Disclaimer: I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C. S. Lewis and Walden Media.
Author's Note: Hey, all! Well, this piece was a long time coming, but I'm pleased to say it's done: the sequel to Fever Dreams is up! It, too, can fit into the universe I created for Nighttime Demons. ::sheepish smile:: And it, too, was a product of whimsy. I love the thought of an older Edmund interacting with a much younger Peter. I may have to take on that thread in another story sometime. A note of warning: this one's rather darker than its counterpart—or, at least, more angsty. There's a dash of fluff, too, but…well, you'll see what I mean ::devious grin::. I hope you enjoy!
Rating:T (on the high end)
Summary: Edmund thought the nightmares had ended with his brother's recovery…(Book and Moviebased) (NO Slash) (Sequel to Fever Dreams)
"Speech"
/Personal Thoughts/
Fever Fears
By Sentimental Star
Edmund doesn't usually dream—not like this, anyway. He has nightmares, yes, but in the past year or two they have, for some reason, dwindled down to one every couple of months, after a particularly stressful day or week.
He's managed nicely, he thinks. Considering that Peter is at University most of the time, save for the occasional visit home. And when Peter's not here…Lucy's a regular angel.
Not that he's complaining. It's wonderful being able to have several weeks' solid sleep without having to worry about nightmares, particularly when his principal comforter is over two hours' train ride away.
Of course, now he wonders if they haven't been shoring up for this exact moment. Granted, it could be his fever talking, and added to the stress that has been the past several days with Peter delirious and sick…he supposes he half-expected it.
But it's such an odd dream. He's had nightmares featuring Peter before, certainly. How could he not? They're so close, and they've faced so much together—witches and giants and ogres not the least of it.
But Peter is never this young in his dreams. He's never so much older…
IOIOIOIOIOI
He is thoroughly tired of tunnels. Leastwise, tunnels like this. Pitch black with neither visible walls, nor an apparent floor. Furthermore, they always have some sort of annoyingly bright light at the end of them. Usually, it means he's managed to land himself within inches of death again.
"Of course, if certain big brothers would stop insisting on being idiotically noble, I might see less of them."
It is spoken out loud and echoes oddly around him.
"Less of what, Ed?"
He blinks, startled. "Pete?"
There is no answer. He's not sure how much he likes that. These one-sided conversations are common enough in situations like this, but…
The black around him suddenly swirls dizzyingly and he barely catches himself as he stumbles a few steps down a—
"What am I doing home?" muttered just loudly enough to be heard, but otherwise strangely muffled.
To be strictly accurate, it wasn't "home" as he and his siblings had come to conceive the word. Certainly, it wasn't Narnia, which was—and forever would be—their "true" home, but…
"Mum? Susan? Lu? Peter?"
"Right here, Ed…"
He frowns, hearing his brother's voice seemingly echo from everywhere in the dimly lit hall. There's carpet on the floor that he barely remembers from years upon years ago when they first moved into their house in Finchley, but it is a great deal more dingy than he ever recalls it being. Instead of lamplight or electricity, torchlight licks the papered walls of the corridor. It is considerably warmer than he remembers and almost uncomfortably stuffy.
And it's silent. Save for the faint ticking of the grandfather clock somewhere out of his perception.
He doesn't like it. One thing their home isn't is silent. Ever.
A door suddenly creaks open.
He yelps, twisting to face the direction it has come from…and stares.
There is a child standing there. He has appeared in a doorway—that wasn't there a minute ago.
The boy is young. Small. Dressed in a sweater and short trousers that seem two sizes too large for the tiny frame.
And his blue eyes are sad. Sadder and larger and far older than they should be on a child of this one's age.
Lion's Mane, he can't be much older than four…!
Suddenly very conscious of his seventeen-year-old height—the boy barely comes up to his elbow—he crouches in front of him and offers a tentative smile. "Hello, there," he murmurs, kindly as he can manage, "are you lost?"
Blue eyes drill into his very soul and he jerks, the hand that had been stretching out to brush through the child's fine, flyaway golden hair halting in mid-reach as he is pinned in place.
Then the child runs. Turning and fleeing down the dark tunnel (wasn't it a door before?) at his back.
