#for context this is like a few days before peter turns 18 and enlists

[rainintheevening]

Narnia, sand

In the dream, he stood alone in front of a great blue wave, three, four, five times his height, water rushing up and up and up, forever cresting, never crashing, it's top all dancing spray in the wind, and he sucked in a deep breath, wild salt air fresh in his lungs.

Between him and the wave was a sword stuck upright in the sand, sun light glinting on the polished steel blade, the golden lion's-head pommel, and a rush of joy filled him, like greeting an old friend; he thought he could already feel the dark red grip of the hilt against his palm, warm and solid and familiar.

But even as he stepped forward, he saw the pawprints; enormous things, twice the span of his fingers across, as if from some cat beyond the scope of imagination, a trail clear in the thin layer of dry sand, leading... away—away from the wave, away from the sword, past him, behind him, away into something he could not see, not unless he turned, not unless he followed.

A glance at the wave, and for a moment he fancied he could see through the frothing crest, great green mountains beyond it, and something wrenched at his heart; a glance at the sword, the etched blade that gleamed silver, and his fist clenched; before he smiled, looked down, and he kept his eyes on the tracks as he turned, stepped into them, followed them into the darkness.

Peter woke with salt tears on his cheeks, thin dawn light just creeping in the window, a single strain of birdsong in the air.