Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the world of Narnia; everything belongs to C. S. Lewis.
A/N: I give you my first story of 2012 on the very first day of the new year, and it's back to the world of Narnia (and brotherly fluff between the Pevensie boys)! Well, I hope I've done better on this my second story in the wonderful world C. S. Lewis created, and I'm really glad I decided to stick with this one: it's one of the ideas that cropped into my head and changed so much over time that, in many ways, it is not even the same little story I had originally planned out. Like my previous Narnia fic (and most of the brother stories set in any universe I write in), this one has a ton of tears, hugs, angsty moments, and comfort, so be prepared! It's movieverse and takes place a few months after the four Pevensies are crowned, and, as before, there is no swearing; there will be none in any of my future Narnia stories either.
Thanks everyone!
StarKatt427
"Come now, and let us reason together," says the Lord, "Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall be as wool."
Isaiah 1:18
Recently, Edmund had come to realize that finding self-confidence was sometimes difficult.
Not long before, it hadn't been as hard; actually, it had been quite easy at times. Months ago, he had found it simple to trust in his actions, to believe that he was right and everyone else wrong, to do what would give him the most happiness. That was in England, however, and even in Narnia for a while, but with the several months he had lived in this magical land, becoming one of its Golden Monarchs, Edmund found it increasingly tricky to not doubt himself.
In his private chambers in Cair Paravel, he watched as silver rain fell against the windows in soft pattering sounds, the tracks they left on the glass streaking his face like tears. Everything beyond the window was blurred and indistinguishable, and he paid little attention, thoughts far away from the Narnian drizzle. Hot forehead resting against cold glass, he shut his eyes and breathed deeply, able to tell this was going to be one of those days.
Most of the time, Edmund was able to feel light and free and content, his past sins no longer weighing him down, and he found it easy to smile at Lucy, pull a lock of Susan's hair affectionately, or place a meaningful touch to the back of Peter's hand. Those were the days when he was able to actually laugh, to allow himself to feel peaceful around his siblings and the numerous creatures that inhabited Narnia.
Today, however beautiful in its shower, seemed to reflect his inner turmoil, and he felt muddled in all shades of gray, chest heavy and unable to completely cover the guilt. It never truly went away, but had steadily begun lessen over the last four months since the coronation, and he was gradually beginning to grow more and more attached to his new home. This, in turn, made days like today worse, when the sorrow and shame threatened to consume him.
He had talked this over with Peter the night after they had been crowned, how it was hard for him to understand how openly he had been forgiven by everyone, for him to even begin forgiving himself. And he tried, Aslan, he tried to let some of the ache go, but it never seemed to fully release him.
A dull throb pounding behind his temples, he felt jittery and tired, and his left side ached, the lasting result of his fight with the Witch at Beruna. It was becoming increasingly strenuous for him to keep himself steady, but that could simply be due to the lack of sleep he'd gotten the night prior. He'd felt better at breakfast, even with Susan's concerned eyes and Lucy's comforting touch, even with Peter's intense, worried gaze tearing into his very soul; somehow, he had been able to pass his exhaustion off with a smile, even managing to add a few comments to the light morning conversation: the rain that had begun that night, a soon approaching meeting with Oreius and several of the other generals. More than anything, he had enjoyed listening to his oldest sister and brother's harmless banter; as long as he was listening to someone, his thoughts couldn't take him to darker places.
But now, with no Peter or Susan or Lucy to listen to, Edmund was subject to these murky phantoms, and they slowly began creeping into the silence.
Nightmares had kept him from slumber—one, to be specific, the same one he had every once in a while and always the worst. But any of these frightening dreams always led up to the dragging, somber days that left Edmund spent and on edge, almost sick. Sometimes, he would be forced to relive his fall at Beruna, to remember how badly it had hurt to have jagged ice tear into his skin and break through bone and rip muscle apart, to lie there, lifeblood oozing out, as his vision began to slip to black; other times, he was faced with every evil he had ever committed, the dreams changing antics in their torture. But no matter what, even if his dreams were of London, she always swept into them like the icy wind that trailed in her wake.
He would often find himself trapped in a dungeon of ice, iron shackles around his ankles and rubbing raw rings through his socks, the deadly chill seeping underneath his clothes and into his skin, trying to freeze him. Jadis would be towering above him in all her monstrous glory, black eyes inky and locked on him, a sneer twisting her beautifully wicked mouth; and even in her horror, Edmund would find himself fascinated by this creature, the same chilling beauty that had lured him in in the first place. But he never trusted her, never listened to the sweet words she spoke, tempting him to give away the location of his siblings; unlike in the real world, he would never break, choosing either to spitefully remain silent or assure her—and himself—with as much force as he could muster that it was just a dream, it wasn't real—she wasn't real.
The Witch was dead. Aslan had killed her.
Still, even while he was partly aware that his nightmares were nothing more than nightmares, it did little to dull the pain he felt when he saw the gentle faun named Tumnus shackled in the cell next to his, bloodied and beaten, and had to watch as Jadis stabbed her ice staff through the his bare chest, unable to turn away as Lucy's dear friend turned to stone, forever unmoving and screaming in his agony.
But compared to the dream he'd had the night before, those were nothing. Sometimes, even when he remained silent and refused her demands, she would somehow find his family, and then his brother and sisters would appear in front of him, their faces bruised and gashed, hair matted with blood, pale and wounded, the Witch smiling down at them in amusement. And he would stare in anguish at Lucy as she looked up at him with those heartbreakingly big blue eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks and rubbing them raw. Susan, her long hair a tangled mess, would give a soft cry at the sight of him, tear shiny eyes slipping shut. But Peter was the worst, for Edmund would find silent, unrelenting tears traveling along the contours of his brother's strong face, eyes wild and beyond miserable, as he would reach with shaking hand toward Edmund, lips parting on his name.
And then the White Witch would tire of these interactions and, before Edmund would even see her move, quickly stab her wand into his little sister's side, turning her into a statue. As soon as she had drawn her staff back, she would deftly move to Susan and hit her just between her shoulder blades, and he would be left gazing at the two stone figures that were now his sisters, both of them watching him with sightless eyes, features drawn in suffering.
By the time Peter's turn came, Edmund would always find himself crawling toward his brother, blinded by tears and nearly collapsing from fatigue, shackles screeching over ice. But he would reach him every time, and when his hands would slide shakily to cup his brother's neck, he would be on the verge of sobbing, voice gravelly and words barely distinguishable, half crazed with desperation to at least save one of his siblings. Peter would lift icy cold hands and gently touch his face, pulling him close for just a single moment, lips twitching in an attempt to smile; even then, when all hope was lost, he was still trying to comfort Edmund.
Face slicked by tears, Peter would open his mouth…
And then a sharp, burning cold would rip through his heart, the Witch turning him stone, and a inconsolable Edmund would be trapped in his brother's frozen hold for eternity.
The first time Edmund had had this nightmare, he had been shaken awake to the sounds of his own screaming by Peter, his brother's eyes wide and terrified, and only then had he registered he was being framed in warm, strong arms, sweaty hair being smoothed out of his eyes by skillful fingers. And when he had finally realized that it had been a dream and that Jadis was truly dead and that his sisters were alive and that Peter was alive, he had sobbed and sobbed, arms wrapped around his brother's neck and crying until he couldn't breathe.
