Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. But I've asked if I can have them over to play sometimes, and he never seems to mind. At least he never says anything to me about it.

THE VISION

"Children! Children! Friends of Narnia! Quick. Come to me. Across the worlds I call you; I Tirian, King of Narnia, Lord of Cair Paravel, and Emperor of the Lone Islands!"

And immediately he was plunged into a dream (if it was a dream) more vivid than any he had had in his life.

He seemed to be standing in a lighted room where seven people sat round a table. It looked as if they had just finished their meal. Two of those people were very old, an old man with a white beard and an old woman with wise, merry, twinkling eyes. He who sat at the right hand of the old man was hardly full grown, certainly younger than Tirian himself, but his face had already the look of a king and a warrior. And you could almost say the same of the other youth who sat at the right hand of the old woman. Facing Tirian across the table sat a fair-haired girl younger than either of these, and on either side of her a boy and girl who were younger still. They were all dressed in what seemed to Tirian the oddest kind of clothes.

But he had no time to think about details like that, for instantly the younger boy and both the girls started to their feet, and one of them gave a little scream. The old woman started and drew in her breath sharply. The old man must have made some sudden movement too for the wine glass which stood at his right hand was swept off the table: Tirian could hear the tinkling noise as it broke on the floor.

Then Tirian realized that these people could see him; they were staring at him as if they saw a ghost. But he noticed that the king-like one who sat at the old man's right never moved (though he turned pale) except that he clenched his hand very tight. Then he said:

"Speak, if you're not a phantom or a dream. You have a Narnian look about you and we are the seven friends of Narnia."

Tirian was longing to speak, and he tried to cry out aloud that he was Tirian of Narnia, in great need of help. But he found (as I have sometimes found in dreams too) that his voice made no noise at all.

The one who had already spoken to him rose to his feet. "Shadow or spirit or whatever you are," he said, fixing his eyes full upon Tirian. "If you are from Narnia, I charge you in the name of Aslan, speak to me. I am Peter the High King."

The room began to swim before Tirian's eyes. He heard the voices of those seven people all speaking at once, and all getting fainter every second, and they were saying things like, "Look! It's fading." "It's melting away." "It's vanishing." Next moment he was wide awake, still tied to the tree, colder and stiffer than ever. The wood was full of the pale, dreary light that comes before sunrise, and he was soaking wet with dew; it was nearly morning.

The Last Battle, C. S. Lewis

Gloved hands stuffed into the pockets of his overcoat, Edmund leaned against a nearby lamppost and shifted his feet. The train wouldn't be here for a while yet and his knee ached fiercely in the cold dampness of the platform, but somehow he couldn't make himself sit down. Anyway, he didn't want to sit next to his brother right now, not in the mood Peter was in.

As a rule, Peter was sunny tempered, quick to smile, chivalrous to a fault and, if Edmund was forced to admit it, kingly. High-Kingly, in point of fact. But that didn't mean he didn't have his moods. It had been difficult for all of them, Edmund and Peter and their sisters, knowing they would never be allowed back into beloved Narnia, but Peter had taken it especially hard. Narnia had been given to him more than anyone else, given to him to rule and protect and love, but it was his no longer.

Peter had told Caspian on his final trip there that he hadn't come to take the prince's place but to put him into it. And when the prince was indeed king and Peter had nearly lost his life in making him so, Peter had bravely given into Caspian's hands his beloved sword, Rhindon, and then walked back into his own world, no longer King Peter the Magnificent, by gift of Aslan High King over all Kings of Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands, Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, but merely fourteen-year-old Peter Pevensie, Schoolboy of Finchley.

As they all had since then, nearly eight long years now, he had done his best to live as a Narnian even when there was no Narnia for him to live in. Here in this Other Place, this England of the cold and damp, where even the sunniest day was only a pale counterfeit of bright Narnia, where chivalry and courtesy were often forgotten if not outright mocked and despised, Peter still carried himself as a king because he knew, whatever else happened, it was what Aslan required of him.

