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

A/N: You know, I had never thought about writing this story from Edmund's point of view; it came about because of a question I received in one if my reviews. And, to my surprise, I actually wrote and edited this in less than a week, which is kind of amazing for me since I didn't publish the actual story from Peter's point of view until a few months after I had finished it. I'm glad I chose to do this, as it gave me a chance to clarify a few things that I was unable to in the previous chapter, plus you get to see inside Edmund's head during an extremely angst-filled moment. A big thanks to everyone who has already reviewed, and maybe you'll feel inclined to leave another comment!

Also, for anyone who doesn't know the term Omaru, it is the name of Aslan's Camp in the film version of LLW.

StarKatt427

For AlwaysABrandNewDay, who asked for Edmund's take on this story and was the main reason I found inspiration to write this; I hope it's everything you hoped for.

"Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you."

Ephesians 4:31-32

Although Susan never suspected it, Edmund had sensed her every time she thought he wasn't aware and chose to check on him. His oldest sister was funny that way, always just the slightest bit too obvious; or maybe is was the other way around and she tried to pretend indifference so well that he was able to tell when her gaze locked on him as she watched for any sign of distress. She'd had good reason to these last several weeks, he would give her that, and he understood that she was just being the amazing, caring woman she was, but it would have been nice if she'd stop slipping into his room every so often.

It didn't matter, anyway: usually, she found him the way he was when she left because he rarely moved and didn't feel much need to. He sat with his back to the wall, his body weary and jittery and feverish almost, like there was a low blaze within him that could not be extinguished. Without looking at them, he knew his hands were pale, too white to be normal, yet he was flushed, sweat lightly coating his chest and back and neck and above his upper lip. His head resting against the wall, long, messy bangs falling into his eyes, he stared absently out the window at a distant flat of land he knew well; after all, he had watched it enough the last two days. But as there was nothing to see coming over the hill at the moment, he let his thoughts wander some, just not enough to get lost in the memories.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes. One million, two hundred nine thousand, six hundred seconds. In reality, it wasn't a long span of time, barely a wrinkle in the universe, yet these last two weeks had been pure torture for Edmund and had lasted what seemed like a lifetime, and he felt as if he should be an old man now, gray of hair and short in stature. But he wasn't; he was the same eighteen-year-old he had been when the small band of soldiers had left for the North.

When word had been brought the afternoon before last that they would be returning…that Lucy would be returning…that Peter would be…Edmund had gone into a state of mild shock for a short while, too flabbergasted to put any coherent thoughts together or get any words out. It had been a small she-Hare that had informed him and Susan as they were just sitting down to tea, and he'd seen his sister's face light up with relief and excitement, though he, at the time, hadn't felt anything of the sort: to know that they were actually coming home after eleven days and would be back in three was almost too much for him to grasp. But then the shock had trickled away and he, faintly aware that Susan had asked him how grand the news was, had managed what he'd thought to be a smile and had replied, "Very," is a sort of voice that wasn't anything like him: quiet, dulled and foreign.

Edmund remembered sitting in silence that night once he'd excused himself and returned to his chambers, leaving Susan behind troubled and upset, her happy mood clearly dampened by his behavior; and though he had known what he'd been putting her through—what he still was—he was unable to plug up the aching whole in his chest that caused it. He'd been too focused on the tumult running through him: anticipation and gratefulness and pain and anger and longing and fear all mixed into one large cancerous mass that had planted its roots deep within his belly and refused even now to be deracinated. He had been brooding over the past two weeks, but these last three days of waiting had been almost as bad as the two before them.

He shut his gluey eyes and exhaled deeply as he remembered the day he'd found out Peter had been wounded.

Edmund was just coming in from a long, time consuming walk through the gardens and orchards (which had taken up less time than he had hoped) when Susan slid in step beside him, a slight smile on her face that he knew meant she wanted something of him. Though he did not know to which degree, he found himself smiling back, the same turn of the lips he'd been giving her for many days, unable to deny his curiosity.

"Do you know something?" asked Susan, passing by two courtiers as she followed him into the Cair.

"What?" he inquired, because he was supposed to.

"I would like for you to teach me how to play chess."

Although he could not forget the dark cloud that had hovered over him since Peter's departure, he managed to laugh. "I've tried to before, remember? You were horrible."

"Yes, but that was a long time ago," she said, slipping her arm through his. "And I would much like for you to show me the plays and teach me the rules again."

He paused, turning to face her. "Why the sudden interest now?"

She lifted her hand and tapped a slender finger to her chin dramatically as she pretended to contemplate this. "Well, why not now? There's no time like the present. Isn't that what you usually say?"

Edmund knew exactly what she was trying to do, though she hid it well, and he could not help but smile sincerely at the sister who was doing all she could to distract him from missing Peter, although it most likely wouldn't work as well as she'd hope it to. Even if it meant pretending to be interested in a game she had no real desire to play and little talent at (though diplomatic, his sister had yet to fully master the art of strategy even after eight years), she would be willing to use it as an excuse to get him to stay with her for a while.

So he nodded. "True. Alright then." He motioned down the hall to where the main library was, where the golden chess set resided that he sat over so often with—

No. Not right now, He wouldn't spoil this for her.

"Shall we begin?" he asked.

Edmund saw a subtle change in her features: a widening of her eyes, clearly surprise, her lips parting just slightly before she smiled brightly and allowed him to lead her to the library.

Once they were actually playing, Edmund had to admit that she had gotten better; she studied her options more carefully and chose which pieces to move with a great deal more skill, though he saw many openings with which to beat her. But she seemed to honestly be enjoying it, and they spoke lightly off an on of unimportant matters like the weather and, though he was not exactly interested, he even asked about a recent gown she had received as a present from one of her many suitors, a baron from Galma. It was casual talk, nothing so serious that would pull him into some foul mood, and he was thankful for the distraction that did, to his surprise, help keep his mind focused on something besides the longing.

He had just captured her bishop when the large doors flew open behind them and a Badger burst through, panting slightly and supporting his weight against one of the doors. It was surprising to Edmund when the animal did not bow, as he was now accustomed to the light dip always made upon anyone first entering and exiting from his or any of his sibling's presence, but he did not think over it too much. Instead, all he noticed was the Badger looking from him to Susan with unusually large eyes, and knew something had happened.

"What ails you so, good Badger?" Susan asked with concern; clearly her thoughts were along the same track as his.

"Your Majesties," said the Badger, lifting himself up in a more dignified manner, "you must come at once. A Dryad has brought word from the North and says it urgent."

Edmund felt Susan's eyes go instinctively to him, fear radiating through her gaze, but he did not know to what extent because he was on his feet just as the Badger finished speaking, walking out to go behind the short animal, not quite running but nearing it. He heard Susan follow just behind, her skirts swishing over the floors, until her hand reached out and touched his briefly; he wasn't sure if she was trying to give him reassurance or seeking comfort herself, so he gave her hand a quick squeeze and continued on, throat tight and heart pounding, dread thick on his tongue.

