The breeze tugged Peter's coat away from his body, and he pulled it down again. He listened to her words and suddenly his legs felt uncertain. He sat down beside her, roughly dropping onto the stone bench. Her words ripped through him, chilled him more than the wind.
Yes, he'd known, too. He'd known the instant he'd seen Neville, that her fiance was dead. Had been for too long. But what could he have done? Told her that then? Told her he was dead--sorry, it's too late, you should all go home now? No. He'd had to help her, had to take Neville away, had to try something. Even though he'd known it was useless. He'd done it for her.
Peter leaned over and propped his hands on his knees. His eyes stung so he squeezed them closed. He really didn't want to cry, but his chest ached. His throat itched and he tried to swallow away the discomfort.
"I wanted to save him," he croaked, ashamed at the weakness he heard in his voice. God, he had wanted to save Neville. For her.