His breath leaves him in a gasp. Outright, frenzied panic seizes him and he leaps to his feet. The cry is on the tip of his tongue, /Peter! Peter! Come back…!/ but he never voices it.
Instead, inwardly reeling (/That's my brother?!/), he plunges blindly into the abyss in front of him, desperately pursuing his young-old big brother.
No walls, no floor, only the vague sense of a curved ceiling above his head. His pounding footsteps ring out clearly, even in the rush of blood assaulting his ears.
He gasps again, stumbling, falling, and nearly tripping as white-hot pain blasts through his mind, forcing him roughly onto his knees and hands. There is an eerily familiar roar, an even more familiar scream, and he lunges, not sure what he's reaching for, but knowing he needs to reach it nonetheless. His arms flail, his fingers snag on cloth, and then a solid, small body collides soundly with his diaphragm, forcing all air out of his lungs.
There's another unfamiliarly young shriek. A deep, panicked shout ("ED!"). The screeching of train brakes. The blast of a steam locomotive's horn. And then…they're falling. Plummeting, toppling, tumbling, gone…
He screams.
IOIOIOIOIOI
"Ed!"
Hands tighten on his shoulders, pinning him to the mattress. Thrashing, screaming, kicking at the heavy covers cocooned around him, Edmund pushes at whoever it is that's attempting to restrain him. He's not sure how he's woken up, but at the moment it couldn't matter any less.
"No! No! Get off me! You don't understand! I have to find…he's so little and he doesn't--!"
He's sobbing, clawing frantically at the blankets, trying to fight his way through them to reach his far too young big brother. His arms are flailing, shaking, and he can't help remembering how small Peter felt in them.
Hands leave his shoulders and tighten around his wrists, trapping them in a steel-like grip above his head.
"Ed! Ed! Stop it! You'll--"
He cries out and jams his knee into the body above his, causing its owner to give a half-bitten off cry as he catches them in the stomach. It also forces them to release their grip on his wrists.
He doesn't waste another second. Lurching forward, he collides with their chest, tackling the both of them off the bed and onto the floor in a tangled heap of quilts and sheets.
There's another yell, a curse, and the two of them slam into the very much un-cushioned ground. A floorboard cracks ominously, followed almost immediately by…"Sweet Lion, Ed," wheezed weakly from underneath him.
He freezes.
The hands are on his arms again, this time far gentler and much more hesitant. Carefully, the body under his twists and without quite knowing how, Edmund finds himself surrounded by loosely draped arms.
When the embrace's initiator gently crushes his head into the hollow of their throat, his eyes blink open.
"Ed?" it is a hesitant whisper against his ear. His brother's scent floods his senses—wind and salt and sea air with a faint underlay of chamomile and sweat.
Peter is still sick.
He drops his forehead against the flannelled cloth of his brother's shirt with a quiet moan, even as the room spins nauseatingly around them. Desperately relieved, but utterly annoyed that his brother would risk his health—again—for no other reason than he is overly worried about Edmund, he mutters "Idiot," in exhaustion against Peter's chest.
There is a slightly thick, slightly strangled chuckle into his dark hair. "Glad you approve. I suppose I should be grateful you're lucid enough to insult me." Arms hook underneath his knees and back, easily lifting him back onto the bed. "Dear Aslan, Ed, what was that? What in all of Narnia were you fighting so hard to reach?"
At that question, he feels blush creep up his neck and curl around his ears, spreading to add even more color to his already fever-flushed cheeks. Peter pulls back slightly and Edmund swallows, reaching up to lightly trace his fingers across his twenty-year-old brother's cheeks.
The younger teen hates how small his voice is when he speaks, "You're a lot bigger."
Peter blinks, clearly startled. "I'm a lot…Ed?"
"You're supposed to be four," a whisper, even smaller.
Peter blinks. And blinks. And blinks again, confusion rapidly dissolving into tender comprehension. "Oh, Ed…" His brother's arms curl protectively around him, cradling his worn body against the twenty-year-old's chest. "Is that why you practically killed me? You thought I was trying to prevent you from…oh, Edmund…"
There's a sniff, and a wet, strangled laugh. "I'm sorry. I know it's silly…"
He senses rather than sees the shake of Peter's head, and feels rather than hears his brother's rueful chuckle. "Not so silly as you might think, Ed. I had a dream of a sort, too, you know. About you. You couldn't have been much older than four or five. Funny thing is, you were younger than the girls, too."
