Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the world of Narnia; everything belongs to C. S. Lewis.

A/N: Been a few months, but I'm finally getting around to publishing this story (which, I may add, has been finished for the most part since the middle of January, and I've been editing and rereading off and on ever since), and it's another long one; this one has a lot of imagery that I just couldn't bear to part with! I'm getting a little better at keeping them shorter now, so maybe this will be the last long one-shot for a while. I got the idea for this story around the time that I began writing White As Snow, and this is an episode that is sort of the follow-up to a scene Peter remembers in his chapter of Forgiveness, which you'll probably recognize if you've read it. I like getting to explore the older Pevensies while they are in Narnia; maybe I'll try to work with them again some time soon!

If you see any errors, I'd love to be informed so that I can fix them one day, and I hope this adds to your enjoyment of the world of Narnia and the wonderful bond shared between the Pevensie brothers.

StarKatt427

"A brother offended is harder to be won than a strong city: and their contentions are like the bars of a castle."
Proverbs 18:19

Narnia was always beautiful, Peter reflected, whether it was good weather or bad. Most days, the blazing bright sun was shining brilliantly, the sky clear azure and filled with the puffy white clouds that he still looked for images in. In spring, days would be overcast and gray, clouds tinted with the blackness of rain, and then the downpour would commence and revitalize the earth. Summer brought about sultry dog days and inclement weather; and even storming and colored pitch black, there was something mesmerizing about the way the heavens crackled with neon lightning, thunder rolling overhead and sheets of rain falling hard like needles. The cool, crisp days of autumn were always his favorite, with the clean, spicy fragrance of the land and the leaves that changed from soft green to vibrant red and gold and orange. Wintry snow was beautiful and intimidating in its silence, coating the ground and trees and castle while icing the world over, making everything seem strangely peaceful and unnaturally still. He didn't dislike winter, though it was certainly not his favorite season; this opinion stemmed from his arrival in Narnia nearly a decade ago while it was still under the reign of the White Witch, though it grew harder and harder as the years passed for him to remember just how he had gotten to the magical country that was his home.

Today was beautiful blue and green, warm with the comfortable coolness of a breeze, and the High King of Narnia rode at the front of the travel party, leading the small army away from the blustery cold of Ettinsmoor and back into the rolling lush hills of Narnia. Few had been lost, but it was still painful for him to think of the ones who would never return to their loved one, and many had been wounded over the three day clash, the severest of injuries taken care of with just a single drop of cordial. The encounter had not quite been a skirmish, as Peter had not officially declared war on the Ettinsmoor Giants for their attack on a village of Talking Beasts, but any type of combat had a toll on the body and spirit, and Peter moved at a steady pace, ready to be home and knowing his troops were as well. Oreius, Peter's most trusted and wisest general and a friend he counted himself blessed to have, was to his left, his bottom horse half walking in sink with Peter's mount, and to the Magnificent King's right rode Lucy, who, at the ripe age of sixteen, had somehow managed to convince Peter to bring her along. He looked over at his youngest sister as she gazed around, a content half smile on her face; as she caught him looking at her, her smile widened, and he grinned back.

He had to admit that allowing her to come had been wise and had even saved his own life. When he had first announced his plan to lead a small party north to the Giants at the end of the previous month, he had assumed it would be only Edmund going with him, as Susan was not overly fond of battle and Lucy, in his opinion, was still too young to partake in it, even though she was capable with a sword and especially skilled with a dagger. But that had been before Edmund had returned from a day ride along the borders of the Western Wood with his left shoulder wounded by the arrow of a vicious Black Dwarf. Lucy, thankfully, had insisted upon going, and had been able to disable the Dwarf and tend to Edmund: she had removed the arrow and cleaned the wound, but had been unable to administer the healing cordial that would completely cure him on account that Peter had ordered her a few years prior to only carry it on her person in serious times of need. Nearly half a day's ride away from the castle and with afternoon steadily approaching, she'd had the good sense to forbid Edmund from even mounting his horse for fear that his wound would reopen or, worse, he would become feverish, and had made him rest. She'd sent a message through a Dryad back to the Cair, and Peter had been informed that his brother had been injured and was too weak to ride, his sister had bandaged the wound, and that they would be spending the night at the lodgings of a family of Badgers.

This last bit, knowing they were at least out of the forest, had done little to comfort Peter; he'd been a wreck. Determined to go to them, he'd nearly had a fight with Susan, who had pointed out that, logically, there was little he could do if he did go to them, and as they would be back the next day and Edmund was in no grave danger, there was nothing to do but wait and pray that Aslan would watch over them. Peter, only somewhat subdued, had ended up strolling the halls of the castle and pacing about his chambers, unable to relax; Edmund was hurt, Lucy wouldn't be very much protection if they were attacked, and he could do nothing about it.

Pulled back from his thoughts, Peter was looking ahead once more, gaze steady over the grassy hills to the west. There had been no need to worry as he had, he knew that, but when his youngest siblings had entered the castle the following afternoon and Edmund had been healed, he'd been unable to do much beyond repeatedly inquiring if they were alright, his hands cradling one's face and then the other's, eyes searching for any sign that they might be otherwise injured. He could remember Susan's amused, slightly shaky laughter as Lucy had thrown her arms around his neck in an exuberant hug while assuring him that she was perfectly fine, kissing him on the cheek and giggling as he'd lifted her off her feet. Edmund, careful of his newly healed shoulder, had thrown his good arm around the older king's neck and smiled impishly, eyes filled with an exasperated fondness.

Edmund; Aslan, he missed his younger brother. And Susan. Weeks away from any of his three siblings made him feel incomplete, but it was worse without his brother. Maybe it was because they had almost constantly been together the last several years, side by side. Or maybe it was just because Edmund was like his other half, his little brother everything he himself was terrible at; Edmund was his polar opposite, but, like magnets, they were drawn towards one another and were inseparable when together, a force to be reckoned with.

"Your Majesty." Oreius' deep voice rang out beside him, and Peter looked to his friend. "How are you fairing?"

Peter's smile froze, then slipped just slightly, before he had it back perfectly in place. "I'm fine."

"Liar," Lucy said, accusation in her voice, although she was still smiling slightly when he turned to her; it was now more of a troubled cringe. "You're clearly in pain. And you told me you were fit to ride. Promised me, actually."

He winced. "I thought I was. Is it that obvious?"

"Not very much so," Oreius said. "Just to the ones who have come to recognize your movements."

In his defense, Peter had thought he was well enough to ride. It had been days since his injury, after all, and it shouldn't have even been as bad as it was; but the dull, persistent pain had begun to return with his steed's every step. On the second day of battle, one of the smaller, smarter Ettins had, using a saw-like blade rather than the customary club, hit Peter with a well-aimed slash that tore through the chainmail he'd worn and sliced his skin. He'd been able to jerk away and take down the Giant, most of the pain blocked out by the adrenaline streaming through his veins, and, believing his injury no more than a flesh wound, he had trudged on.

At last, the Ettins retreated and he, in turn, had nearly collapsed from blood loss; luckily, he'd been caught by two Fauns and was swiftly half dragged to the tent set up for the wounded, Lucy immediately helping him onto a cot. Once the armor was removed and the wound visible, she'd shown great strength that day by biting down on her trembling lip and quickly administering a drop of cordial (though he had been extremely adamant in his argument that others needed it more than he did and had tried to refuse until his head swam and throbbed). It had been a killer getting the bleeding to stop, but then the torn skin slowly reformed and muscles repaired, and it had healed rapidly, though it left behind a lingering burn that had ached most of the night.

