Disclaimer: I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C.S. Lewis.

A/N: Okay, shameless plug here: I have just recently set up a Live Journal community called Brothers Born. It is a community dedicated to Peter and Ed's relationship as brothers (no incest, I'm afraid :sheepish smile: ). I'm not sure how many of you have LJ accounts, but if you do, please submit a request to join, and spread the word. If you'd like to see it, go to my profile page here and click on the "homepage" link, it should lead you right to it.

All right, now that I've got that out of the way…:grins slightly: Not sure how strictly accurate I am with my medical information, but as I said before, I'm no doctor. I do research what I write, but I have been unable to find a clear reference that I trust (and doesn't have all the medical terminology that's more like…er…Chinese to me; doctors and nurses, you're amazing for being able to wade through all that terminology and information). So I went on a limb here, and if my possible alteration of medical information offends anyone, I'm sorry. Anyway, third chapter's up, and I hope everyone enjoys it as much as they did the last two!

Reviewers: All 31 of you, thank you!

Characterization: Wow, I'm glad I did so well on this. Believe me, it's not easy :grins:. I think I have the boys' characters down all right in this next chapter, but I'm not sure about anyone else—so please let me know!

Flashbacks: I'm pleased so many of you like these. Yes, all chapters will have flashbacks as far as I know. It just works, you know? And I have so much fun writing them :grins and winks: Enjoy!

Many Thanks: Hermione Eveningfall, Jenn1, Frangipanigirl, TimeMage0955, Tex110, Eilwyn, Lina, SugarHighNutcase, amidnightkiss, Capegio, A Amelia Black, MaskedSoldier, Claudette, and Shauna.

"Speech"

/Personal Thoughts/

Multi-Chapter. Non-Slash.

.:Fever:.

Chapter III: Origins of Guilt

By Sentimental Star

(Narnia, Late Evening, Tree Village)

"Thank you for your help," a half-annoyed, half-grateful groan followed as the Fox quickly rolled to his feet and stood upright. "But I'm afraid that's all the cure I have time for."

Lucy's eyes widened slightly in the firelight. "You're leaving?"

The Fox pushed his ears back and bowed gracefully to her. "It has been a pleasure, my Queen, and an honor." He straightened up. "However, time grows short and Aslan Himself has asked me to gather more troops."

This caused a fair bit of excitement on the part of their small party.

A couple gasps and Mr. Beaver pressed eagerly, "You've seen Aslan?"

Mrs. Beaver actually clapped her paws together, smiling. "Oh, what's He like?"

He lifted his head from where he had been staring broodingly into the fire, feeling just as eager to hear this as the Beavers appeared to be, and a glance at his sisters revealed the same.

The Fox's eyes danced in the firelight as he turned to the Beavers, chuckling softly. "Like…everything we've ever dreamed of." Suddenly, he turned to Peter. "You'll be glad to have him at your side during the battle with the Witch."

He felt his stomach drop where he sat on a log, and looked down at the piece of bread he was turning over and over in his hands. Somehow, he didn't feel so hungry anymore, and the joy that had coursed through his veins at hearing "Aslan" spoken vanished as the impending situation smothered him.

Vaguely, he head Susan counter as kindly as she could manage, "We're not planning on fighting any Witch."

"But surely, King Peter…" the Fox's voice broke into his broodings again and he raised his head to find the Talking Animal gazing hopefully back at him.

He turned his head as Mr. Beaver finished, "We can't go to war without you."

It felt like the bars of a cage we closing in on him more and more rapidly. He glanced from Mr. Beaver, to the Fox, to Susan and Lucy, before tossing the bread back at his pack and gazing around at all of them, helpless frustration lending itself to his voice and in his countenance, "We just want our brother back."

And now he sat up, staring blankly into the fire, with the sleeping forms of Susan, Lucy, and the Beavers sprawled about their little clearing.

It was perhaps to his detriment that his was one of the noblest hearts that had ever beat in anyone's breast (although if he was told this he heatedly denied it). It led him to try and be strong, to shoulder all responsibility, and protect his siblings, mother, and whoever else needed protecting to the best of (and sometimes beyond) his ability.

It also caused him take the blame for anything that went wrong.

Usually his parents, friends, or siblings took great pains to point out that everything was not—indeed, could not be—his fault.

But no friend was here to tease him. No parents were here to refute him. And his siblings…the two girls were sleeping and Edmund…Edmund had gone to the Witch.

And Peter couldn't help but wonder if that was because of him, too.

He had gone through all the possible scenarios, and could only come up with one so starkly accusing that it cut him to the very marrow of his bones.

He had failed Edmund.

Lucy certainly had nothing to do with it, and not Susan either. He couldn't blame his younger brother because that just hurt too much. And Mr. Beaver had even said Edmund was the bait—the Witch wanted to catch all four of them, to stop the prophecy from coming true.

So what else could he think? Susan was right. This was his fault. He had brought them here and chosen the thrill of adventure over common sense.