He strode behind the stocky animal, past tapestries and armors and down the long hall, taking a left and heading to the set of glass doors that were to the left of Lucy's large herb garden. The doors stood open, a cool breeze flowing up the passage, and standing—or rather, floating—just outside was the figure of a woman, her every feature consisting of the green leaves and yellow catkins from the tree she was spirit of.

As the Badger stepped away for them, Edmund stood before the Dryad and tried to calm himself. "What news bring you?"

"Word from you sister, Her Majesty Queen Lucy, concerning the northern confrontation," the Silver Birch Dryad began in a soft, airy voice that still managed to convey the seriousness of the news she bore. "She says you brother, His Majesty the High King Peter, has been wounded."

At his side, Susan gasped, hands flying up to her mouth.

Everything stopped for Edmund: the entire world, time, his very heart and breath and the blood pounding through his veins. All he could hear was the words of the Hamadryad repeating in his head. Your brother…has been wounded…the High King…Peter…has been wounded…wounded.

And then his breath came back in a gasped rush, painful and difficult like a hot brand pressed to his lungs, and it felt like his heart was trying to rip out of his body, like his very soul was trying to tear free. He shook once, twice, until it felt as if his entire frame was vibrating, and he couldn't think straight.

The Silvan spoke again, but her words were distant and too fuzzy for him to understand clearly. "Her Majesty told me to inform you that he is faring quite well, though the blade was mightily sharp and the wound caused him to lose much blood, and he was fully restored after she gave him a drop of the healing cordial that is her gift. She says he is in no danger and that your fears should be put at rest, my King and Queen."

"Thank Aslan," Susan exhaled, hands over her heart. "Does our sister send any other news?"

"Yes, my Lady. She says the battle is going well and that is should soon be ended. She also asks for you to not worry, Your Majesties."

"Thank you, good spirit."

With the slightest of bows, the Wood Nymph began to vanish before them, her figure dispersing into green and yellow swirls of plant life until she was nothing more than leaves and blossoms in the wind.

And Edmund was left staring at the space she had just occupied, unable to move.

Though he didn't notice, Susan turned to him, a hand touching his arm. "What a relief,"

she said shakily. "I'm glad Lucy had the sense to bring—Ed?"

He heard her, though he did not understand her words or why she had paused, speaking his name so cautiously. He had heard everything the Dryad had spoken, though he could not accept it. Everything inside him, where it had been dulled and dreary since the troops had set out, was suddenly alight with fire and desperation and burning fear, and he could see nothing but the strong, oddly pale face of his older brother laid out across a battlefield, his armor ripped and blood gushing from his body, soaking his hair and flecking his beard. All he could see was Peter dying.

Something broke inside him.

Edmund was running before he had time to think, away from Susan and the Cair, toward where the stables were, where he knew Phillip to be. He wasn't thinking straight; he knew that much. But he could not stop his body and didn't even try as he flew over the grounds, barely hearing his sister's high, frightened voice calling behind him. He nearly tripped several times and had to catch himself against a tree once, but he never stopped.

He burst through the stable that housed Phillip, ignoring the horses when they pricked up at the sight of him, and moved to where his horse's stall was.

The Chestnut cocked his head, black eyes inquisitive and concerned. "Your Majesty?"

Edmund didn't answer, barely even looking at him as he grabbed his saddle and flung it over his shoulder, then unlocked Phillip's stall door, mind separated from his body and in a colder place.

The horse walked calmly, which frustrated him; why wasn't he moving fast enough? Once Phillip was out, Edmund threw the saddle over him and positioned it, then reached for the reigns and halter and bit. Moving with an ease brought about by years of practice, he expertly fastened every buckle and snap, tacking up.

He wasn't going fast enough. He had to move.

"What's wrong? Edmund?" Phillip called him by his given name, forgoing all titles as he tried to draw his attention, but Edmund once again did not acknowledge him as he led the horse by the reigns out of the stable.

Edmund had one foot in the stirrup and was just about to throw his leg over Phillip's side when a hand grabbed him by the back of his tunic and pulled viciously at him, catching him off guard and making him slip sideways, but he was just able to catch himself before he fell.

"What do you think you're doing?" came Susan's furious exclamation as she reached up and latched her other hand onto him, somehow managing to, once again, pull him off balance. He struggled against her, easily freeing himself and sitting up straight in the saddle.

"Edmund, this is madness! Stop it!"

"Your Majesty, maybe you should—"

"Quiet," he commanded the horse, voice surprisingly cold and calm; it wasn't anything like he felt. He was scorching and writhing, heart screaming and reaching for Peter, to get to him and kill whichever Giant had dared touch him. He had to get to him to make sure he was still alive. He had to—

Before he could flick the reigns, Susan reached up and grabbed them, and with her other hand clutched his arm, digging her fingernails into the skin beneath his sleeve. "Listen to me," she pleaded, holding fast to the reigns even as he tried to jerk them from her. "Brother, you can't just rush off like this. There's nothing you could do, you're just going to get yourself killed."

He finally looked her full in the face, at her wide, begging blue eyes and full lips, watching as she panted from running. And all he could see was the traces of Peter in her features.

He pulled his arm away, then yanked at the reigns, which she refused to release. "Let go. Now."

Edmund knew his iciness could frighten most; he often used it when it came to diplomats and disputes. But Susan did not even flinch, merely looked all the more determined.

"If you go, do you truly believe you would be of any good now? The battle is nearly won, Peter is fine, and you storming in would do nothing but cause him worry." She did not say it harshly, merely stating the honest fact that when it came to each other, her brothers were hopelessly protective and sometimes felt far too deeply for their own good.

But to Edmund, her words cut deeper than any knife, and they sliced his soul. She was right; she almost always was. He knew there was nothing he could really do there, but that changed nothing. Every pretense of calm fled him as he looked back at her, something wild finally breaking through.

"He's my brother!" he screamed. "I can't just sit here while he's risking his life! It's my fault he got wounded!"

She tugged him so that he was just above her and held him fast, eyes intense. "And he's my brother too! How do you think I feel right now, how I always feel when one of you is wounded? All I can do is wait here for your return and pray that you'll come home whole." Susan sighed, all fire leaving her, and then she looked very vulnerable, not anything like the gentle queen she was; she looked like a child again. "I know that the bond I share with him is nothing in comparison to what you to feel for each other or how deeply that love runs. But he means so much to me, and I do know what you are feeling, though I don't completely understand it. So please…please come back. I don't want to take the chance of you getting hurt as well."

He was wavering, and he looked out to where he knew would lead to Peter. "But…but he…he's hurt, Su."