When dawn came, though still horribly sore and weak, he had led one last attack and had come out victorious, driving the Giants back and reminding them just who they were up against; Narnians were not to be trifled with, and neither was he.

It hadn't been the wound itself that had been the problem and bothered Lucy, but the amount of blood he had lost; he hadn't even felt the lifeblood slipping away due to the battle induced haze. It had weakened him more than his pride would allow him to admit, and after the final day of fighting, he had unceremoniously collapsed and drifted into a deep sleep in his hammock, faintly aware of Lucy sitting at his side and brushing the lengthening hair away from his eyes. Now, after four days since he'd been injured, nothing was left but a thin, tender scar that went from just below his armpit to his right hip, its edges still puffed with healing skin. He'd convinced Lucy the morning they had begun the trek home that he was feeling much better, but the days wore on, and while the pain was lessening, it was murder riding a horse, every other step jostling his side and sending burning aches shooting up his body. He'd thought he'd done fairly well at concealing the pain he was in, but his sister and general had apparently caught on, just as they had the day before, and the day before that.

"When we get home," Peter directed to Lucy, "I promise I'll rest."

"Good. You haven't been sleeping well," she observed curiously, concernedly. "Is it the wound?"

"No, not really anymore," he answered. It wasn't, although he was unable to lay comfortably on his right side yet. No, it was just the restlessness to be home that kept him awake, the longing for familiar land and sandy beaches, warm corridors and the softness of his bed. More than anything, however, was the fierce yearning to see his brother and sister—especially Edmund. They had parted on…well, difficult terms, Peter knew, and so he was unsure how his brother would react to his homecoming. It made him slightly nervous, especially when he imagined Edmund as he had been the day they'd left, eyes dark with some repressed emotion at being forced to remain behind, mouth set in a pronounced frown.

Edmund understood. He had to understand why Peter hadn't allowed him to come.

One of Lucy's thin eyebrows lifted, eyes knowing. "It's Edmund, isn't it?"

Peter remained silent, knowing his lack of verbal response would be answer enough.

"He'll be over it by now," she continued, voice only partly convinced; she knew just as well as he did how obstinate their brother could be at holding grudges. "And even if he isn't, you'll work it out. You always do."

"I thank you, wise sister of mine," he said affectionately, still unable to resist her ability to make him feel better, even if it was just a small bit.

She smiled, a grin somewhat similar to Edmund, he realized, with her nose scrunched up the way it was. "You'd be lost without me, all of you."

He laughed heartily and winked at her.

They rode on for another hour, Peter brushing off Lucy's question as to if they should rest and ignoring the amused glances Oreius shot him; the pain wasn't that bad, and even if it had been, he would never have confessed to it. Edmund was probably the only person who could actually get him to rest.

Edmund. Home.

As if brought on by his thoughts, Peter caught sight of a refracted light in the distance: the sun shining on a glass roof. He could slightly see the top of white towers, flags in the distance. Cair Paravel. Slowly, he began to smile.

Next to him, Lucy released a relieved, joyful laugh, and he looked at her. She returned the gaze, her blue eyes twinkling and ash brown hair flying wild about her face in the breeze, grin infectious, as Peter found himself smiling as well. Lucy reached out one of her small, slender hands, and Peter gripped it with conviction.

Almost there.

When they arrived, Susan was waiting for them at the front entrance, her fair features lighting up as Peter and Lucy rode in, followed by the troops. A wide smile lifted Peter's mouth, and before his horse had even come to a halt, he was climbing off, eyes on his eldest sister, and then he was half running to her and she to him in a most unladylike manner. Susan threw her arms around him tightly, and his went to wrap around her waist, and he lifted her off her feet, squeezing her securely as she laughed into his tunic.

They pulled back a quick moment later, Susan smiling beautifully up at him, sky eyes swirling with relief and joy.

"Welcome home, brother," she said softly.

"It's good to be home," Peter replied, taking her face in his hands and pressing a firm kiss to her forehead.

Her eyes scanned over him, and she laughed, staring down at his traveling tunic, his frayed cape and boots, coated with dirt. "You're filthy."

"My apologizes, but I have been a bit engaged in other matters," he replied with affectionate sarcasm.

Her eyes softened. "At least you've returned in one piece. That's all that matters."

Before he had time to comment, a cry of "Susan!" rang out. As if she had been restraining herself and allowing him the first chance to greet their sister, Lucy's shout was ecstatic and clear as bells, and she flew at the elder queen, not even worried about tripping over her long skirts. Peter had just enough time to release Susan before Lucy had her arms thrown around her big sister, and Susan's arms draped around her thin back.

Peter watched with fondness as Susan spoke softly to her, words he could not hear and was not meant to, and he turned away from the private moment, signaling for Oreius to lead the soldiers to the armory to disarm and freshen up. After the Centaur nodded and the army had quietly began walking away, Peter looked back at his sisters to see Susan pull back enough to take a good look at Lucy. Her hands began skimming over the younger woman's face and shoulders and arms, eyes slightly worried. "You weren't hurt, were you? I know you brought the cordial, but—"

"I'm fine, I'm perfectly fine," Lucy promised through laughter, placing a kiss to each of her cheeks. "And it's a good thing I did bring it with me, for Peter always has to be dramatic and get himself wounded, just like our other stubborn brother."

Immediately, the twenty-year-old's eyes locked on Peter, and he found himself at the center of her gaze, a little ill at ease and trying not to fidget. "That's right," she said, voice no more than a whisper, as she released Lucy and turned to him. "We received word that you'd been injured, but I was so happy when I saw you coming in that I forgot." She lifted her hand tentatively, not quite sure if she should touch him. "You…you're are alright now, aren't you?"

Peter smiled, taking her hand and placing it to his jaw reassuringly, and she beamed softly at him. "Better than when I left. I'm just a little sore, is all."

"And a lot exhausted," came Lucy's remark, her mouth quirked in a half smile; but her eyes were no longer as cheery, and he knew she was thinking about just how much blood he had lost. Over Susan's head, he gave a swift, grateful smile, knowing she would not tell either of their siblings just how bad it had truly been. She resisted for a moment, and then she gave him a real smile, eyes going back to their previous exuberance.

Susan pursed her lips. "You really should get some sleep," she observed.

"Like I promised Lucy, I will," he appeased. "For now, though," he continued, encircling her waist with his left arm, "I want to hear all about how things have faired while we were away."

Her lips lifted in a smile, her own hand landing on his right side, and he fought down the grimace when she touched the tender scar; thankfully, she positioned her hand so that she was no longer touching it, and he was able to smile.

"Oh, yes, do tell," Lucy laughed, coming up to latch herself onto Peter's other side for just a moment. He looked down, slightly confused as to why she was not clinging to Susan. Seeing his raised eyebrow, she rolled her eyes and grinned, standing on her tip toes to place a swift kiss to his cheek, then leaning her head against him. With a soft laugh, he leaned against her for a moment, kissing the top of her head; even after years, she was still his baby, and she knew it. Her hand on his back disappeared, and Lucy went behind them to Susan, both of her arms holding onto her sister's free one, her head resting on the older girl's shoulder.

Susan merely chuckled, holding onto their little sister, and the three began walking into their home. "Quiet, actually. No trouble, a few petitions, but nothing serious. Everything has been well, for the most part."

"'For the most part'?" Peter inquired, looking down at her.