Peter had calmed him, shushing the younger softly and whispering reassurance, hands catching in snarled black hair as he'd taken quick moments to bathe his forehead with comforting kisses, and Edmund had eventually fallen back into a dreamless sleep, waking the next morning to find himself wrapped in his brother's hold.
Edmund had never elaborated as to what had frightened him so badly; he was too ashamed, too scared of what his brother would think of him, and so he had simply given him a soft, unspoken thanks in the form of an early morning kiss to his cheek. And Peter never asked, although Edmund often wondered if his brother knew what nightmares plagued him and simply remained silent for his sake. If that were the case, Edmund was both thankful and a little regretful.
Now, with the rain steadily falling and his eyes burning behind closed lids, unsure when they had closed in the first place, Edmund forced his mind away from the memories as best he could. He opened then slowly and sat away from the window, but quickly had to stretch an arm out to steady himself as his head swam momentarily and the room spun for less than a second, his crown tilting to the left in the process. Blinking away the confusion, he slowly made it to his feet, careful not to upset his aching head, and once everything was right side up again, he walked toward the mirror that stood beside the large mahogany wardrobe, movements measured and slightly unsteady. He rested his hand against the smooth wood, trying to regain his balance as he turned his eyes to the looking glass.
Unnaturally large, chocolate eyes stared out from a too pale face, dark circles beneath them and freckles a stark contrast to the pallor of his skin. He could see his cheekbones for the first time since he'd been rescued from the White Witches' camp, sharp and protruding. Clothed in a simple blue tunic over brown tights and russet boots, a silver crown sitting atop raven hair, he felt the opposite of kingly; he looked far too young to be co-ruling over a nation, too weak to reign over the Great Western Wood. He wasn't like his brother, all beautiful gold and intense sunlight: he was ashen ivory and shadowed midnight and everything else that Peter was not.
And he could not see how Aslan had ever named him just.
Just meant fair, ethical. Good. Edmund was not good.
All he could see were his faults and sins, mistakes that couldn't be fixed, arguments lost and bonds broken. So he surely did not deserve that title, wasn't worthy of it; and yet, somehow, he had found his way into Aslan's good graces, and the Lion had given him his title as just. And Edmund wasn't able to understand why, not while he was looking at his reflection.
Because, while Edmund could see what he was not, he could see what he was even more: a traitor.
He wasn't seeing the young king he was, but the thin, jumpy boy he had been while in captivity under the White Witch and after first entering Aslan's camp, hair gnarled with brambles and pale face grimy with dirt and dried blood, bottom lip busted and a shallow laceration close to his left eye, cheek marred by a yellow bruise. Knees skinned, wrists unnaturally thin, he was a monster behind the broken face of a child; even then, even when he had regretted his actions and wanted nothing more than to make sure his family got through this alive, he had been a traitor. The traitor who could never repent of his sins enough, who would never regain his innocence, who wasn't worthy of being called just; who was, no matter what, still a traitor.
His head was pounding now, blood loud in his ears, and he closed his eyes against the truth, trying to force away what he saw. But when he opened them, he was the same, betrayal written clearly in every feature of his face. He felt his stomach churn sickeningly, skin breaking out in a heated sweat, and he blinked rapidly, trying to steady his uneven breaths.
Edmund was not a just king; he shouldn't even be a king. He was the traitor Aslan had died for, the one that had nearly gotten his family and every honest, wholesome creature in Narnia destroyed.
He clamped a hand over his mouth when the first gag came, inner hatred and shame like bile climbing up his throat.
A soft knock, and then he heard the bedchamber door slowly creak open, the sound of firm, booted feet padding over the stone floor. Everything came as if from a great distance, like he sounding like he had cotton in his ears.
"Edmund?" a voice asked quietly.
Even in the half fevered state he was steadily slipping in to, Edmund was acutely aware that it was Peter calling his name. Breath hitching, he lifted his eyes from his reflection and looked to his brother.
Peter was clothed in garb not unlike his own, only red and brown in their colors, golden crown sitting proudly on his blonde head. China blue eyes watched him curiously, their gaze steadily turning concerned.
Something like diluted anger swelled up within Edmund, but it wasn't strong enough to truly be rage and was closer to annoyance at having been caught in a state like this. Swallowing painfully, he lowered his hand. "What?" he asked roughly, voice harsher than he'd intended.
Peter flinched slightly, clearly having grown unused to hearing the severity with which Edmund spoke, but his eyes remained firmly planted on the younger king, anxiously soft. "Are you alright?"
Edmund tried to snort, but it came out as a half choked, slightly hysteric laugh. "Never better," he replied sarcastically, suddenly aware of the way his hands were trying to shake. "What made you think otherwise?"
His older brother's eyes had discernibly hardened somewhat, but there was no anger present; only worry, and it made the orbs that gazed intently at him swim to an almost colorless blue. Peter's lips thinned. "Because I can clearly see you're not."
A weak chortle came out of Edmund's mouth, one that sounded nothing like him and was far too wet. He tried to roll his eyes at his brother but failed, incapable of fighting the slight pleasure he felt at knowing Peter was concerned. "Then why would you ask?" he inquired resignedly.
The High King looked away, twisting his mouth slightly to the left, and Edmund recognized the action of his brother biting the inside of his lip. "You weren't acting right this morning," Peter said softly after a moment, causing Edmund to inhale sharply. The older king turned his eyes back to him. "You're only like that after…" he trailed off, eyes slipping shut for a instant before reopening, gaze earnest and troubled.
"And?" Edmund challenged, trying to fight off the rising panic, his voice pitched far too high and without any actual bite.
Peter shrugged his shoulders helplessly in an attempt to lighten the tension steadily growing between then and gave a guilty little smile. "And I was worried."
Edmund felt his heart skip a painful beat.
Because Peter knew, even after he had tried so hard to act like nothing was troubling him. He was looking at him with those meaningful eyes like only an older brother could, almost as if he were mentally tearing away every one of Edmund's walls and defenses and leaving him bare and damaged. And Edmund realized, slightly pleased but mostly horrified, that even while he didn't know what the nightmares were about, Peter was able to tell they were what haunted him.
Oh God. Oh God, he knows. He knows.
He wasn't even aware that Peter had come closer to him, his brother's hand lifted as it to touch his shoulder. "Ed?"
Gentle voice, low as it spoke his name. Kind, utterly convivial eyes that did not judge or condemn. A hand touching his shoulder, full of strength of comfort, safety in its hold.
He was going to be sick.
Edmund jerked out from under Peter's hand, trying to ignore the hurt that colored the boy's eyes as he did so, and he slapped his hand firmly over his mouth once again as his stomach roiled. But then Peter was watching him anxiously, moving as if to once again touch him, a question evident in his eyes.
And Edmund couldn't take it.
With a half strangled "Sorry," he shoved past Peter and flew out the door, nearly tripping over his feet as he ran down the hall, hand never leaving his mouth as he fought the nausea that tried to consume him, the burn in his side and the aching in his head steadily intensifying, blurriness trying to cloud his vision and topple him over, make him lose his steadiness.