A quivering laugh, following by her standing on tip toes and touching his cheek, pulling his face to look at her, and she cradled his face in both of her hands. "You didn't hear a word the Dryad said, did you? Peter is truly alright. Lucy gave him the cordial."

Edmund kept his eyes locked with her calming gaze, afraid he would splinter into a thousand pieces, his control beginning to shatter. "All the blood…" The vivid image of Peter on the ground, bleeding out, made him shudder.

"He lost a lot, but he's alright. Edmund, he's safe and he's alive, and when the battle is over, he and Lucy will return to us."

For a moment, he couldn't do anything but stare at her, body tense and on edge, breaths ragged and blood pounding in his ears. Then slowly, excruciatingly, everything slackened: his breathing became calmer, though it still shook, and he felt his shoulders relax, swallowing down the heart that had jumped into his throat, adrenaline still fast in his system. He felt tired, and old, and terrified, but it was no longer the overpowering fear it had been just seconds ago that nearly had him rushing off into the frosty North with no provisions or plan. Susan's logic had probably just saved him from any nasty demise.

"Will you please come back inside with me?" she inquired softly, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone.

He nodded, feeling strangely hollow, and allowed her to help him dismount. Beside him, Phillip bumped his nose into his side gently, and Edmund placed a hand on the horse, burying his fingers in his mane apologetically. When he let out a soft, low neigh that Edmund understood to be a chuckle, he knew that he was forgiven.

Absently, he sensed that he needed to take Phillip back to his stall, but he couldn't make himself. Instead, Susan called in that gentle way of hers to a Satyr that had been trimming the roses and trying not to eavesdrop on their conversation, and once the timid, slightly nervous creature stood before her, she told him to put away Phillip and his gear, adding a polite "please" before even beginning.

Edmund didn't fight when she slid her arm behind his back, hand soothing against his spine, and he looked at her blankly when he found her watching him. "Are you going to be alright?" she asked anxiously.

Though he did not express is (he felt too empty to even try), he felt a little better knowing he still had his gentle queen, and though he knew he wouldn't be well until he saw Peter home, safe and alive, he nodded to keep her from worrying, aware of the fact that he needed to get back inside before he really did break.

Susan gave a brief smile, then pulled him down enough so that she could kiss the side of his head before wrapping her arm around his waist and leading him back to the castle.

The two days following had been horrible; beyond horrible, though he wasn't sure what word he could use to describe the gaping, consuming fissure they had been. He'd barely been able to eat and had become dehydrated more than once when he refused to drink, only doing so when Susan came to his room and nearly forced him to. His sleep, already restless, had turned into short intervals of nothing but visions of blood and metal, of his brother battling without him, and he would wake up just before Peter received the deathblow from a Giant's razor-edged sword. Even now, he was too terrified to willingly fall asleep and only got the rest his body was starved of when his head was too heavy to hold up or when keeping his lids lifted became too great a challenge and his eyes would finally shut.

When he'd been told his siblings and the rest of the Narnians would be back in two day's time, things had changed. Sleep, though not quite as fitful, had not come easily, and he still hadn't had a decent night's rest. He'd begun to eat more, mostly for Susan; he still didn't have an appetite, but he also knew his body would weaken if he did not get enough nutrition. He was no longer in the fog he had been in since the night Susan had brought him up to his chambers, his mind clear enough to focus on something for a long period of time now, and even this sharpness was better than the empty deadness he had been victim to. But this also meant he felt more profoundly, his emotions stronger, and that was why he was so confused right now.

Anticipation was strong, as he could hardly wait for the moment when he would see Peter and Lucy and the others top the hill and begin to draw closer to Cair Paravel. Any length of separation from any of his siblings was always painful, but this had by far been the worst; he was thankful that they didn't have to be away any longer and that they would finally be home. Fear was a bit more difficult for him to decipher, though he had a feeling it had something to do with Peter; he wasn't afraid of his brother, but he knew there would be a confrontation between them, and he was nervous about how it would turn out. The pain and anger were obvious to him, both born from the same two factors: one being he had been forbidden to go with the group to the North to do battle with the Ettins, his blasted shoulder having worried Peter too much for him to even consider allowing him to come along, and the other that it had been because of this decision that his brother had been wounded in the first place. His injured shoulder had been healed quickly, though he hated to admit that the tenderness in it had lingered most likely due to the fact that it had been so long before he'd gotten back home and Lucy had healed it with her cordial. Edmund knew that even with this mild lack of balance, he would have been fine in battle, but Peter, the great annoyance, hadn't thought so; he'd insisted on him staying behind with Susan, and when Edmund and him had argued the afternoon before he had left, Peter had, for the first time in their life, forbade him from coming, from doing anything. He had seen the pain and the slowly breaking firmness in his brother's eyes, but then Peter had given him an order, one that Edmund could not deny no matter how greatly he wanted to: his brother was High King, and no matter what, Edmund would follow his command.

It was because of this, however, that Edmund had not been in his customary place near Peter in battle, hadn't been there to keep the danger away from him, and that was even worse than not being allowed to go, burning through Edmund with the fire of the hot brand.

And yet, even though the anger and pain were so strong that it was amazing to him that he managed to keep his calm even now, the pure longing he felt for both of his siblings was ever greater. Lucy was the baby, so he had a special place set aside for her in his heart, just like he knew it was with his older siblings; it was a love that was defensive and fond, sweet and warm and sparkling, just like the Eastern Sea that she had been given. She was the one who could get him to smiling when not even Peter could, who still liked to just come up at the most random of moments and wrap her arms around him in a hug, just like that first time at Omaru so long ago. And then there was Peter, the one person he had long ago tried to hate and had just a few days ago been ready to risk his own life to get to. He relationship with Peter was sometimes complicated, the first year of their reign having been awkward when either tried to show the depth of their emotions, but it had steadily become as easy as breathing; walking into a hug or accepting the kisses his brother, even now, decided to bestow were natural. That wasn't to say that they did not argue; the night before Peter had left was a fine example. But they always managed to pull through and were the stronger for it. Peter was his brother, his only brother, and so what he felt for him was especially rare, a strength born from blood and sweat and tears, from shared smiles and hours of sparring practice, chess matches and voyages to different lands, from quavers and nightmares and from an affection that Edmund shared not even with Lucy. They had endured capture together, had often been each other's sanity when battle and death became too much or when nightmares were especially vicious, and that was why Edmund felt Peter's absence so greatly.

Still, that was not going to excuse Peter from the verbal lashing Edmund had been mulling over. Weeks worth of anger had been bottled up for too long, and he knew that it would be difficult for him to keep them contained once Peter was before him.

