Prompt I: Infection

Prompt II: Stitches (because there's a lot of stitches)

Warning: Very bloody and gory. And a little disgusting at one place. But nothing too much. Ummm. Okay, it's a little too much. Maybe have a soft toy handy? You might need to clutch to it and sob while reading the second section.

Colours, dark and light, figures of enemies and friends, weapons, noble and lethal, all swirled past him. Everything was moving. The air was, too. With screeches and yells. Terrified yelps. Sorrowful cries. A woe-filled voice of his General that was asking him to move. To leave. Leave. Edmund's mind ignored it all. Nothing mattered, nothing made sense, the world was just a dark, faded place now. Only one thing, one gasping figure, his saviour's struggling yelps mattered. Because that, that was his brother, his sixteen-year-old brother who was dying in a pool of blood. Edmund fell to his knees with a thud, hands shaking so terribly he could barely lift them. More yells for him to move. To leave. Something tugging at his sleeve. But he didn't care. He only stroked Peter's cheek. The narrow slits of Peter's eyes opened wide and he glanced at him, his blue irises now almost like a faint black, so weary and full of pain.

"Ed…Ed…Edmund, move…"

Edmund let out some shuddering breaths, almost unable to believe that his brother could still speak. He stroked his cheek again, brushing back his damp hair, tousled golden now marked with droplets of blood. He wiped the blood off, caressing his hair again, desperate to provide some comfort to his brother. But Peter weakly spoke again, slurring the words, stuttering.

"M…mo…move!"

"King Edmund, please!" came the squeakiest voice from behind him. Another tug. He tried to twist to look but he was mercilessly tackled to the ground, definitely crushed his ribs and punctured his lungs. He gasped, trying to breathe, and opened his heavy eyes. A very blurry and shaking figure was sprawled over him, and he suddenly realised who it was. He gagged, the horrible smell of blood reaching him. The place reeked of death. How much longer could he bear it? His eyes turned to the Centaur again. He was gasping, holding his abdomen. No.

"Or…Orieus?"

"You…m…must get…King Peter to…safety, Edmund. Go. Take the horse. Now go!"

And he rolled off him. Edmund was instantly on his feet, running to his General. "No! No…no…Oh, Orieus…Why?"

Orieus moaned, clutching to his stomach as more blood poured out the stab wound, a spear protruding out of him. A spear? "They…they're here. The…the fell. Str..stronger than w…we thought. Go!"

"King Edmund!" Edmund, trembling uncontrollably, looked down again. It was a squirrel. Edmund blinked. "You must come, King Edmund. Come! Come with me!"

Edmund gulped and gazed down once at his General, his friend, his mentor. He nodded, coughing blood. And Edmund knew what he had to do. Orieus went limp then, his hand uncurling. Edmund took Vera from him, sobbing. And he sprinted after the squirrel, dodging and ducking under the clubs, slashing Vera at the laughing Ogres. He managed to kill two by the time they reached the edge of the woods. Miraculously unharmed. Edmund gasped. "Peter!" he screamed, rushing to his brother. He glared at the Centaur who was shoving him up a horse's back, the saddle digging into his wounds. "What are you doing?"

The Centaur when satisfied with Peter's curled up position on the saddle, looked at Edmund. "Take him, my King. Keep him safe."

"But—"

"Come! Come!" the squirrel was squeaking. Edmund glanced at him, jumping up and down on the horse's neck. "Come quickly!"

Edmund gulped. And he tossed himself over the saddle, carefully gathering Peter in his arms, keeping him secure with one hand. And with the other, he snapped the reins once. And the horse was racing into the woods. Edmund glanced back and saw the screaming Narnians run for their lives, the Ogres still laughing. Some were already feeding—

And that was the first time Edmund, very justifiably, emptied the contents of his stomach on the ground.

"Peter? Pete?" Edmund said, tapping his brother's cheek. Peter blearily opened his eyes. And screamed a horrifying, pain-filled scream. Edmund covered his mouth with his hand, shushing him with a finger on his lips. "You can't—you can't scream, okay? I know it hurts. It hurts very badly, but please you can't. Some of them might still be here."

