He didn’t see it coming. And he should have.

Peter Pevensie wasn’t the sort of man to let his guard down. Not in war, not in camp, not even around the fire when things were soft and quiet and someone was humming a tune that reminded him of London. He was the High King. The sword-bearer. The one everyone looked to when the skies darkened and the ground shook and evil crawled its way up from the woods again.

He couldn’t afford softness. He couldn’t afford distraction. Not even the kind that came with the way your hand brushed his when you passed him a waterskin. Not even the kind that lingered in the way your eyes held his just a moment too long when everyone else was too busy sharpening blades or binding wounds.

But that day—he slipped.

It was a simple patrol. Supposed to be, anyway. Forest trail, eastern edge of camp, just past the ridge where the sunlight broke through the trees like it had been painted there. He’d ridden ahead, too eager, too confident, trying to prove something to no one in particular. Maybe to himself. Maybe to you.

You always rode behind him. Always watched his back. He hadn’t realized you were still doing it until the ambush hit.

They came out of the trees like smoke—silent, brutal, spell-woven monsters that looked like they’d once been men. Blackened eyes, twisted limbs, teeth too long for any mouth that belonged in Narnia. Magic, old and rotting, clung to them like mold. He barely had time to draw his sword before one was on him—fast, heavy, hungry.

The first hit knocked him to the ground. Wind gone. Vision blurred. Something cracked. Chest? Rib? It didn’t matter. He was scrambling, arm screaming as he brought up his shield, and the creature was already raising a blade black with rust and poison.

He knew, in that split second, that he wasn’t going to make it.

He’d accepted it. The way you do when your whole life’s been built around protecting others. Around being the shield. The wall. The first one in and the last one out. It never crossed his mind that someone might do the same for him.

But then—you were there.

Not just yelling. Not just throwing something from a distance. You put yourself between him and the blade. He heard it before he saw it. The crack of metal hitting flesh. Not his.

You were on your knees. The creature reeling back, your arm slick with blood. Your face twisted in pain and fury and something else—something that burned hotter than fear. He saw you snarl as you drove your blade into the thing’s throat like you were born for this moment.

And then it was over. Just like that. Silence. Not peace—shock.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move for a second. He was too busy staring at the blood on your sleeve. At the way your chest heaved. At the fact that you were still kneeling over him, not beneath him. He wasn’t used to this feeling. Wasn’t used to being the one saved.

And it rattled him. Shook him, in that way earthquakes do—not in the moment, but in the after, when you realize the foundation cracked.

Because people didn’t do that for him. They couldn’t. He didn’t allow it. He didn’t let them get close enough. Not even his siblings really saw him anymore—not like that. Not like you did. Like someone worth protecting.

He sat up slowly, muscles screaming, ribs hot and sharp. You said nothing. Just breathed beside him. Bleeding and proud and quiet, like nothing about what you’d done was remarkable. But it was. To him, it was everything.

Later, when they dragged the bodies off and the medics wrapped your arm, Peter walked away from camp. Couldn’t stand the way his heart was still racing. Couldn’t stand the lump in his throat.

You followed. Of course you did. He turned to you, hands clenched at his sides, breath short. And before he could stop himself, before he could think better of it, he said it.

“Thank you.”

Not because it was expected. Not because it was polite. But because he meant it like a prayer. Because for the first time since all this began, someone chose him.