Disclaimer: Peter and Narnia are clearly not mine. Meg, however, is.

Author's Note: This is Alternate Universe and fits into my Song of the Phoenix story arc. It would be best understood (and hopefully enjoyed) if you first have read both Song of the Phoenix itself and The Land of Make Believe. Also, Peter's old injury as described herein, as well as its resulting complications, come from my story For Ever Kneel'd.

Notes on British History: Peter has been mustered into the British Armed Forces following the passage of the National Service Act in 1947. The act went into effect in the beginning of 1949, and due to the fact that Peter was of age (I have him one year younger than Lewis), he was conscripted in fall 1949. Meg is a member of the Queen Alexandra's Royal Army Nursing Corps (QARANC). NAAFI stands for Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes and is the British version of the post exchange.

Notes on Medicine: I know in this day and age, asthma is usually treated with the patient inhaling the medicine, but in post-WWII, nebulizers and inhalers were just coming into use, and generally, actual attacks were treated by injection of various drugs, including direct adrenergic bronchodilators (from the American Journal of Respiratory and Critical Care Medicine). Obviously, my research and knowledge of medical procedure is at best very basic, and I am aware of this – I ask you to forgive any glaring anachronisms or plain errors.

Lastly, many thanks go to HarmonyLover for her excellent betaing and even better suggestions for improvement.

Enjoy!

So Let Us Surrender

Omnia vincit amor, et nos cedamus amori.
(Love conquers all things; let us yield to love.)

+ Virgil—Eclogæ. X. 69; Hoyt's New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"It's about time one of us should be taking a break – do you want to go first, or might I?"

The slightly nasal tones of her fellow nurse broke Meg's concentration with the force of a wrecking ball, and she frowned down at the patient chart in annoyance. The typed name, age, rank, and service number stared coldly back at her in stark black and white, offering no sympathy, and she felt a headache flare into existence at the back of her eye.

"I say, Meg, it's time for a break. You mind if I go?"

"Mmmm," Meg nodded and gave the other girl a brief glance and distracted smile and turned her attention back to the chart. The tiny medical ward was full tonight and so duties were numerous – the training exercises that week had been raised for the first time a level or two beyond simple drills and calisthenics, and a few of the new conscripts had been unable to stomach the tougher diet.

She flipped the chart over, noting this one had claimed heatstroke, and snorted to herself. It was the beginning of September, for pity's sake. Really, couldn't he just admit he wasn't quite man enough to make it the entire ten miles and then back again? Still, perhaps he hadn't had enough water – she had no doubt he was indeed suffering, or the brass wouldn't have ordered him to the ward. They weren't the types to let someone slack off.

Wearily, Meg rubbed her temple, the sickening throb of the newborn headache gaining strength and pulsing through her eye with every beat of her heart. The irritating harshness of carbolic acid and the insidious, underlying sickly-sweet odor of infection permeating the air didn't help matters in the slightest. She shuffled the chart back into alphabetical order and then clipped the whole lot to her board. A check of her watch said it was time to start the rounds again, and Meg spared an uncharitable thought Becky couldn't have chosen a worse – or more convenient – time to take a break. She should have taken Becky up on her offer and gone instead.

"Oh, well," she said to herself, sighing a bit as she pushed the rickety chair back from the desk, its shaky wooden legs squeaking. "Not quite man enough, eh, Schillair?"

The next half hour or so passed in a blur of checking pulses, adjusting bed-sheets and plumping pillows, administering medicines, taking temperatures, updating bed-charts, and fetching glasses of water. Most of the young men were frightfully polite – only a few were defensive about having fallen short of expectations – and Meg was grateful for their good attitudes and behavior. While she had no trouble scolding the biggest, roughest soldier for medical infractions, she was afraid she might have had trouble smoothing the sharp edges from her tongue tonight.

She finally collapsed back in the chair, which creaked loudly with the sudden weight, and thumped the clipboard down on the desk. Pausing for a moment as a thought struck her, Meg gently loosened the pins clamping the starched white cap to her head. The ache diminished immediately, not vanishing completely, but at least retreating to a manageable level, and she groaned softly in relief. Better. Much, much better.