Peter barely nodded through his shivers, but Edmund uncovered his mouth. Peter pursed his lips, curling his hand into Edmund's tunic, making his knuckles turn white. Then he was gasping rapidly, but he never screamed. "E…Eddie…Ed!" he yelled, convulsing, clutching even more tightly to his brother's tunic.

"I know. But hush. It's okay. It'll be okay. The pikes missed the organs, Peter. Aslan was with us. I—I need to sew the wounds, Pete."

Peter's expression turned into a fearful one. He was sobbing like a scared child. "P…please…Ed…"

Edmund stroked his hair, kissing his forehead. "Shh…just hush. You'll be fine. Promise. Have you got them, Nightglow?" Edmund asked, turning to see the squirrel rummaging through contents of the bag hanging from the saddle.

"Edmund!" Peter screamed again, gasping more desperately. Edmund gathered his brother in his arms, cradling him.

"It'll be okay. It will. Just focus on my voice, Peter. Can you do that?" Peter gave the vaguest nod. "That's good." Edmund rocked his brother, holding him more securely against his chest, trying his hardest to ignore the ribs flashing through the blood. "It's not even that bad, Peter," Edmund lied, both to his brother and himself.

"It's not even that bad. Just a gash," he whispered into his hair, still rocking him. Peter had gone quiet now, curling further into Edmund's chest.

"Just focus on my voice and it won't hurt anymore. Just listen to my voice. Think about Cair, okay? About Susan and Lucy. Can you imagine Susan braiding Lu's hair?" Peter nodded again, swallowing the blood that had risen in his throat. "That's it then. Think about our sisters. Remember when Lucy put a frog in Susan's bed?" Edmund asked, cradling him still.

"Y…y's…"

"And then Susan took revenge adding chilli to her tea."

Edmund wanted to burst into laughs to see his brother smile. "That's it. That's it, Peter. Think about our sisters." Edmund kissed his brother's hair. And then patted his cheek when his eyes began drooping. "No, no, Peter. You can't sleep. Can't sleep, okay?"

Peter nodded, burying his face into Edmund's chest.

"That's good." Edmund turned. "Nightglow! Hurry, he's losing blood!" Edmund stroked his brother's hair again. "Not you, no. Of course not, Peter. You're fine. Not even hurt. You're just fine." He kissed his cheek, gathering him, holding him even closer to himself.

"N't…n't hu't?"

"No, no, you're not. You're just fine, brother. Nightglow?"

"I have it!" the squirrel squeaked, skittering towards the brothers, holding a bag twice his size above his head. He put it down when he reached Edmund.

"Thank you, cousin," Edmund said, smiling grimly at the squirrel. "Now go find water."

And Nightglow hopped away.*

Edmund turned back to his brother. He settled him down on the bloodied blanket. Peter groaned, pursing his lips again in order not to scream. Edmund kissed his forehead. "You have great endurance, Peter. Just hold on and you'll be fine."

Edmund then cut Peter's tunic with the small knife, and then stripped it off. The white shirt wasn't white. But red from every inch. Edmund gulped, pushing aside the nausea. He stripped off his shirt as well, now revealing just how bad the wound was. Oh, Aslan. Peter's left side was practically just bone, missing chunks of meat. He could see his ribs. Peter gasped, jerking up suddenly. Edmund held him down, shushing him. He rested his forehead against his brother's.

"Look at me. Look at me, Peter." Peter did, gazing deeply into his eyes. "You. Are. Fine."

The words seemed to have some effect on his brother for he settled down, relaxing a bit, though he was still gasping. Then Edmund rummaged through the bag. He picked a rag and fed it to his brother. "Bite down on it." Peter did, gagging at the medicinal smell. "Try grinding your teeth. Yes, that's it. Just keep doing that. Focus on that."

As he said this, Edmund pulled out a long needle from the bag, wincing to see the rough thread. Should he do this? He shook his head. "Nightglow! Water, have you found it?"