He was scared. The nightmares, the pains and chills that were racking his body as he half stumbled down staircases and past tapestries, the knowledge that he could never live up to Aslan's blessing, the fact that he might not be able to ever forgive himself. But what scared him the most was just how much Peter was able to understand him.
Edmund was still trying to get used to the past relationship he was reforming and the new one he was creating with his brother, and it was hard for him to know someone—Peter—could be so in tune with his thoughts, could understand him so well. It was satisfying and frightening at the same time.
He was hardly aware of pushing one of the great castle doors open wide and running out into the midday rain, barely able to feel the drops seeping into his clothes and soaking his hair and striking against his skin, more concerned with trying not to lose his footing as he staggered over damp grass. The feeling of disorientation intensified and tried to rip him from his body so that while he was conscious enough to know what he was doing, he couldn't understand why his clumsy feet were moving so rapidly. When had he passed Lucy's little herb garden? How long had he been tearing through hedge topiaries? He could dimly hear his feet slap against muddied ground, rain singing in his ears, and could see trees streaked through silver ahead of him.
But he wasn't really there, not anymore.
Hard clicks, claws on ice, followed him unrelentingly and swiftly, hassles sounding behind him, right on his heals. The ground was solid beneath him, ice; the cold radiated up through his exhausted legs, jarring his bones. Breath came painfully, exiting his cracked lips in icy puffs, and his eyes stung and watered from the bitter wind. His chest was cold, oh so cold and heavy, like he was carrying glaciers inside him.
Edmund was in her palace again, surrounded by snow and ice and stone beings, the Wolves just behind him and skirts sliding across the ice, signifying Jadis was following after him.
He was gone, far away from reality and trapped in his nightmares, and even while some part of him was still faintly aware that this wasn't real, he was too deep in this phantasm.
When the tall ice doors finally, blessedly, came into view and he was just several yards from escape, a force slammed into his back and stole his breath, and he toppled onto the frozen floor, arms pinned beneath him. Crystal cold, inhumanly strong arms wrapped around him and held him in an iron grip, and then they were twisting him onto his back and restraining him, his shoulders slammed to the ground.
Edmund could feel her frost slinking into his chest, ice so cold that it burned as it punctured his lungs and tore at his throat. She was trying to freeze him from the inside out, he realized, her hands claws against his shoulders as she held him down.
Jadis.
That was when he started screaming, kicking and thrashing in her grip, trying to break free. He could hear his yells, wild and panicked and hoarse, could feel his hands as they shoved against his captor's chest frantically, desperate to escape, to get to them.
He had to get to them.
Her voice purred in Edmund's ear, sweet with malice, colder than her skin, and he heard a sound split his throat, an unearthly shriek. The whole while, he somehow managed to keep his eyes closed, away from her face.
If he saw her…if he so much as cracked a lid…he would die.
The Witch's voice again, more brutal, louder in her demands, words pounding in his head and ripping him apart.
Where are they? Tell me! Where are they hiding?
Edmund wasn't going to let her get to them.
Fiery determination battled against her frigid maliciousness, and he struggled under her weight, trying to get free, to get to them. He might have failed once, but he wouldn't again.
"Let go! You can't have them!" he screamed, fighting with more strength than he'd ever thought capable of, nearly succeeding in freeing one of his arms. The Witch's hold did not relent though, and she shoved him farther against the ice, bruising his back and nearly stealing whatever air was left in his lungs.
Trembling, Edmund shoved furiously against her, biting back frustrated, terrified tears. She was going to kill him, and his brother and sisters; he couldn't allow that to happen. "You're not going to hurt them! I won't let you take them away! Let go of me!"
"Edmund!"
A hard, frantic shake yanked him forward, and Edmund's eyes shot open against his will, staring wildly into Peter's terrified face, his brother's eyes wide blue, hair plastered to his face and dripping with rainwater, crown askew, his tunic completely wet and breath coming in harsh pants.
Edmund blinked large, fear glazed eyes, suddenly, painfully aware that he was no longer surrounded by ice, heat instead soaking his skin: humid rain, sweat, and the warmth of his brother's hands placed firmly on his upper arms. The weight of the crown he was becoming accustomed to was absent, and he would later discover that it had been knocked off when Peter tackled him. He felt rain plunking gently onto his hair and face through the covering of leaves above, branches hanging from the tree he had been tackled beneath. Winter was gone, replaced instead by late summer, the sky dark and filled with the rumbling sound of thunder crashing.
Fingers trembling, he reached up and hesitantly touched his brother's cheek. "Peter?" he asked quietly, hopefully, voice catching.
In response, a larger, tanner hand came and rested over his, and Peter leaned into his palm, keeping his eyes locked with Edmund's. A half smile lifted the corner of his mouth.
He…he's real, Edmund realized achingly.
There were no Wolves, no Witch. Just Peter.
But the cold was still present in his body, sending him atremble as violent jerks tore through his frame. Head aching as if about to implode, side on fire where Jadis had stabbed him and hot acid rising up his throat, he had just enough time to rip away from Peter's hold before he began to vomit, stomach rejecting what little he had managed to get down that morning.
Body spasming for breath, Edmund was reduced to a heaving mass of half retches and strangled sobs, eye shut tight against the pain that traveled up and down his body. He felt one of his hands instinctively reach around to grab onto his left side, palm planted over the place where he'd been stabbed, scar now the only physical evidence it had ever happened. His stomach twisted in on itself and made him heave bile and gag on air, and he fisted his free hand in the grass, ripping soft blades between his fingers as he feebly curled his body into a fragile ball, trying to fight against the excruciating convulsions.
God, his head hurt. Everything hurt. He was the pain and the pain was him, and he couldn't remember where he began and it ended.
When, at last, there was nothing left for him to throw up and he was dry heaving, Edmund found it impossible to relax, unable to release his muscles, and he remained pulled in on himself, hand scratching over the jagged scar and fingers digging into his shirt. If he didn't get rid of at least some of the fiery burn and icy chill that plagued him, he would die, he knew he would. No one could survive this much pain.
But he had, just barely, when he had been impale by the White Witch's shattered wand. Even when he was bleeding out and slipping into a world far beyond the clutches of humanity, he had survived because of his little sister's healing cordial.
But this time was different; Lucy and her cordial were back at the castle, and no matter what he did, nothing would make this hurt go away.
Over the rain, keening, choked whimpers like that of a small kitten reached his ears, at first faint but steadily growing louder, and he realized, too exhausted and achy to feel embarrassed, that the sounds were coming from him. He felt his back muscles jerk with strain, the arm that supported him trembling as it tried to give out, the air entering his chest damp and hot instead of the cold, sharpness it had been only moments ago.
Then strong arms slipped beneath him and lifted Edmund so that he was being cradled, a hand smoothing over his wet hair and the other gentle on his back. Head now resting against a warm chest, he felt long fingers rake through his bangs and push them off his sweaty forehead, and Edmund, fighting back tears and beyond terrified, beyond hurting, blinked swollen, bloodshot eyes up at Peter.