For the next several minutes, Meg busied herself with updating the charts more completely and filling out the ubiquitous paperwork upon which the military seemed to thrive. During the completion of one such form, she looked up, a puzzled frown tugging down her lips. What was that noise? Quiet, barely audible at first, a ragged wheeze came to her ears, a strained, whistling sound almost like air being forced through a very tiny hole–

Beating the first calls of alarm from the other soldier patients by a few split seconds, Meg was out of the chair in a flash, her crisply ironed skirt snapping as she nearly ran to the bed at the end of the room. Rounding the privacy screen, she found her guess correct – the conscript assigned to that place – one Private Pevensie – was arched against the sheets binding him tightly to the thin mattress, an expression of pure agony contorting his face and his fists mangling the coarse wool blanket in bunches, his knuckles bone-white. He shook with the effort of drawing another breath and nearly choked on saliva and what little oxygen he managed to get, sweat matting strands of dark blond hair to his forehead.

Wasting no time, Meg ripped the winding, constricting sheets off his torso, noting with chagrin that when she had tucked him in during her rounds, she had done an entirely too thorough job. She hastened to help him sit up and pulled the pillow up behind him, easing him back and mentally consulting what she remembered was written on the chart at the foot of his bed. Clearly he was having another debilitating asthmatic attack – no wonder the brass had sent him in, if a similar fit was really what had collapsed him in the midst of an exercise earlier that morning. How on earth had he ever gotten past the physical exam while being mustered in, anyway?

"Hang on, there," she said briskly, taking his left arm and deftly rolling back the short, scratchy sleeve of his army-issue hospital pajamas. "We'll have you sorted in no time." She didn't try to ignore her patient's near-panicked struggles; instead, she let the horrible, dragging inhalations fuel her speed.

Her movements swift and efficient, Meg turned to the small bedside table where the syringe lay neatly on the dented tray. It was the penultimate dose of adrenaline – the last of the precious and more potent aminophylline had been used on Pevensie that morning – and a fleeting wish flickered that just for once, the ward would have an adequate amount of supplies on hand. She crushed such foolishness ruthlessly; times were still tough, and besides, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride - and straight to the Devil at that. Her job was simply to make do and save lives. Nimbly and without regret, she plucked the syringe from its resting place, tapped the glass rat-a-tat-tat to remove bubbles, depressed one tiny drop from the sharp tip, pivoted, said, "Just one little sting, now," and thrust the needle through skin and into muscle.

The young man gave no sign he'd even felt the jab, though as Meg gently squeezed the drug into his arm, he grimaced as he fought for yet another mouthful of air. She set the syringe back on the tray when she was through and put her other hand on his chest, massaging with a firm touch, willing the injection to work – and quickly.

It took a few moments, but her patient's breathing eventually began to even out. He dropped his head back against the bed's hard iron railing at last and took a gasping, shuddering breath and then another, deeper and calmer and deeper still. Meg patted his shoulder. "Good man," she said, satisfied, and smiled. "That's more like it. Need some water?"

He turned to look at her, and she was startled to see he was still trembling and even more, there were tears filming his blue eyes. "Thank you," he said faintly, his voice breaking. "Thank you, yes, I would like some, please. Thank you."

Disconcerted by the naked and unashamed gratitude in his expression and the strange sense of heavy despair that lay beneath it, Meg hurried to pour him a glass from the battered communal pitcher at the nurses' station. She brought it back and held it to his lips, and his hand, trembling a bit, came up to take it from her grasp.

"Thank you," he said again, a bit stronger, "I can take it from here."

"Sure about that, private?" she asked, watching him drink - his color was returning, good.

Pevensie paused, and his expression tightened. "Not for much longer," he said quietly, staring down into the depths of the tin cup as though he were examining his very soul therein.

Meg pursed her lips slightly, knowing to what he was referring and also knowing he was probably correct – no officer in their right mind would want a soldier who was prone to such sudden, severe attacks. It was only a matter of time now until the senior physician recommended a medical discharge. Pevensie obviously understood what was coming and felt badly about it; she didn't suppose she could blame him, as most likely she would feel the same.

"Best to let them decide, eh?" she said practically. "It's no good borrowing trouble – each day has enough of its own."