"Yes! Yes! Here, King Edmund!" Nightglow said, pulling out a large bottle of water from the bag. He almost crumbled under its weight but managed to bring it to him.

Edmund rubbed the squirrel's tiny head, showing appreciation. "Thank you very much, cousin. Do one more thing for me. Find us shelter. It should be hidden, deep into the woods. Maybe between two trees?"

"Yes, yes, of course, King Edmund!"

And he hopped off again.

"Ed?"

Edmund blinked. "No, Peter, you can't spit it out. Bite down on it," Edmund said, picking the now wet and bloody rag from the ground.

"It…It hu'ts…" Peter slurred out, eyes drooping. He'd lost too much blood.

Edmund patted his cheek. When he didn't wake, he slapped him. "Peter!"

Peter's eyes shot open. Vision blear and hazed.

"Bite," Edmund commanded, shoving the rag into his mouth again. "That's it."

Peter stiffened when Edmund poured the water over the wounds, cleaning them with another rag.

"Focus on the clouds, they're so floaty, aren't they? So white. So free. So high above us. Only the wind controls them, right? They follow only the wind. They can give us shade. Give us rain. Or sometimes storms. Magical, is you ask me. Don't you think so, too, Peter?"

Edmund continued rambling, pinching Peter's skin in order to get the needle through. Peter would stiffen but then relax at Edmund's words. "And they're so pretty. Like cotton candy. Do you remember cotton candy, Peter? Pink and cloudy. It was so delicious. Maybe we should have the cooks at Cair make cotton candy. Lucy would love it."

Peter convulsed, biting hard on the rag, when the needle pierced his skin again, going deeper, almost to the ribs now. He had to do this. When the needle was out, leaving the thread behind, Edmund smiled at his brother like he was a child who'd just braced himself through something only mildly painful. "There you go, Pete. That wasn't so hard, was it? Now, think about trees. Focus on my voice. Trees. Hmmm. What can one say about trees, Peter? In the other place, the trees weren't alive. But in Narnia—in Narnia, Peter—"

Peter jerked up again when the needle cut deep into his skin. Edmund stroked his forehead, holding him down by his head. His bloody fingers slid over Peter's face as he continued to soothe him. Peter's breathing was now ragged, in the form of rapid gasps. Edmund momentarily shut his eyes, trying to bring back some poise. Then he gulped, smiling to see the needle once again slide out of the flesh, leaving the thread to sew together the meat. "There you go, Peter. See? It wasn't that hard after all. Done. And done."

And it really was done, the needle swept out of the last of the cuts. Edmund leaned down to the cut the thread with his teeth. Peter was barely keeping his eyes open, now limp on the ground, exhausted from the pain. Edmund tapped his cheek once to ensure he wouldn't drift off and then picked the bottle again.

"Hush. Hush, now," Edmund said, taking the rag out of Peter's mouth. "You won't scream, will you? The hard part's done. This will hurt just a bit."

Slowly and deliberately, he poured the water on the stitched wounds, cleaning off the blood from the sides. Have you seen a cloth that is far too small to be stitched but has been sewed anyway? The sides around the stitches are stretched, almost bundled up. That was what Peter's skin looked like. Only in a much more grotesque and bloody way. Edmund fought the urge to vomit at the sight. He went on to clean the wounds, hoping it would look better when washed. Peter, amazingly, never uttered a word through it all. Never squeaked. Never yelped. He endured it silently. As if he didn't feel anything now. Edmund stroked his cheek, forehead wrinkling.

"Peter? Peter, blink if you can hear me."

Peter blinked. Edmund swallowed. It hit him. He'd gone numb. After so much pain, he couldn't feel more of it. "Peter, can you say something? Say Aslan."

Peter blinked. He tilted his head towards him, eyeing him. Then he said with so much clarity that for a second Edmund forgot he was dying, "Aslan."

Tears filled his eyes but he blinked them away. "Thank you. Thank you, Peter. Let's get you up."