She sighed. "Yes. While everything without has been peaceful, within is another matter entirely."

Understanding dawned on him, nearly stopping him in the process. "You mean Ed."

Susan bit her lip as she looked at him, Lucy watching from the left. "Peter, you know he wasn't exactly thrilled when you departed, especially when you add the fact that you made him stay behind."

"He knows why I wouldn't let him come," he argued.

"But that doesn't mean he's not upset." They were in the Great Hall now, and she stopped, as if to emphasize the importance of what she was saying. "You know how he hates not being at your side during battle. And don't argue—" she said quickly, catching the way his lips had parted to do just that, "—because you're just as bad."

Peter frowned. Did she have to be so rational? "True," he admitted, "but this is ridiculous. He can't be too mad still, can he?"

Something in her eyes hardened; not anger, more like tension. Lucy, though unable to look into her eyes like he, clearly sensed the distress in her sister, and she moved from her side to Peter's so to see their sister better. "Susan?"

"He hasn't talked to me all that much, so I can't be sure," she said softly. "We've talked, but not like when all of us are here; mostly quick conversations, and a few times I've even gotten him to laugh. But I haven't seen him all that much these last weeks."

"What's he doing, hiding?" Peter asked in frustration; good grief, his brother could be a real fool sometimes.

"Not exactly. I think he's just been too worried to really want to talk," she amended. "He got really quiet after…after we'd received news you'd been hurt."

Oh. A stab of guilt coursed through his veins. He had told Lucy not to send word, nearly begged, but she had calmly argued that if it were Edmund injured, wouldn't he want to know? He'd given in after that with no small amount of unease, unsure what his siblings would imagine but praying Lucy would assure them when she sent the message through a tree spirit that he wasn't seriously injured. Now, looking at Susan's tired face, he could see that she was worried, though she tried to hide it, both because of his injury and their brother's behavior. And if he truly knew Edmund as well as he did, he had a feeling his brother was making himself sick; he hated the very idea.

Peter swallowed thickly. "How was it?"

"Frightening," she said, and Lucy reached out and took hold of her hand. Susan held it tightly. "We knew it wasn't fatal, but we were told you had lost a lot of blood, and that made everything worse. Edmund nearly broke his neck trying to reach Phillip and ride to you." The left side of her full lips quirked into a smile. "Reminds me of another thick headed brother I have."

Peter couldn't even smile back. Lion's Mane, what had he done? Edmund had been half scared out of his wits, Susan left alone to deal with him, and he'd been miles away, too slow to avoid a denticulate blade and lying unconscious in some tent.

"And how is he now?" Lucy asked gently, bringing him back.

Susan sighed. "Far too quiet. He's barely said ten words to me since we were told of your injury. After I managed to get him back inside that day, he…he just seemed to shut down. Peter, he was terrified," she said miserably. "I don't think I've ever seen him like that."

Oh, Edmund. Peter pulled his hands into fists, fingernails sharp against his rough palms. His brother was just as fiercely protective of Peter as he was of Edmund, and so that often led to trouble: near panic attacks, the inability to keeping anything edible down, the desperate ache that was fear. Peter knew these symptoms well, as it had only just been some weeks since he'd experienced them himself over knowing Edmund had been hurt.

"I stepped into his room early this morning, and his sleep was fitful. I doubt he's had a decent night's rest since you left."

Peter groaned, his arm slipping away from Susan. "Please tell me he hasn't gone and made himself sick?"

Her eyes were answer enough, but she spoke anyway. "I'm afraid that he might have. I'm not sure if it was just from nightmares, but he did not look well when I checked on him."

He gripped at his hair with a hand, eyes slipping shut. "This is my fault," he mumbled, more to himself than to his sisters.

Lucy had her hands on his chest at once, shaking her head ardently. "No, Peter, no. You had nothing to do with this."

Peter opened his eyes, gut wrenching. "But if I had let him come—"

"He could have been hurt," Susan interrupted, "and then what a fine mess we'd be in: both of you injured, and as protective as you are of Ed and him of you, you would have nearly killed yourself and condemned your own injuries to make sure he was alright."

He could say nothing, knowing that she was correct. His mouth, which had just been open, closed.

"We know you, brother," said Lucy, one of her hands moving up to touch his cheek, brushing her palm across the stumble on his jaw. "And we know Edmund. Not as well as you do, but we understand him as much as we can." She smiled. "You two will be fine. You always are. I, and Susan, have faith in the both of you."

Susan looked warmly at her sister, then nodded at Peter, features no longer as anxious.

Peter placed his hand on Lucy's, holding it tightly, before letting go and giving them a smile that was troubled but grateful; he didn't deserve to have the two beautiful, intelligent sisters he had, both so caring and gentle and brave, Susan's logic often enough to keep him steady and Lucy's happiness sometimes the best thing to get him laughing. "Thank you," he said to the both of them, one arm going around Lucy's shoulders and the other once again around Susan, and he pulled them both to him in a hug. His youngest sister giggled and his oldest gave a soft laugh, and both buried their faces in his shirt.

When he released them, Peter sighed, half wistful. "I guess it's time," he said.

Lucy placed her hand on his hip, gentle over the scar, a reassuring gesture. She smiled. "Just go to him."

He gripped her shoulder, then turned to Susan. "I don't suppose I could surprise him, could I?"

She shook her head. "I looked in just before you arrived, and he was staring out the window. He knows you're here."

Although he had suspected this, he was unable to push down the hurt that bubbled up in his chest. Edmund knew he was home; so why hadn't he come to meet him, and Lucy for that matter, with Susan? It stung more than he would like to admit, especially after Susan had explained how he had been acting the last few weeks. What if he really had angered Edmund so greatly that he didn't plan on letting him even try to talk to him? The thought was, he admitted, horrifying, and his heart twinged.

He took a deep breath, only somewhat achieving the calming effect he had hoped for, and released his sisters. "Well, then. Guess I'd better get going."

Peter had kindly brushed off his sisters' request to eat and freshen up and had left Susan and Lucy in the youngest girl's room so that she could change from her travel dress and have a hot meal brought up to her. Although he himself was beginning to feel hunger pangs, he had a feeling he wouldn't be able to keep much down, and washing up wasn't important at the moment; his eyes were burning with fatigue, mind trying to cloud over with sleep, but he pushed it down. Though his room was just a door away, he didn't stop by his own chambers, and so his sword remained resting against his left hip, his cape stayed on his back, and the travel dust continued to coat his hair and clothing as he walked over the lush red carpet to Edmund's door.

As he stood in front of the door, trying to rope in his tension and relax, he found it impossible. His body felt jerky and high-strung, nerves charged with electricity as they twisted throughout him; he wasn't sure if it was due to apprehension or excitement or both. He lifted his hand to the thick door and placed his palm to the smooth, aged wood. Knocking would not be necessary; Edmund would know it was him.

Letting his hand rest there for just a moment longer, he slowly took hold of the handle and opened the door.

His brother's room was, like his, furnished with heavy, convivial furniture, their colors deep browns and creamy whites, and velvety red curtains fell over the windows. Tapestries hung from the walls in burgundies and golds, the colors of Narnia, a divan of the same shades to the far left. A simple wooden desk, the chair that was supposed to be pushed beneath it off to the side, in the corner, a small shelf of his brother's favorite books above it; a large chest at the foot of the great canopied bed, the Lion's emblem upon it; a wardrobe almost directly in front of Peter, a tall mirror beside it; a door to the left that led into the bathing chamber; an extra chair in the nearest corner, adorned with heraldic embellishments, and a peg that was connected to the wall beside the bed, a dagger and two swords suspended on the belt that hung there.

