A/N: Thanks for all the review so far guys, I'm really chuffed! There won't be another update until at least the weekend as I am off to Lancaster tomorrow for a three-day conference. However, I will be taking paper and pen in order to write the next chapter. Goodness, how quaint!

CHAPTER TWO

The Pursuit

Peter couldn't help goggling with shock when Edmund winked at him cheekily, then shot off at top speed to the front of the pack where he then proceeded to make the boys look like they were jogging backwards. Peter was far too well trained for the shock to last long, but he couldn't prevent his involuntary laugher or the massive grin that followed.

Edmund, Edmund...

A couple of the boys around him gave him very speaking looks at the sound of his amusement. Davenport, who ran on his left, went as far as to roll his eyes – but how was he supposed to react? He wanted to shout, "That's my little brother!" and laugh again at the joy of it.

Of course, he wasn't going to let Edmund get away with it. Peter was confident of winning this year and he knew Edmund knew it – hence the spectacularly hare-brained tactic he had just witnessed! Talking of winning...he suddenly sped up to break free of the main pack, stretching his legs as they made their way to the top of the High Street and across the village green. Five other boys came with him, Davenport amongst them. Edmund was already out of the village and out of sight, but hopefully they'd spot him again before he went into the woods. Peter wasn't pushing himself to his limit yet; just fast enough to start to close down the gap Edmund was quickly increasing, but not so much that he threatened his fast finish. He grinned again.

Oh, he did treasure his brother! They never stopped challenging each other, never stopped competing in everything, but they also never stopped enjoying the other's successes. They had been inseparable in Narnia, here in grey England, they depended on each other more keenly – they saw in each other that wonderful reminder of Narnia that they couldn't see in themselves.

Peter was seeing in Edmund now what he looked for and hoped to see every day – health and strength. Almost unconsciously he would search his brother's face at breakfast – did he smile? Was he pale? Were those dark rings under his eyes? Peter know it was borderline obsessive, but as far as he was concerned, it came with the territory of being a big brother and it was something he – and Edmund – would just have to live with.

He worried about Lucy and Susan too. Lucy was still so young, so innocent and carefree, so little changed from what she had been in Narnia that Peter feared for that very core of her. Her sparkle was so much dimmer in the heavy air of this place, her devotion to Aslan so absolute, yet so distant from his country, he couldn't bear the thought of that devotion being worn away by the daily grind. It was unfair that he invested so much in her of course, but he couldn't help but think that she was the guardian of all her siblings' souls. If her faith were to waver, what of the rest of them? Susan's gentleness was deep in her nature, but not so robust as Lucy's faith. He had watched with sorrow over the last year as a hard shell had crept over her. Her smiles were brighter but had lost some of Queen Susan's gentle warmth and compassion.

But his worry for Edmund was of a different nature altogether. Somehow, perhaps because they were so rarely apart, he didn't fear for his little brother's faith, or his soul – he feared for his health. He could not remember whether Edmund had been ill before Narnia – he supposed so, but it was no doubt in the order of most childhood ailments. After Beruna, however, there always seemed something fragile about him, however tall and strong he grew. It was an ephemeral thing, difficult to explain; Edmund, mostly, was strong and fit, healthy and agile, but there was something of the House of Cards about his constitution, as though the White Witch's wand had destroyed something vital in the very foundations of his health.

No one felt the cold more acutely, nor would suffer heat exhaustion so readily. No one succumbed so easily or violently to every stray illness, nor took so long to recover. Stress and strain wore him down too easily for comfort, and no one was injured more frequently. It was a difficult path that he walked for when he was well, he was a match for anyone, but he could go downhill faster than anyone too.

Peter was always reminded of Donald, a friend of his from day school. Donald's father had made some money doing something or other in South America and on his return home had bought a Jaguar Drop head Coupé. Even though Peter was to become tiresomely familiar with this peerless car, he would be hard pressed to describe it, cars not really being his thing. It was, apparently, a marvellous vehicle in every way, except one – it very rarely worked. If the oil line was fine, the camshaft was not, if the four-cylinder engine was going, the brake drum had somehow failed. It spent more time being tuned than the Pevensie's old piano. However amusing this was at the time, Peter couldn't help but think that his little brother was rather like that car. When everything worked, he was unmatchable in every way, a joy in fact. The difficulty lay in achieving that point.

But not today...

Edmund's distant figure disappeared into the woodland ahead and Peter stepped up the pace. Davenport and another boy from School House stayed with him, but the others dropped back to the pack, realising quickly that at the new pace, finishing in the middle would be less humiliating than failing to finish at all.

Horley, who was one of those content to fall behind for the moment, shouted forward,

"What's Pevensie up to now, Davenport?"

"Hunting down the little Pevensie, of course", came the glib response, "he's not supposed to stray so far from his Master".

Davenport's tone was dry, but not sneering. Peter, used to such comments, merely rolled his eyes. It amused the boys of his own age to refer to Edmund as some kind of barely-trained pet. The gibe was not at Edmund, but at Peter's reluctance to curtail his brother's gyrations. Peter was fair minded enough to admit the justice of this!

"Shut up, Dav", said Peter, good-naturedly.

The corner of Davenport's mouth lifted in a wry smile,

"You let the little one run away, Old Chap", he said kindly, "You should be more careful – you know what happened last year! We older brothers can't afford to be humiliated very often".

Peter was amused – Davenport's little brother was a scrubby brat in the Removes who would have to pull off a miracle to outshine his tall sibling.

"What makes you think Ed is going to do it again this year?" was Peter's response, quite deliberately lengthening his stride. Davenport snorted, but doggedly brought himself back up to Peter's shoulder.