Edmund snorts faintly and thickly. "Well, that certainly explains why you kept calling out for me. Of course, you never responded when I tried to wake you."
Peter is quiet. Edmund feels him adjust his arms and snorts amusedly when he realizes his brother has pulled him into his lap. "Pete, I'm seventeen," he reminds him warmly.
His brother raises an eyebrow. "And your point is?"
Edmund grins wearily. "Just thought I'd mention it."
There is a sigh as Peter leans his forehead against Edmund's cheek, curling them both against the headboard of what the seventeen-year-old further realizes is his older brother's bed. "How bad was it, Ed?" Peter asks quietly.
Edmund is baffled and pulls back slightly to look at his brother, "How bad was what?"
"You know what I mean," Peter responds tersely. "How bad?"
Edmund raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth to inform his brother that no, indeed, he does not know, when his mind catches up with him two seconds later. He slowly closes his mouth, "Oh. You mean your fever?"
Peter nods against his neck.
Edmund sighs, swallowing against the mild nausea that threatens to retake his stomach when he remembers, a little too vividly, the greeting he'd received when Peter arrived home, "Bad enough that you didn't always recognize me," he whispers.
Peter's arms tighten slightly. "I'm so sorry," his brother manages painfully. "This is all my fault."
Stubbornly, Edmund shakes his head as several tears wend down his cheeks, his fever rendering his emotions tenuous at best. It's a little too late to ward off the memories, and the still slightly warm forehead resting in the crook of his neck has brought them to the fore with startling clarity.
IOIOIOIOIOI
Impatiently, he bounces on the balls of his feet, alternately glancing between the grandfather clock next to the entrance to the foyer and out the window, scowling when he notices only three minutes have passed since the last time he checked.
"No, Lu, like that. See?" Susan's voice comes from behind him where she sits on the couch, helping their little sister with her sewing. Both girls learned needlepoint while in Narnia, but needlepoint was very different from actual sewing and Lucy had long since lost patience with it, even though Susan insisted she should learn.
He gives a soft snort. Apparently, it's not "proper" for a girl of Lu's age not to know it. To keep Susan happy (and that is often a difficult task these days), his youngest sister agreed to let Susan teach her.
Another glance at the clock reveals that only two minutes have passed. He groans.
Both his sisters hear. Lucy laughs brightly and he shoots a mock-scowl in her direction, continuing to shift from foot to foot. Susan, beside Lucy, gives a fond snort. "Impatient much, Ed?"
Edmund just rolls his eyes at her and goes back to watching the clock. "Where is he? It can't take that long to find a taxicab from the station."
"And wearing a groove in the carpet will make it happen that much quicker?"
He ignores Susan's dry retort in favor of glancing out the window…and almost topples over himself in his haste to get to the door when he sees the golden-haired figure heading up the front walk. "He's here!" exclaimed as he hurtles past their mother who has just poked her head out of the kitchen.
Eagerly (and trying not to look the part), he yanks open the door, quite nearly colliding with his brother's chest in his rush to greet him.
Unsteadily, Peter steps back, trying to maintain his equilibrium by placing his hands on the smaller teen's shoulders. "Ed?" his voice is heavily laden with exhaustion.
Grinning, Edmund leans back to look up at him…and feels his face pale in horror as he takes in the state of his brother.
"Peter!" his anxious, frightened cry has Susan and Lucy barreling out of the living room, right on the heels of their mother.
He doesn't notice and neither does Peter. Abruptly, teetering in place, Peter gives a wan smile, "'Lo, Ed," and promptly collapses.
Edmund's next cry is muffled as his brother's full weight lands on his shoulders.
IOIOIOIOIOI
Tightly, Edmund squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't say a word, but Peter knows.
When his brother feels him shaking, his arms tighten painfully. "I'm so, so sorry," whispered against his neck.
Edmund just clings to him.
The End