"P-pete, you…y-your'e…"
The Magnificent pulled Edmund to him closer and held him comfortingly, the hand on the younger boy's back gentle, and he placed his mouth to Edmund's forehead. "Shh, I'm here, Ed. Everything's fine."
Something obstructed his airway, and Edmund swallowed tears, the hand on his stomach tightening. "B-but she…she was after you."
Clarification wasn't needed, as Peter knew good and well who he was referring to, and Edmund felt his brother's hand move to the back of his head. Peter looked down at him, eyes compassionate, darker than an ocean during a storm. "The Witch is dead, brother. She's not going to hurt you anymore. Or me."
Face already damp with sweat and rain, Edmund felt heated wetness creep down his cheeks, and he began to shake in his brother's hold. Words would not come, and he remained still in his brother's hold, eyes wide and refusing to close, too afraid to find out that this could be a dream; what if the nightmares where the true reality?
A deep, rueful chuckle reverberated through his chest from Peter's. "I've got you. You're safe with me."
It was too much; the pain, the fear, the amazingly sympathetic hold he found himself in, Peter's arms reassuring around him. It all overwhelmed Edmund, and he was unsurprised when he found himself sobbing painful, gasping tears into his brother's chest. His temples pulsed with heat, his stomach was on fire, pitching and drained, and he was afraid. And yet, with tears steadily scorching down his face and soaking Peter's shirt, chest heaving for breath, Edmund was relieved.
Peter—his sisters—were alive. He was alive. And Jadis could touch them no longer.
By this time, Edmund was completely curled up in Peter's lap, fighting against the lingering pains as salty wetness fell in unrelenting rivulets from his eyes, and one of his twitching hands reached up and latched onto the older boy's tunic. He could hear the soft reassurances Peter spoke into his hair, feel the strength in the arms holding him up, taste the saltwater and lingering sickness on his tongue.
And he liked this, liked being held and comforted, even though he would never admit it to anyone and especially not Peter.
Shivering even in the heat, body worn and fractured, Edmund was unable to gain control of his tears for a while, finding it even harder when he felt his brother brush a quick kiss to the top of his head. But he eventually went limp in Peter's arms, cuddled against the older king's chest, his wet clothes stuck to his skin. Even when he was still hit randomly by pain, he soon felt himself losing consciousness, fatigued body trying to slip into a dreamless sleep as the rain fell softly. Against his ear, Peter's heartbeat thudded like a soothingly lullaby.
He remembered a moment like this that had taken place just a week after the coronation and not even two after Beruna, with him held against Peter and early daylight glowing in on them as they awoke in Edmund's bed the morning after his nightmare. They had been quiet, unstrained and relaxed, him leaning back against Peter's chest and his brother's arms loosely wound around his stomach.
"Do you want to talk about it? Peter asked.
Edmund hid his face in the sleeve of his brother's nightshirt, inhaling deeply. "Not yet. If that's okay."
Peter chuckled into his hair. "That's perfectly fine. Just come to me when you're ready."
"Peter?" he began thickly as he curled his hand over Peter's elbow, voice a croaky whisper.
His brother's muscles tensed, then relaxed, and he pulled his face away from Edmund's hair to gaze down at him with gentle eyes, hair colored almost brown from the rain that drenched it. "Hmm?"
Edmund, though wanting to turn away, made his eyes remain locked with his brother's. "I think I'm ready to talk now, if you'll hear me out."
Peter lifted a hand and gently stroked his fingers along Edmund's face, wiping away tears while he gave reassurance. "You know I will."
The intensity in his brother's gaze was too much, and Edmund ducked his face, raking a sleeve over his sticky mouth. "You…you've known, haven't you? About the nightmares."
Peter sighed above him. "Not entirely, but I've had a pretty good idea. Especially now."
Edmund flushed, unable to fight the discomfiture at his earlier display of emotion; that was nothing like him, and when he did lose control, he hardly ever let Peter find him in such a state. "Sorry," he murmured.
"Don't be." The High King began brushing his fingers once again through Edmund's hair, rhythm steady and a bit clumsy. "Just…just talk to me. Tell me what's wrong."
How could he even do that?
"The beginning's always a good place to start," Peter prompted, clearly able to sense his lack of surety.
Edmund grunted, more of a repressed sob, and he closed his eyes. And he was immediately flooded with vivid blues and whites, the chill of the Witch's translucent skin, the sharp sting radiating through his cheek after she's slapped him. His grip tightened on Peter's arm as he tried to keep himself grounded in the present, forcing himself to remember that Jadis' icy hold on him had ended, as had the Long Winter.
A hand on his cheek, warm and beginning to grow callused from grasping a sword hilt, brought him back, his brother's soft exhalation fanning through his hair. "Breathe, Ed."
And he did, taking a deep enough breath that the hurt and pain reduced, and he rubbed at the scar on his side. "They aren't always the same," he began hesitantly. "But they…they're usually there, with nothing but ice and stone. Most of the time, they aren't as bad as last night. Really, Peter," he said quickly, looking up at the sudden stiffness in his brother's body, signaling he was clearly ready to differ. "It's just that they were more…vivid."
"And what about earlier?" came the hoarse, tense question. "What was happening then?"
Edmund, still looking up at Peter, found himself unable to speak for a moment. His brother watched him with furrowed brows over pained eyes, the cords in his neck sticking out in his frown, and Edmund felt the hand in his hair give a slight jerk that he could have sworn was a tremor. He blinked, watching Peter's eyes as they swirled in shades of gray and blue that he normally did not see mix, intense as they stared back.
And Edmund, who had never honestly tried to understand at the emotions on his brother's face until recently, saw that Peter was afraid. He had scared him.
It took him a moment to regain his thoughts, this newfound knowledge making him feel a bit culpable. "I'm not really sure. I think I was just hallucinating, but that's never happened before." At least not to that extent, he silently added.
Peter gave a tired half sigh, eyes imploring. "Are…are you…okay?"
Edmund considered this. "No, not really. I don't feel insane anymore, if that's what you mean."
"You are not crazy," the elder argued softly.
Despite everything, he felt a weak smile tug at his lips and chose not to argue. "My head hurts now, and I'm tired. And my—" He stopped, suddenly uncomfortable as his mind caught up with his mouth.
Edmund did not like speaking about the wound with Peter. When it came to himself, it wasn't something that bothered him very much; he would gladly take on another mortal wound for his brother. Peter, however, did not like being reminded of this act and would usually clam up at first mention of it, quickly finding a way to change the subject. His brother, Edmund knew, couldn't bare to think about just how close to death he had actually been, and so he dutifully kept silent about it.
So when Peter looked expectantly at him and waited for him to continue, Edmund wasn't able to finish his admission, too afraid that the sad, guilty look would crop over his brother's face. He shook his head.
But Peter had already put two-and-two together, Edmund realized a second later, when his brother's eyes scanned down to where he had his hand clamped down firmly over the scar. The skin around his eyes tightened, something sharp filling them.
Partly out of self consciousness and partly out of fear that his older brother's composure would snap, Edmund tried to tug his other arm down and cover his abdomen. But Peter was quicker, and Edmund soon found a hand, one that had just been on his back, gently grasping his wrist and tugging entreatingly on his arm. Somewhat timidly, he complied, placing his palm to Peter's chest and gazing up at his brother.
