I don't own Narnia or the Pevensies. I do own a ridiculous amount of merchandise related to both.
It is a cold and empty night, and Peter is alone.
He stands outside his tent with his back straight and his eyes up, taking in the rich deep blue of the sky, gaze steady, wondering. The stars seem especially bright when he is this far from the Cair, from his family, from home. In the unwavering, pale white glow, he listens to the faint thud of his heartbeat and the quiet stirring of his sleeping army. Tomorrow, under the harsh sun, he will lead them into battle for the second time. And he knows that come tomorrow, he might not ever behold the night again.
His eyes find a star, not brighter than the others, but more beautiful. It flickers almost unnoticeably as it nestles within the soft velvet blue of the sky. And he wonders, briefly, is this the same star that saw his brother's hate for him blossom into betrayal, if this is the same star that saw him flee from capture, if this is the same star that saw Aslan killed at the Stone Table. He wonders if it saw him as he watched over that same brother, returned to them by a miracle, the night before he first led an army to inevitable defeat. He wonders if it ever saw him on the nights he tossed in nightmares, chased by the memories of that same brother dying in his arms, torn by a sword not meant for him, and he wonders if it ever saw him collapse over his balcony, weeping for what he never said, for what he could never fix.
He wonders if tomorrow, it will see him among the dead. He wonders if it will see him to victory, or perhaps to defeat, or perhaps – here he shudders, which despite the chill he has not yet – it will again watch him rent apart by the loss of that same brother. He wonders, will he live to say what needs to be said? Does he yet have time to fix what he could not fix before? The star sparkles at him. For a moment longer he watches it, wondering. Then he turns, turning his back on the night and the sky, and pushes aside the flap of his tent as he ducks in. His eyes take in the stark, Spartan space; his sword and shield and his armor, the maps, his vacant sleeping roll, and the most important thing he has brought with him.
He casts one final glance outside, then lets the flap fall shut. Sliding down into the makeshift bed, he shifts close to that same brother, grazing one tender hand across his dark head.
"I love you, Edmund," he whispers. His no-longer-little brother smiles in his sleep, relaxed and peaceful and unworried. Peter, pacified, closes his eyes and allows himself to rest until tomorrow.
It is a cold and empty night, but Peter is no longer alone, and he no longer wonders.