Disclaimer: I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C.S. Lewis. Reminder: some of the dialogue belongs to Disney and Walden Media.

A/N: Hey, everyone :grins:. I decided to leave off writing Nighttime Demons for a while (don't worry it's not indefinitely, or even terribly long). It's just…I've mapped out Fever by now, and I think it's probably best that I finish it up first before writing anything further on Nighttime Demons. Aside from the possibility of losing some of my readers to asphyxiation :worriedly eyes said readers: I have a bit of a treat coming up in a little while. Or at least, I hope it'll be a treat…:grins: and wanted time to work on it. Just to warn you guys. And now…on to the fic!

Reviewers: All 62 of you, thank you!

Many Thanks: Sara Wolfe, amidnightkiss, Frangipanigirl, Kelsey Estel, TimeMage0955, Capegio, Jenn1, Boleyn, ohcEEcho, straitjackit, Stormythomas, Sera and Tails, lembas7, A Amelia Black, Shauna, and Tex110

"Speech"

/Personal Thoughts/

Memories

Multi-Chapter. Non-Slash.

.:Fever:.

Chapter V: Origins of Sacrifice

By Sentimental Star

(Several Hours Later, Aslan's Encampment)

He stared in amused disbelief as his little brother, now dressed in Narnian clothes similar to his own, practically inhaled his breakfast. While Edmund had always had something of a hearty appetite, he couldn't quite recall ever seeing him this hungry.

Peter's face darkened and fell as he recalled the likely reason why.

Quickly, before any of his siblings caught sight of his expression, he picked up his cup from the table and went to lean against a nearby rock outcropping.

His siblings noticed his movement, but when they saw he did not intend to go far, turned back to their own meals. Edmund's gaze lingered on him a moment longer than the girls' did and Peter tensed slightly as he realized that among other changes, his younger brother had somehow become a bit empathetic. Vaguely he wondered if he'd ever be able to hide something from the younger boy again.

Edmund frowned slightly, sensing something a little off about the older boy, but realized he'd probably never pry it out of the thirteen-year-old. Shrugging helplessly, he turned back to his breakfast, but silently promised himself—and Peter—that he would keep an eye on his brother. If the older boy wanted to speak his mind, he would in time, and for now, the younger one decided to let him be.

When Edmund resumed attacking his food, Peter heaved a soft sigh and shut his eyes, rather relieved. The last thing he needed right now was for Edmund to become angry with him.

So, so, so much had happened over the past—how long had it been now? Three days? Four? Roughly that amount. He was tired of it. Tired of worrying after his siblings, tired of wondering how they were to get home—if they were to get home at all.

And, he realized with some alarm, he did not necessarily want to go home. This land, these people, they had called to something deep within him, and it was a call unlike anything else he had ever experienced. He wanted to answer it.

But his heart wouldn't let him put his younger siblings in anymore danger than they had been already. If Edmund, Lucy, and Susan stayed then they would likely be drawn into this war that Mr. Beaver, Aslan, Oreius, and many others were talking about. He couldn't allow it. He'd almost rather die than allow it.

As soon as he finished that thought, Peter abruptly straightened, shocked realization etching his face. /Did…did I just think that/ he wondered in astonishment.

Would you die for them?

Would you die for him, Son of Adam?

Swallowing, he glanced over at his three siblings where they were still eating breakfast. Edmund, apparently, was still inhaling his food.

Lucy was grinning at him, watching him as he ate. "Narnia's not going to run out of toast, Ed," she giggled.

Peter walked over to them, still in something of a half-daze. "Make sure you pack some up for the journey back," he spoke, his voice sounding not his own, as he sat on his cushion again.

Edmund gave him a slightly startled look, trying to swallow the last of his egg and toast, as Lucy frowned slightly at him.

Susan glanced up at him in surprise. "We're leaving?"

He set his cup down on the table. "You are."

She gave him a puzzled look for that.

Peter leaned forward, glancing around at all his siblings. "I promised Mum I'd keep you three safe. But that doesn't mean I can't stay behind and help."

Lucy looked slightly downtrodden. "But they need us…" He started as she abruptly put more force behind her words. "All four of us!"

He gave her a frown of his own. "Lucy, it's too dangerous! You almost drowned, Edmund was almost killed!"

"Which is why we have to stay," came the quiet interjection from Edmund at his left.

Startled, his three siblings glanced at him, Peter pulling back slightly as he tried to decipher where this was going.