"Nothing at all", he replied, mildly.

The teasing was all very mild, really. In truth, the Pevensies were really quite popular in the school, being neither nouveau riche nor too bourgeois and both being good at football and cricket. In other words, they were the 'right sort' and very little else mattered in English Schools. Peter couldn't care less for himself, but was pleased for Edmund who finally seemed like he was casting off the painful memories of that awful school he had attended before Narnia.

Peter shook off his momentary pang of guilt and sorrow at the memory of his brother's unhappiness and looked up to check their progress up the slope. They were nearing the turn-off to the woods and he didn't want to have to slow down on their approach if he could help it. His eyes scanned, then spotted the narrow path.

Then he heard it, clear as a bell – four short staccato whistles.

His step faltered and he staggered to a halt, barely hearing Davenport's startled exclamation behind him. His limbs felt cold with shock,

No...Surely not..?

It came again – once...twice...three times...nothing...

...then what sounded like a muffled yell, then a voice shouting what sounded like "Rue!"

"Is that...German?" Davenport asked softly beside him.

Peter heard someone whimper, low and distressed ... and that couldn't have possibly been him, could it? ... then he was off, running, sprinting, tearing up the path as though time and distance were suddenly meaningless.

Conversely, it seemed to take forever to get to the woodland path, sick to his stomach with anxiety, the prickle of a cold sweat on the back of his neck. He privately decided that if this was Edmund's idea of a joke, his little brother was going to die a very slow and humiliatingly painful death, and then who'd be sorry?

But those whistles...

He'd not heard that signal in, what was it? Four or five years? (by their accounting at any rate). It was a system they'd developed between them when forces were scattered and the battle horn wasn't readily available. One long whistle for attack, two for withdraw, that sort of thing. Four short whistles meant basically, 'Enemy engaged, hard pressed, Help!'

He didn't care what this was England, thousands of years and untold distance from where they had last fought, he just reacted. He crashed into the woods, no attempt at stealth or care; his breath coming in hard, panicked bursts,

"Ed!" he hollered.

No response.

A flash of white, then blue, in the dappled shade ahead of him - was that Ed's striped jersey? He pushed himself harder still, eyes fixed on the vague shapes in the distance. It looked like two people, both close to the ground, but one much larger than the other. What was happening?

Peter pushed through the trees, oblivious to snapping twigs and small branches, barely noticing when a limb from a young birch whipped back at his face, leaving a bloody scrape down his cheek. He pushed it away impatiently, then stopped in shock as he found himself only twenty feet away from a young man crouched on the forest floor, dragging something long and dark away from the path.

The stranger was not unlike Peter - blond and blue-eyed. He may even have been handsome, but his face was so haunted and terrified, he appeared old and almost menacing in the uncertain light. Peter took in the features, and the uniform almost absently, for he'd realised what was being dragged.

Oh God, Oh Aslan, please…

That could only be Edmund, face down in the leaves, arms stretched above his head where he was being pulled.

"What…?" he began, barely able to voice the words over dry lips, then as the anger grew, the shock and fear receded and he found his voice,

"What are you doing? What the HELL are you doing to my Brother?"

The stranger must have seen the expression in Peter's eyes as he backed away hurriedly, heaving Edmund's limp form upright and holding him with one arm across the chest. He stumbled backwards at a half-run and Peter followed, looking for weakness to attack, daring not to look too closely at his brother's pale, quiet face under the shock of dark hair.

The stranger stopped his retreat and proved his nationality by saying,

"Anschlag! Anschlag dort!"

The German's voice shook, but his hand was steady enough when he brought his service revolver up from it's holster and pointed it straight at Peter's face.

Peter stared at the gun feeling strangely numb. He had fought and killed many, many times, but firearms…scared him. They were such an unknown quantity to him, and they were so lethal and indiscriminate, requiring little skill to use, that Peter could see. Staring at one pointed at your head was disconcerting, but his fear was not for himself, but for Ed. How could he leave his brother with this terrified, dangerous man? Yet, if he risked getting shot, how could he help Ed then?

Peter locked his eyes on the young German, ignoring the weapon. He was so young, not many years older than Peter himself, and so, so scared. Had he been shot down? Peter couldn't remember any recent activity, but this man could have bailed out long before his aircraft crashed, so maybe they were too far away to hear anything? Why had he taken Ed? Did he even know why?

Wondering if he was signed his death warrant - maybe both of their death warrants, Peter took another step forward, his hand outstretched, not convinced the airman was capable of pulling the trigger.

"Mein Bruder", he said haltingly, in his schoolboy German.

It was the wrong thing to say. Maybe the airman thought he meant him rather than his captive? Whatever the thought that passed through his mind, his face twisted in disgust and anger and Peter was suddenly convinced he was about to die,

The German pulled the trigger.

"NO!"

The bang was so loud in the that quiet copse that Peter flinched, instinctively twisting his head away and down, but not before he had caught a glimpse of Edmund, mouth still wide from his frantic shout, forcing his captor's hand down, and the bullet burying itself in the forest floor.

Peter sucked in a great breath, knees weak, simultaneously elated that his brother was awake and terrified that he was in some kind of nightmare he would never wake up from. He stared into Edmund's wide eyes. His little brother looked sick to his stomach, bleary from pain and quite terrified.

"Run Peter, you idiot!" he said quietly, but forcefully, and somehow, across that glade, Peter heard him. He had no more choices left to him - he turned and ran.

TBC

You probably won't need it, but here's a quick glossary:

Ruhe! (from Chapter 1) : Silence!

Anschlag dort! : Stop right there!

Mein Bruder : My Brother