Releasing his wrist, the elder of Narnia's kings cautiously reached down and touched the back of Edmund's small, far too pale hand. The touch was welcome, if still a bit unknown, and Edmund did not cringe, even as Peter carefully (and somewhat forcefully) began to remove the hand Edmund had gripped over the place where the silver scar resided.
Unable to stop himself, Edmund resisted at first, still not used to seeing this side of his brother and trying to resist his own wanting for comfort. He dug his fingers into his tunic and looked up, somewhat defiant in his stare.
Against his will, Peter quickly had him at ease with a reassuring smile and a gentle hand clasping his shoulder, and any boldness he felt melted away. "It's okay, Ed. Really."
Not entirely happy but unwilling to hurt Peter, Edmund allowed his brother to pull his hand away.
When Peter tried to slide his hand under his shirt to place it to bare skin, Edmund had to fight against sudden panic, and he once again attempted to grab his brother's hand and pull him back. Peter had seen the scar only once, and that had been the night of Beruna. While helping him slide out of his armor and into night ware, Peter had looked at the still healing wound, its edges puffy and inflamed, and Edmund had nearly had a heart attack when he'd seen his brother's eyes flood with tears, just as they had only hours before.
After that day, Edmund had refused to let him look at it, too scared that Peter would completely break down the next time he saw it, which brought him back to why he was reaching so desperately for the older boy's hand now, trying to pull it away from the edge of his tunic. He would not let his brother cry for his sake, not again.
Peter was blinking perplexedly at him, clearly trying to figure out what had made him so nervous. But then Edmund watched him look down at their hands, Peter's loosely holding the edge of his shirt and his own latched onto his brother's. The bewilderment lasted only a second though, as Edmund watched understanding dawn in the older boy's features, and Peter looked up at him, eyes a mass of amusement and fondness overshadowed by the slightest of anguish. "I'm fine," he assured.
"You won't be." Edmund's words came worriedly, tone colored with slightly calmed alarm and unconvinced in his argument.
"I won't look," Peter assured.
"Peter, I don't know…"
"Please?"
Sighing, still uncertain and nervous about what was to come, Edmund relented, unable to fight his brother on this. He watched Peter for a moment, then turned to the hand that had just begun loosening the belt that resided over his shirt, and then it began snaking up beneath his tunic.
Heat flooded Edmund's face at the first contact, and he tensed when the tips of his brother's fingers caressed over his belly, regretting ever allowing Peter to do this; he hated being fussed over, disliked being touched like this for the most part, so familiarly and warmly, as he was still getting comfortable with his brother's newfound affection. Unable to mask the heat flooding his cheeks, Edmund promptly buried his face in the soft folds of his brother's shirt.
Peter's hand froze. "I won't hurt you," he said quietly, voice slightly thick.
Edmund couldn't help the embarrassed laugh that worked its way out of his chest. "You worry too much," he commented, halfway grinning in his teasing and completely honest, though there was no true exasperation behind his words. "You just startled me, is all."
He felt his brother's chest rumble with deep laughter, heart still beating a comforting tempo against his ear. "Alright then."
Nimble fingers probed with the utmost tenderness at the shiny, jagged scar, and Edmund's breath caught at the feel of hot fingers padding over sensitive skin. Peter began simple strokes, rubbing soothing circles over the uneven, long healed wound.
The pain that followed was a shock, and Edmund had to bite down on his lip to keep from crying out, hands tightening into fists as he forced the sound back down his throat. Peter turned terrified blue eyes to him at the half strangled sound, and his hand immediately stilled, beginning to draw back from underneath his shirt.
"N-no," Edmund mumbled as he caught Peter's fingers. "Just keep going."
Clearly uncertain, his older brother looked dubiously at him.
"It just hurt a little at first, that's all," Edmund promised, pulling at his brother's hand until it was just above the tender flesh. He looked at Peter and allowed a wall he kept up almost unconsciously to drop for just a second, letting the elder of the two see how sincere he was being and even permitting the hope that was flashing through him to be conveyed.
Peter looked taken aback for just a instant, and then he was smiling crookedly, clearly unable to deny him this comfort. So when the pads of his fingers rubbed against the pain and the next flash of smarting hit Edmund's abdomen, he did better at hiding it, managing to only cringe this time.
Eventually, though, after a few minutes of fingers kneading the scar, tender in their massaging, Edmund realized that the burn was lessening, jolts of pain only hitting him when his brother touched an unnaturally sensitive spot. Soon enough, with the shower around him calming and rain drops plunking against his hair and face and arms ever so often, his body was completely relaxed into Peter's, the pain now just a faint hurt that he could ignore.
"Is this okay?" Peter asked.
"Yeah," he replied drowsily, more of a half slurred mumble. "Thanks." Eyelids trying to stick shut, Edmund found himself once again trying to fight off sleep.
Peter smiled. "You're welcome." However, he did not stop brushing his fingers over the scar.
Edmund looked up confusedly. "You don't have to keep doing that, if you don't want to."
His brother said nothing and instead smiled, clearly expressing he did not want to stop, and Edmund got the idea that Peter liked administering this comfort. So when the large had stilled and a warm palm was resting over his stomach, Edmund was unable to rebuff it, secretly enjoying the touch now that he had become used to it.
"Care to explain now?"
Edmund groaned, knocking his head against Peter's chest. "I had hoped you'd forgotten about that, or maybe you'd just drop it."
"When have I ever done that?" the older boy asked, stating a truth.
He tried not to roll his eyes, even as he started to get that tight, itchy feeling in his ribcage. He was ready to talk about it, but he didn't exactly know how to put everything into words and not end up crying again.
Above him, Peter waited patiently, aware that Edmund was trying to figure his thoughts out.
"I told you that I'm usually there," he began quietly, "but I didn't tell you what all happens. Usually, I'm still stuck in the dungeon, shackled to the wall. Mister Tumnus is there sometimes, and I…I have to watch her…Jadis…turn him to stone and hear him scream. Most of the time, though, I'm alone, and she comes in and…" He was beginning to tremble, cold trying to seep back into his body, even with the warmth Peter provided. He fisted both of his hands in his brother's shirt and hid his face, words too strangled to come.
Even while he spoke gently, a hard, tight edge crept into Peter's voice, filled with hatred and fury. "Tortures you," he concluded.
Edmund gave a weak nod against his brother and pulled himself closer, elbows pressed to his chest as he tried to rid himself of the ball of razor-sharp ice that was taking up residence inside him. "Yeah," he whispered, eyes opening. "Sometimes, she's not even there though. I'm alone, but it's even worse because all I can do is reflect on my mistakes," he said with a deprecating smile. "That's usually when I start feeling insane, when I'm trapped in my thoughts. But when she does appear, she usually just hits me, like how she really did. It's not the pain that really bothers me though; it's the cold. The ice, her…her skin, snow—snow everywhere, statues glaring at me when they shouldn't be able to see and—"
A hand grabbed his shoulder and gripped him firmly, and Edmund nearly choked on the memories, body quivering. He instinctively released his hand from Peter's shirt and began searching for the hand that rested beneath his tunic. Peter deftly moved his hand from Edmund's stomach and grabbed hold reassuringly, wrapping their fingers together. "Deep breath," the older instructed, clutching him tightly.