He gave her a quick, searching glance, and Meg was somewhat taken aback by the wondering interest in his eyes. She could have sworn he was seeing her clearly for the first time, and as he held her gaze, it almost seemed as though he was thoughtfully measuring her against some internal checklist. The troublesome thing was, unlike the other times such scrutiny had been directed her way, Meg found she didn't really mind. "Time to retreat, Schillair," she thought, "Or this will get over your head." She knew of too many instances where fellow QARANC nurses had fallen for the soldier-patients they were tending. Silly geese, the lot of them, and she had no wish to be numbered among their lot.

Abruptly, the ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Pevensie's lips as if he'd guessed her train of thought, but he only nodded. "You speak truth," he said, an archaic phrase that oddly enough sounded rather commonplace coming from him. "And I needed to hear it. My thanks, Nurse Schillair."

"You're welcome, of course," Meg replied, taking the cup he offered her and placing it on the bedside table while capturing his wrist at the pulse point with her other fingers. Satisfied his heartbeat was normal and steady, she tucked the bed coverings back in around him, taking care to leave them fairly loose this time, and spread the wool blanket back over his legs.

All the while he regarded her with something akin to speculative interest, which made her cheeks flush a bit with irritation – at him and at herself – and all the more anxious to be back at the desk. "There now, private" she said, straightening and brushing a few stray hairs behind her ears, "Do you need anything else at the moment?"

Pevensie shook his head. "No, thank you," he said, "And I am sincerely grateful for your aid."

Meg gave a tiny shrug. "You're welcome," she said, "It's what I do." She turned with parade-ground precision to leave. "Call me if you need anything further."

Peter watched her go, her flat shoes clicking against the cold, tiled floor in an efficient, no-nonsense rhythm. His nightmare was still with him – he still felt the burning marks of the Morrigan's nails against his flesh, and the stimulating rush of adrenaline had not entirely loosed the iron-hard bands constricting his chest. He was so weary of this, of paying the price for his resistance, and though over time the attacks had been few and far between, their threat had not diminished. Each dream was just as horrible as the reality had been, and worse, just as tempting.

"What do I do?" he asked Edmund, his head in his hands, the last time his brother had been there to help him through an aftermath. "How do I fight this? It's not just the bloody asthma. It's the magic and the attraction and the – the wanting, the evil, twisted, bloody wanting."

Edmund pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, turning inward for a long, long moment as Peter focused on controlling his breathing. "I don't know, exactly, Pete," he said at last, "It's a bit of a problem, really. The carnal solution would seem to be quite simple, but, correct me if I'm wrong, I think it would actually compound the issue – morality aside, of course." He gave a wry smile and went silent again, one forefinger gently tapping against his chin.

"Maybe…" Edmund hesitated, a funny expression stealing over his features. Peter, his eyes closed as he inhaled deeply, quite failed to notice. There came a further silence, and then the younger boy appeared to make a decision and straightened his shoulders almost imperceptibly. "Um, have you gone out with anyone recently? Like dates, I mean."

"What?" Peter's head jerked up in shock. "Are you barmy? What does that have to do with this?"

"Keep your hair on – honestly." Brown eyes met blue. "Stop trying to resist the one in your dreams who's all wrong anyway. Find a girl here, Pete. Fall in love. Get married. Real and concrete, and just as it's supposed to be."

Peter blinked, trying to ascertain whether Edmund was serious or having one over on him just for fun. His brother was not usually quite so terse, though he could be when the occasion called for it and generally never minced words. Was something else troubling him? Edmund gazed back steadily, however, giving away nothing, and finally Peter smiled weakly.

"Oh, swell. That sounds like a smashing plan. Find a girl." He snorted. "Poof - hey presto! My lungs will be like new. No more nightmares. Smashing."

Edmund shrugged, slightly annoyed. "I didn't say it would heal you for good, Peter. 'Omnia vincit amor et nos cedamus amori', and all that nonsense – no. But maybe it would help, eh?" He shrugged again. "Take it as you will."

Well. He'd had enough. Perhaps he would take Edmund's advice, and stop passively resisting. Bring the war to the enemy; take control of the battleground, and this petite nurse might just be the girl with which to start. She was everything Lady Rua was not – a complete opposite in build, coloring, expression, and sanity. Most importantly, she was anchored here, to this, his ordinary place of exile. She was thoroughly British and thoroughly normal. Well. He'd had enough of magic for awhile. Maybe his brother was right.