Now, this was going to be difficult to do. Edmund had barely managed to get him off the horse without dropping him. And he had dropped him when they'd gotten off. Carrying his brother was an entirely different matter. Even now, even so thin and weak, Peter weighed at least twenty pounds more than him**. And he couldn't drag him with that wound. It would ruin the stitches. Oh, Aslan help him. He gulped, sliding his right arm under Peter's bare shoulders and the left under his knees. And with all his might, he tried getting up. Expectedly, he couldn't lift him to an inch, only make Peter groan in pain. Edmund let Peter slump down; he began gasping again. Edmund brushed back his hair, attempting to soothe him, ease his pain. Slowly, Peter was quiet again, staring at the sky as if in a trance. Edmund blinked back more tears.

"I'll be back in a second, Peter. Keep your eyes open. Stay awake."

He began getting up but Peter's weak hand grabbed his sleeve, only fingers holding the fabric, his wrist hadn't even left the ground. "Don't go. Please don't go. It's cold."

Cold. It was cold. Edmund cursed himself. "I'll be right back. Promise." He smiled at his brother, slowly bringing down Peter's hand. He pressed his hand on his brother's, reassuring him. "I'm just going to fetch you a blanket, Peter. Okay?"

Peter nodded, giving him a solemn smile. Edmund kissed his forehead. And then with all the will he had, he stood up. He found another blanket in the horse's saddle. Sending a grateful prayer to the Lion, Edmund scurried back to his brother. He managed to get the ruined blanket slide from beneath him, letting the warm glass shield him from the cold. Then he spread the blanket over him. But Peter was still shivering. And an open wound could get infected. Edmund turned to the healer's kit. He found some herbs; they were antiseptics. Edmund made a paste with them, black and green, and frankly, not very pretty-looking. He applied it onto Peter's side, making him groan and tense in the burning sensation. Edmund hushed him with more soothing words.

He took off his chain-mail, feeling extremely light all of a sudden. Then he stripped off his tunic and then his shirt. Suppressing a shudder in the cold, he cut his shirt into long, wide strips with the knife. He wrapped Peter's torso with them, having to turn him to his side, hence add to the pain. Edmund hated to see Peter grit his teeth in order to avoid screaming. Then he rolled him to his back, satisfied to see his securely wrapped in the bandages. He slid down his tunic to Peter's neck. Then slowly lifted his arms, letting them slide through the long sleeves. And then pulled down the tunic by its hem, clothing Peter once again. Then he spread the blanket over him again, tucking its edge under Peter's chin. Peter's eyes were drooping.

Edmund smiled at his brother. "It's okay. You can sleep now. You can sleep, Peter."

And so, Peter slept.

When Peter finally woke, it was night. He gazed around, twisting his neck to his side, not having the strength to move himself. There was a crackling fire beside him, a blanket over him, a blanket under him, and a squirrel digging its teeth into a nut. And was it…glowing?

"King Peter! You're awake!"

Peter blinked. He tried to get up, but then he had to bite back a scream, and decided maybe he was better off lying down. The squirrel hopped onto his chest and Peter had to dig his chin into his neck to get a good a look at him. "Cousin, where am I?"

"Oh, thank Aslan! You're not dead!"

"Should I be?"

"No, of course not, King Peter. It's just that King Edmund has been crying so, so much. And even though he hasn't eaten anything, he's vomited twice. I think he's sick, King Peter. He won't admit it."

"And where is he?" Peter asked, glancing around once again, snapping his neck to his sides. "Edmund?"

"Peter!" came Edmund's relieved voice. Yet shaky. "Peter, you're awake! You're awake!"

Peter turned to his brother, and gasped. "Ed! Edmund, you're—"

"I'm fine. I am. You are not. We need to clean the wound again. But don't go to sleep. Don't—"

"You're not fine, Edmund! Your chest is covered in scratches! And is that…is that a wolf's bite?"

Edmund grabbed his shoulder, clutching to it, hiding it from Peter's view. He sat down on a log of wood, rummaging through a kit. A healer's kit. There was a hammock swinging between two trees, two wooden bowls filled with boiling soup. Peter blinked. "Edmund? Did you do all of this?"