"I'm o-okay," he stuttered, turning brown eyes up to look at Peter, trying to pull himself back to reality. His brother's eyes were tight with nerves, mouth an anxious line yet still gentle, and Edmund found himself doing just as his brother had said, steadily regaining himself. He inhaled past the mass of cold, managing to unwind slightly. "Well, you get what I mean," he mumbled. "That's usually what gets to me the most. I don't sleep well when I have those dreams, and I usually feel sort of sick the next day, like I do now."
"Sick?"
"I think I'm just tired. My body and mind," he added a moment later, giving his brother's hand a quick squeeze before slowly pulling away. "It's always like that, but they're rarely as bad as last night's."
Peter looked at him trepidatiously. "So what did you see last night?"
Edmund was not thrilled by this idea, not in the least; when the nightmare with his siblings being turned to stone hit him, he often had to fly to the lavatory just in time for his body to expel the contents of his stomach. He'd only had this nightmare three or four times, but it was the one that terrified him beyond anything else and left him on the verge of sobbing over the chamber pot, heaving for breath and gagging.
"You," he admitted softly. "I saw you and Susan and Lucy in front of me in the dungeon, and the Witch behind you."
He heard the hitch in Peter's breath, the falter of his heart, both arms now fully wrapped around him. Edmund sighed, looking out into the rain but not really seeing it. "In the dream, I've given you to her, and she's beaten you three even worse than she has me. You…you're all crying, and she's just smiling down at us. And then she stabs Lucy and t-turns her to stone, and then Susan, and I'm crying and trying to get to y-you, and all I can do is say I'm sorry over and over." Barely aware of himself, he felt his hands begin to wring Peter's shirt. "I f-finally reach you, and I think that may…maybe I can s-save you. But I never can. I never can, because she s-stabs you from b-behind and the wand g…goes right through your h-heart."
It was unbearable; the ice was trying to tear into his lungs and had his entire body shivering hard. His eyes were blurred with tears, and harsh, volatile pants ripped through his chest, choking him. And she…s-she just leaves m-me there with y-you three, and I can't d-do anything but tell y-you I'm sorry."
The wail that broke into Edmund's words was cut off when he was slammed into a solid, shuddering chest, and Peter was holding him fiercely, and he was clinging to Peter fiercely, and everything just felt fierce; the pain, the aching pit of sorrow and fear, the longing, his arms twined fervently around his brother's neck. It wasn't until then that Edmund realized he was crying again, his face buried against his brother's throat and soaking it with salty tears and saliva, and he gagged, barely able to draw breath through the deep, frame jerking sobs. Peter's hands were on his back, then sliding into his hair and back down his sides, their motions shaking comfort. He felt his brother's lips brush his hair, muttering soft, whispered reassurances.
"Edmund, shh, shh. It's alright, I'm right here. I've got you, Ed."
He shuddered violently in Peter's hold and stifled a thick cry in his brother's neck, clutching him with all the strength in his little body. He knew he was safe, knew that Peter and his sisters were truly alive and that it was in Peter's arms that he was being supported…and yet he could not get over the wrenching grief he felt reliving that nightmare, because that had been a possible future at one time and still could be; they could die and he could be left alone, and it could be his own doing.
Peter gave a congested sigh, and his voice was filled with unshed tears. "Oh, Edmund. None of that's real."
Somehow, even through tears, Edmund stammered, "It still feels r-real."
Edmund felt his brother plant his face in his hair. "But I'm alive," Peter whispered ardently, desperate. "So are the girls."
He choked on a whimper. "You could d-die though, and it…it w-would be my f-fa—"
"No, Ed, no. Never," Peter said as his shook his head, voice trembling. "I don't plan on…dying…anytime soon. And even when I do, it will not be your fault." A meaningful kiss was placed to the crown of Edmund's head, and he was unable to swallow the sob working its way up his throat at the gentle action. "I swear, it won't be."
Edmund sucked in a hiccup, words choppy and strangled from crying. "But…if you and the g-girls…if you die…then—then I'll…I'll b-be—" He coughed, tightening his hold.
Peter's hand was stroking his hair, the other placed to the small of his back. "Alone? Oh, Edmund, that's not true," he crooned, brushing his fingers over the side of the younger boy's face. "You're never alone, even…even if I'm not there. Aslan's with you, no matter what; you just can't always see him. He's all you'll ever really need."
Edmund had often wondered about that, whether the True King, the one being he thought most highest of and respected more than anything or anyone, truly did reside in his heart. And then he would look at his smiling family and the world that had become his home, and he would feel the Lion's summer fire warmth deep in his heart, and he would be at peace. Aslan was with him, and that was an amazing relief.
But it did not dissuade his fears completely, and he sniffed into his brother's shirt. "That doesn't mean I don't want you with me," he admitted shyly, hiccupping on air.
A soft exhalation, gentle and wet and loving, if a bit shaken by the younger's words. "Edmund, I'll not leave you."
"I know. I sor—"
"Hush," Peter lightly reprimanded. "There's no reason for you to apologize."
"B-but—"
"Edmund, just relax and stop trying to hold it all in. Just relax," he repeated.
So they sat that way for several minutes: Edmund venting out the rest of his pain and fears, tears slowly quieting into small hiccups and sniffles, his arms lessening in their hold only slightly; and Peter rocking them back and forth soothingly, the smell of Edmund's hair and rain in his nose, eyes shut against the burning wetness that had been trying to spill for some time now.
When the flow of tears finally halted, reddened, heavy eyes and drying tracks down his face the only indication of there ever being any, Edmund had his forehead pressed to Peter's jaw, breaths beginning to settle as hands rubbed over his back. Quietly, he whispered, "Thanks for listening."
He felt rather than heard his brother's laugh, and a feather light touch that Edmund knew was his brother's lips was bestowed to his hair. "Anytime."
With his body beyond tired and wonderful sleep calling him to him, it was hard for Edmund to open his eyes moments later and even more so for him to feel mortified at actually sitting in his brother's lap. Still, though, even while he felt deliciously warm and safe, he began pull his face from hiding and twisted in his brother's arms so that he could look directly at Peter.
The older of the two put up little resistance, only doing so at the first movements, and when Edmund managed to give him a tired, wet smile, Peter relaxed his arms enough so that Edmund was kneeling between his legs with one hand pressed to Peter's shoulder and the other resting limply in the younger boy's lap.
As he wiped an arm tiredly over his eyes, Edmund frowned. "I hate crying."
Peter gave a faint smile. "I know you do, but you shouldn't."
"Why?"
"It means you've got a soft heart."
Edmund blinked at the idea, surprised to find it was actually pleasant, not repulsive like it would have been just months ago; he, whose heart had been embittered and diminutive and callous for what seemed like forever, actually had a kinder nature that he was gradually being reacquainted with after so many years of severance. Slowly, he felt his smile grow a little wider at Peter's statement.