Peter's room, though quite similar, was larger and had a bit more furniture, but this room was just as familiar to him as his own. He had spent countless hours in the chair that sat in the corner, pulled out to speak with his brother in animated conversations, and he often picked it up and placed it at his brother's bedside, watching him sleep during a restless night. Often enough, he had slept in here rather than his own bedroom, but if asked, Edmund would have answered the opposite; when they were younger, still boys, really, they had often fallen asleep entangled in the bed sheets of one's room one night and the other's the next. He knew every nook, which shadows were cast in the darkness and which in the daylight, and could tell by the room's conditions what mood the inhabitant was in.

It was a mess. Papers, usually kept fairly neat upon the desk, were scattered everywhere, many covered with smeared black ink, and balls of crumples parchment littered the floor surrounding the table. The bed linens were a twisted mess at the foot of the bed, the pillows pounded flat. Looking down, he saw the lavish carpet beside the bed held clear signs of pacing. Books were spread everywhere: the chairs, the chest, the corner of one peaking out from beneath the bed. Rays of sunshine lit the room as they poured in through the large windows, but it did little to lighten the atmosphere; there was a shadowed gloom to it.

So when Peter looked to the window seat and found Edmund staring out the casement, he wasn't too surprised to see his brother's room truly did reflect the teenager's mood.

Edmund's back was pushed against the farthest side, giving Peter a clear look at his profile, his entire body screaming exhaustion and pessimism, the last word bringing an awful amount of pain to Peter. Though he was not slouched, his body seemed unnaturally listless; Edmund, who was always so full of quiet vitality, bouncing around almost as badly as Lucy one minute and as tranquil as Susan the next, almost always calm but a mighty tempest when his patience finally snapped. As Peter shut the door softly and slowly walked in, he looked over his brother's profile: bare feet, a loose sleeping tunic over night leggings, the thin shirt stuck to the skin at his chest. His hair, just now long enough to curl, hung over his forehead, unkempt black locks coiling over the back of his neck. The clean tang of feverish sweat wafted over the room from the distance, and he was pale, even more so than usual, like he hadn't been outside in a long while and the lack of fresh air and natural sunlight was finally getting to him, bleaching his skin of what little color it already had.

Peter walked toward Edmund with measured steps, making sure his boots scraped over the stone floor, and stopped several feet from him, hands held unsurely at his sides, itching to grasp Rhindon out of habit; the sword was solid, stable. Not like he felt at the moment as he watched his brother.

"You look terrible," came a soft, slightly hoarse voice.

Peter jumped, eyes widening. He himself had been thinking that about his brother. "Edmund?"

"I can see your reflection." He said it simply, dark eyes still staring out the window. "And, if this is an accurate image of you, I can see that you also seem nervous."

Of course he can tell, Peter thought, attempting to keep his face neutral; but while the task was easy with everyone else, around Edmund, he could never hide anything for long.

"What? Has something bad happened?"

He did not like the flatness of his brother's voice, almost like he was just asking to be polite. His mouth slipped into a slight frown, even though he wasn't really mad. "No. Everything's fine."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Oh," Edmund repeated.

This time, anger did rise up at Edmund's indifference; Peter knew he was mad and upset, but did he have to be so detached? He couldn't even understand this side of his brother.

"Did you win?"

Did you? There was something about the way he had phrased the question, like it was just concerning Peter, and he felt a pain swell up in his chest and wrap around him, quenching his irritation; he hadn't missed the slightest of unsteadiness in Edmund's voice. At least he had drawn that out of him.

Still, the way Edmund had said it made the whole thing sound like Peter had fought single handedly, which was surely not the case, and he exhaled a breath. "Yes, we won," he replied, tone softer now as he corrected his brother's words. He could see the muscles in Edmund's jaw contract, then slacken, as he gave a faint nod.

"Alright then."

Peter said nothing, and there was silence between them. Surprisingly, though, it did not last very long, because Edmund turned his gaze to his hands. Peter saw him swallow. "How's Lucy?" he asked, something gentler coloring his tone.

He felt himself smile quickly as his littlest sister briefly flashed across his mind. "Amazing. You should have seen her. She was incredible." Peter saw her as she had been just days ago, not actually partaking in the battle but combating a small Giants in battle nonetheless when he neared the makeshift infirmary, dagger flashing in her hand as she swiftly sped to jab the blade into one of its feet, then the other, reaching up and slashing across its kneecap, sending it sniveling and mumbling guttural curses as it had crawled away. The encounter had scared him, just like it would have with any of his siblings, and he had had his arms around her as soon as they were sure it was gone, whispering praise and asking if she was alright. But Lucy, the valiant young woman she was, had laughed and hugged him back; she knew it was hard for him to remember she could take care of herself most of the time.

The memory came and went quickly, and Peter was left watching Edmund. A twitch of his brother's mouth, barely a smile. "I bet she was." The I wish I could have seen her was tacit, but Peter heard it clearly, as if it had been spoken, and a sliver of guilt ran through him. He brushed it off for the most part though, recalling the determination he'd felt the day before they had left for the North when he'd told Edmund he couldn't come; he'd had to keep him safe. He had still not quite completely regained his equilibrium, and if anything had happened to him…

There had to be something Peter could do though, something he could say. "Maybe you'll get to see her next time."

He could see the tendons in his brother's neck twitch, saw the skin around his eyes tighten, and Edmund slowly looked up at Peter.

Peter felt something rip through his heart, and his breath caught in his throat as Edmund looked at him with shadowed, indecipherable eyes. His brother's face was blank, a fact unnerving in itself, save for the slight upward twist of his lips; usually, there was more liveliness to his features, whether in the form of an irritated scowl or a snarky smile, a dubious frown or a thrilled grin. Now, though, Peter could see nothing even similar. Edmund looked exhausted, cheekbones sharp against his skin and dark half circles beneath his heavy eyes, brows furrowed over them.

His eyes. They had always been deep, brown and keen, unreadable most of the time. They could be bright with sarcasm one moment and seeping chilling rage the next, rarely demonstrative in their gaze but like pools of melting chocolate when he decided to show his affectionate side; heated by fortitude during a battle and then utterly terrified just after as he made sure Peter and his sisters were safe. His eyes were, when he permitted them to be, like windows to his very soul, but it was more of a rarity for Edmund to actually allow anyone to see what he truly felt.

But now, they betrayed nothing; brown eyes kept unusually vacant, as if on purpose.

And Peter was more scared than he'd been in a while, more so than when Lucy had dashed round the Giant's feet in a graceful dance, than the moment when he'd wondered if he really would bleed to death. This fear came more often than he'd like, a sharp, powerful twinge like a razor that made his heart rip past his ribs and his stomach fly into his chest, his mouth go dry and pure terror course through his veins, tainting his blood and nearly making his vision blur: this fear was only brought about by his little brother, and it was the worst kind possible.

As if able to sense Peter's distress, there was another twist of Edmund's lips, more of a slight grin. "I may just hold you to that," he stated.

Seeing the dark haired man like this made Peter suddenly, painfully, aware of just how deeply he had missed Edmund; his brother, his other half. And then the wanting came, a fierce desire to touch him, to place his hand to the thinner boy's shoulder and grip it surely, to ruffle his hair and make him grin that rogue, affectionate smirk, see his eyes sparkle with that intense fire he loved so much.