"How do you feel?" Edmund said, looking up.

"What do you mean? I'm fine. You're the one that's—"

"No, do you feel dizzy? Head heavy? Pain?"

"No, I'm fine. I don't feel anything. But Edmund, you need to—" Peter's eyes widened. "Edmund!" His brother was sticking a needle into his arm, not even wincing. Then he stood up, swaying on his feet. He knelt beside him.

"This'll hurt a little," he said, and then without any warning, plunged a needle into his arm, making him hiss. Peter blinked at his brother.

"What are you doing?"

Edmund didn't reply, just flicked his wrist, gritting his teeth. Peter glanced down. At the blood filled tube between them***. What the bloody hell?

"Edmund?"

"Shut up, please. This hurts much as it does."

"Are you—are you giving me your blood?"

"Yes. I thought it had killed you. But maybe not."

"Edmund! Stop this nonsense!" Peter yelled, twisting and turning under the blanket. But Edmund pinned his down with only one arm. Edmund hissed, biting his tongue in pain. "Edmund, please! You'll die! You're bleeding already!"

"I'm fine. You need it. You really need it. And besides, it's done."

Edmund pulled the dripping needle out of his arm. And then out of Peter's. Peter wanted to scold his brother, tell him he was a mad-case. But the sudden, sheer pain in his side didn't allow him to. He screamed, and Edmund instantly covered his mouth, cutting off his voice. "You can't scream, Peter. Please. I just fought a wolf who'd smelled us. If the Ogres find us…"

"King Edmund! The soup's getting cold!" Nightglow said. Peter glanced at him. He really was glowing. But he couldn't focus on that for long. Another wave of pain swept through his side. A burning pain.

"Hush, cousin. Fetch some water from the river. We have to re-do your stitches, I'm afraid."

"My what?"

But Edmund had already rolled down his blanket and pulled up his tunic. No, Edmund's tunic. Oh, what had his brother gone through? What had happened? "Ed?" Peter said through gritted teeth. But his brother shut him up with a rag in his mouth. "'Muuunnn…" Peter mumbled through the rag, trying to spit it out.

"No, Peter! You'll have to bite down on it. Because this will really hurt," Edmund said, scraping something off his side. Herbs, Peter realised bitterly. Then Edmund's expression twisted into a horrified one. "Oh, no. No, no, no, no. How?"

Finally spitting out the filthy rag, Peter asked, "Edmund?"

"I think it's infected, Peter. It's—Oh, Aslan!" he exclaimed, burying his face in his hands. "Oh, Peter. No, don't look!"

But it was too late. Peter's head already swirling. He suppressed the urge to throw up. The sight was absolutely gruesome. There was pus seeping out of the very temporary stitches, mixed with the blood he was still losing. "Edmund. Ed, that's…"

He let his head limp back, licking his dry lips. "I'm dying, aren't I?"

"No! No, you can't. Absolutely not. I'll fix this. I'll—"

"You did all you possibly could have, Edmund. I…I think I need to sleep…" Peter said, feeling warm the blood pool beneath him. He let his eyes droop. But a slap woke him.

"You don't. And you won't. We just need to get through the night. The horse will lead our sisters and Orieus—if he's alive—to us. Nightglow?"

The squirrel that was still glowing looked up. "Yes, King Edmund?"

"You must go. Find help. Go now. Stay on the trees, out of sight."

"But—"

"Now!"

The little squirrel flinched. Flustered, he jumped off and about, lost. Then he nodded, and hopped into the woods, looking very uncertain. Peter blinked, staring at the stars. Edmund left his side and he glanced at him. "Ed?"

"I can't keep you alive if I die, now can I?" he said, picking up another needle. Silver and sharp.

"Edmund, you can't do this yourself—"

"I can. Now please, shut up."

