O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night;

O Night and Stars return!

And hide me from the hostile light

That does not warm, but burn

That drains the blood of suffering men;

Drinks tears, instead of dew:

Let me sleep through his blinding reign,

And only wake with you!

-Emily Bronte

It had been a long time since he had last lain beneath the stars. Above him, spanning the breadth of his view, the night sky glittered like another world. It was utterly still, with only the distant sigh of wind to accompany the magnificent vista. It was enough, he reflected. He had forgotten the cold beauty of the heavens, and now it was as if he was bathing in beams of light. His side did not hurt anymore, and his legs, where the giant had crushed him, did not trouble him either. He had once read, from a dusty old tome in the library, a phrase that now came back to him here, as he struggled to expel air from punctured lungs. All through the night, your glorious eyes, Were gazing down in mine. I was at peace, and drank your beams.

And yet. Water would be nice, thought Peter. He was suffering from a dreadful thirst, and the edges of his vision were beginning to darken. A part of his mind, the part that was not full of pinpricks of light and the movement of the heavenly bodies and which had seen battle and death, was insisting that he was suffering from shock, and that he would surely perish if he did not call for help. His thoughts blurred into one another, and drifted, like a cloud pushed along by a mild breeze.

What were the naiads in the habit of saying? For surely they, unlike their forest-dwelling cousins, they who lived their lives in the crystal streams of Narnia, could appreciate the vastness of the night sky. It must be doubly spectacular when seen through a shimmering veil of water. He would have to ask them when he returned to the Cair.

Peter was suddenly alarmed. If he gazed for too long, it was as though he had taken leave of his body. He had no earthly tether, no heavy torso or weary shoulders or sand-crusted eyes to blink with, no fingers to flex and dig into the mud beneath him. He felt that he was drifting into the sky, enveloped by their coldness and their wildness. A pleasant sound reached his ears, as if of very light humming. The stars were beginning to sing to him, each one serenading him, speaking of his life, his joys, his bravery and kindness. Now more and more voices joined the melody, rich, low, dark voices, and the counterpoint now sung of his fears, his troubles, his sorrows. The harmony was at once exquisite and painful. He saw that he was not alone anymore, as he had thought. Each star, voice distinct, had known him since the day of his birth and would accompany him until his dying breath. There were joyful voices, wise, with young and old alike, greeting him. Welcome, Peter Pevensie, they said, High King of Narnia. Welcome. And as he stared, as the light seemed to grow more and more fiery (he could no longer hear wind, only the heavenly melody), there arose the voice of sorrow, and it was ancient and grave. Welcome, Peter Pevensie, it said, but there was little joy in the greeting.

And now Peter finally saw what was occurring, and it struck him as strange that he was not frightened. He was only – yes, he had turned twenty-one last month, and Susan – ah! Susan, and now he was anxious, but not for himself – yes, she had thrown him a surprise party. Lu had given him a lovely gift – what had it been? He could not remember, and the disquiet of it jolted him so that a wave of most unpleasant cold washed over him.

Ah, well, he thought hazily. It did not matter much, although the memory of that day was pleasing. He wondered idly where his two sisters were, and what they were doing. Susan would be at the Cair, managing things with her usual grace and efficiency. He had been reluctant to let Lucy ride to battle with him, but she was a skilled horsewoman and a capable fighter. He thought of his brother. There was a sense of urgency there, that he must acknowledge certain things in his mind in the moment here, now, before... what? Edmund's quick smile and dark eyes flashed in his mind, his brother's face still and then breaking into a look of delight, the layers of his mind unveiled at once. Joy, the kind that Peter had felt only in brief moments of beauty and clarity, now swept through him.

Come to us, the stars sung to him, and the song was high and lovely, lovelier than any music he had ever heard, lovelier than the flutes of the light-footed fauns or the keening of the naiads, or the plucked instruments of the dryads, lovelier than the morning birdcall by which he awoke or the symphony of a summer night. He was crying, he realized, but was not even embarrassed. Peter could vaguely feel tears stinging the abrasions on his face – and this confirmed that he was still bound to his body, and not floating among the stars, as he had thought – how strange.

His peace was suddenly shattered as violent vibrations struck the air around him. A pounding of feet, and someone shaking him and grabbing at him. He gasped, and cold hit him like a wave of icy water, clutching at his chest and squeezing tight. His vision contracted, and now he saw dark shapes moving about, blocking the stars. They were no longer singing, and he could hear only faint whispers. The aches and pains all along his body were returning, and he found that his heartbeat roared in his ears.

"He's alive. Oh, Aslan," a voice breathed, close to him, and the odd sound of laughter and sobs mixing together jarred his ears.

"Go away!" he shouted, but little noise came from his lips. Someone had thrown something warm over him, and a low soothing voice murmured into his ear. His mouth was forced open – and he struggled, uncomprehending, as a burning liquid slid down his throat. Someone was stroking his forehead with a light cool touch, and for a moment he was sure that he was in bed, feverish and weak, and that Mother was cradling his head in her arms and humming. But that was only a dream.

He closed his eyes, shutting out the brilliant stars, now so far away. Their austerity and silence surprised him. But he was tired, and only wanted to sleep.

Yeah... I don't really know what the heck I'm talking about either! I just remembered seeing the most beautiful night skies in pictures (I'm a city girl, have literally never seen the night sky in its glory) and thought about how utterly beautiful and yet disquieting it must be to sleep outdoors under such a night.

Review please :) Reviews are my sustenance.