Disclaimer: Narnia and all affiliated characters are the property of CS Lewis. No disrespect is intended by their use.
Author's Notes: A story that sprang from the eternal question "What if..."; because things could have so easily turned out much differently...

Light Enough

A chill wind whipped around the camp in the foothills of the Western Wild. Bundled tightly against the fierce night, Peter leaned against a rocky outcropping, his face set to the east. Chapped hands, made hard by the long cold and many hours of battle, were wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword. His breath misted, crystallizing as it rose to the achingly clear sky above. He hadn't seen so clear a night since before the massacre at Beruna. It almost seemed to be an omen, but he shivered at the thought and pushed it from his mind. No need to go down that path; not yet.

A frozen branch snapped in the woods and he jumped, his heart racing. Chiding himself for a fool, he settled back into position. They were safe here, or as safe as they could be in Narnia these days. There was no need to go jumping at every little sound; not yet.

A rustle from behind made him stiffen and raise his sword once more, but at the sound of a familiar voice he relaxed, letting relief wash over him.

"I'll take watch; you should get some rest," Edmund rasped out as he dropped into a crouch at his brother's side. Handing him a flask of what Peter hoped was mulled wine, he added, almost as an afterthought, "It's going to be a long night."

"They're getting longer," Peter said, accepting the flask but ignoring his brother's suggestion. Edmund's presence was a bittersweet consolation; he had fled the Witch of his own volition, but it had nearly cost him his life and it had certainly cost him his trust. Edmund was a maverick, cold and quiet and incomprehensible, but what was left of their army was fiercely loyal to him and he fought the Winter more desperately than any other. He knew better than anyone else what would happen if- when, a cold voice in Peter's head whispered- they fell.

"Yes." There was a heavy sigh. "She's on the move."

Peter turned sharply to meet Edmund's bleak stare. "The scouts have returned already? She's left the east?"

Edmund laughed bitterly, his expression altogether too old and world-weary for a boy of only twelve years. But then, Peter reflected, it wasn't as though he looked his age either. Two years of fighting the darkness, of watching friends and companions die on every side, was enough to make anyone old before their time.

"No, Peter, the scouts haven't returned. But I can feel it, right here," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he laid his hand on his heart. "It's been too quiet; she's not that subtle, you know." He sounded darkly amused, and Peter knew he was remembering things past. When he finally spoke again, his voice was flat. "Things are about to get much worse."

"There's worse than this?" Peter asked, turning his gaze back to the east. It was difficult to imagine there being a 'worse'. The fortress in the Shuddering Wood had fallen months ago, and Oreius along with it. That had been their last true stronghold; what was left of Narnia's free peoples cowered in the Western Wild or attempted to flee. The Winter grew stronger and the darkness deeper, and all the while their own strength waned.

"There's always worse than this," Edmund answered, dropping his own eyes to the trampled snow. After a lengthy pause he whispered, "The Beavers are dead."

The news hit Peter like a physical blow. He'd thought the Beavers, at least, would get out. They'd been so careful, so cautious. They'd been lucky, too, fleeing Lantern Waste only days before it had fallen. And Susan had been with them… "When?"

"Less than a sennight ago, or so Gweythir thinks. They'd made it all the way to the Archen River, Peter. They were going to get out."

He hated to ask, but he had to know. "And Susan…"

Silence.

"Oh, Aslan, Aslan, no. No, no." She couldn't be gone, not like that. Susan had been so strong, stronger even than Edmund, and her strength was a part of what had kept so many fighting for so long. She hadn't wanted to leave, but Peter and Edmund together had overridden her, convinced that she would be safe in the south. Safe with Lucy.

"Peter…"

"But Lucy remains?"

"We've had no word to the contrary. Lune's retreated past the Winding Arrow and pulled his border guard, so she should still be safe with him. The Wolves have descended into Archenland." Edmund stopped, his hands clenched so tightly that the knuckles matched the color of the starlit snow.

"So what remains?"

"The Northern Marsh is still free, or it was a week ago. And us; we're still here."

Now it was Peter who laughed, a bitter sound that was quickly lost in the wind. "And what are we? We cling to nothing; we have no hope. Soon we will fall and Jadis' Winter will cover Narnia and we will be able to do nothing." Peter gave another, strangled laugh and rose, his battered sword held in one shaking hand. "Why, Edmund? We cannot beat this Winter, this darkness. Why bother?"

Edmund leapt to his feet, breathing hard, and Peter realized then that he had crossed the only line that the two of them had drawn between one another. They faced each other in the dark, Peter staving off despair and Edmund fighting his rising rage.

Edmund stared at Peter one moment longer and then snarled, "Because there are some things worse than failure, and I have seen them!" His voice rose to a fever pitch; Peter saw the wildness in his eyes and flinched from the memories there. No one really knew what Edmund had undergone at the hands of the Witch; even Lucy had been unwilling to pry that information from him. Whatever had happened, it still haunted Edmund, driving him to rage against Jadis' darkness. "I know that we will fail; I have always known that. We are too few, and every day we grow fewer. But this is still better than the alternative."

"And what is the alternative?"

"Giving in. Surrendering." Edmund shivered and fell silent, his own eyes turned to the stars. Peter could see a look of desperation flit across his face only to be replaced by the pacific calm that Oreius, until his death, had so often displayed. Seeing it on Edmund's face was something new. When he spoke again his voice was almost peaceful.

"We live in the darkness, Peter; that is our lot. But this darkness is light enough for me. I will fight while I live, and when I die it will be with the hope that somewhere, someone remembers that there was once light. If only one remembers, we have not failed. In twenty years, a hundred, a thousand, they will remember that the world was not always a frozen darkness and they will rebel. That, Peter, is why."

Peter, for the past two years, had clung to the hope of miraculous victory, slender though it was. It was a fool's hope, a madman's dream, but he had clung to it nonetheless. Tonight, though, in the face of Edmund's certain words and the growing dark, that hope snapped. Yet something within him wouldn't give in without a fight, without absolute proof of defeat. "You have no hope for yourself, then?"

"I have none to spare."

Peter shook his head. "You say this darkness is light enough…"

"We've survived for two years; Lucy is still free and we've bought Lune time. If we can do that in such darkness, I say that it is enough."

Edmund seemed so sure. Peter was not. He could not coldly resign himself and what remained of his family to darkness; it was not in him. "Are you not afraid?"

"Afraid of death? No, I…" Edmund paused and wrapped his arms around himself. "I have made my peace with it, such as it is. This was never going to end any other way."

Silence fell over the two, as Edmund watched the stars and Peter watched him. There was so much strength in his little brother, as he had good cause to learn over the past two years. Strength there was, and wisdom, too. You would have made a good king, he thought sadly. As it was, though…

"Will you stand by me, when the end comes?"

Edmund looked surprised. "You have to ask?"

Edmund's indignation brought a small smile to Peter's lips, the first in nearly a year. "You know how dense I can be, on-"

"Hush!"

Edmund raised a hand to silence him and peered to the east. At first, Peter could hear and see nothing, but as he listened a continuous, high cry pierced the night.

"That is Gweythir's warning," Edmund whispered, drawing his sword smoothly. The look of calm was slowly being replaced by one of fey anticipation. "They are coming."

Peter stepped forward to stand at his brother's shoulder. He was surprised to find that Edmund was as tall as he, or very nearly so. In a year or so, he would have been the taller of the two. Placing his cold hand momentarily on his brother's arm he said, "I have not regretted these years, Edmund."

He received a grin in reply. "I'll see you on the other side, brother."

And out of the frigid darkness, the Wolves came.