It would have been different had he run out with Susan to greet them, his disposition unimportant; as long as he'd at least shown some sign that he still cared, that would have been enough. But this Edmund was one even Peter didn't know, had never seen before, not even when he had been rescued from the White Witch. This Edmund was distant and aloof, a husk of the young man Peter had left behind, and he would gladly have had his brother screaming at him rather than saying nothing of importance, allowing nothing to slip; yet it was still obvious that, no matter how hard he was trying to seem apathetic, there was something burning inside Edmund. Peter saw a flash of it every now and then: a certain pull of the lips his brother couldn't stop it, a light seeping into his eyes that Peter understood immediately. Edmund had always kept up a wall around himself, but this? This was too much. While he tried to give off the appearance of indifference, Peter could see past that and into his brother's heart, and he knew he was hiding.

And he missed him even more for it.

"Edmund…"

"What's wrong?" Edmund asked. "You look ill."

Maybe he was; Peter didn't know anymore. "Edmund…you…"

To his shock, his brother's mouth curled into a slight smile, one that was not at all friendly and strangely cold. "When you were wounded," he inquired, "did you hit your head? That would explain your lack of articulacy."

"Ed, stop…" he whispered.

"Then again, the dryad said it was a sword wound. Strange, isn't it? Ettins usually go for clubs, but they'll sometimes use a jagged blade. It must have been especially nasty." Edmund's voice was filling with an emotion that was hot and derisive and faintly trembling. His eyebrows pulled down over his eyes, half of his mouth lifting into a wicked smile that was closer to a grimace. "Are you still recovering?"

"Please…" Peter nearly begged.

He could see something raging in Edmund's previously empty eyes, an emotion that truly was anger. "What's the matter, brother?"

And something snapped.

"Shut up, Edmund!"

The command was loud and filled with authority, despaired and angered all at once, disrupting the quiet and bringing about a crashing effect. Peter stood tall, his breath ragged, glaring down at wide eyes younger man. Ever since he had first entered the room, a taunt line had steadily begun to form and stretch inside his chest, and he had done well at controlling it. But hearing Edmund call him that sacred title with sneering spite instead of the solid affection that was always present…that had been the final straw.

Before he could give Edmund a chance to realize what he was doing and before he himself could completely understand what was taking place, Peter found himself moving forward and his hands tightly gripping the younger's shoulder, shaking him with just enough sternness to make his head jerk back. Edmund looked up at him with large, shocked eyes, clearly not expecting the response he'd received, though his ferocity was still apparent. "You…what is wrong with you?" Peter yelled. "Do you have any idea how much you're hurting us, or do you even care?"

Edmund's mouth pulled down in a pronounced frown, eyes darkening. "Of course I care," he replied, voice dangerously low.

"Really?" argued Peter. "Because I'm starting to wonder if you truly do. Or are you just being a bother on purpose? You seem like you could care less about anything, but that's a lie, and you and I both know it." Didn't Edmund see how much it was killing to say this, to yell at him and berate him, to have to say that?

Edmund glared up at him, the last bits of his apathetic composure slipping away and steadily progressing back into Peter's Edmund. "I do care, if you can actually believe it," he replied, hot currents beneath his barely restrained voice.

The anger would not settle, not now, and Peter pulled him forward by his shirt. "Then why are you trying to act like nothing matters? I know you, Edmund, and I know when you're hiding something. Don't you understand? It's not going to do any good! All you're doing is putting us through pain. Aslan, Ed, do you even see what you're putting me through?" he cried.

Hands slammed viciously into his chest, and Peter was nearly knocked over as Edmund jumped up, face contorted into something vicious and alight with hot, crackling energy. "Of course I do!" he screamed. "I know good and well what I'm doing, but I can't help it, alright?"

Peter was speechless. He looked at Edmund, anger vanishing and hands still outstretched toward him. Now that his rage was leaving him, he could think of nothing to say. "Ed…I don't understand," he muttered softly after a moment.

Edmund snorted, shoving him backward, and Peter didn't resist, still too shocked. "Of course you don't. You aren't supposed to."

"Why not?" Peter asked, fighting desperation. "You aren't even making sense."

"That's the point!" Edmund snarled, pushing at him again. "It wouldn't make sense to you, not to anyone but me. God, Peter, I hate this!"

Peter was genuinely scared, and confused, and it ate at him, the desire to comfort Edmund, to make whatever hurt he felt go away. But he didn't know how, and he wouldn't until Edmund told him. "Hate what? Please just tell me. Look, I know…I know you're upset, but—"

It did not come as a surprise that Edmund was irate, screaming in his fury and verbal abuse; Peter had known that the mask of unresponsiveness had been just that and nothing more. It stunned him, however, when his brother hoisted the chair from where it sat close to the desk and threw it at him, shouting out a curse. Jerking away just before the back of the chair hit his chest (Edmund's aim was near perfect), Peter watched at it hit the floor, chair legs breaking at the impact.

"No, Peter," Edmund yelled, even before the chair had hit the ground, "I am beyond upset! I am furious!" Face red with anger and chest heaving, sweat glistening on the skin of his throat, his brown eyes were wild.

Peter felt his jaw drop. Edmund couldn't be this mad about having to stay behind, could he? Or was it something else that had him so riled? "Edmund?" He walked to his brother, unable to deny the ache inside him as he raised a cautious hand to place on his brother's shoulder.

"Do not," Edmund snarled, voice as stiff as the glare he gave Peter from beneath black lashes, "touch me."

The hurt that shot through him was unfamiliar, far too painful than it should have been, and Peter's lips parted on a strangled breath, his hand lowering as he blinked at his brother, agonized. "Why, Ed? Please, please, just tell me what I've done."

Edmund would have tried to throw the desk, Peter knew it, but as it was too far away, he settled for a ragged, enraged exclamation that came out as a broken scream. "You made me stay behind! You, Peter, who knows just how important every battle is, forced me to stay behind like some invalid, while you went and risked your life. That's not the way we work, and you know it!"

Peter stood, unable to speak. He'd known he'd hurt Edmund by making him remain home, but not like this. It shouldn't have had such an effect on him, but the fact that it did was like a white hot blade to his soul, excruciating and overflowing. He hadn't seen his brother this mad at him in years, and it frightened him. "Edmund, be reasonable," he began, hoping to achieve a calming tone and instead sounding far too shaky. "Now come on, this is—"

"Silly? Childish?" Edmund offered him. "You know something? I don't even care any more if I am being childish!"

Peter took as even a breath as he could manage. "You know why I couldn't allow you to come."

"That doesn't matter, Peter!" Edmund yelled, a sound that was horribly like a sob. "In eight years, this was the first time you openly forbad me from going into battle with you, where I am supposed to be. It's my duty to protect your back and make sure nothing touches you! But you wouldn't let me come. You even let Lucy go!"

"She needed the battle experience," Peter reasoned, but it did little good; if anything, it added more wood to the fire that was currently his brother's temper.

"Not against Giants, and especially Ettins! She's still too young to be partaking in a fight that serious."

Peter had a sound comeback to this: Edmund had been just ten when he'd fought the White Witch. But he astutely chose to keep his mouth shut, too afraid it might inflict more pain on his brother.