Edmund groaned, digging the needle into his shoulder. Peter couldn't help the tears. He was twelve. Edmund was twelve! Peter looked away, unable to bear the sight of the needle prickling his brother's skin. When Ed was done—his shoulder stitched and washed—he helped Peter drink some of the water Nightglow had brought them. And fed him some of the soup. Then cleaned his wounds, re-did the stitches—Peter didn't scream once, strengthened to see Edmund bear so much agony silently—and applied the gooey paste again. Then he helped him wear the tunic—despite Peter's protests—and slid down beneath the blanket beside his brother, shifting closer, smothering him into a hug.

"Edmund?" Peter asked, kissing his brother's hair.

"Don't you dare," he whispered into Peter's shoulder. "Don't you dare say goodbye. We just have to stay awake. They'll find us. Lu's cordial will heal you and then…"

"And then what?" Peter asked when Edmund trailed off, gritting his teeth, almost seething.

"We can talk about it later. No, hey! Keep your bloody eyes open, Peter!"

"But—"

"We'll talk. Do you remember the day Lucy was born?"

Peter blinked, looking down at his brother. "What?"

"When Lucy was born. Mum brought her home and there was almost an instant glow in the house. Everyone was laughing. No one was sad. I remember because I was so happy to see everyone happy. Do you remember, Peter? Do you remember the laughs?"

"I do. But Ed, you weren't even two years old. You can't—"

"And when Mum would bake cookies. We'd always fight over the last one left. You, me, Susan, and Lucy. I miss that. Fighting for food. There's too much food for us to fight now."

"Edmund, you're not making any sense."

"And how you'd creep into my room in the middle of the night to scare me. And I'd cry when you'd boo me. I was five, mind you. Of course, I cried. Then you'd have to hear Mum's scolding. But I still wouldn't stop crying. Then you'd coddle me the entire night and fall asleep holding me like a teddy bear."

"Ed—"

Edmund yawned, fluttering his eyelids. "And remember when Su found a rabbit? It was the whitest rabbit. I haven't seen a rabbit whiter than it even here. And I…I…" Edmund's head limped onto his shoulder.

"Oh, Eddie…"

Peter gently shook his brother. But he didn't wake. Peter smiled, brushing back his brother's hair, savouring that innocent smile. Oh, he'd missed it. His brother snuggled closer, mumbling something in his sleep. Then he groaned. Peter winced at the sight of Edmund's shoulder. He traced his hand over it, the stitches grated his fingers. He'd done a good job.

"Oh," Peter said, feeling the blood seep out again, soaking his tunic. There was no way he'd last the night. He could feel himself burning up. With a fever on top of everything…

"I'm so sorry, little brother," he said, kissing his brother's forehead. "I love you. I love you too much."

The moon rose. The stars began twinkling. The wind soughed past. Dizziness swept over him as time went by. But he refused to sleep. He owed that much to his brother. He kept sleep at bay for hours, slapping himself every time his eyes started drooping. But when the Sun rose above the eastern horizon and the birds began singing in the twilight, Peter slept.

"You should let it heal naturally," said a voice far too familiar to not recognise. Edmund smiled. He was alive.

"I don't like to see him in pain," replied another. Peter.

"Then why didn't you let Queen Lucy give him the cordial?"

"Because he'd never forgive me. Ed? Eddie?" Peter asked, stroking his brother's cheek with his thumb. "Ed, come on, time to wake up. Rise and shine, eh? Ed?" Edmund turned to his side, away from his brother. He pulled the blanket over his head, wrapping himself with it, and feigned sleep. "Edmund? Come on, what is it?" Peter asked, tugging at his blanket. Edmund didn't budge.

"I'll inform the Queens," said Orieus. Edmund could hear his retreating stomps.

"Edmund! This is childish!" Peter exclaimed when Edmund continued to act he was asleep and insisted on not replying. He snatched his blanket from his brother, tucking it underneath him. He blinked away his tears, shaking off Peter's hand.

"Go away!"

"Ed! Will you please just talk to me? I'm sure we can sort it out."

"We can't. Now leave."

"Edmund—"

"You killed yourself!" Edmund roared, jolting up from the bed. Peter blinked at his brother. "Why?" Edmund asked, voice bold.

"Why what?"

"Why did you throw yourself in front of that club?! How were you even there?"