Edmund fiddled with the tablecloth before taking a deep breath and raising his head, setting his jaw. "I've seen what the White Witch can do…and I've helped her do it." He shot a fiery look at each of his siblings. "And we can't leave these people behind to suffer for it!"

There was a beat of silence. Then Lucy smiled and took his hand, giving it a warm squeeze, while Peter sat back and, smiling, shook his head in fond amazement. He didn't think he'd ever been more proud of Edmund than he was at this moment.

Susan still hadn't said anything. Now, she stood her feet with a sigh, "Well, I guess that's it, then."

She crossed behind Peter over to her gifts, causing both he and the two younger ones to look up her. "Where are you going?" he asked.

Abruptly, Susan turned with a grin, picking up the bow, quiver, and horn. "To get in some practice."

Lucy hopped to her feet after the older girl said that, dropping a quick kiss on Edmund's cheek before joining their sister. Waving to their brothers, the two girls headed off in the direction of the practice fields.

Edmund quickly swallowed some of his juice, and took another swift bite of toast, before starting to climb to his feet.

Peter gently grabbed his wrist, holding him down. "Sit a minute, Ed. Eat a bit more. You look famished."

The younger boy blinked at him in surprise, but obediently sat and took another bite, leaving Peter to his thoughts.

Quietly, he examined the wrist he was holding and caught in his breath as he spotted a red mark that looked horribly like a rope burn. It had been tended to, treated, but it was still there.

Equally disturbing was the thinness of the wrist. "Ed…" he choked softly.

Edmund stopped eating and glanced inquiringly at him.

In response, Peter wordlessly held up the wrist.

Consternation flitted across the younger boy's face and he glanced down at his plate, no longer feeling hungry. "Oh," mumbled. "Witch."

Peter's breathing hitched and he slowly began to rub his thumb in soothing circles across the wrist, sight blurring and going unfocused, locked on the limb he held.

The last time he'd seen Edmund's wrist so thin was three years ago, two or three days after his bold declaration to their mother.

(Flashback, Three Years)

The doctor had left an hour ago, after hooking up Eddy to what Dad called an I.V. "He needs nutrients in his system," the man had explained, holding up Edmund's wrist in example. His hand nearly dwarfed it. "Otherwise, things will become much worse."

Peter hadn't seen how. Wasn't being unconscious bad enough?

The doctor had noticed him listening in, once again ensconced in the bed with his brother, and had seen his frown. Instead of clarifying his statement, however, the gray-eyed doctor had critically examined Peter's face, before patting his shoulder and turning back to his parents. Cocking his head in the older boy's direction, he had remarked around a small smile, "And best make sure this one gets some sleep. Don't want him to come down with anything, either."

Peter had scowled fiercely, then, protectively snatching back his little brother's hand with as much gentleness as he could muster. He wasn't going anywhere. Not even to sleep.

The man had chuckled softly at his actions, snapping his valise shut and picking it up, made his way out of the room.

The doctor's statement, however, had worried his parents enough that as Dad walked the other grown-up towards the door, he had asked, "Is there a chance Peter will come down with scarlet fever, too?"

The man had paused momentarily in the door to Edmund's room, glancing back at Peter who watched him unblinkingly. "Has he had scarlet fever before?" the doctor asked.

Dad nodded slightly. "When he was about a year old, or so."

That garnered a somewhat startled look from the doctor as he returned his gaze to Peter. "Well," he finally managed, "then you shouldn't have a problem. Children who have already had scarlet fever once do not usually get it again. If anything, it will be an ordinary cold or fever that he receives if he does not sleep some."

Clearly, both his father and mother were relieved. "Thank you, Doctor," Dad replied gratefully.

The doctor tipped his hat. "I shall return tomorrow to check up on him. Good evening to you, Mr. Pevensie, Mrs. Pevensie," and then he was gone.

This, unfortunately, was not necessarily good for Peter. "Peter…" their father began, slowly turning to face his oldest son.

"No," Peter retorted stubbornly. "I promised."

Although he felt hot and achy, although he felt dizzy, and his eyes felt overly bright, he absolutely would not leave.

His father frowned at the glazed look in his eyes, and coming over to him, felt his forehead. The frown deepened slightly, before he turned to Mum. "Helen," he prompted softly.

