Authors Note: Hi everybody! It's been a long, long time since I've written fanfiction, so please forgive me if I'm a little (very) rusty. This hasn't been betaed, but if anyone's interested, please let me know. I'm desperate, folks.

Disclaimer: Your kidding, right?

Chapter 1:

Amidst the Battle

It had all started, Edmund mused later, as these sorts of things usually did; Peter had once again taken nobility and honor to a whole new level of stupidity.

It was almost six months exactly after the Pevensie's coronation. The young kings and queens had been thrown immediately into court life, helping to revive Narnia's economy and booster her people's moral after a hundred years of tyranny. While Lucy and Susan worked from within Cair Paravel to restore the ancient castle and set up some form of rules and regulations for a government, Edmund and Peter, along with General Oreius and a band of his most trusted soldiers, had been combing the regions on the outermost edges of Narnia for the last remnants of the White Witch's army.

In the end, though, the Fell Beasts found them instead.

The first warning of trouble had been a rather loud crash of underbrush seconds before a monstrous boar launched out of its hiding place. A satyr's arrow quickly dispatched it, but by that time a dark cloud of beasts was already descending from the brush.

The Narnian soldiers had moved to meet the opposing force with almost frightening precision, gracefully eliminating the Witch's forces without so much a word from Oreius or the kings. The great general himself plunged down the middle of his soldiers, determined to meet the foe head on. Meanwhile, the two kings fought back to back, protecting one another.

Gradually, the battle spread out as the Narnians made slow but steady progress. Edmund, parrying a blow from the heavy axe of a Black Dwarf, momentarily stumbled when he stepped backwards into empty space. He brought his sword up, separating the head of the axe from the handle, leaving his enemy defenseless. After taking care of the dwarf, he whirled about, taking in the blank spot behind him. Peter. Edmund's eyes roamed the battlefield, desperately searching for a flash of golden hair or a glimpse of a red and gold tunic.

A knot of fear blossomed in Edmund's stomach as he spotted his brother several feet away, viciously battling with a minotaur. Though he and Peter both were rapidly progressing in their swordsmanship, the hideous monster, easily twice Peter's size with an extra sword to boot, was slowly winning. Peter barely dodged a swipe of one of the large broadswords, and Edmund, snapping out of his momentary trance, rushed off to help his brother. Before Edmund could get there, however, a cloaked figure staggered out into his path.

It spun around, and its horrible face, lined with what could only be described as scales and a horrible, beak-like protrusion, told Edmund it was a hag. He absentmindedly swiped at the creature, his focus again shifting toward Peter, but to his surprise, his sword merely bounced off the air surrounding the hunched-over figure. He vaguely recalled Mateel, a highly ranked faun in the army, explaining the various creatures under the Witch's aid, and what to expect from each one. Hags you need to watch out for, King Edmund. They won't come at you with a weapon, and they're easy enough to kill if they're defenseless. But I've never seen a hag that wasn't good with magic – especially in the Witch's army – and that's when they're dangerous. They'll put up barriers around themselves, and twirl their fingers and mutter, killing you as pretty as you please, with you hacking at empty space the whole time.

The hag was grinning at him, mumbling something under her breath. Oh, dear, Edmund thought, slowly backing away. He knew he couldn't kill the hag presently, but Mateel had failed to tell Edmund exactly what he could do if he ever faced one. It would be the first thing he asked when he returned to the Cair.

If he returned to the Cair.

The hag was cackling between her words, obviously intent on showing Edmund her glee. At least someone's happy. Edmund continued to slowly walk backwards, unsure if her spell would be effective from far away. The hag's low, cracking voice reached him, and Edmund caught a bit of the incantation.

"– let the flesh shrivel from their shrinking bones,

let them be choked by the livery of their lord,

let the pendulum of time stab them through the heart,

let the sands of time ravage their mind– "

Great, Edmund mused. Sounds like a nice, slow, painful death.

The hag's cackling had become so loud that it took Edmund a minute to realize that she had stopped chanting. But that was undeniably what had happened when she raised her gnarled, twisted finger at him as if it was death itself.

Then she let her finger fall.

There was a great burst of grey light from her hand, and the light proceeded directly towards Edmund as if pulled by some unseen force. It showed no sign of stopping, yet Edmund didn't feel the need to step away, even if there had been anywhere to run. He had made his peace with death at Beruna. He regretted having to leave his siblings, but if that was what Aslan wanted, so be it.

The shimmering grey spell sped at him, and Edmund prayed.

Dear Aslan, please be with Peter and Lucy and Susan, I know they'll be –

His thought was cut off by the press of a warm body beside him, and then Edmund was flying through the air. He hit the ground hard, but his vision, flickering though it was, immediately recognized the mop of yellow hair he had been searching for earlier. The peace he had felt moments before regarding his own death fled, leaving cold fear in its wake.

Oh Aslan, no. . .

He rolled Peter over, briefly noting the singed spot on his brother's right shoulder. Peter blinked groggily, but as his gaze focused on Edmund, he glared at his younger brother.

"Edmund, you dolt! What were you thinking? You would have been killed, you bloody –"

Edmund, assured that his brother was alive for the moment, gently sat him up, ignoring his brother's unusually irate tirade. "Peter, not now. . . . We've got bigger problems. Do you know how to kill the hag?"

"What? Oh. Um. . ."

"Come on, Peter, now's not the time to forget!" The hag, noticing that her spell had not hit her intended target, was moving towards them, once again muttering quietly. Edmund inconspicuously shifted in front of his brother, who was too busy thinking to notice.

"Hags, right. Well. . ."

"Pete, think!" Edmund alternated between watching his brother's eyes, which were still a bit unfocused, and the hag, which was drawing closer. Peter continued to dig through his memories while the hag mumbled. She lifted her finger again, aiming at Edmund, but before it could fall, the hag let out a horrible scream before sliding to the ground. Lom, a dark-haired satyr, plunged his bloody sword into the heart of the writhing hag. "That," he gestured at the bottom of the hags cape, from which blood was steadily pouring, "is how you kill a hag, my lieges. Their shields can't quite reach their feet, so that's where you aim."

Edmund looked up at him, and noticed that only a handful of the Witch's creatures remained. The battle would surely be over shortly. "Thank you, Lom. I only wish I had known that before she attacked."

Lom gave him a rueful smile and offered his hand. "Well you know for next time, my liege. Are you hurt?"

Edmund took the satyr's grip, pulling himself up. "I'm fine, but Peter. . ."

His older brother gave him a patronizing look. "Is fine, but is probably going to commit fratricide as soon as he gets up."

Edmund smiled cheekily at his brother. "After you saved me? Come on now, Peter."

Peter, attempting to push himself up, merely growled in response.

Edmund lifted an eyebrow at Lom. "Well, Sir Lom, I suppose we just have to make sure he doesn't get up, now don't we?" Even as he said this, he already had a tight grasp around Peter's wrist, pulling him off the ground.

Lom caught a glimpse of the scorch marks on Peter's mail. "Did the hag's spell hit you, my Lord?"

Peter glanced down at it, then shrugged. "It doesn't hurt. It hit my armor so I don't think it did anythi–"

Of course, because irony was a favorite patron of the Pevensies, Peter chose that moment to sway, passing out as his brother moved to catch him.