"Narnia can't lose her High King," Edmund said, switching the subject away from their sister. "This country needs you! I need you!" he said in a fit of desolation. "You're my brother, Peter. I can't lose you." His breath shuddered. "And I nearly did. Do you honestly think any of us could function without you? You have to return from battles alive! That's why I'm here, to guard your back and make sure you don't do anything so stupidly noble that you nearly die. Which, if I may add, almost did happen because I wasn't there to keep you from getting hurt, and there was absolutely nothing I could do because YOU LEFT ME BEHIND!"

Body rigid, Edmund glared at him with glassy eyes, the air ripping out of his lungs in uneven pants and his hands balled into fists.

And even with all of those angry words still ringing in his ears, Peter felt something light tug at him, and a faint smile tried to creep up his face; Edmund seldom spoke of just how much he needed him. Out of all the things he had screamed, this was the one Peter clung to the most strongly. Still, the truth in his brother's pain filled words did not go unnoticed, and he felt a sadness pull at him simultaneously. "Ed. What do you want me to say?"

A thick, painful snort, and Edmund turned away from him. "Nothing. It's not my place to expect anything from you."

"You should expect everything from me," he protested fervently; it didn't matter if it was because Peter was High King or just his elder brother, Edmund deserved everything he had to offer. He slipped around his brother to stand in front of him again, speaking even when Edmund looked away. "I know you're angry with me, but try to see it from my point of view. You could barely even handle a sword for more than ten minutes, and I didn't—"

"Yeah, I get that," he barked. "I know you think I would have been in the way and you didn't want me there, but that doesn't matter because that's where I was supposed to be."

Peter's even temper finally shattered as his brother horribly misunderstood his words. "Listen to me, you idiot!" he shouted, and, not even taking a moment to consider Edmund's earlier warning to refrain from physical contact, gripped him by his shoulders again. "You never get in my way, and I would never, ever, not want you fighting beside me. Even when I'm scared to death that you're going to get hurt again and nearly die like you did the first time, I want you with me because that's where you belong! I didn't let you come with us because I was afraid you'd get hurt even worse, and I wouldn't be able to do a thing about it, just like before. I'm not that brave, Ed; I can't risk that!"

Edmund's eyes were quivering, some of his anger having slipped away, and he looked almost like a frightened child. The sight tore at Peter, and he tightened his hold, fingers pressed flat against the younger's shirt and pushing against his skin.

Edmund's breath came in rough pants. "Peter, you…" he began roughly. "You still don't get it."

"Then help me get it," Peter pleaded. "Edmund, I know you're angry with me, and I am sorry for that." His hands loosened slightly, blue eyed gaze even with his brother's. "But I do not regret the decision of not allowing you to go. I got hurt; I'm scared to even imagine what might have happened to you."

His brother's mouth was open, eyes wide and filled with so much anguish, and Peter lifted a hand to stroke his calloused thumb over trembling lips. Edmund jerked under the touch, but did not pull away. "Brother?" Peter laughed shakily. "Say something."

He saw Edmund's fist come, aimed for his chest instead of his face, and caught it easily, barely having to force back the punch; his brother wasn't really aiming to hurt him. Peter heard Edmund suck in a breath, and then his other hand was coming at him, and Peter effortlessly seized his left fist and wrapped his hand firmly around the younger man's wrists, leaving Edmund trying to pull away from his grasp.

"Let go!" he said as he struggled fiercely, eyes anywhere but on Peter.

Peter, older and stronger, had no trouble keeping his hold on Edmund, especially when his brother's thrashing began to lessen. He bit his lip, fighting down the ache in his heart. Slowly, he lifted his brother's right hand and gently pulled it from its fist, caressing his thumb across the back of the pale hand, and Edmund watched, eyes wide and tormented and steadily growing shiny. Smiling softly down at their hands—his, larger and darker, and Edmund's, thinner but just as powerful—Peter lifted Edmund's and, without even the slightest hesitation, pressed his mouth to his brother's fingers.

"Peter," Edmund gasped unevenly, pupils so large that there was little brown left in his eyes as he watched him, and Peter felt the hand beneath his lips tremble.

Keeping his eyes locked with his brother's, Peter brushed a gentle, solid kiss to each of his knuckles, then let his lips remain against the back of his hand, looking up at his brother with a loving smile. "Edmund."

Edmund abruptly crumpled, falling in on himself and downward, and Peter had just enough time to latch onto him before the younger's knees slammed into the cold stone floor. "Hey! Ed, what's wrong?" Carefully, he lowered his little brother down and followed suit so that he was kneeling in front of him on one knee with Edmund on both.

His brother's shoulder jerked painfully, and he shook his lowered head. At the act, Peter felt something land on his hand, a silent drop of water against his skin.

His own breath halted, china eyes going round. "Edmund?"

"I am not crying!" he bit out, the catch in his voice betraying him. "I'm not!"

But Edmund was, and that was more heartbreaking than anything he could have ever said to him. Peter blinked wide, astounded eyes, not completely surprised by his brother's behavior but unaccustomed to seeing him in such a state; Edmund hadn't cried over him like this in years, not since he was at least fifteen, and he had never been an easy crier anyway. For Peter, who was now twenty-one and had long begun to more or less master his own emotions and control them under most circumstances, it came as a pleasant, painful shock to see is baby brother quietly allowing tears to slip before him. Tears, salty and warm and wet, dripped onto the back of his hands, and he watched as the eighteen-year-old before him bowed his dark-haired head, soft, repressed snuffles shaking his chest. "I missed you…I missed you so much…" Edmund sobbed, pressing his head against Peter's chest.

Breath trembling, he leaned over Edmund, mouth barely touching his dark hair. "Sorry," he apologized, lifting his hands to finally tangle them in the black tresses. "I'm so sorry, Edmund. For everything. Please—" Peter nearly choked on the thickness in his own throat, "—please say you'll forgive me."

Edmund's shoulders trembled with the wrenching half sobbed laugh that broke from his chest, and Peter felt his brother's hands clutching desperately at his own. He brought them to his face, dry lips pressing to them, an act that had Peter fighting the sudden stinging in the corners of his eyes. "Peter…" he trailed off, choked by tears, instead placing a kiss to the High King's fingers. "Of course I forgive you. I can't not. You know that."

"And I'm thankful for it. But I was afraid it might take more than an apology for you to actually say it."

Edmund sniffed, pressing the elder's hands to his forehead and to the eyes that he had closed on tears. "I don't even need an apology. Just the way you looked at me was enough." He sucked down a wet hitch. "It should be me asking you for forgiveness."

Baffled, Peter's hands slid down to rest on Edmund's shoulder blades, the heat from his brother's body unnaturally warm as it soaked into him, and he rubbed his fingers soothingly along the tense muscles. "Why would you say that? You've done nothing wrong."

"I wasn't fair to you. And I overreacted," Edmund said, his voice more under control, a fact Peter was thankful for; he wasn't good with seeing his brother in tears. "I know you were doing what was best, but…it still felt like you were torturing me by forcing me to remain here. It's my job to keep you safe." He jerked, a quick shudder, and bent his neck so that his face was against Peter's shirt, hands grasping at the tunic.

"Are you speaking as my fellow king, or as my brother?" Peter inquired, only half serious.

"Both," Edmund answered softly. "Don't you have any idea what it did to me when I heard you'd been wounded? Peter, I was…I was so scared."

Peter closed his eyes, arms tightening in their hold, and he planted his face against the mass of raven hair, breathing deeply and realizing just how good of an idea it had been to not tell Edmund how much blood he had lost; his brother's reaction would have ten times worse if he'd known. Edmund, you hardheaded fool. "And how do you think I feel when I hear you've been wounded a half-day's ride away, and I'm unable to do anything? When I have to wait an entire afternoon, night, and morning, wondering if your wound has turned without the cordial and knowing it's my fault if it does because I wouldn't let Lucy bring it along?"