And, in time, he had come to know the great Lion by His name in this world. It was something that he and Edmund and Lucy shared, binding them more firmly together, soothing the loss of their glorious kingdom, but they all kept a place for Narnia in their hearts. And if it was a bittersweet place, a place that sometimes hurt beyond reason, they had each decided it was better to have that hurt than to not have it, especially if that hurt meant they could still hold to the memories that caused it.

But at least the hurt had been bearable, like the twinging of an old wound gladly suffered in a noble cause. It had been bearable. Now it was intolerable. Ever since the vision almost a week ago, the longing for Narnia, for home, had gnawed at Edmund's heart. He could tell from that nearly desperate look in his brother's eyes that it was the same for him, no doubt even worse, but they could never go back. Never. Aslan had told them–

"But did He really mean . . ." Peter looked up, something almost pleading in the blue depths of his eyes.

Edmund pushed himself away from the lamppost and stalked over to where his brother was sitting, not knowing whether he wanted to punch him or merely shake some sense into him.

"How many times are we going to have this conversation, Pete? We both know what He said. We can't go back. Can't. Aslan–"

"At least you got to go one more time." There was a faraway longing in Peter's eyes. "And to sail to the world's end . . . "

Edmund only pressed his lips together, not knowing if that one more time made now better or worse.

Peter rubbed one gloved fist into the palm of his other hand. "Perhaps He's changed His mind. Whoever that was in our vision, how could he have come to us if Narnia didn't need us? If Aslan hadn't allowed–"

"I'm not saying that." Edmund gritted his teeth and sat on the bench next to Peter. "I'm not saying Narnia doesn't need help or that Aslan wasn't the one who let us know. But He doesn't change, Peter. He told us we can't go back, and that's what He meant. We have to accept that and do what we can from here. It's up to Jill and Eustace now."

"They're just kids, Ed. They can't possibly–"

"We were kids there, too. He can save by many or by few, remember?" Edmund tried to smile a little, tried to give some comfort even if he couldn't feel it himself. "Maybe by old or by young, too."

Peter didn't seem to hear him. "Just that little glimpse, and Narnia feels so close I can practically taste it." He put his head into his hands, raking his fingers through his fair hair. "If we could go for just a week. A day. Sweet Lion, an hour. I sometimes think I will never really breathe again if I don't get back into that air."

Edmund was too familiar with that sharp, aching need to chide him for it. Instead, he gave his brother's shoulder a friendly jostle with his own. "England has air, too."

Eyes blazing, Peter shoved him away, nearly pushing him off the bench.

Edmund clenched his jaw. "You think you're the only one, Pete? You think Lucy doesn't dream every night of dancing trees and living water and talking beasts? And if you think it's been long for you, think of the Professor and Aunt Polly. They went only that once and then not for long. It's been nearly eight years for you, less for me and Lu, but they– They're old now, and they were younger than we were that first time. Oh, bother all of them. You think I don't–"

He squeezed his hands into fists, stopping himself. After a taut moment, he let the breath out of his lungs.

"It's no good, Pete. It doesn't matter what we want now. We can't go."

"We could."

There was a touch of wildness in the blue eyes now and something that made Edmund draw back a little.

"Peter–"

"We could." Peter reached one gloved hand into his pocket and pulled out a pair of rings, one yellow and one green. "It would take only one little touch."

"No." Edmund shook his head, an incredulous half-smile touching his lips. "Peter, no. We all agreed. Jill and Eustace are to go. They're the only ones who can. Aslan said–"

"No!"

Seeing that had drawn a few glances from some of the other people on the platform, Peter ducked his head and lowered his voice.

"I want to go, Ed." He looked up again, and there were tears standing in his eyes. "I have to go. Narnia needs me." He clenched his fingers around the rings and then rubbed his fist over his chest, pressing it hard against his heart. "I can feel it. Narnia needs me. Whoever it was we saw, he had the look of a king about him. What was a Narnian king doing bloodied and bound and alone? Why were we given this vision if we weren't to do something?"