Mum stood and came around the bed, also pressing her hand to his forehead. When she pulled back, it was with an amused—albeit tired—grin. "Well, sweetheart, it seems you've managed to come down with a fever already. We'll have to make sure we tell the doctor tomorrow."

Peter actually pouted. "Mum! I'm perfectly fine!"

Which really was not the case—he really felt quite ill—but his determination to stay with his brother no matter what overrode that.

She sighed wearily and rubbed her forehead, fixing him with a stern look, "Peter. A good night's rest and a day in bed would do you good. You haven't slept at all since we brought Eddy home. He'll still be here when you come back."

"Listen to your mother, sport," Dad spoke up softly. "We've let you stay up this long (though not for lack of trying), and right now, what you need is a couple days to recuperate."

"You do, too," he replied—rather sulkily. His fever and exhaustion were making him difficult, and only one thought pervaded his mind at that point—he couldn't leave Edmund.

But his father was also exhausted. And just as stubborn. Well, nearly so. "All right, then, Peter," Dad spoke in a hard voice that he rarely ever used. "If you're going to make this difficult…"

In one swift motion he had crossed the floor and plucked Peter off the bed. Before the ten-year-old even realized it, he was undressed, put in his summer pajamas, and deposited in his own bed across the hall, tucked in snugly and with his father settled comfortably in an armchair at his bedside.

Peter scowled. "Why can't I stay with Eddy?"

"Because you're sick," his father answered steadily.

"But I promised--!"

His father cut him off with a slicing motion of his hands. "Peter. Enough. You're staying in bed and that's final. I know you promised Eddy you'd stay, but do you really think he'd want his older brother sick because he wouldn't take care of himself? You can help Mum and I tomorrow night. But for tonight and tomorrow during the day, you're confined to your bed. Understand?"

Peter frowned and gave an unhappy sigh, but at long last settled down under the covers. "Yes, Dad," he conceded grudgingly.

"Good," and his father placed a gentle kiss on his forehead before leaning back comfortably in his chair. "Sleep well, Peter."

But Peter did not sleep well. He woke several times during the night with feverish, half-imaginings that Eddy had disappeared or died or he was somehow too late or…

Several times during the night, he tried to creep out of his bed and to Edmund's room. Once he'd even made it as far as the door. But always, his father was there to pick him up and put him in bed again.

However, as the next day's dawn finally broke, his father at last gave into a deep, exhausted sleep. Peter woke again, half-clinging with fright to the last vestiges of his final dream. He gave a gasp, not fully aware of his surroundings, and scrambled out of his bed as fast as he could.

Vaguely, as he made it out the door, he realized someone should have been there to stop him, or pick him up. But no one was there.

He made it across the hall to his little brother's room in record time and, heaving open the wooden door, tumbled into the room—only to find his mother asleep in her chair beside Edmund's bed.

Eddy…was still on the bed. Still pale. Still small. Still breathing shallowly. But he was, at least, breathing…

And to Peter, that was all that mattered at the moment.

Shutting his eyes in gratitude, he started breathing easier himself, and once he had his pounding heartbeat back under control, he crept across the floor and slipped under the covers beside Edmund.

Putting his arms around his unresponsive little brother's tiny, shivering shoulders, he pressed a warm kiss to the younger boy's forehead, before lightly resting his own against it. His voice cracked as he whispered, "You're scaring me, Eddy."

His only response was the seven-year-old's head falling limply against his neck. Peter's voice cracked even more, several tears escaping to trickle down his cheeks, "You're scaring me."

(End Flashback)

"Peter! PETER!"

Someone was shaking him—rather frantically at that—and it jolted him out of his reverie. Not that he minded.

Shuddering slightly, he took in a big gulp of air and gazed—rather dazedly—at a terrified looking, older Edmund. "Yes?"

"Peter, you idiot! What'd you do that for?" the ten-year-old boy demanded, eyes wide.

Dimly, he realized he was still holding onto Edmund's wrist, although his arm was now somehow crossed over his chest and his younger brother was no longer sitting, but standing in front of him.

The other boy, seeing he was more or less back in the present, released a heavy sigh and at last let off clutching his shoulders, sinking back into the cushion he'd abandoned when Peter had gone into his—rather alarming—stupor. "You scared me," Edmund muttered, brushing back his dark hair somewhat self-consciously and keeping his eyes on his plate.

The older boy swallowed, righting his jumbled thoughts and finally releasing his younger brother's wrist. "I think I scared me, too," he finally whispered.