Edmund did not move from his perch by the window for the next hour, not even when he saw something flash over the hill, then vanish. It reappeared, disappeared, and then entered into perfect view: a scarlet flag, the golden image of the Lion its rampant. Chest suddenly tight, he watched as another flag came up over the land, followed by three figures in between them. To the left was a smaller person riding horseback, their long hair blowing and skirts catching the wind: Lucy. To the right was a tall, solemn Centaur with a deep chest and a glossy black horse half that was Oreius. And in between them, where Edmund found his eyes locked, was a tall, broad shouldered man wearing a crimson mantle, the golden crown on his head just barely catching the sunlight.

Peter.

Something came alive in his chest, and Edmund felt like laughing and crying and screaming all at once, but all he allowed himself was a slight smile.

Minutes later, he heard the door open and knew it was Susan. He heard her take a deep breath, like she was about to spout out excitedly, but then her breathing hitched. She sighed. "You saw," she stated.

"Yes."

He waited to see if she would ask if he would come out with her to meet them. Susan, already knowing what his answer would be, however, simply closed the door and left him alone.

And Edmund waited for the brother he knew would soon come looking for him.

It wasn't a long wait, though it felt dreadfully stretched out to Edmund, and as the minutes passed he began to feel more unhinged, eventually pulling his knees up close to his chest and draping his arms over them. Though he was chafing inside, he managed to keep himself calm for the most part, though it was more lethargy than anything due to the sheer exhaustion. The whole while he was hoping he would be able to remain calm once Peter entered but knew the chances were slight; he just had to stay as neutral as possible so that he didn't break under the strain. If he showed or said too much, that would fracture his composure.

Less than two minutes later, he heard the faint scraping of the door, then the sound of riding boots against the floor, and Peter was in the room.

It took every ounce of Edmund's will power to not look at the older man, but he was able to push this down, instead keeping his eyes out the window, gaze focused on the distant forests ahead and the beaches of the ocean to the left. Though he was making himself concentrate on the view before him, his other senses were heightened by the presence of his brother: he heard every move Peter made, every scuff of his boots, every tap of Rhindon against his leg, every breath that he breathed out. He could almost feel Peter, though they were separated by an entire room, the tiredness and travel grime and victory and even, strangely enough, surprise on him.

Then Peter was coming forward, slow and deliberate, until he stopped, close but at the same time distant. Now that Peter was nearer, Edmund was met by his brother's reflection in the glass: even in the window, Peter had sleep circles under his eyes, hair and clothes covered with dust and his shoulders drooped, but Edmund found no wound. The fatigue radiating off of him was tangible, and Edmund had to fight a wry smile. "You look terrible."

He watched Peter's reflection jump, eyes slightly confused and a bit stunned. "Edmund?"

"I can see your reflection," he clarified. "And, if this is an accurate image of you, I can see that you also seem nervous." It wasn't just Peter's reflection though: it was the sense of uncertainty his body radiated that had tipped him off.

Edmund saw Peter's jaw tighten, but he remained silent, causing Edmund to grow a bit worried, though he didn't show it. "What? Has something bad happened?"

Peter's reflection, watching him, scowled slightly. "No. Everything's fine."

"Oh."

"Oh?" repeated Peter incredulously.

"Oh," he reiterated calmly.

Peter's eyebrows furrowed, an expression Edmund knew well to be annoyance, but he spoke up before his brother would have time to think of something to say. "Did you win?"

He asked this question knowing that there was a good chance it would get under Peter's skin; in some ways, it referred to the army itself while, at the same time, to Peter as a single person. Though he shouldn't have, Edmund felt a little spiteful, mostly due to the pain he suffered at being forced to remain at the Cair while Peter and the others risked their lives. But it seemed Aslan was against him: his voice broke slightly on the syllable "you".

Across the space, Peter breathed deeply. "Yes, we did," he said, adding emphasis to the plural.

Edmund clenched his jaw and gave a jerky nod. "Alright."

A silence arose between them, one that was especially uncomfortable for Edmund. So after just a few moment of this, he lowered his gaze to his bitten down fingernails and swallowed. "How's Lucy?"

When Peter answered, Edmund could hear the pride in his voice. "Amazing. You should have seen her." He paused ever so slightly. "She was incredible."

And Edmund did not doubt it; Lucy was, after all, Narnia's first warrior queen, even though she was only sixteen, and she took every chance she got to aid her brothers in battle. She was skilled with blades in a way that Susan was not, his eldest sister remaining faithful to her ash wood bow. Lucy was capable with many weapons, though she did best with her dagger, and Edmund could just see his sister battling against an Ettin. And though he fought against it, the image caused him a deal of sickening envy, for she had been where he had been forbidden to follow. Still, he felt proud more than jealous and longed to see her in combat, and he managed to attempt a smile. "I bet she was."

After a brief quiet, Peter spoke. "Maybe you'll get to see her next time."

Though Edmund knew his brother had not intended to, the words hurt, even though Peter was obviously trying to make amends. He glared for a moment at the back of his hands, then lifted his eyes to the desk across from him, at the crumpled, ink stained pieces of parchment that covered the floor and desk top: letters he had tried to write Peter late into that first night when he'd heard of his injury, none of them having made sense, all too jumbled with emotions and words that were not coherent. Slowly, he looked away from the scribbled out letters and turned his eyes upward to Peter.

And made the biggest mistake he could have.

Up until then, he had been mostly fine; he was handling his emotions well and holding everything in place and keeping his self-control. But when his eyes locked on his brother's face, it was all he could do to keep himself from screaming or crying out, everything inside him reaching for Peter. It was a miracle that he managed to keep his expression bare; maybe Aslan was aiding him, after all.

Because when he saw Peter—really saw him, not just his reflection—all the ache and resentment and yearning resurfaced as he took in Peter's tan face, not pale from blood loss as in his dreams. He watched the older man's eyes go wide with some sense of horror, eyes that were the bluest of blue and always managed to tear away Edmund's barriers. And it was so good to see that face again, even now with such a hurt, shocked expression, that something sung out inside Edmund, trying to break past his wall of indifference and almost managing to; he had to force it down while not revealing the emotions waging war inside his body.

It wasn't until now, with Peter standing just feet away from him, that Edmund became aware of just how greatly he had missed his High King; now, it was raw and nervous and oh so sweet and awkward, similar to how it had been the day he'd been saved from the Witch and brought to his siblings and Aslan, after he had hugged his sisters and was left staring up at Peter, the feelings coursing though him unknown and extreme, a love so great that he hadn't been able to even slightly understand it at the time.

Edmund watched as his lips parted on a cut off breath, something like fear seeping into his eyes, and he was unable to push down the smile that came to him, somehow allowing him to vent just the smallest bit of anger. "I may just hold you to that."

Peter's mouth closed, and Edmund could see one of his brother's hands twitch, gaze so openly forthright that Edmund knew Peter was fighting against the urge to reach out to him, and the feeling that came to him was odd, infuriated that his brother would even think to try it and thankful to know that he still would. He stared up into the familiar features with as much blankness as he could, though he couldn't quite swallow down the burning, oncoming rage, and he knew that he would have to try harder to contain it. The question was, could he?