Edmund tensed against him. "It wasn't serious," he disagreed weakly. "I was fine."

"And so was I. And you knew I was alright. But did that make you worry any less?"

His brother was silent for a few moments, his body still. And then he trembled, finally looking up at Peter with large, wet eyes; just like melting chocolate. Edmund was biting at his bottom lip, tears slowly slipping down his cheeks and dripping off his chin, sweaty hair stuck to his forehead and falling into over his eyes. "No," he said miserably, a fresh wave of tears welling up.

Peter smiled tenderly, lifting a hand to touch Edmund's damp face. "Exactly. Edmund, anything that happens to you is of importance to me," he whispered firmly. "Never forget that."

His brother said nothing, his eyes shutting on the tears he tried to rein in, but Peter heard a faint sound choked in his throat that was close to a laugh.

Peter moved his hand from Edmund's back to stroke the dark hair in his eyes, and he pushed a strand back thoughtfully. "Do you remember what you said to me before I left?"

The younger king's eyes widened slightly, and he managed a weak smile even while more wetness crept down his face. Peter let himself slip back for a moment, remembering the day he had departed for the North, hugging Susan and assuring her everything would be fine, then turning to his moping, dark eyed little brother. He'd smiled, already beginning to miss him and feeling far too much affection to let Edmund start up another fight, and so he had quickly leaned in and held the back of the younger's neck, locking their gazes. "I will come back. I swear it. Have faith in me, brother," he had said only so that Edmund could hear.

Now, looking at the younger and seeing the same uncontained shock and longing on his face, Peter felt his grin widen.

Edmund looked down, hands knotting in Peter's shirt. "May…" he began, voice uneven, and he paused to regain himself. "May Aslan guide your steps and direct your blade. May he keep you from harm and guard you from death, grant you clarity, and present you with the courage your heart requires. And may…may by Aslan's good grace you return safely home. So—" he clearly tried to laugh, but it came out as a hiccupped sob, as he looked back up, smiling through tears, "—so you had better bring your sorry carcass back to us."

With that, Peter gently pulled Edmund forward to him, and his brother complied with a soft sigh, his head resting against him and face buried where Peter's shoulder and neck met, one of his arms wrapping around Peter's lower back.

Hearing Edmund's blessing once again was amazing; or maybe it was just the memory of his brother unabashedly flying at him the day he had left with Lucy and the troops, arms locked around his neck and holding onto him with everything in him, Peter gripping him back with just as much strength.

His cheek against Edmund's hair, Peter smiled. "I kept my word, didn't I?"

Against him, Edmund nodded. "I knew you would," Then, to Peter's shocked amazement, his brother actually nuzzled into him, something that made him want to grin and cry at the same time; when had Edmund last been so affectionate? "Peter?"

"Hmm?"

"I know I hardly ever tell you this," he said, more of a strangled laugh, "but I love you something fierce. And I'm glad you're home," Edmund admitted quietly, words honest and naked.

It took all the strength the blonde man had to keep the stinging burn in his eyes back, Peter's heart swelling almost painfully because it felt so good to hear Edmund say that. He smiled gently, hands coming up to knot in his brother's hair and pull him nearer. "I'm glad I'm home, too."

Peter was quiet while he gave Edmund time to regain himself, and while it didn't take as long as it once would have, it left him with plenty of time to notice things about his brother. Edmund's hair, still thick and silky, was ragged, and dampened by fevered sweat. His body looked and felt thinner, still muscled but lacking the nutrition of a decent meal and proper rest, and his skin, now that he was pressed against Peter, was pyretic, heat soaking through his shirt and along his face and throat.

"You're going to catch a fever, brooding like you've been," Peter said, deliberately leaving out the fact that his crying spell probably had done little to help. He kept his hand in his brother's hair, unable to blame him for breaking down; he had a distinct feeling that he would have done the same, had their positions been reversed.

Edmund pulled back from his shoulder, sniffing profoundly, before wiping an arm under his nose in a clearly childlike gesture. Peter had to fight a grin. "I think I already have," he stated thickly, ruefully, his heavy lidded eyes narrowing. "Great."

"You have no one to blame but yourself," Peter said jokingly.

And instantly could have slapped himself. Wasn't he the cause of Edmund's grief? "Ed, I didn't mean it like that," he hastily added.

His brother gave a weak smirk, but his eyes were strangely gentle, as were his words. "I know. And don't worry," he said, smirk slipping into something bashful, just before he leaned against him and rested his head on Peter's shoulder once more. "I don't blame you. I'm the one who went and got himself shot. You were just trying to keep me safe, making me stay home." Peter felt his lashes tickle the exposed skin at his throat. "Sorry for all the trouble I put you through. Next time this happens—if this happens—it won't be like this. I know it won't."

Peter rolled his eyes fondly, understanding his brother completely; it had been the first battle he'd participated in without Edmund, after all, so it hadn't been easy for him either. "You have nothing to apologize for. But I get where you're coming from," he continued, arms tightening around his brother as he pulled him closer, "and I know what you mean." He brushed a single, quick kiss to the teenager's hair.

Edmund's reply came somewhat muffled against his traveling tunic. "You don't have to treat me like I'm a little kid. I am a king, after all," he said in reference to the show of intimacy, but Peter knew his words were empty; he had not tensed at the touch like he had some years ago, instead relaxing even further.

"You're right: you aren't a little kid anymore, and I forget that sometimes."

Edmund blinked up at him, clearly confused; by the way the younger was looking at him, eyes just barely tinted with the disappointment he did well at hiding, Peter had a pretty good idea that his brother hadn't been expecting this kind of response. The question was evident on his face.

Before he could ask it, though, Peter planted another kiss to his forehead, smiling as he lingered this time. "But you are my little brother, even if you're a king, and I'm going to treat you as such. If I recall, I said I would coddle you even when we're in our twenties. You still have another two years before you can really start complaining."

Edmund slowly smiled, tired features lifting, and he gave a quick laugh before gently knocking his head against Peter's. Still smiling, Peter watched his Just King, and his grin grew when he saw his brother try to fight off a yawn. "Maybe you should get some sleep," he prompted.

"'m not sleepy," Edmund muttered through the yawn, and Peter laughed as the younger man glared at him. But then his eyes softened, and before Peter had time to even wonder what had changed in him, Edmund lifted a hand to touch the dark, bruise like circles that were beneath Peter's own eyes. "You're exhausted," he accused. "Have you even been sleeping?"

"Excuse me, but I had better things to do. Like plan a battle, for instance."

"That's not a straight answer, Peter," his brother contended, clearly displeased. "It's not the wound, is it?"

A wry smile stretched Peter's mouth at the very familiar question, and he gave his brother the same answer as Lucy: "Not anymore."

Edmund's eyes, though red rimmed, became determined. "Let me see."

"What? No!"

"Yes."

"I think we've made it clear that we don't do well seeing each other's wounds," Peter stated, mind flashing back to the numerous time he had seen his brother's body riddled with lacerations or had watched him remove his shirt, only to reveal a chest and back tattooed by scars, some small and others large and more noticeable. One, in particular, Peter found very difficult to look at even now.

The younger king's eyes softened, clearly aware that Peter was thinking about the scar on his stomach where he had been stabbed eight years ago during their first major battle. "Just let me see it," he encouraged softly. "I promise, no freaking out."