Now if Peter had not been so intent on blaming himself, he might have recalled that Lucy was the first to find Narnia, Edmund the second, and that a mix of circumstances and perhaps fate had led them to hide in the wardrobe.

But Peter was Peter, and being Peter, he couldn't see anything beyond the fact that he had brought them into the wardrobe, allowed Lucy to choose what she wished to do, and then had followed a Talking Beaver to his dam.

It went deeper than that, too, and the very thought made him sick.

This wasn't the first time he had failed his little brother, although neither Edmund (even now), nor their parents would see it that way.

(Flashback, Three Years)

It had happened without warning, before Peter could even attempt to figure out what was going on.

His parents were with him in Eddy's bedroom. It was evening, and Mamma had brought up a small, portable cooker—the old-fashioned kind that Nanny used to have. All it was, really, was a tiny porcelain platform that went over a burning candle. It had four legs and a hole in its top, allowing the candle's flame to get through. A little dish was placed in that hole, and the candle hit the bottom of it, cooking whatever was inside. Mamma still had it because, as she liked to say, "Who knows when it might be helpful?"

As such, the Pevensie children, whenever they were sick, were oftentimes made to stay in bed, while their mother cooked soup and broth for them to take along with their medicine.

Mamma had just finished cooking chicken broth over the candle a few minutes ago, and now as Daddy held Edmund, and Peter watched from his chair, she softly encouraged the seven-year-old to take a sip of the broth she was holding up with a spoon, "Go on, sweetheart, eat some."

And Peter couldn't help the small smile tugging his lips up at the tiny, discontented frown on Eddy's face. His younger brother had never liked being sick, and he couldn't blame him. He didn't much like being sick, either.

But the seven-year-old was far too ill, and far too tired to do anything else. Slowly, he opened his mouth, allowing their mother to spoon some broth into it. Slowly and with great difficulty he drank it, their father rubbing soothing circles on Eddy's back as Peter had done two days before. Mamma clucked her tongue gently, "There. Good boy," and continued spooning it into his mouth.

Peter's small smile faded, and he swallowed uncomfortably as he went on watching. Edmund was so pale, so weak. Strangely, it felt as though he had to but reach out and touch his brother, and the younger boy would shatter into a million pieces.

He wasn't quite sure if he liked the idea of Eddy being so fragile.

"Mamma?" he spoke up finally.

Mamma looked up from where she was feeding Edmund, pushing away a few sweaty strands of hair with the back of her hand. "Yes, Peter?"

Peter hesitated, before slowly climbing onto the bed beside their mother. Eddy's eyes wearily tracked his progress, and he had to swallow again, pretending he hadn't seen. Lightly, he touched the rim of the small, shallow dish his mother was holding. "May…May I…?" but he trailed off, feeling rather uncertain.

She smiled. "Certainly, dear. Here," and carefully handed him the dish and spoon.

As their mother reached over to the nightstand near the head of Edmund's bed to snag a glass of water she had placed there, Peter turned, glancing up at their father a moment. Papa smiled slightly at him, giving a somewhat tired wink, before tenderly adjusting his hold on Eddy. "Come on, Ed, just a bit more," their father murmured encouragingly.

Wearily, Edmund raised his eyes to Daddy before they flickered back to Peter. He gave the tiniest of nods.

His older brother forced a warm, if small, smile of his own. Dipping the spoon into the broth, Peter brought it up, still steaming, and blew across it gently. Raising his head, he managed to make the smile widen a little and, holding the dish and spoon out, asked quietly, "Ready, Ed?"

Eddy gave another tiny nod and obediently opened his mouth.

Gingerly, Peter spooned the broth in as their mother had done. "Whoops," he whispered, still smiling slightly as he caught a little in the dish that hadn't quite made Edmund's mouth.

The seven-year-old looked as though he might have smiled in return, but the younger boy was so busy attempting to swallow it down that Peter couldn't quite be sure.

Daddy rubbed Edmund's back, making 'shhing' noises as his youngest son struggled through it.

His older son also swallowed again, against the sudden lump in his throat, and blinked back the heat that threatened to break free. In an effort to distract himself, as soon as Edmund managed to finish that spoonful, Peter carefully leaned forward and brushed a small kiss against his little brother's forehead. It didn't help much—the tears still seared behind his eyes. When he pulled away, it was a rather tremulous smile that he graced the younger boy with. "All…All right there, Eddy?" he murmured. If either of their parents noticed his voice crack slightly, they didn't mention it.

Edmund gave a weak—so unbearably weak—smile, and an equally faint nod.

Peter forced himself to smile again in return. "Good." And he held up the spoon once more.

It had continued in this manner for about ten minutes. At which point, Eddy turned his head away. The entire time, he hadn't spoken, but the message was clear. He didn't want anymore.

The ten-year-old, who had grown increasingly more upset as the minutes wore on, glanced up their father, sending a half-pleading, half-worried look at him. Papa nodded wearily, his own smile not particularly bright and eyes barely open.

"Will you have just one more sip, Ed? Please?" Peter asked thickly, holding up the spoon one last time.