Something swirled into the pale blue of Peter's eyes, a knowledge that only his brother would sense, as if he could see just what Edmund was doing and did not like it at all. There wasn't even any anger, which Edmund would have done better with, instead a hunger and aching fear that he understood because he had experienced it as well.

The Just saw Peter swallow. "Edmund…"

"What's wrong? You look ill."

His brother's brows furrowed, then lifted. "Edmund…" He sounded like he was trying not to choke. "…you…"

Edmund grinned, letting the rage slide through some, though there was a part of him that disapproved acting like the hurtful little boy he had once been. "When you were wounded, did you hit your head? That would explain your lack of articulacy."

"Ed, stop…" Peter whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

"Then again," he continued, unable to control the words flying out of his mouth, "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." His voice didn't sound right, too wicked, too pain filled and hollow at the same time, and far away from the moral king he knew he was. He tried to grin again, but it felt like a scowl. "It must have been especially nasty. Are you still recovering?"

"Please…" came Peter's soft, shaky voice, as close to pleading as he had ever heard it, his eyes anguished and searching.

Edmund finally lost the battle to keep the fury out of his words. "What's the matter, brother?"

"Shut up, Edmund!"

The command came out of nowhere, thunderous and powerful and fitting the High King that had yelled it, and it left Edmund reeling. His brother hardly ever lost his cool and he hadn't expected this; but Peter's temper had proved to be in a more fragile state than he had given it credit for, and so he was left gaping up into the livid, slightly frightening face of Narnia's highest monarch, his eyes harder than and twice as cold as ice.

With a half growl, Peter suddenly rushed him and, too surprised to comprehend what was going on, Edmund found himself being gripped by two strong hands, Peter jerking him in a quick shake so that his head flew back. He blinked up, some of the shock wearing off and being replaced by his previous fierceness.

"You…what is wrong with you?" the elder roared, expression baffled and distressed and more than a bit outraged. "Do you have any idea how much you're hurting us, or do you even care?"

Edmund's thoughts flashed to his sisters instinctively, mainly to a certain older sister who had been putting up with his moods for weeks now, and his eyebrows drew down. "Of course I care."

Peter exhaled a sarcastic breath. "Really? Because I'm starting to wonder if you truly do. Or are you just being a bother on purpose?" His gaze intensified, filling with what appeared to be grief, and it was all Edmund could do to continue looking at him. "You seem like you could care less about anything, but that's a lie, and you and I both know it."

He was losing the composure he had achieved, the cool façade slipping right through his fingers, and he finally let himself glare full on into the older king's eyes. "I do care, if you can actually believe it," he replied, flames licking at his words.

Peter, usually so calm and patient, grabbed the front of his thin shirt and pulled him forward so that their foreheads were nearly touching. "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?"

The last bit of Edmund's equanimity crumbled at his brother's latest statement, and he lifted his hands up and shoved them to Peter's chest with a force backed by anger so that he nearly knocked him backwards. Was Peter really that clueless? Did he honestly not understand why he was doing this? "Of course I do!" he yelled, making it to his feet in one fluid movement so that he was just a few inches below Peter. "I know good and well what I'm doing, but I can't help it, alright?"

He watched Peter, daring him to scream back, to do something besides stare at him with such outright astonishment, all traces of irritation now gone, as he tried to force words from his mouth. "Ed…I don't understand."

Edmund rolled his eyes and snorted out a laugh, then pushed Peter again and made him take several steps back. "Of course you don't. You aren't supposed to."

"Why not? You aren't even making sense."

He really doesn't get it, Edmund realized, something like disbelief and agony swelling up inside him. His own brother, for once, did not understand the pain and anguish he felt, the loneliness and alienation, the desperation he'd experienced when he'd heard Peter had been injured. "That's the point!" He shoved Peter a third time, though there wasn't much strength behind it; his body was too worn out. "It wouldn't make sense to you, not to anyone but me." Edmund lifted a hand and grabbed at his hair distressedly. "God, Peter, I hate this!"

Behind the hand he had fisted in his hair, he saw that Peter was genuinely lost, so baffled that it physically hurt Edmund to know his brother couldn't see what was so obvious to himself. Once more, hands twitched out as if to grab him. "Hate what? Please just tell me. Look, I know…I know you're upset, but—"

Edmund was proud of the coolness he usually upheld. Under the direst circumstances, he was the one out of the two kings that usually managed to remain unruffled, who didn't lose his head. But here, now, with Peter on the other end asking such oblivious questions, Edmund's temper snapped more so than it ever had with his brother and, without even looking to see what he turned to grab, Edmund lifted the chair that he had sat in so often trying to write those blasted letters to Peter and threw it straight at said brother. It would have hit him in the stomach had he not moved out of the way at the last possible second, his face as taken aback as Edmund felt at the action; clearly, he wasn't the only one surprised by his lack on patience.

"No, Peter, I am beyond upset! I am furious!"

Peter's mouth hung open, eyes going wider than they had since he'd first entered the room. A question written across his face, he took hesitant steps nearer, a hand raised to touch him. "Edmund?"

Something bubbled up in his belly, and Edmund recoiled at the extended appendage, glaring at his brother with all the ire he felt in his body; he couldn't handle being touched so intimately now, not when he was steadily losing himself, and he would not let Peter any closer. He couldn't handle it. "Do not touch me."

Edmund watched as his brother actually flinched, as if he had slapped him, and the pain that swam into those vivid blue eyes of his nearly did him in. His breathing tremulous, Peter lowered his hand. "Why, Ed?" he asked, this time, to the younger's amazement, actually begging. "Please, please, just tell me what I've done."

His brother could be a right idiot sometimes, and Peter's unawareness enraged Edmund all the more. Knowing there was nothing else within reach that was light enough to chuck at him, he had to settle for the next best thing, and that was screaming in a voice that was far too broken and not nearly enough infuriated, in his opinion. "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." He had to swallow down the emotion working into his voice, trying to worm its way in as a sobbed breath. "That's not the way we work, and you know it!"

Peter was speechless, Edmund could see that as he stood panting for breath, and he saw the comprehension finally crawl into his eyes; it had always been there though, just masked so well that he hadn't been able to see it. "Edmund, be reasonable," the High King started.

Lord, was he really trying to use logic? What a laugh.

"Now come on, this is—"

"Silly? Childish?" Edmund suggested, giving a weak, cold laugh. "You know something? I don't even care any more if I am being childish!"

Peter took several deep breaths, and something about his eyes said he knew Edmund didn't mean the last part, but he said nothing about it. It was better that way; Edmund didn't know what he was capable of at the moment. "You know why I couldn't allow you to come," he finally murmured.