Moments later, when both were quiet and content, Edmund found himself considering Peter's earlier words about Aslan and how he was always with him. Chest still tight and insecurity about his title crawling back, he looked up at his brother and, finding his throat too full to speak just yet, tugged on the older boy's sleeve.
Peter watched him softly. "What is it?"
Clearing his throat, Edmund glanced from his lap to Peter. "Can…can I ask you something?" he inquired, lingering tears clogging his voice.
"Of course."
He glared at the hand resting on his brother's chest, fingers flexing. "Aslan…he named me Just. Even after everything I've done to Narnia, to you and the girls…to him…he gave me this name. And I…" he looked up at his brother, confused and forlorn. "I can't understand why he did. I don't get it."
Peter placed one of his hands over the one Edmund had resting on his heart, and he gripped it assuredly, strength apparent in the tendons and muscles traveling throughout the limb. He smiled fondly down at Edmund. "Of course you don't. You have always been a bit oblivious when it comes to yourself."
Edmund glared tiredly up at his brother. "Not funny."
"And completely true."
"Then it's the same for you, if not worse."
"Edmund?"
"What?"
"Quit arguing."
Edmund obeyed with a frown and a halfhearted humph, once again waiting intently.
Peter sighed. "Obviously, it's the truth. If it wasn't, I doubt Aslan would have given you that title."
"Yeah, but—"
Fingers placed to his lips cut him off, and he looked into blue eyes, noticing one of his brother's eyebrows was cocked in amusement. "Aslan sees it. So do Susan and Lucy." Peter's smile softened. "And so do I. Edmund, you are just," he stated with conviction.
"How?" Edmund asked somewhat pitifully, twisting his hand to latch onto Peter's and clutching it tightly. "How can Aslan ever see me of all people as just? I'm…not good." His betrayal heavy on his mind, Edmund looked down, ashamed.
He jerked upward, though, when the hand on his tightened, and he saw that Peter's eyes had become unexpectedly firm. "Don't ever say that again."
"Peter…"
"Ever," the elder repeated tightly. "You are good. Why do you always do this to yourself? You always think you aren't important, but you don't see what we see. If you weren't needed, there would only be three thrones, not four."
Edmund tried not to blush and failed horribly at the impact his brother's words had on him, and he grimaced. "I…I'm finally starting to understand that. I am. But that doesn't change anything, and you know it."
"Look, I know you're thinking about what happened with the Witch," Peter argued, slight frustration slinking into his voice, "but that's in the past. That's not you anymore. You've yet to realize it, but when it comes to us four, you're the fairest."
Unable to resist a sarcastic retort, Edmund scowled, even though his eyes weren't in it, and effortlessly destroyed whatever solemn atmosphere had settled on them by asking, "Are you purposely trying to compare me to Snow White?"
Peter, for the first time since Edmund had seen him that morning, gave a real, wholehearted laugh, rich and growing steadily deeper as his voice matured. "Maybe," he said after a moment, smiling, anger vanishing from his eyes as quickly as it had come.
Edmund furrowed his eyebrows. "Nice. Seriously, though—"
"I am serious."
That caught his attention. Edmund looked at Peter, surprised at the sudden change in his brother's countenance. His eyes were still soft with laughter, but also sincere, and the way his mouth was caught between a slight smile and no smile at all assured him that the older boy was, in fact, being honest.
"That's why he gave you that name, because of your ability to listen to both sides of a story without judging and not just listen to one. Because you have a good heart, even if it took you a little while to find it. Because Aslan forgave you, even before you sinned, and so did I."
"Not before it happened," Edmund corrected quietly.
Peter's eyes lost their edge, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a quick, sad smile. "No, not then. But when we were trying to get to Aslan, you have no idea how much I missed you. It was…lonely, even with the Beavers, and it didn't feel right with just Susan and Lu and me. There are four of us, Edmund, and nothing could ever take your place. We need you. I need you."
Edmund felt his face go hot. "P-peter."
"By the time we'd gotten to Aslan's camp, I'd long forgiven you," Peter continued lovingly, releasing Edmund's hand so that he could place it to his still damp cheek. "I was more mad at myself for ever having made you feel the need to run off. And when you came back…when I saw you were alive and actually with us again…any anger I'd ever felt vanished."
Edmund blinked furiously, praying he didn't start crying again as something like sheer joy lifted his chest. "You…you really…?"
Peter brushed a thumb over one of his dark brows and around his eye, grinning in earnest. "I promise."
"But it wasn't your fault. I went to Jadis on my own," he disagreed.
"Maybe you wouldn't have it I hadn't been so hard on you," Peter said simply, eyes unnaturally bleak and tone guilt filled.
Edmund pursed his lips. "You were just trying to be a good brother."
"Still—"
"Peter?"
"Yeah?"
Edmund smirked affectionately. "Quit arguing."
Peter blinked, sighed, and then complied, smiling wryly and eyes still a little sad.
When Peter said nothing, Edmund felt the conversation slip back into place. He stopped smiling and turned his eyes downward. "Honestly, Peter. Tell me how someone like me can be just. I'm stained by sin."
"Was, brother, was," Peter clarified, and Edmund felt fingers catch under his chin and tilt his face up so that he was almost nose-to-nose with his brother.
"Huh?"
"You regretted what you did, didn't you?"
Edmund sucked his lower lip in. "You know I did. Still do."
"And just how did Aslan show he forgave you?"
Oh. Unable to look away from his brother, Edmund thought back to what Lucy had told him about Aslan's death, how he had died in his place on the Stone Table, stabbed with a jeweled dagger by Jadis, the life stolen from his body. But, as he had later been informed, since Aslan had done no evil and had willingly died for him, he was brought back with a beating lion heart, which resulted in the victory at Beruna and the death of the White Witch.
And everything fell into place: Aslan had died for him, so, surely, that meant he loved and forgave him.
Apparently, the understanding was clear on Edmund's face, as his brother gently brushed his nose over his. "You're white as snow, Ed. And even if you don't completely understand your name yet, you will one day."
Edmund smiled into Peter's eyes, a real smile, and his brother smiled back. He knew that he would always be ashamed of his sins, and he wasn't sure how long it would take before he even began to truly start forgiving himself, but with the knowledge that Aslan trusted him enough to give him such a meaningful name and loved him enough to forgive him…that would help Edmund along the way.
As they lapsed into a easy silence, the rain now much lighter in it's pour around them, Edmund realized he felt better, even with all the crying and the worry. He'd finally talked to Peter about his title and had gotten the nightmares off of his chest for the most part, and even while they still made him want to do nothing but curl up and hide, it felt relieving to have Peter know about them. But there was a thin ribbon of guilt that ran alongside this release, and Edmund looked up at his brother. "I didn't tell you everything."
Instead of looking exasperated with him, Peter sat calmly, one of his hands lifting to finger a dark lock of Edmund's hair. Eyes gentle gray-blue, he attempted to smile. Go ahead.
Edmund was quiet for a moment, unsure of how he could say this lightly enough so that Peter wouldn't bee too affected; it troubled him enough as it was, but it would be even worse on his brother. He sighed. "I've dreamed of Beruna before."