"We are doing something. We got the rings so Eustace and Jill can go. I know it's not what we want, but–"

"Afraid?" Peter's usually handsome face twisted into a sneer. "You call yourself a King of Narnia and you'd rather cower here than go to her defense?"

"That's not fair, Peter."

"Something more important to see to?" Peter gave Edmund's sore knee a shove, making him grimace. "Maybe a big match coming up? Can't miss that, eh?"

Edmund glared at him and hobbled around to the side of the station, into the wind but away from curious eyes and Peter's taunts. He'd been hurt playing rugby two days before and was crushed to have to leave the game and then watch his side lose. But he'd take those pains, physical and otherwise, a thousand times over rather than this now.

Peter came after him. "I never saw you turn back before, Edmund. No matter the odds, we were always in things together, and to turn coward now–"

With a growl, Edmund seized him by the front of his overcoat and shoved him against the station wall. "Don't you ever." His voice was low and fierce, trembling with the effort to keep it under control. "Don't you ever say that to me again. We've both been willing to die for Narnia, and we've both as good as done it, too. If I could, I'd be there this very minute. Like a shot, you know I would. But Aslan–"

At the name, Peter's chin quivered and his fist tightened on the rings he still held.

Edmund loosened his hold, his expression softening. "I know it's hard to take, Pete, seeing them go and knowing we can't. But do you really think that going against Aslan's wishes will end up right? For us or for Narnia? Do you want to risk spoiling what He has planned just so you can please yourself?"

Peter leaned his head back against the wall, drawing three or four trembling breaths. "I just– I just–"

He looked pleadingly at Edmund who pushed away from him with a sigh.

"I know." He dredged up a crooked smile. "Come on, Pete. Put those back in your pocket. The train will be coming in before long."

Peter swallowed hard, nodding twice, and then he opened his hand again, looking longingly at the rings. "You're right, Ed. Of course, you're right. Narnia will get help. That's what matters. And Aslan has given us these to rescue her, bless Him and them."

Then, as High King Peter had often done with a sword or a seal or anything else that was in some way meant to secure a pledge or bring deliverance, so often that he thought nothing of it now, he brought the rings to his lips.

Edmund's eyes widened. "Peter, no!"

But Peter was gone.

"No. No, no, no, no, no."

Edmund looked desperately around him, as if he'd find help or Peter or something useful there, but there was nothing. He was alone.

"Aslan, please–"

He squeezed his eyes shut and ducked his head against the wind that had turned suddenly bitter. He had to go after him. He couldn't go after him. Aslan had told him he may never go back into Narnia, and he couldn't disobey. But Peter– Peter hadn't intended to go. He'd been tempted, sorely tempted, but he hadn't actually intended to use the ring. He just hadn't thought.

But Edmund wouldn't have that excuse. If he followed after, it would be in willful opposition to Aslan's decree.

"Aslan," he breathed again. "What do I do?"

He thought hard. He wasn't to go back into Narnia, that much was clear, but according to the Professor, a yellow ring wouldn't take him directly into Narnia itself. It would bring him only to the Wood Between the Worlds and, only from there, into other lands. Perhaps Peter was still there and had gone no farther. Perhaps it wasn't too late to keep him from disobeying the Lion and maybe spoiling the rescue only Jill and Eustace were meant to bring to Narnia.

Again he hesitated. Was this, even the thought of it, disobedience? Like the willful ringing of one little bell from some distant dead world all those years ago, the bell that had awoken Jadis and eventually brought her to spoil Narnia on the very day of its birth and even, in time, to kill the Great Lion Himself, would one small thing bring down on him, on Peter, on very Narnia some unwitting destruction?

He couldn't wait or Peter might leave the Wood. He had to do something before it was too late.

Maybe it already was.

He took the glove off his left hand and then reached into his pocket with his still-gloved right and brought out the pair of rings he carried, one yellow and one green. The green one, he dropped back into his pocket, but he picked up the yellow one with two fingers and brought it towards his bare left hand.

"Aslan, be my good lord," he whispered, and then he slipped on the ring.