A/N: School very nearly killed my love for literature, but here I am, continuing with my only joy left in life…(I know, I am a very sad person) so anyway. SORRY for the wait, but I had to finish my bastard History essay before I could write this. Thanks to all who reviewed!

To Capegio: Yes, you can have a cookie. As for the fanart…it's your choice. I don't mind! Cifel does look almost completely human apart from the red eyes and pale skin. Why not pick a scene with Cifel and Edmund? I myself have drawn sketches of all three of the boys, along with Galgorus, and let me tell you, drawing armour is a bitch. But I am honoured you want to do a fanart! Do I get to see it? (gets all excited)

To coolmarauders: My God, Cifel has a fan…

Cifel: WHA?

WARNING: Vivid descriptions of post-torture and some violence. If you're a bit squeamish, I would suggest skipping the first and last section. It's not that bad, but I felt a little disturbed and I'm the one writing it…

Chapter seventeen

It hurt.

It wasn't supposed to hurt.

He was a superior being, a guardian of the realm. Nobody could make him feel, make him hurt. Yet he did. And it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact he was lying in a pool of congealed, cold blood. It was sticky, and clung to him like tar. He didn't want to lick it off, send it back down into his body. He made a vague movement as if to send it flying away, and watched in fascination as his arm, which was hanging off his shoulder at an awkward angle, gave a slight twitch then went still at his order.

He let out a soft growl of frustration, and felt along the length of bone for a shard, or break. He found none. He touched the shoulder, and fingered the gap between where ball and socket were supposed to meet.

He snapped it back into its rightful place, feeling the bones grind and splinter under the pressure. It would have to do. He could always mend it properly, once he was stronger.

Yes…he just had to regain his strength, that's all. There was nothing else wrong with him. What possibly would be? He had forgotten how to feel.

So why did he hurt so much?

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Peter jerked awake with a soft gasp as something jarred his side. His head span, and he squinted as the dim light of dawn made his eyes ache. He shook his head from side to side to dispel the wispy mantle of sleep which dulled his senses, and attempted to raise himself up onto his elbows.

Only to find his left arm was trapped under something very solid and moving, and was rapidly becoming numb with lack of circulation.

He reached up with his free right hand to rub at his eyes, before glancing down only to wince as his left side, in the area of his stomach, was viciously assaulted once more. He frowned in groggy confusion as what he now identified as a rather blurry view of his younger brother jabbed him in the stomach with his elbow as he turned in his sleep.

"Hmmm…Ed?"

His voice was quiet and coarse, and he coughed slightly, clearing it and carefully rising to his knees, arm still clutched in a painfully tight grip by both of Edmund's hands. Peter sighed exasperatedly, but smiled fondly, feeling slightly nostalgic. It had been years since he had awoken to find his little brother buried in his side, having somehow moved from his own room all the way across the house to clamber into Peter's bed.

But it had only been when the nightmares had struck.

Edmund had always suffered such things, since he was a very young child. He was a light sleeper, and had a very active imagination. These two combined meant that many nights the Pevensie family would be woken by a hoarse scream in the middle of the night, and rush to their youngest member's side. Lucy hadn't yet been born, then.

After about two years of this occurrence almost three times a week, more often than not, their Father had had a very serious talk with Edmund about what precisely he was so afraid of. Edmund had either not known, or was reluctant to tell. Peter remembered eavesdropping on the conversation outside the door, listening to their father berating Edmund for being so childish, and that 'a problem shared is a problem halved'. Their father always said things like that.

That night, Edmund had been so terrified he refused to go to bed. Their mother had begged him, their father had dragged him into his room, kicking and screaming, but he only ran back outside as soon as their father let him go. Eventually, their parents had decided to let him face his penance for his 'tantrum' alone, and left the door to his room open in case he changed his mind. Peter had heard him wandering around the house for hours, before finally settling at the top of the stairs.

Peter couldn't bear the thought of his brother sitting shivering, cold and alone, at the top of those steep, shadowed stairs. So he got out of his own warm, cosy, quilt covered bed, and went to join him.