Peter frowned, but slowly, reluctantly, pushed Edmund away so that he could stand, then extended a hand to his brother when he was on his feet. Once Edmund was standing as well, he slowly began pulling his tunic out from beneath his sword belt, raising it up and sliding his right arm out so that his bare side was exposed.

Edmund sucked in a breath, and when the elder looked in the mirror, he could see why. Long, pale, and still slightly raw, it was not a pretty sight, traveling down just past the top of his trousers and dangerously close to his ribs. It did not bother him to have it, or to see it; he was proud of the scars he bore, the wounds he'd received protecting his kingdom. He just was a bit worried about Edmund.

When Peter looked at him, his brother was blinking quickly, but his eyes had not filled with moisture. Hesitantly, Edmund lifted a hand, and long, slender fingers skimmed over the freshly healed wound, a bit too forceful in their assessment and causing Peter to fight a wince. His brother caught it, however, and gave him an apologetic look, lowering his hand.

"Well," he said, a bit breathlessly. "It…it's not exactly what I imagined."

Dropping his shirt, Peter grinned self consciously. "What, you thought I'd be all hacked up?"

Edmund frowned. "That would be the worst scenario."

"Ed—"

"It's alright. I just thank Aslan for giving you the sense to move before you were cut in half." He smiled, slightly pained, but sincere.

It was a nice surprise to see how well Edmund had handled that, even though Peter could see that his hands were shaking and his eyes seemed just a tad bit too bright. He felt pride well up in him at his brother's strength; Edmund had always been the better when it came to handling the battle scars they carried.

Peter sighed a moment later, breaking the silence that had grown between them. "I guess I should go get some sleep. I promised the girls I would."

"Might as well sleep here," Edmund said with a shrug, but even as he tried to sound nonchalant, Peter could see the hope in his eyes.

Peter smirked affectionately. "I was referring to here."

Edmund blushed, smiling sheepishly. "Well, only if you want to."

"I want to."

His brother tossed his head indifferently, but the relief and satisfaction were plainly written on his face.

"I'll just go clean up real quick."

"Don't worry with it." Edmund grabbed him by the wrist and began, to his mild surprise, tugging him toward the bed.

Peter dug his heals in and pulled back slightly, grinning. "I can't get in a bed like this." He motioned down at his dusty clothes.

Edmund cocked an eyebrow. "Yes, you are filthy."

"Now where have I heard that before?"

"My guess would be Susan."

Peter laughed, shaking his head. "Really. I'll get your bed all dirty."

Edmund had a firm hold on him again, eyes and smile amused, slightly possessive, and a bit timid. "Like I care. Just take you boots and sword off an lie down already. There's lots of sleep needing to be caught up on, and I intend to begin now."

Peter stood, watching as Edmund crawled into his bed and flopped down on the left side, the back of his hair spreading up and out over the white pillow. Throwing an arm up behind his head, he lifted his eyebrows and flashed a quick, expecting smirk.

Rolling his eyes, Peter complied under his brother's gaze and began to unfasten his cape, draping it over the wooden chest when he had it off, then sliding out of his dusty boots. The whole while, Edmund watched him, grin slipping in to a small, affectionate smile, his eyes alight with a luminous sparkle, and every now and then, Peter would flash a quick smile as well. He lifted the golden crown off of his head and placed it on his cape, then walked to the side of the bed, simultaneously unclasping his belt; he removed Rhindon from the band, choosing to place it against the wall well within arm's reach like he always did.

"Honestly, Ed," Peter began, gingerly crawling onto the bed as to not get it too grimy, "I get that you haven't been sleeping well, but you don't really need me right here to fall asleep, do you?" It wasn't really a serious question, mostly spoken just as banter, but Edmund looked over at him for a moment before turning his head away so that it was impossible to see his face. He moved his arm and gripped Peter's shirt sleeve, grasping his forearm, and deftly pulled it over his own back so that Peter's fingers were barely touching his abdomen, an action that sent a tingly bright current through Peter's entire weary frame.

"Is it so strange that I do?" Edmund asked unevenly.

Peter smiled affectionately, chuckling as he leaned in and pressed his forehead to the back of Edmund's shoulder, the arm over the younger boy's body wrapping around him. "Well, then, if I want you sleeping off that fever, I most definitely will stay. But it's mainly because I missed you."

The Just gave a weak chortle, twisting his fever flushed body so that his back was against Peter's chest. "Thanks for caring," he mumbled, only half sarcastic. "I'll be fine when I wake."

"I would hope so. You know just how much the girls like playing nursemaid."

This time, Edmund full out laughed, unrestrained and without any distress, and he grinned brightly over his shoulder at Peter; and Peter saw it, the flames burning in the brown eyes he knew even better than his own blue ones. "You're a fine one to talk, as you have an uncanny knack for hovering. Really, Peter, you're worse than a girl!"

Peter blinked. And then grinned, his own laughter as light hearted as Edmund's. "Lion's Mane, Ed, you're a wonder." Not in the least embarrassed, he gripped his brother securely and, as if to prove the point just stated, pressed a firm kiss to the back of Edmund's neck. He was rewarded with the breath in the younger's chest catching, his body reflexively going stiff and then immediately after loosening. "If I may be so blunt, little brother, that's a bit much coming from you when you yourself are just as protective," he growled affectionately.

Although he couldn't see his face, Peter knew Edmund was smiling. "Your Highness is becoming incoherent from lack of proper sleep. How about you close your mouth and shut your eyes and see where that gets you, hmm?"

Peter, who was, in fact, beginning to realize just how tired and he was and knowing sleep would come quick and easy, merely laughed and pushed his head to the back of Edmund's, gladly obeying his brother's command. He had a very good feeling that they both would soon be sound asleep, the younger man's heated skin burning into him, a peace settling over him at knowing he had the other half of his heart in his arms. Against him, Edmund sighed contently.

Peter wouldn't have minded just talking with his brother a bit longer, but he fell asleep before the thought even crossed his mind.

The smooth, gliding of wood scraping against wood woke Peter only somewhat, and when he lifted his head enough to blink blearily in the direction of the door, he saw Lucy coming toward them, a guilty little smile on her face, her eyes filled with a loving glow. He smiled sleepily, welcoming her forward.

She climbed up beside Edmund, who, as if able to sense a warm, familiar body in his sleep, reached out one of his arms for her, the other moving to wrap round Peter's. Her arms twining around the youngest king's waist, one of her hands seeking Peter's, and he took hold of it so that his was cradled between both their hands, Lucy's on bottom and Edmund's on top.

Once again, sweet slumber took him far away to where he could have sworn he heard a lion laugh proudly.

Susan, outside of her younger brother's room, hated to disturb him, especially if he and Peter hadn't yet made up; she knew it wouldn't have taken them this long, however, and hesitantly opened the door.

The Gentle Queen smiled at her three siblings, all dead to their surroundings. Lucy's head rested against Edmund's collarbone, her slender arms around him tightly, and behind him was Peter, his very position radiating protector; the curve of his body, the way he held onto their brother even in sleep. Edmund's head was curled over the youngest queen's, his back pressed against Peter, one arm holding tight to him.

Although she knew that Peter, as High King, should have been reading through the most recent requests and documents, she hadn't the heart to wake any of them, and, deciding to shrug her own duties for a change, walked quietly to the divan and leaned back, content with watching her brothers' and sister's chest rise and fall with the deep, even breaths of sleep.