Edmund turned back to him, frown tiny and petulant, rubbing at his chest.

Peter noticed his actions. "Does it hurt?" he whispered, momentarily lowering the spoon and casting a glance at it.

"Feels funny," the younger boy finally rasped, voice small.

Peter didn't know what to say to that. Daddy had started dozing against the headboard of the bed, still holding Eddy, and Mamma had gone to the bathroom a couple of minutes ago. Finally, clearing his throat and lifting his head, the older boy picked up the spoon again and held it out, "Maybe have some of the broth?" he suggested.

The seven-year-old didn't look happy, but nonetheless opened his mouth obediently.

However, this time when Peter began spooning the broth in, something went terribly, horribly wrong.

Edmund couldn't swallow the broth. He started coughing, he started shaking, he started choking. He couldn't breathe.

Peter very nearly spilled the dish he was holding at this drastic change of events and Edmund's terrified sobbing didn't help him any.

What happened next he couldn't really say; everything hazed together in one large, frightening blur. Mamma rushed in just as Daddy started violently out of his doze and rapidly began rubbing Edmund's back. His parents' voices shouted at each other, high-pitched with fear and worry. Someone snatched the dish from his hand. Mamma took Edmund from Daddy, rocking him in her arms as if he were two again, trying to calm him down. Daddy grabbed Peter and fairly dragged him from the room. His parents' voices blended together. Daddy let him go in the hall. The command he gave was harsh, made so by the fright his father felt, "Stay here, Peter!" Then Daddy rushed past him with Mamma and Edmund, down the steps and into the front foyer. The front-door slammed. The last glimpse Peter had of his little brother was of a nearly white face and dark brown eyes falling shut.

The car was started up in the driveway. He heard it speed off. And Peter was left more alone than he could ever remember being.

(End Flashback)

Wracked with violent tremors, Peter tumbled out of the memory and very nearly off the log. His mouth was horribly dry and his throat terribly tight. Why, of all times, why did these memories have to haunt him now? Of all times!

He glanced up, still trembling wildly, and saw the fire burning low in its coals.

Shakily, he reached out for the nearby pile of wood and added several new pieces of faggot to it, stirring the coals until the tinder caught and flared again.

His hands still hadn't stopped trembling.

When Dad and Mum had returned much later that night with Edmund, his younger brother had been unconscious. He had never told either of his parents, nor Ed, but whenever he remembered that evening it was always with the thought that he had somehow been responsible for the alarmingly sharp turn the scarlet fever had taken.

Logically, he should have known that couldn't be the case. But since when had he ever been logical about something like that?

And it made the Professor's question to him, what seemed like such an awful long time ago, that much more poignant: Would you die for them?

It was safe to say, he still didn't know. And that tore him up even more. Here they were, separated in a strange country, children expected to shoulder a grown-up's burden, and Peter wasn't even sure if he could protect them—even with his life.

Edmund was gone, going through who knows what torments. Susan and Lucy, the Beavers, the whole of Narnia, seemed far too trusting of him. And Peter felt very, very uneasy with that situation.

How could he defend an entire country, he wondered bitterly, when he couldn't even defend his own family?

"Son of Adam?"

The question came out of the darkness and from the direction of the Beavers, causing him to nearly give a startled yelp. It was only by sheer force of will that he kept himself from leaping off the log, too.

"My apologies," came the sheepish response as Mr. Beaver scurried into the firelight.

"It's all right," Peter whispered. /My heart's just hammering in my chest, is all/ he thought wryly, but did not speak, forcing himself to relax.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" the Talking Animal offered softly, comfortably situating himself by the fire.

Peter nodded, slowly climbing to his feet and starting to navigate towards where Susan and Lucy were curled together amongst the roots of one of the larger trees, just skirting the circle of firelight.

He halted midway when Mr. Beaver suddenly spoke again, "And don't worry, Son of Adam, Aslan'll know what to do."

The thirteen-year-old stiffened, but didn't dare turn, lest the kindly Beaver see the pain in his eyes and blame himself for it. Instead, he gave a small, wordless nod, and walked the rest of the way to his sisters.

He felt Mr. Beaver's eyes on his back the entire time.

As he lay down, curling himself around Lucy so that the youngest of them was comfortably sandwiched between he and Susan, Peter heard movement around the fire as Mrs. Beaver went to join her husband.

"Everything all right?" he could hear her ask quietly.

Then Mr. Beaver's response, "Think so, though I don't know for sure." He was silent a moment before suddenly continuing, "I have to wonder, though, and I don't mean to question Aslan's will, but…is it fair, to lay so much their shoulders? We can't help it, I know, they brought something with them that we haven't had in many long years, but still…is it fair?"

As his eyes slipped shut, Peter found himself wondering just how in the world he could live up to such a question.

TBC

A/N: And so, chapter three winds to its end. In spite of everything, I think this was perhaps one of my favorite chapters to write. I'm not sure if I got the Beavers' characterizations just right, but I did my best and I hope it shows.

Next Chapter: Origins of Healing