They had sat in comfortable silence for hours, and slowly, Edmund stopped shivering, and began to grow tired. Peter could still remember his little brother leaning his head against Peter's shoulder and closing his eyes. And Peter had smiled for the first time in months.

Their parents found them the next morning, curled up together in a bundle, precariously close to the top of the stairs. After that, almost every night Edmund would creep away from the shadows which plagued his sleep, and cling to his brother until their malice was vanquished by Peter's warmth.

But that all changed when Lucy was born. Edmund was no longer the youngest, no longer needed such protection. Peter had woken on the morning of Lucy's birth, cold and alone, and felt that perhaps it had been he who was more dependant on his brother needing him than Edmund's actual need of him.

But as long as they did still need him, even if by the tiniest bit, he would be there. Beyond that…he didn't know what was left for him.

"Peter…"

Peter was jerked back to his senses, and looked down expecting to see his brother's dark eyes staring back at him. But Edmund's face was hidden, his arm flung over his face, and he tossed in his sleep again, moaning. Peter frowned, and reached out his right hand to carefully pull Edmund's arm away from his face. It was scrunched up like a child's, as though in pain.

"Edmund?"

"…Peter…? No…"

Peter frowned. Edmund hadn't had a nightmare in years. Not since he was about four years old, when Lucy was born. Why had they suddenly returned? What was it that happened, at the witch's castle?

And more importantly, why wouldn't Edmund tell him?

"Edmund. I'm right here. Wake up."

Peter kept his voice at a level of forced calm. There was no use in two of them growing jittery, it was the last thing that would encourage Edmund to wake up. He placed a hand on each of his brother's shoulders, and shook him gently.

"Ed, I need you to wake up now. Come on, we've got a long day ahead of us."

Edmund turned towards him, fisting his hands in the thin cotton of Peter's sleeve. Peter shook him again, harder this time, pushing the poisonous panic down to the very pit of his stomach.

"Ed, wake up!"

Quite suddenly, Edmund convulsed and shot upwards, letting out a strangled scream of something intelligible as he did so. He was trembling violently, and his hair was plastered to his forehead, his skin clammy and pale. Peter put a hand on his chest, halting Edmund's frenzied attempt to jump to his feet.

"Edmund, look at me."

Edmund's eyes took a long time to focus, and when they finally met Peter's own, they widened impossibly and filled with utter shock.

"Peter!"

And Edmund had grabbed him painfully hard by the upper arms, staring at his older brother as though he was a ghost; or that he couldn't quite believe Peter was real. He reached up a trembling hand, which hovered just a hair's breadth away from Peter's cheek, before it touched it, and Edmund jerked it back as though he had been hit by an electric shock. Peter blinked, and frowned.

"What is it?"

Peter asked softly, trying to calm his brother, but to no avail. Edmund tore his gaze away from Peter's face and down to his torso, where his shirt was crumpled as though grabbed. Of course, it had been. Edmund had elbowed it several times during his sleep.

"But…this was…"

Edmund muttered, frenziedly probing the soft material at Peter's midsection. Peter grabbed his hand in a gentle, but firm grip, and Edmund's dark eyes slowly raised to meet Peter's china blue.

"Edmund. Tell me. What is it?"

But Edmund shook his head, reaching down to lift Peter's untucked shirt, and froze as he saw the bruise forming there. Peter glanced down, too. It wasn't the worst type of bruise, but it was an ugly purple and blue hue. Peter winced and hissed as Edmund touched it, hastily pulling down the shirt again and clasping Edmund's hands in his own, forcing him to look at his brother again.

"Please, Ed."

"How…how did you get that? It was…there was…so much…"

Edmund shuddered and goose bumps rose up his arms, his eyes falling down to Peter's torso. Peter, frustrated, moved his hands to rest either side of Edmund's neck, tilting his chin up.

"Edmund, listen to me. I'm fine. It's just a bruise, that's all. You're just a bit rigorous in your beauty sleep. Whatever you saw, it wasn't real. Okay?"