Peter swallowed, sitting beside Edmund on the bed. Peter extended his hand towards his brother. But Edmund flinched away from him. Peter curled his hand into a fist, bringing it down to rest on his lap. "I followed you. The moment you left, I went after you. Had some help, of course. The fauns agreed to hide me."

Edmund wiped away a tear. "And why did you—How could you?!"

"Edmund—"

"Do you know what I went through? Do you have any idea what…" He shut his eyes, wishing the memory of his brother screaming and convulsing in pain, begging him to stop would go away. "Does 'I threw up thrice in a single day' sum it up for you? You screamed and screamed and SCREAMED! That club had practically cut you in half, Peter. And…and…"

"Ed? Edmund!" Peter yelled, pulling his brother close, rubbing his chest. "Hush. Stop it, Ed. Just breathe. I'm fine. We're both fine now."

Edmund finally let his tears fall, wanting to let it out, burying his face into Peter's neck, clutching to his shirt. He sniffed. "How many did we lose?"

"Forty. We would have lost many more if Susan and Lucy hadn't followed me." Peter chuckled. "Susan slapped me, Ed."

"Well, you deserved it," Edmund replied, smiling. "What happened?"

"Nightglow led them to us. I woke after Lu gave me the cordial. But you only woke now. You were practically frozen in the morning."

"And Orieus?"

"He was barely holding on by the time our troops got there. But we saved him. And thank Aslan for that. Narnia wouldn't survive without him. Because we wouldn't survive without him."

Edmund looked over Peter's shoulder, then nuzzled into his chest again. "Where are we? Not in Cair."

"At the bank of River Rush. We made camp since so many needed to be treated."

"Now tell me, why?" Edmund whispered into his neck, shoving aside the horrible memories.

Peter smiled. "Let me tell you what would have happened if I hadn't." Edmund blinked at his brother. "The club would have struck you. And you would have died right then and there. And I would have watched you die."

"That's what should have happened," Edmund murmured.

"And then—" Peter continued, frowning at his brother. "—I would have died, too."

"No, you wouldn't have, Peter," Edmund said, furrowing his brows.

"Wouldn't I have?" Peter smiled, pulling his brother closer. "If I'd lost you on that battlefield, Ed, I'd have lost myself. First, my soul. Then, my sanity. And then my life."

"You're exaggerating, Peter. Sure you would have survived. You can't throw yourself into harm's way for me. You're the High King! I have to protect you!"

"You know what I am before I am the High King?" Peter asked. "I'm your big brother. And it's my duty to protect you. It has been that way since the day you were born." Peter pressed a tender kiss to his hair, rubbing his back when he started sobbing. "I'm so sorry, Ed. I'm so sorry for everything you had to go through, had to witness. You're only twelve and you had to…" Peter shook himself. "Will you forgive me?"

Edmund gave a soft snicker. "Of course," he whispered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Peter smiled to hear excited laughs and his sister's inquiries about their brother's health. "Now, I've made my time of fussing. It's your turn. Brace yourself. Here they come!"

"Edmund!"

Fin

*I was originally planning on making Edmund go through all this alone. And then I thought, nope, he's twelve. And it doesn't matter he's a King. Twelve-year-olds can't do that. Come to think of it, he still shouldn't have managed to do any of that. But eh. He is a King.

**That's about 10 kg.

***I honestly had to research quite a bit on that. Vein to Vein transfusion is very risky and uncommon but it can be done. And don't blame Edmund for not knowing better! He's not a doctor. How was he supposed to know they should have the same blood-type? But it's a good thing they're brothers and do, right?

Author's note: Well, here! I know it was excessive gore and too detailed. But I thought if our characters are actually going through it, we can at least survive reading it, right? I hope you like it, Cherry2506! This was for you. :-)

And if any of you have prompts you'd like me to write, or characters you'd like to see in pain, I'm willing to give it a try. So far I've only written Peter and Edmund whump. These boys deserve a rest.

Response to P: Thank you! You have no idea how nice it is to hear that!

With love,

~Pacifia