Edmund hazarded a glance at him. "Want to talk about it?"

Peter had enough presence of mind to blink at the ten-year-old in surprise—although he supposed he ought to get used to it. He gulped again. "N-Not particularly," he managed, shoving his own hand through his hair. "It-it was about your fever. You know, three years ago? And…and I'd much rather not think about it right now, thanks."

Edmund looked away again, but not before Peter caught sight of something in his eyes.

Frowning slightly, the thirteen-year-old reached out and gently tugged up his little brother's chin, forcing the younger boy to look at him. "Ed? You know that wasn't your fault, right?"

From the guilt flickering in the ten-year-old's eyes just before he averted them, Peter realized that he didn't. Or, at least, wouldn't see it that way.

His frown deepened. "Eddy, look at me."

Reluctantly, the younger boy did as he was bid. His dark eyes churned with turmoil, and at least a half-dozen emotions flitted through them.

"It. Was. Not. Your. Fault. All right?" he stated, slowly and deliberately.

Conflicting emotions still roiled through his little brother's eyes. "Yes, it was," the ten-year-old whispered.

And Peter realized he was talking about more than just the fever.

However, before he could so much as refute it, a sudden clopping of hooves against the ground alerted the two brothers to another's presence.

Peter glanced up…and was in enough time to see Edmund give a startled yelp, completely forgetting the train of their conversation for the moment, and dive behind him.

"Peter, what is that?" he hissed softly, staying quite firmly behind the thirteen-year-old with his hands clenched in the back of the older boy's tunic.

His brother glanced over his shoulder at him, raising an eyebrow in amusement, before turning back to face the intruder…and nearly laughing out loud.

A rather bemused Oreius stood there, watching the two princes with his own eyebrow raised. "Is this a bad time?"

Peter choked slightly on his laughter. "No, Oreius, it's fine." He turned back to his younger brother, snickering quietly, "Ed, he's a Centaur. You remember, from Greek mythology? And General of the Army."

"Oh," Edmund gulped, slipping out from behind the thirteen-year-old to stand at his side, but never going any further than that. "Hi."

And Peter had to laugh. /That's not exactly what you say to the General of an Army, I'd think./

Oreius merely raised his other eyebrow, although a hint of a smile pulled at his lips. "Hello. I trust you are well, Your Majesty? Better than last night?"

"Y-Yes, thank you," Edmund stammered, clearly still slightly overwhelmed.

Aslan bless Oreius, he didn't look the least bit perturbed. "Well, then, if you'll come with me, Your Majesties…I believe it is time for you to learn how to use your swords."

Peter grinned and followed after the Centaur as he set off, gently dragging Edmund along with him. "Swords?" the younger boy near-squeaked.

His older brother pulled him in for a one-armed hug, laughing softly. "Yes, Ed. Swords. You know, those sharp, metal contraptions that look a lot like a stick with a handle?"

Edmund managed to pull himself together enough to glare at Peter.

The older boy merely laughed again.

oOoOoOoOoOo

(An Hour Later, the Practice Fields)

"Come on, Ed, sword point up! Like Oreius showed us," Peter called as he and his younger brother cantered up to the Practice Fields on horseback where Susan and Lucy were using the archery range.

The two girls glanced up at them as they rushed by, swords clanging, and watched with smiles on their faces as the two boys sparred.

"En garde!" Edmund cried in return, bringing his sword down accurately on Peter's…if without the finesse that came with years of long experience.

Peter grinned, and slashed back, nearly knocking the sword out of his younger brother's hand as they continued to canter, out into the actual fields themselves.

"Hey!" Edmund laughed softly, tightening his hold on the hilt of the silver sword. They continued circling each other, still on horseback, and would have resumed sparring, had Mr. Beaver not chosen that moment to come running up to them.

"Peter! Edmund!" the Beaver exclaimed.

Edmund's horse reared. Hanging on for dear life, the younger boy called, "Whoa, horsie!"

The chestnut steed quite calmly settled his front hooves back on the ground, give a somewhat indignant snort. "My name…is Philip."

Edmund's eyes widened. "Oh, s-sorry."

Peter snickered quietly to himself. It was easy to forget that most animals in Narnia actually talked.

The ten-year-old shot him a slightly sheepish glare, to which he smirked warmly back.

The light atmosphere, however, changed drastically in the next minute.

"The Witch has demanded a meeting with Aslan! She…She's on her way there now!" Mr. Beaver managed.