"That doesn't matter, Peter!" He cringed, horrified at the way his voice sounded, so high and shaky. "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," his brother tried to rationalize.

"Not against Giants, and especially Ettins! She's still too young to be partaking in a fight that serious." He exhaled unsteadily, trying to gain his bearings and barely succeeding, the change not enough to be noticeable by anyone save his blood brother. "Narnia can't lose her High King. This country needs you! I need you!" he admitted unashamedly, knowing just how true it was; he knew it wasn't possible for him to live in a world that Peter did not exist in. "You're my brother, Peter. I can't lose you. And I nearly did." He saw those same images of Peter on the battlefield, pale and smeared with the life seeping away from him, and he nearly choked. "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!"

As he finished screaming, his throat scratchy and voice rough, Edmund was left glaring at his brother, eyes burning and gulping down air into lungs that did not want to function.

He watched Peter's face, saw the seriousness of it slowly give way just barely to a quick, melancholy twist of the right corner of his mouth. "Ed. What do you want me to say?"

Edmund turned away from him, too tired to yell anymore and only managing a thick attempt at a scornful laugh. "Nothing. It's not my place to expect anything from you."

"You should expect everything from me," his brother argued, voice intense, and he wasn't Narnia's Magnificent King at that moment; Edmund heard his brother and his brother alone. When Peter came to stand in front of him, Edmund stared down, but Peter continued. "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," Edmund said, finally looking back to the older king. "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." Edmund could have cared less if Peter liked it or not, and he didn't care if he would have been a hindrance; his shoulder had been fine, after all, and he would have been able to take care of both himself and Peter if his hardheaded brother would have just understood that fact.

Instead of the quiet argument he had expected, Edmund suddenly found himself looking up into icy hot eyes. "Listen to me, you idiot!" Peter shouted, reaching out to hold him fast by the shoulders so tightly that his fingers pressed into Edmund's skin, and the younger man couldn't move or fight or do anything; that was something about Peter, the blonde man always able to do this to him at the most inopportune moments. "You never get in my way, and I would never, ever, not want you fighting beside me," he said with so much conviction that it made Edmund's heart skip a beat. "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!"

As the words tore from Peter, honest and heartfelt, Edmund found himself beginning to fall apart. Peter knew well just how much Edmund needed to be there at the battles, needed to be beside him; and yet, just like always, Peter had put the well being of his sibling above his own and had made him stay behind. But he did not understand the depth of Edmund's feeling because Peter had never been made to stay behind while Edmund went off and risked his life for his home and family and everything he held dear.

Against his well, his anger began stealing away, his breathing uneven. "Peter, you…you still don't get it."

"Then help me get it." One of the hands on his shoulders moved to grab the back of his neck, Peter's palm calloused and warm and enough to make Edmund nearly lose his dignity entirely; when was the last time he had felt his brother's touch? "Edmund, I know you're angry with me, and I am sorry for that." He gave a soft sigh. "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."

Edmund's lips parted on the jagged breath that tore through his body and made the next breath near impossible. He had known the whole time why Peter had been so adamant in his refusal to let him come, just being his overprotective, wonderful idiot of a big brother that he loved more than life itself. But he'd been selfish and had focused solely on his own pain, not the worry his brother would have felt had he gone. And in the light of this knowledge, the knowledge that had always been there but Edmund had never tried to see, he could feel no more anger; it slipped through every pore and fled his heart, leaving him shaky and unstable, the same terrified child be had been the first time he'd stood before Peter in Aslan's camp.

Without him even noticing, Peter had released the hand from his neck and placed two of his fingers to Edmund's lips, lips that would not still into a straight line no matter how he tried. "Brother?" Peter asked him, the title pulling at his every heartstring. "Say something."

He had to get away. Fast. Now.

Edmund brought his arm back and then threw it forward, his fist aimed at Peter's chest, but was easily stopped by a hand catching hold of his. He inhaled through his teeth, then threw another punch with his left hand, less power behind this one; he didn't have much strength left. Peter latched onto this hand as well without any trouble, and then Edmund was yanking his arms back, trying to free himself from the shackles his brother's hands were around his wrists. If he didn't leave now…

"Let go!" He pulled against Peter's hold, eyes on the floor, the bed, the desk, just a long as they weren't on his brother. But soon, his overtired body began to slacken and he was unable to fight as violently, and even then Peter's hands did not release him. It wasn't until he was fighting for breath, bent against the strain his body was up against, that he felt Peter free one hand and lift the other up, his long fingers gently unfolding it from the first Edmund had it in, a thumb brushing over the tendons and veins in the back of his hand. And he could do nothing but watch, too weak to fight him anymore and not wanting to, his vision blurred by wetness. Looking at their hands—his, slimmer and more agile, and Peter's, tan and longer—Edmund watched as Peter raised their hands up and brushed his lips over his knuckles.

Edmund shook, bighting down the shaken breath that tried to leave him, hand trembling. "Peter." He was tearing apart, watching his brother's lips press a pure, solid kiss to his fingers, the back of his hand, his breath wafting over his skin and beard tickling.

Peter looked up at him, smile slightly crooked and full of unrestrained love. "Edmund."

He did not even feel his legs give out from under him until he was just above the floor, arms catching him at the last moment and lowering him so that he was half collapsed against Peter. "Hey! Ed, what's wrong?"

Edmund couldn't answer. If he opened his mouth, he wasn't sure what kind of sound would come out. Instead, her shook his head, closing his eyes when his sight became completely obscured by tears, and as his lids slid closed, a tear fell.

Above him, Peter stopped breathing. "Edmund?"

"I am not crying!" he cried out defiantly, voice far too thick to be believable. "I'm not!"

He was. He was crying a lot, tears streaming fast down his face and wearing worn paths, his heart fit to burst and shoulders quivering so that he could barely draw breath. Salty wetness coated his lips and ran down his throat, and when he opened his eyes, he saw them falling onto Peter's hands in fat drops.

Edmund hated crying, hated feeling weak or vulnerable, even before Peter sometimes. But not now. It was such a relief to actually be crying that he wasn't ashamed or humiliated because he had finally broken down and was clinging fast to Peter, afraid to let him go; if he did, would he really be there when he looked up? He felt small again, like in that first year when he had began growing comfortable with Peter and the love he felt for his brother, but it was not a bad feeling. Hiccoughing and sniffling, he leaned his head against Peter's strong chest and sobbed. "I missed you…I missed you so much…"

"Sorry." Hands caught in his hair, lips at the top of his head, and Peter was holding him in return. "I'm so sorry, Edmund," he said, his voice cracking. "For everything. Please…please say you'll forgive me."