Just as Edmund had predicted, Peter went rigid, his brother's hand caught in his hair, lips drawn into a taut line and pale eyes large. Edmund watched as something glassed them over, and Peter was no longer with him, instead pulled back to that day, far away onto the battlefield, the tension in his limbs obvious.
"Peter, please just listen to me before you do anything rash," he said quickly, his hand resting over the older boy's heart, and he gently dug his fingers into the material of his shirt. Waiting until Peter was watching him with focused eyes and listening again, Edmund took a steadying breath and blinked stinging eyes. "I see her coming for you," he said quietly, able to clearly remember the absolute terror he'd felt at that moment as he had watched Jadis steadily approach his brother, aiming to kill him. "And I…I don't think. I just know I can't let you get hurt because I…I just can't, so I run at her." He closed his eyes, images and noises vibrant and clear in his mind: the pounding of his feet over earth as he ran, the sound and feel of air entering his lungs and exiting in harsh gasps, attention focused solely on the Witch, stopping her, destroying her if he could.
"Edmund?" Peter asked tightly, pulling him back, and he opened his eyes, looking out into the rain.
"And then everything's the same: me breaking the wand, ge…getting stabbed, lying there, trying to figure out if you're alright, if...if I'm going to die. But then I wake up—in the dream, I mean—and you're looking down at me."
In the dream, the pain that would hit his stomach was like that of today but ten times as worse, unquenchable as it enveloped his heart and lungs and everything else in an icy cocoon; and yet everything was burning, the scalding heat relentless. As the broken shaft was pulled from his muscles in a sickening rip, he would collapse onto the grass, unable to move, slipping in and out on consciousness and faintly aware of the sound of steel clashing and his brother screaming his name, the following silence so lethal that he would wonder if Peter was dead.
But then he would taste something sweet and warm on his tongue and running down his throat, and the pain would quickly lessen, his lungs reopening, and he would cough for breath, eyes fluttering wide to see Lucy, then Susan, and then Peter—his good-natured, overprotective, annoying, magnificent, alive big brother, with tear bright eyes and the most beautiful smile on his perfect face.
Peter's not king yet, he'd told Mister Beaver just before charging the Witch, determined to do anything necessary to keep her from laying a single finger on Peter. He had to admit that even now, the threat of his brother being High King did little to deter him; he'd risk his life and willingly give it a thousand times if it meant Peter would survive.
More of a memory, Edmund did not consider this one a nightmare; it had far too good an ending.
Eyes closed, a smile had slipped into his features, and he inhaled deeply, eyelids lifting as he looked up at his brother.
And, once again, Edmund was subject to a quick jerk in his chest—his heart—as he realized Peter's eyes were clouded over with something besides guilt.
"Peter!" he stammered shrilly, immediately pushing himself up enough to press both of his hands flush to the older boy's chest, shaking him. "Aw, please, don't be sad. I didn't mean to make you cry, I'm sorry," he apologized, hand sliding up to hesitantly stroke along Peter's jaw.
A sputtering laugh, choked by oncoming wetness, and then hands were firmly cradling his neck, and Peter was smiling at him as he bravely blinked down the tears. He stroked his thumbs shakily over Edmund's lips, and the younger boy caught his breath, eyes wide. "You little idiot," Peter said through laughter, and then Edmund was pulled securely to his chest in a rib cracking hug.
Edmund smiled shakily, sliding his hand to the base of Peter's skull to stroke through the blonde hair. "Love you, too," he said softly.
And he did. God, did he love Peter.
It came as a mild shock to Edmund when he realized that this was the first time he could ever remember telling Peter he loved him; he didn't like being affectionate and rarely was, so it wasn't too big of a surprise. The fact that amazed him was just how deeply the words he had uttered rang true, and while it was still a bit strange to realize he could actually love someone—Peter—so immensely, it did not terrify him as it once had. It took but a second for him to accept this, and he did it with joy. There weren't many things Edmund was sure of, but he was completely confident in the knowledge that he would readily die for Peter, so great was the love he felt for his brother.
Peter held him like this for many minutes, but Edmund didn't mind, as he found himself hanging on to his brother with just as much strength. The pain in his side was barely noticeable now, his headache only a dull ache. He could feel Peter's heart beating in time with his, feel his warmth, their damp clothes sticking together, and he was comfortable and happy, heart not quite as heavy.
Eventually, though, sleep started to get the better of him, and Edmund found it increasingly hard to stay awake. Arms around Peter's neck, he pulled himself closer to his brother.
Peter chuckled, clearly aware of the younger boy's losing battle. "You're exhausted, aren't you?"
"Only a bit," came Edmund's dry, groggy retort.
"Sleep then."
"I need to get back and change out of these clothes," he mumbled.
"True. You'll catch a cold if you fall asleep in those wet things."
"So will you."
"I know."
Edmund, though his coherence steadily declining, detected drowsiness in his brother's own voice. "You're sleepy, too."
"Yes," he said, and Edmund could feel Peter smile softly.
"You should sleep when we get home."
"I will."
Edmund managed to pull his face back, though it was difficult, and he looked blearily up at his High King. "I get the feeling that as soon as we get back and are in warm clothes, I'm going to find you in my bed."
"Or you could be in mine. It doesn't really matter to me."
Edmund grinned somnolently. "You're hopeless. But so am I."
Peter breathed out a laugh, and then Edmund felt the muscles in the boy's shoulder contract as he pulled one of his arms away, reaching for something. He didn't have time to look and see what his brother was doing (and was too tired to even try), but when the familiar heaviness of a crown once again settled on his head, he flashed a quick, appreciative smile at his brother. The elder returned the sentiment, fingers lingering on the younger king's crown, and then his arms slid down Edmund's back to wind loosely around his waist. "You ready to go?" Peter asked a few seconds later.
He sank even further against his brother, refusing to remove his arms from where they remained draped around the older king's neck. "But I'm comfortable," he whined.
Peter's lips curved into a smile. "Do you want me to carry you?"
Too tired to laugh, Edmund settled for a sleepy smirk. "You can barely pick me up."
A daring gleam flashed in Peter's eyes, and his grin turned lopsided. "Wanna bet?"
He instantly sobered. "Peter, don't even think ab—"
Too late. The older of the two moved with unnatural swiftness and, with just a small bit of difficulty, made it to his feet with Edmund cradled audaciously in his arms. Clearly pleased, he smiled down innocently at Edmund's bright red, flabbergasted face. "You were saying?"
Unable to mutter anything coherent and too mortified to even try to object, Edmund hastily hid his blushing face in his brother's chest.
"I thought not."
Peter began to walk from underneath the tree, only the fewest of raindrops gently kissing their faces as the older boy sauntered back toward the castle.
"So what?" Edmund mumbled a moment later after regaining the ability to speak snarkily. "You're just going to coddle me all my life?"
"Always," came Peter's definite response.
Edmund blinked, looked up at his brother, and felt something try to pull his lips into a smile, even as he fought against it; it won, however, and he couldn't deny the tired, delighted grin that lit his face. "Even when we're in our twenties?"
"Even then," he assured.
The Just King smiled sleepily, and his eyes slipped shut, slowly rocked by his king's steady steps and looking forward to the sweet sleep he knew was soon to come, wrapped in his brother's arms, warm and safe. "I think I can live with that."