Pure fear washed over Edmund's suddenly very white face and Philip's mane slid from his fingers as he gave a half-choked off gasp. Unable to speak, he shot a frantic look at Peter.

Not feeling quite so cheerful anymore, the older boy quickly slipped off his unicorn's back and gave a hard swallow, landing next to Philip on the ground and reaching up for his brother, "Come on. Let's get the girls, and then get to camp."

Edmund, of course, was perfectly capable of getting off his mount by himself, but to Peter it looked as though he might faint dead away.

Indeed, when the ten-year-old gripped his upper arms and allowed himself to be helped off, the older boy had to hide his wince. His younger brother's hold was as tight as a steel trap.

And Peter couldn't help but notice Edmund clung to him a moment longer than was necessary for dismounting.

Before he could remark on it, however, white-faced and trembling, Edmund pulled away. For all the fear apparent in his eyes, there was an equal amount of determination. "I…I have to see what she wants, Peter," he managed, voice wavering slightly. The ten-year-old swallowed. "Come on, let's find the girls."

Peter could only follow after him, the first tendrils of his own fear sneaking their way back into his conscious.

oOoOoOoOoOo

(Five Minutes Later, Aslan's Encampment)

The four children burst into the camp, running with all their might to reach Aslan's tent where it stood in its clearing, sunshine pouring down on it.

It appeared they weren't the only ones to have heard of the supposed "visitor." The entire camp looked like it was out in force—from Centaurs to Satyrs to Fauns to Dwarves to Talking Animals to Dryads. Whispered conversations were flying from group to group, and there, among it all, stood Aslan Himself. Standing quite still and quite alert, his great head upright and gazing unblinkingly at the only entrance to the camp.

"Jadis!" the cry went up from somewhere within, causing Peter to pull up short with a half-smothered cry of his own as he caught his first glimpse of the White Witch. "Queen of Narnia!" the call continued to resound over the conversations buzzing around him. "Empress of the Lone Islands!"

Shudders shot up and down Peter's spine. Vaguely he was aware of his brother and sisters screeching to a halt beside him, but he had not the ability to look at them at the moment, not even Edmund. All his attention was pinned on the figure being born forward on a liter resting on the shoulders of four simply gigantic Cyclopes.

Her beauty was icy, her face a study in cruelty. Peter wanted to look away, yet found he could not.

The Cyclopes lowered the carrier. Silence fell. The crier—a dwarf who looked both harder and more bitter than those dwarves that were in Aslan's camp—stepped aside and the Witch stood, haughty and proud and cold.

"You have a traitor in your midst, Aslan," she hissed softly, her narrowed eyes flicking over to land on Edmund.

Peter heard the younger boy take in a trembling breath beside him, and finally managed to break his gaze away from the Witch, looking to his baby brother.

Edmund's face was just as pale as it had been that summer three years ago, just as white as the sheets he had lain against. Just as thin, just as pinched.

The thirteen-year-old instinctively moved forward, as if in an attempt to screen the seve—ten-year-old from her sight. Behind him, he felt Susan and Lucy step up to either side of the other boy and stand there. He could only imagine the half-scared, half-defiant looks they wore.

The Witch's eyes narrowed even more and hot anger, startlingly contrasting with her unnaturally pallid countenance, shot through the dead-green pupils, as around Peter, murmurs and gasps arose at her words.

Aslan spoke, glancing at the four hopefully-to-be-sovereigns, before turning back to her, "His offense was not against you."

The Witch set her lips in a thin line. "Have you forgotten the laws upon which Narnia was built?"

Aslan snarled, jerking every soul's attention to Him at the fury in His voice, including the False Queen's, "Do not cite the Deep Magic to me, Witch! I was there when it was written."

She squared her shoulders and raised her head, but did not quite meet the Great Lion's eyes. "Then you'll remember well…that every traitor belongs to me. His blood is my property."

Even as pure horror shot through Peter at those words, he whipped out his sword and placed himself bodily between his little brother and his little brother's would-be captor. "Try and take him then!" he near-growled, throwing himself into a ready stance. Around the clearing, other swords could be heard being unsheathed.

The Witch merely looked at him, her eyes ice.

And though his fingers were shaking as he stood there, his own china blue orbs trying to widen with fear and narrow with fury all at the same time, he felt a fierce, blazing joy inside, too. Because he knew, he finally understood…

Would you die for him, Son of Adam?