And he couldn't help it: Edmund laughed, though it wasn't anything more than a sob. He grasped his brother's tear dampened hands as tightly as he could, bringing them to press a trembling kiss to each of them. "Peter…" Tears coming too fast now, he could not finish. He kissed his brother's fingers, just as Peter had done for him moments ago. "Of course I forgive you. I can't not. You know that."

Above him, Peter chuckled thickly. "And I'm thankful for it. But I was afraid it might take more than an apology for you to actually say it."

With a cut off sniff, Edmund touched Peter's hand to his eyes and forehead. "I don't even need an apology. Just the way you looked at me was enough." The disgrace was traveling fast through his body, exiting as teary breaths. "It should be me asking you for forgiveness."

He felt Peter's hands move to where they were on the back of his shoulders, nimble fingers running in massaging circles. "Why would you say that? You've done nothing wrong."

"I wasn't fair to you," Edmund admitted, voice beginning to steady out. "And I overreacted. 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 was unable to fight the shudder that ran up his body and hid his face the older man's tunic, releasing Peter's hands so he could latch onto the material.

"Are you speaking as my fellow king, or as my brother?" his brother inquired, tone slightly joking.

"Both," was Edmund's quiet response. "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 buried his face in his hair, his breaths deep. "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?"

He's thinking of that again, Edmund thought, remembering the pain of the arrow as it sunk into his flesh, of the ripping sensation it had left him with once Lucy had pulled it out. "It wasn't serious. I was fine."

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

Edmund could say nothing, tempted to remain where he was hidden. He shook, then slowly rose up and met Peter's gentle smile and even gentler eyes, teeth digging into the inside of his bottom lip and tears coming so fast that Peter's image became indistinct. "No," he answered, fighting a sob.

Peter's smile softened even further, and he touched Edmund's cheek. "Exactly. Edmund, anything that happens to you is of importance to me. Never forget that."

He shut his eyes, fighting the tears even as they continued to well up and stream down his face, trying to laugh and failing.

Fingers were at his temples, pushing aside the hair that fell over his eyes, and Edmund heard Peter exhale, the way he did when he was smiling. "Do you remember what you said to me before I left?"

Edmund's eyes opened wide, blinking out tear after tear, and he smiled shakily. How could he forget? That day had been especially dismal and difficult for him, having to watch Peter and the others go forward while he was forced to remain behind, and he had been very surly that morning. He'd managed to smile for Lucy and held her in a tight hug, but then he'd been left facing Peter, something he had been dreading, and he'd kept his eyes downcast when the elder came to stand before him. But then Peter had surprised him by stepping forward and cupping his neck, his blue eyes steady and apologetic and filled with love and pain. And then he had spoken so softly to him so that only he could hear and with so much fire that the very words kindled something Edmund had been trying to fight for the last several days: the fact that he wouldn't be complete without his brother there to make up the other half of his heart.

And then, to make everything ten times worse for himself, he'd thrown himself against Peter and locked his arms around his neck while Peter's wrapped around his back, Edmund's hands gripping at his shoulders and hair, and he had buried his face against the Magnificent's neck and given the only blessing he knew to give.

Face hot, Edmund looked away and twisted his fingers where they held onto the elder's shirt. "May…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." He tried to laugh, the sound full of tears, and he looked up and smiled at the brother he had been so afraid he would never see again, the one who was still wonderful to Edmund, even with his face hazed by wetness. "So you had better bring your sorry carcass back to us."

Edmund suddenly found himself pressed into a solid chest, Peter's arms tight around him, and he sighed, finally letting himself completely sink into the warmth and comfort of his brother, sliding his arm around the elder king.

"I kept my word, didn't I?" Peter asked.

He nodded. "I knew you would." Aware that, at the moment, he was already more vulnerable then he had been in a long while, he dug his face into Peter's shoulder, snuggling in against the blessedly alive heat. "Peter?"

"Hmm?"

Might as well say it; it's true, after all. "I know I hardly ever tell you this, but I love you something fierce. And I'm glad you're home," Edmund admitted quietly, words honest and naked and wobbly and face burning with heat.

The man above him stopped breathing for a moment, and the beginnings of awkwardness traced up Edmund's spine. But then hands tangled in his hair, and a deep, touched voice said, "I'm glad I'm home, too."

For the next several minutes, neither said anything. Edmund took even, calming breaths, pushing the tears aside until they were nothing but an occasional hiccup, and from what he could tell, Peter seemed satisfied to just stroke his fingers through his hair and along the back of his neck, once in a while touching his jaw comfortingly. Soon, Edmund could feel everything catching up with him: the screaming, the pushing and struggling, the crying…he was getting sleepy, and he didn't like it. Now that Peter was with him and everything was back to normal, he wanted nothing more than to stay alert and talk with his brother, to just be with him.

"You're going to catch a fever, brooding like you've been."

Edmund nearly laugh, noting the way his body seemed too warm, his skin clammy and thoughts just the slightest bit fuzzy, and he lifted his head and wiped a shirt sleeve under his nose. "I think I already have." He blew out a breath. "Great."

"You have no one to blame but yourself."

For a moment, Edmund did not understand the joking tone with which his brother had spoken; for just that one second, mild pain irrupted throughout him. But then he realized that his brother hadn't really thought about what he had said either, because he saw Peter's eyes widen, the hand still on his shoulder tightening as he said quickly, "Ed, I didn't mean it like that."

Edmund smiled understandingly, well aware that Peter would never be that harsh on purpose. "I know. And don't worry," he said, leaning into Peter again, "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." Edmund sighed. "Sorry for all the trouble I put you through. Next time this happens—if this happens—it won't be like this," he corrected; if he had his way, Peter would never leave his sight again. "I know it won't."

"You have nothing to apologize for. But I get where you're coming from, and I know what you mean." Then, with his face in Edmund's hair, Peter kissed his head.

Peter wasn't as openly affectionate as he had once been; adulthood had changed that. But he still had his moments where, when it was just the two of them, or even amongst their sisters, he would be especially demonstrative and bestow a quick kiss to Edmund's forehead. Edmund always allowed this, though he usually pretended to mind it and sometimes even accepted it without a word of refusal. Now was one of those former times, and while a blush bloomed over his cheeks, he smiled, keeping his face against Peter's shirt. "You don't have to treat me like I'm a little kid," he began. "I am a king, after all."

To Edmund's surprise, his brother pulled back. "You're right: you aren't a little kid anymore, and I forget that sometimes."

Eyes flying open, he looked up at Peter, puzzled and a little hurt, though he would never have admitted it. His brother had never taken his age into account before, so why would he now?

And then Peter pulled him forward and had his mouth pressed to his forehead, and Edmund could feel him smiling, the display of affection making every word choke off in Edmund's throat. "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," Peter said, grinning down at him, tired face content. "You still have another two years before you can really start complaining."

