Disclaimer: Everything belongs to C.S. Lewis.

A/N: This is a gap-filler from after the final battle in the movie Prince Caspian, where I thought there should definitely be some Peter-Edmund angst. I don't know why. Maybe it's my insatiable thirst for angsty Edmund fics? And Peter is such a good big brother! Oh well, here it is anyways. :D

The battle was over. The fear, the desperation, the almost crazed hope of delivery from death – it was fading, and night was falling.

Now began the tears. The anguish left in the wake of a battle, finally coming to life, and the utter despair, the pain-wracked sobs rising from the field of battle. The weeping for those who had given their lives for Narnia.

Dust settled over the field, and the evening sky was revealed. Flecked with wisps of cloud, the stars were nowhere to be seen.

And Edmund stood alone beside the body of Glenstorm, heeding not the pain of his own injuries, feeling only the emptiness of loss. His face was streaked with sweat and grime, his eyes downcast, gazing numbly at the sword he held.

It was stained with blood.

The blood of the Telmarines who lay about him – and also the blood of an innocent. The blood of the centaur king, who in his anguish had begged Edmund to end his suffering.

A single tear slipped down the young King's cheek and vanished.

"Son of Adam."

Edmund moved his head slowly, jerkily, turning to face Aslan.

"My son," the Lion murmured, his great eyes shining with compassion, their ageless depths drowned in the grief that encroached so many. "You have forgotten to clean your sword."

Edmund's lips moved, but no sound came out. His eyes met Aslan's; pleaded, begged, and despaired.

He is not coming back.

The guilt, the pain, the fear – it came crashing down on him like a mighty wave, overwhelming him. More tears rose, but he fought them back. He was a King. He had become a man, leaving behind the ways of a child – but the tears would not be stayed.

A cry of grief tore its way from his lips, and he cast his bloodied sword at the Lion's feet. Then he turned and ran.

Stumbling over shadowy figures, pushing past hands that sought to stay his flight, he did not know where he was going until at last he came into the open. The Fords of Beruna, where the Telmarines at last had surrendered – where the waves, frothing and whirling, had torn the bridge to pieces and swept half the army to their death.

But now the river had calmed, flowing shallow and still, almost stagnant; abandoned but for the one figure who sat alone on the bank.

Edmund's breath hitched, and he stopped.

Peter.

There was no time to leave; his brother had seen him already. He hastily pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, wiping away his tears, and stood there, framed in the dusky embrace of the trees. He stared over the river, losing himself in the night sky, looking anywhere but at his brother.

"Ed?"

Peter had gotten to his feet and was walking towards him, his face worried. Edmund stifled a sigh. He could not hide himself from his brother; Peter had always been able to read him like an open book.

"I'm fine, Pete," he whispered, his voice echoing in the silence as he backed hastily away.

But oh Aslan, Peter, do I need your comfort all the same.

"Don't be foolish," Peter said bluntly, catching hold of his brother's arm and drawing Edmund towards him. His tone changed as he saw the tears streaking his little brother's cheeks, the blood covering his jerkin, staining the once-golden lion an insidious red.

"By the Lion, Ed," he breathed. "What have you been doing to yourself?"

Edmund's dark eyes widened incredulously. "I was just gallivanting through the forest, of course!" His voice rose defensively. "For heaven's sake, Pete, what does it look like?!"

Peter backed off, hands raised in surrender. "All right, all right! There's no need to get angry about it!"

"I have every reason to get angry!" Edmund's tone was pitched higher now, fraught with pent-up frustration, exhaustion, and – Peter's eyes narrowed – grief.

"Have you just been sitting here, or has it occurred to you that we fought a battle back there?" Edmund swung his arm in a wide gesture, a grimace of pain crossing his features as his movement pulled at his own untended wounds. "Has it dawned on you that Narnians are dead – Narnians who pledged their lives to us, to Aslan? They lie there, and you sit gloating over it, planning the next siege! How many more must fall – how much more blood must be shed, before you realise that the war has ended? You don't even care, do you! All you want is – "

Edmund stopped short as gentle fingers caught his chin, tilting his head upwards, and he stared defiantly into the blue eyes above his. Then Peter gripped his brother's shoulders and drew Edmund swiftly to him, encompassing the trembling form with both arms.

"Easy, Ed, easy," he soothed. "Everything will be all right, just let go of it. Let me comfort you."

His older brother's words soaked their way into Edmund's consciousness, and at last he stopped struggling, stopped trying to get away, and he listened.

Peter looked down at last on the face pressed against his shoulder; he saw the fresh tears glistening in his brother's expressive eyes, and something inside him broke.

"Ed, oh, Ed..."

He pulled the younger boy even closer and wrapped his cloak about the slender shoulders, not minding the evening chill that bit at his exposed face. His awareness was limited entirely to Edmund, the little brother he had sworn to protect, the one he had failed so many times, had scorned, laughed at, and ignored.

Aslan's words came back to him – spoken when he and Edmund had stood together at Cair Paravel, newly crowned, uncertain of what to hold to, to prize...

"Behold, Peter, one of your greatest treasures stands at your side."

"I'm sorry," he whispered into his brother's dark hair. "I was wrong, I am sorry..."

Edmund's head jerked upright. Sorry? Did Peter truly think that by simply saying "sorry" he could undo all he had done? Could erase the hours of uncertainty, of loneliness, of fear – the absolute terror as he watched his older brother enter into combat with a king at least three times his age, seeing him fall so many times, hearing him cry out in pain...

He wanted to scream, to rage, but all that came out was a single sob.

His release did what any amount of cajoling could not.

Edmund wept, as a King who mourns for his lost people, as a boy lost in the evils and heartbreak of war; as a child forced to experience death before his time.

And Peter let him cry.