Yes. He would.

"Do you really think mere force will deny me my right," the White Witch sneered. Then gave a smirk. "Little King."

The shakiness of Peter's grip on his sword hilt worsened, but still, he did not move.

He was surprised, however, by a slim hand gently pressing the hand holding the sword down.

Apparently, by the fleeting flicker of shock, then utter triumph that shot through the Witch's dead-green eyes, she was, too.

Stunned, Peter turned to face his assailant. "Ed?"

Edmund did not look at him, face stark white and eyes locked on the Witch. The younger boy's hold on his older brother's hand did not slacken. "What do you want?" the ten-year-old demanded of the False Queen, voice trembling slightly but nonetheless clear.

The White Witch gave him a nasty smirk before turning to address the masses in general, "Aslan knows that unless I have blood as the law demands, all of Narnia shall be overturned…and perish in fire, and water. You, boy," she abruptly spun back to face the four siblings, pointing at Edmund, "will die on the Stone Table. As is tradition." Suddenly, she spun to face Aslan, voice rising slightly, "You dare not refuse me!"

The Great Lion quickly bounded away from his tent and swiftly inserted himself between the four children and the enchantress, golden eyes locked on the Witch. "Enough," stated softly and with authority. "I shall talk with you alone."

As the Lion and the Witch went into Aslan's tent, the two brothers suddenly folded into each other, dropping to the ground.

Edmund clung to Peter's arm, gasping and shaking, as an equally unsteady Peter held his little brother's head tightly against his shoulder, eyes still very wide as the past five minutes raced through his mind.

/Oh, God…/ he thought.

Lucy flew at Edmund, sobbing and clinging to his neck as Susan shakily lowered herself onto the ground beside Peter with a half-strangled sob, resting her hand on the younger boy's shoulder and rubbing it without truly being aware of her actions.

Silence rang in the clearing as everyone waited with sick dread for the final verdict.

After an eternity and a half, the Witch emerged from Aslan's tent, causing Peter to shoot to his feet and release Edmund to stand beside him. Behind them, Lucy and Susan scrambled to their feet, quickly scrubbing away their tears.

The Witch looked at the four siblings impassively for a moment, before turning, and walking away. But not before Peter caught a look of terrible joy sparking in her eyes.

Four heads (as well as many others) whipped around to look at Aslan.

The Great Lion raised His head and announced clearly, "She has renounced her claim on the Son of Adam's blood."

A collective breath was released, and the gathered erupted. A huge grin lit up Peter's face as he suddenly grabbed his little brother's shoulder and gave it a rather ecstatic shake.

Silence fell again, however, when the Witch spoke, barely veiled anger in her voice where she had stepped back onto the carrier, "How do I know your promise will be kept?"

Aslan threw back His head and gave an almighty roar that shook the whole of Narnia from the Stone Table to Lantern Waste, causing the Witch to promptly sit down and her guards to take a lumbering step back.

Laughter erupted among the Narnians and cheers split the air as the siblings suddenly found their hands seized and heartily shaken by the ecstatic beings around them.

Edmund felt a small blue bundle collide with his middle and gladly returned Lucy's embrace, lifting the younger girl completely off her feet. They released each other with mutual, bright grins before turning to those around them.

Peter, once Edmund was done nearly being smothered by Susan, gently grabbed his little brother's wrist and yanked him into a tight hug. "Thank God," he breathed heavily.

The ten-year-old pulled back with an impish grin, eyes practically snapping with happiness. "No, thank Aslan," he replied mischievously.

And Peter laughed again, giving the dark head a friendly tousle.

TBC

A/N: Wow :stares:. Did not expect the chapter to get this long. :shrugs, grinning: Ah, well. It's only fitting in a sense. This can probably be considered the keynote—the most important chapter (and perhaps the climax, too). Or, at least, one of the most important chapters. I certainly hope you saw why :impish grin:.

Another one of those scenes that doesn't quite follow the movie ( :grins: I quite like writing those scenes). As for the Flashbacks, just one in this chapter, I know. But it worked better I'm afraid :sighs:. As for the scarlet fever itself—once again, I'm no doctor, so I'm not entirely certain whether my information is accurate. I hope that doesn't deter you, though!

Next Chapter: Origins of Forgiveness, taking place after the Battle of Beruna. Again, not sure when it will be out (hopefully during next weekend, but no promises), so again, please be on the look out!