You haven't the foggiest idea, Ed, how much I don't have sorted. I don't know what to do with you, for instance, with your infernal need to be just.

Three on one isn't close to a good reason for you to fight, but you do it anyways, and you don't ask questions until it's finished, because that's what's fair.

I like it, you know, the fighting. I had a dream that Aslan came roaring in to save me, and scared those stupid boys right out of their knickers, and, another, where Lucy used a bit of her cordial to mend me afterward.

That isn't the way it is, though. You are the only lion that comes roaring in, and, when it's over, we're each left to lick our own wounds in sullen silence.

At least, my silence is sullen.

I can't stand it, Ed, the way you won't look at me after you realize, for the hundredth time, what a stupid fight you jumped into on my account.

I can see it break over your face, the crumbling of any tenuous trust you had built back up, and I have to draw into myself. I have to convince myself that I was right.

But, being right wouldn't cause you to flinch back the way you do.

You used to fall into my arms. Do you remember that?

We fought, but we fought for a purpose, back to back and side to side, tending each others wounds until Lu or the healers got there.

I can still picture them, the scars that crisscrossed your body. I knew the stories behind each one, watched you get most of them.

But, now, I haven't the foggiest idea what cuts and bruises hide under your shirt.

It's been months since you've let me tend to you like that.

Sometimes, I think it's been months since I wanted to.

Your new mates must hate me, the brother who does nothing but shatter your trust and allow others to bloody your nose.

I'm supposed to be magnificent.

What happened, Ed?

I used to have it sorted.