," you frown, having not meant the question for its literal meaning, but rather if he was ready to move. He seems to realize moments later and straightens as best he can.
You take his hands, standing in front of him. You hate to treat a grown man as a toddler, but his steps are so shaky it's almost as if he's relearning to use his legs. After he gets his bearings, you wrap an arm around his waist to help him along. He grits his teeth as he walks, staring straight ahead as you make your way back through the field.
"Are you a leader, Peter?" The man looks over at you, surprise written on his face.
"You don't know?" He asks, tilting his head.
"Am I supposed to?" You ask, stopping to look at him, quite confused by his question.
"Yes," his voice falls. "This is my army," you can barely make out the words. They don't live long once they've slipped past his lips- his trembling lips. He breaths in deeply, indicating he wants to continue on, by taking another step.
You continue on your way in uncomfortable silence, occasionally coaxing him along as you would encourage a toddler on the way. It isn't until blood-bathed wood seeps into the background that his melodious voice reaches your ears again.
"How much further?" You look over at him, trying to read his face. His nose is scrunched, his bottom lip has been taken between his teeth. The hand that isn't wrapped around your shoulders is pressed just below his stomach, indicating just how desperate he is to reach the aforementioned destination.
"Not much longer, see that smoke cloud?" You wait until he nods. "It's right up there," he lets out a breath, being able to see the goal in the distance rejuvenating him.
Before long, he's collapsing on the bed in your room, trying to steady his breathing. He looks around your one room home, still trying to decide if he can trust you or not. He watches as you rush around the small living space, finding whatever it is you might need to tend to his injuries.
"You live alone?"
"Yes," you reply, grabbing a basin of water and cloths. "Just so you know, I'm no doctor, but I'm going to do my best."
Peter looks down, cringing. "Are you've sure you've gotta pull it out?" He asks, letting you lift his head and adjust the pillows so he's propped up comfortably.
"I'm sure," you reply, standing over him. "I'm gonna have to take this off," you say, pointing to his armor. "I'm sure it's heavy and uncomfortable anyway."
Peter gives a weak laugh. "You don't know the half of it." He does his best to assist you as you work to pull it off. He tells you how to loosen and unstrap it, allowing you to pull it off.
You don't hesitate, having only one goal on your mind, until you peel back his bloodstained tunic. You gasp at the wound, barely refraining from dropping the material back into it.
"What?" Peter, who was semi relaxed, is now fully awake, his eyes open and gazing seriously at you. "What's wrong?"
"Um, I'm gonna take your tunic off, but I wouldn't look if I were you," Peter shrugs.
"I was thinking about a career in medicine, it'll be good practice."
"As you wish," you carefully take off his shirt, discarding it in the pile that has accumulated beside the bed on the floor. "Peter?" The man stares silently down at the bubbling wound, his face having slipped into an unreadable expression.
"Just do it," he leans back, his palms laying flat on the mattress.
"Here," you roll up a towel offering it him. "If you put it in your mouth it'll muffle...everything." You refrain from saying his screams, but you know he understands. "And it'll keep you from biting your lip or your tongue." He takes it gratefully. You steady yourself, both your hands wrapping around the broken off wood sticking out of his stomach. You look over at him, feeling his pretty blue eyes clocking your movements. He gives you the smallest of nods as a go ahead.
You close your eyes, take a breath, pray to Aslan, and apply upward pressure. Peter let's out a bloodcurdling cry, collapsing back against the bed. His knuckles turn white as he grips the bed sheets, his eyes closing once again as he tosses his head. The second it comes loose, you're grabbing the cloth you'd laid out, applying pressure to the wound as blood inevitably pours from it.
Your heart is beating out of your chest, your hands are shaking, but relief flows through you. You glance over at Peter, immediately regretting it. His chest heaves as he takes in quick breaths. His blonde locks stick to his forehead and his face is scrunched in pain. He's long removed the cloth and it lays beside him - having done its duty to muffle his pained noises - allowing his mouth to hang open.
Once his breathing slows, he turns his head so he can see you, slowly opening his eyes. You're glad to see that relief has settled into them. Though you can still see pain hiding in his pupils, he looks...better. "Thank you,"
You blush, shaking your head. "Don't mention it...please." He understands and gives you a nod.
"Still bleeding?" You pull your hands away, grateful to find the bleeding has stopped.
"Nope,"
"Oh great, this is my least favorite part." You snort, reaching for the basin of water you'd set out earlier.
"You mean to tell me, that out of everything that happened, cleaning the wound is your least favorite part?" You ask, busying yourself with cleaning the blood around the wound up first.
"Well maybe not in this situation, but I've never liked it," Peter replies, groaning softly as the cloth brushes over the recently angered skin. "I've cleaned my brother's wounds before and it always hurt him so I guess it brings back bad memories."
"You have a brother?" You ask, hoping the conversation will distract him.
"Yes, one brother and two sisters." He gasps as the cloth brushes past his wound, jerking away from your touch, immediately gasping again at the sudden movement.
"Sorry," you whisper.
"My brother also says not to apologize," you smile, focusing back on the task at hand.
In a moments time, the wound has been cleaned and dressed, with minimal groans of pain from the boy you've come to realize is quite handsome. Of course his eyes have always stuck out, but his skin is beautifully tanned, his hair a perfect shade of blonde to compliment his skin tone. His chest is muscled, his arms the same, everything you could want he has. And his name is quite delightful too.
"Why don't you go to sleep?" You ask, brushing his hair back from his forehead as you clean up the mess you'd made, heading towards the kitchen across the way to discard the basin and try to wash out the blood.
"There's something I've gotta know first," you look up at him.
"Alright, what is it?"
"Why did you help me?" He asks, his face becoming serious as the conversation turns back to your heroic act.
"Well I couldn't just leave you there to die." You reply, cringing at the blood stained cloth and suddenly remembering his fingers. You grab a clean cloth, sitting on the bed beside him, grabbing his hand.
"I could be the enemy,"
"Well how am I supposed to know who the enemy is and who isn't? I wasn't a part of that battle." Satisfied you've gotten the dirt off you reach for his other, him meeting you halfway.
"You still don't know who I am, do you?"
"I'm afraid not."
"And what if I told you I was High King Peter?" You snort, letting go of his hand as you stand up.
"Like I would believe that." The alleged King gives you an amused smile and it suddenly makes sense. You look him over, realizing his description meets the one your friends always gave you. He has a brother and two sisters, totaling to four monarchs. His armor is distinctly Narnia and his sword...
"Oh my!" You gasp, embarrassment flooding your face as you drop to your knees.
"Oh, no, none of that," he bats his hand. "If anything I should be bowing to you. I mean you did just save my life." You blush slightly, the weight of what you had just done finally catching up with you as you catch sight of the spear stained dark red laying on the floor.
"Is there anything else I can do for you, my King?"
"Please just keep calling me Peter, it is my name after all." He gives you a dazzling smile, though you can tell he's struggling to keep his eyes open. "But there is one more thing you could do."
"Yes! Anything!" You reply eagerly, looking up at him.
"You can tell me what your name is." He says, lifting a hand to brush his hair back from his face.
"Y/n," satisfied, he smiles at you. He relaxes against the mattress, letting his eyes slip closed with the intent to sleep as he whispers.
"I owe my life to you, Y/n."