Edmund felt himself smile, and then he was laughing, leaning forward to bump his head to Peter's. But then his smile slipped and he was trying to keep his mouth closed as a giant yawn overtook him, reminding him that his body wanted and needed rest.

Peter laughed. "Maybe you should get some sleep."

To stress the point, another yawn came upon him and Edmund had to speak through it, the words garbled. "'m not sleepy." When Peter laughed at his attempt at denial, he glared halfheartedly at him. But then he noticed just how pronounced the circles were beneath Peter's eyes, just how badly his beard was in need of a trim, how much fatigue his shoulders held; just like him, his brother hadn't been getting very much rest. He raised his fingers, brushing them over the purplish skin beneath Peter's right eye, then his left. "You're exhausted. Have you even been sleeping?"

Peter's face tightened, though he tried to play it off with a smile. "Excuse me, but I had better things to do. Like plan a battle, for instance."

Edmund scowled. "That's not a straight answer, Peter." He paused ever so slightly, ignoring the heaviness in his chest and stomach. "It's not the wound, is it?"

Slowly, Peter smiled, eyes faraway for a moment as he remembered something. "Not anymore."

So it had. Of course it had, all serious wounds did leave behind traces of pain for the first day or two; Edmund remembered this especially from the round scar he had on his abdomen, his first battle wound. Leave it to Peter to get himself hurt so badly that it had affected his sleep. He frowned. "Let me see."

Peter blinked at him, one blonde eyebrow raised. "What? No!"

"Yes."

"I think we've made it clear that we don't do well seeing each other's wounds," Peter stated with small traces of pain in his eyes, and Edmund knew Peter was remembering all the wounds he had sustained, the scars that curled around his body, just as they did Peter's. Edmund did better when it came to examining these marks, but it was still always difficult when Peter stripped his shirt off and revealed a darkened bite mark or thin knife wounds.

Edmund smiled slightly, knowing he would be acting the same way; he'd done it many a time. "Just let me see it. I promise, no freaking out," he assured.

Edmund waited, watching his brother frown.

Peter finally sighed, giving in, and began to push him away so he could stand. Once he was up, he offered his hand for Edmund to take, which he gladly accepted; he wasn't sure if he would be able to get up by himself, and was soon on his feet, watching Peter expectantly. His brother examined him, eyes hesitant, then began drawing his tunic out over his belt, staring down and away from Edmund with a tight jaw as he lifted the garment and slid his arm free until Edmund could see his side and chest.

His gut knotted in on itself, pulling and twisting and filling with cold lead, and Edmund was subject to a painful head rush as he took in the long, uneven scar that traveled down his brother's side, going down into his breeches. It was clearly a sword wound, though Edmund had never seen one like it, the jagged blade having torn deep into his brother's flesh. Trying not to cringe, he slowly stuck out his hand and hesitantly touched the tips of his fingers to it; it was still puffy, cooler than the rest of Peter's skin.

When Peter winced, Edmund pulled his hand away, the action eating at him. "Well, it…it's not exactly what I imagined."

Peter let his shirt fall back over the scar, a nervous smile on his face. "What, you thought I'd be all hacked up?"

"That would be the worst scenario."

His brother's eyes tightened. "Ed—"

"It's alright," he interrupted quickly, flashing a smile that was, like Peter's eyes, pained. "I just thank Aslan for giving you the sense to move before you were cut in half."

Peter was quiet, taking his words in, his expression evening out until he released a breath and smiled slightly. "I guess I should go get some sleep," he said. "I promised the girls I would."

Excitement and anticipation swirling in his belly, Edmund lifted his shoulder in a shrug, hoping he wasn't being too casual while still hiding his hope. "Might as well sleep here."

He watched the High King grin. "I was referring to here."

Cheeks warm, the Just grinned, knowing there was no point in arguing but doing it nonetheless just because it was what he always did. "Well, only if you want to."

"I want to."

Edmund tossed his head, trying not to grin too widely and failing.

"I'll just go clean up real quick," Peter said, about to turn back to the door and head to his own room.

Edmund grabbed his wrist, staying true to the fact that Peter would not, for the next several hours or days or weeks, leave his sight. "Don't worry about it." He tugged him along, walking backwards to where the bed was.

The elder resisted, a smile on his worn-out face. "I can't get in a bed like this."

Looking down at the travel clothes he wore, covered with dirt and grime, Edmund gave a very slight nod. "Yes, you are filthy."

Peter pursed his lips. "Now where have I heard that before?"

"My guess would be Susan."

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

Did he really think he would get away? Edmund tightened his hold, a bit shy due to his own affections. "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." He released Peter's wrist and flopped into his bed, propping his arm up and smiling eagerly, knowing there was no way Peter would even consider leaving.

His brother rolled his eyes and grinned, then quickly slid his mantle off, followed by his boots. Edmund watched his every move, drinking in the sight of him, and when Peter would smile up at him, it was like a fresh breath of air. Once he was without his golden crown and he had Rhindon propped against the wall, he began sliding into the bed.

"Honestly, Ed, I get that you haven't been sleeping well, but you don't really need me right here to fall asleep, do you?"

Dolt. Edmund turned away from him, afraid his eyes would say too much, then reached over and took hold of Peter's sleeve. Ignoring the heat creeping down his neck, he pulled his brother's arm over his side so that it was wrapped around him. "Is it so strange that I do?" he challenged.

Behind him, Peter chuckled softly and placed his forehead to Edmund's back, his arm pulling Edmund firmly against his chest. "Well, then," he started in a low voice, "if I want you sleeping off that fever, I most definitely will stay. But it's mainly because I missed you."

Edmund snickered, worming himself against Peter. "Thanks for caring. I'll be fine when I wake."

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

The laughter that hit him was sudden and real, the most Edmund had laughed in days, and he grinned over his shoulder at his mother-henning brother. "You're a fine one to talk, as you have an uncanny knack for hovering. Really, Peter, you're worse than a girl!"

He watched Peter blink large china eyes, lips slightly parted. But then he was laughing too, eyes like pools of clear blue water. "Lion's Mane, Ed, you're a wonder." As if to emphasize his feelings, Peter kissed his neck.

Edmund's breath stuttered, his body tensing at the unexpected sentiment, but then he relaxed when he realized it was a good feeling, the heat now blossoming from the place where Peter's lips were. He felt him grin. "If I may be so blunt, little brother, that's a bit much coming from you when you yourself are just as protective."

Edmund closed the eyes he had just rolled, grinning sleepily. "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?"

And Peter obeyed, burying his face in Edmund's hair and breathing out a relieved breath, just as Edmund did. Sleep was coming fast, stealing his consciousness sooner than he wanted it to, but as long as Peter was with him, sleep wouldn't be so bad.

As his senses began to fade away and all he could feel was his brother's warmth, Edmund was sure he felt a loving, sandpapery tongue against his forehead like that of a large, very familiar cat.