Peter inhaled and felt his lungs expand.

Several days later…

Meg sighed wearily as she tossed her handbag onto her bed and began to undo the buttons of her light coat.

Her roommate and fellow nurse, Claire Beauchamp, winced sympathetically as she leaned over the back of her desk chair. "Rough day?"

"You could say that," Meg replied, carefully removing the pins holding her cap in place before taking it off and giving it a neat toss to its spot on the shelf. "Never enough time or supplies to do what you need. I mean, this isn't war, and no one died, but still…" she sighed again, sweeping her things aside and plopping down onto her bed, which complained loudly with a ghastly squeak of springs. She pried off her shoes one after the other and kicked them onto the floor and lay back with one arm flung over her eyes.

"Well, maybe this will cheer you up," Claire said, reaching behind her to her desk and then holding out a slender envelope. "You got a letter – actually, Becky passed it along to me to give to you. Said one of the patients left it at the desk yesterday evening when he was discharged. Quite scrumptious, she said, very nice and polite, and – these are her envious words, not mine, mind you – 'with lovely big hands'."

This last was said with a roll of the eyes, and Meg echoed with one of her own as she took the flimsy envelope from her friend. It was addressed precisely in a strong, looping script she didn't recognize, and when she tore it open with her fingers, a single folded sheet dropped out onto her lap.

Aware of Claire's interested attention, Meg gave her a tiny glare, and only after the other nurse turned away with a smile did she ease over onto her side facing the wall and begin to read.

Nurse Schillair,

I am afraid this will seem rather presumptuous, and perhaps it is. I beg you to forgive me, if so, and at least to hear me out until the end of this note – afterwards you may give it the treatment it most likely deserves if you think it best. My name is Peter Pevensie, and I am the conscript you treated this week who suffered from breathing problems. If you remember who I am, I do not flatter myself that it is due to my suave and magnetic personality or stunning good looks, believe me. You have seen me at very low ebb, and your kind and efficient attitude towards me in my need was quite comforting. I give you my thanks first and foremost, now and always. You removed a measure of the sting from my shame.

I regret I am unable to speak with your father first, and so I ask again for your forgiveness in being so forward with my request. May I write to you? I will be honest – I am not asking because I am laboring beneath the delusion that I am grandly and overwhelmingly in love with you. I am not. I am, rather, intrigued, and I only seek to enter into correspondence with you to learn more about who you are and see if you might feel the same towards me. If you do not wish such an obligation, I place no blame, and, in fact, I understand. You must receive many such proposals daily in the course of your work, and I am merely a stranger, after all.

If you are agreeable, however, know I harbor no expectations of any further steps. If they occur, well and good, and I will, of course, seek your father's approval before making formal our courtship. If not, then also well and good. At least I will know I have tried.

Again, thank you for your care for me and for others. May God bless you.

Sincerely,

Peter Pevensie

Meg read the letter three times, noting the address he gave was in a borough of London, before she sat up and went through it once more, absently swinging her feet to the floor.

"Must be something," Claire said, her amused smile a bit wider. "They usually end up in the bin without a second glance."

"Ha," Meg said shortly, finally folding the letter carefully and slipping it into her skirt pocket before bending to hunt for her shoes. "I'm going to the NAAFI – do you want anything?"

Claire laughed. "No, thanks, but I have extra paper right here," she said, displaying a few sheets in a flimsy fan. "If you need it, that is."

Meg pointedly ignored her and shrugged back into her coat, her slender fingers slipping on the buttons. She was suddenly and violently annoyed – at herself, at Claire, and most especially at this Peter Pevensie. Who did he think he was, anyway? A knight in shining armor? The blooming King of England? She snorted.

"Meg," Claire's voice, serious and abruptly concerned, stopped her short. "Are you all right?"

It took a moment for Meg to find the words. "I think so," she said, finishing buttoning her coat and forcing herself to take deep, even lungfuls of air with each inhalation. "It's just rather stuffy in here, you know? I can't seem to breathe."

"Mmmm," her friend replied, and her tone told Meg she thought she understood quite well. "A walk might be just the thing, then. Be careful, right?"

"I always am," Meg said quietly and stepped outside.

Finis