Edmund swallowed thickly, but under the influence of his brother's firm, gentle tones, his shaking quelled, and he nodded slightly. Peter sighed in relief, and helped Edmund to his feet as he himself rose, wincing slightly as the bruise gave a nasty throb, and noting with annoyance that Edmund was still only a couple of inches shorter than him, reaching the bottom of his chin. True, he had only grown about two inches, but it seemed a lot.

It wasn't making things any easier.

"Hey, Ed. Can you go to the top of that ridge and see how close we are to the end of the valley, please? I'll get the packs sorted."

Edmund nodded, rubbed his eyes and shook his head to dispel the last clouds of sleep, and hurried off. Peter watched him go, smiling slightly. He was still needed, after all. It was a comforting thought.

Feeling elated, he turned to the packs, bending down and feeling his chest ache slightly as he did so. He coughed slightly to clear it, and hoisted the first up by the strap.

Which instantaneously snapped, sending the pack crashing to the ground. There was the sound of breaking glass, but thankfully, nothing else.

"Oh, bother it…"

Peter muttered, opening the pack and trying to find the source of the smashing sound. He found shards of green and silver coloured glass in a side pocket, and sighed, carefully picking each shard and placing it carefully aside. Well, it was no use crying over spilt milk, as their mother used to say. They could do without, for now. His throat only felt a slight tickle now and then.

He tossed the shards into a nearby clump of bushes, and thought no more of it, even as a small, shriveled snowdrop suddenly snapped stiff as if to attention, and burst into bloom, all traces of greenfly and any other ailments fading from it's now healthy green leaves.

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Lucifel, celestial being and Guardian of the realm, drew his hand back from the creature's chest; it's still weakly beating heart pulsating in his clenched fist. He detested resorting to such methods, but he had no sharp instrument handy to dispose of the creature with. He shuddered in revulsion, and turned away from the wolf's shuddering body, it's terrified golden eyes imprinted in his mind's eye. He let the organ drop from his hand, and raised his hands to study the hot, tar like substance clinging to them.

At least it wasn't his own this time.

He stared back at the witch's castle, looming, silhouetted against the rising run. His lip curled in disgust, and the familiar nauseous detestation rose like a rearing beast in his chest. Narnia was stirring; it's long slumbering hibernation from the plight of evil over. He would avenge his charge, if all else should fail.

"Oh, my poor realm. What has become of us, hmm? Are we truly destined to perish together?"

He smiled bitterly, as a soft, warm breeze caressed his hair and the cold, salty tears running down his trees. All over Narnia, streams crashed against their banks in an angry rile, trees shed their blossom to mirror the tears of their master, and the birds raised their eyes to the heaven and let out an anguished scream. Lucifel felt their strength flow once again through him, their warmth dispelling the long kept winter which had settled in his heart.

And they all wept as his shoulder blades contorted, growing, releasing coal black wings which shed inky coloured feathers sharper than a blade. They fell slowly to the ground, melding with the earth, silencing the cry which all of Narnia uttered. Lucifel crouched, and then shot upwards with an unsteady beat of his new limbs.

He had no time. The Son's of Adam were in grave danger.

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A/N: What HAVE Peter and Edmund got themselves into? A whole load of trouble, that's what. And what did Edmund see in that dream? As for Cifel, well…it was necessary. For reasons I shall not disclose.

For anyone who's wondering, yes, Cifel has wings. He is, technically, an angel. But he doesn't act like it for…certain reasons. Has anyone worked it out yet?

Next chapter, we discover just what Cifel is so concerned about, and precisely why it was maybe not such a good idea for human's to walk on two legs. See what you can predict from that information! Any ideas?

Cifel+

Galgorus: mmm…blood…

(Sigh) So yeah, review and maybe I'll go a little easier on my poor little OC's…but at least it isn't Ed or Peter, right? (angst fans shake their heads) guess not…well, fear not! They will have their fair share…very soon…(maniacal laugh)

(Cough) Review, if you can find the will in the bottom of your angst loving hearts.