Disclaimer: No I don't own them. They might be in more trouble if I did though. It all belongs to C.S. Lewis and the C.S. Lewis estate.
The room itself was fairly warm as a few braziers blazed in the corners of the tent. Every now and again though, a late fall breeze would creep in, a reminder that the lingering warmth of fall was long passed. Beside him, he spotted a cold plate of stew on a table, probably a few hours old. He knew he should eat, but with his brother so terribly weak, he found he had no stomach for food
Sighing, he studied the younger king's profile, checking for any sign of improvement and nearly gagging as he breathed in the smell of pungent herbs.
"Your Majesty, may I speak to you alone?" a chief healer, an elderly badger, petitioned. With her paw, she gestured to the far side of the tent, far away from the other healers and possible anxious, prying ears at the door.
"Yes, m'lady?" Peter answered, his voice controlled. Rising from his place beside his brother, he rose and followed her.
"As Your Majesty has most certainly seen, King Edmund's injuries are indeed grave. Though His Majesty is a fighter, I'm afraid it would take a miracle from the Great Lion himself to save him. If pneumonia doesn't finish him, his injuries will, though to move him in his condition would mean his death." She paused, her whiskers drooping as she sighed. Rallying herself, she continued. "My Liege, Everwarmth is past. If its lingering warmth were still present, he might have a chance, but Stormfall is upon us, and winter at our door. He may pull through, but best not to hang our hopes on it. I'm sorry, King Peter. So sorry."
"I understand, t-thank you, Rosalee. Your service has been more t-than valuable to us," replied the High King, his shoulders sagging as he fought to keep control of his emotions. "You may leave now; kindly tell the others, I wish to be alone with my brother."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The elder king moved softly across the tent and pulled his stool up closer beside his silent brother's bed. Of all the adventures that had happened while they had been in Narnia, Edmund had usually taken the brunt of the evil done to them, especially when he had broken the White Witch's wand. He took Edmund's pale, chilled hand in his and held it, gently touching it to his cheek as he silently cried out to Aslan, begging for help and for his brother's life to be spared. Gazing down, he saw how terribly small and vulnerable his brother seemed.
"No! No! Let her go! Please no. Take me instead, please." the younger king, cried out in his delirium, fighting Peter's hold as he resisted some fever dream.
"Ed, it's me. Peter. I'm right here," he whispered to Edmund, the younger king's breaths swift and shallow. "Don't worry, I won't leave you," Peter's steady voice reassured, although inwardly he wanted to break down and weep.
"Marius!" the High King called, fear for his brother energizing his shout.
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
"Fetch me some parchment and ink and have a swift courier readied. Quickly! My brother's life hangs in the balance."
