Author: AntipodeanOpaleye
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The enchanted world of Narnia and all the creatures in it belong to C.S. Lewis; I own nothing of it.
Summary: Eight years into their reign, two Kings still have unresolved issues between them. Two brothers remain doubtful of each other's love. A nightmare, a knife, a teardrop and a confession change all of that in a reconciliation that is years overdue.
A/N: You know, when I sat down to write another Narnia fic, this is not at all what I had in mind. No, not at all. But you know what they say about the best-laid plans, and thus all my good intentions for what I had expected to produce have been completely and utterly discarded, at least for the time being. Therefore, what came to be is this exceedingly fluffy tale of brotherly bonding that I can only attribute to my good humor due to a lack of school (Holidays situated in early Spring are a very good thing).
Throughout the books and the film, I always saw Peter as the one who could verbalize his emotions without too much difficulty. Edmund, on the other hand, would be more inclined to show his feelings, or speak on them indirectly. I did my best to attempt to display that. Also, I tried to show, without excessive or unbelievable sentimentality, the depth of the relationship these brothers share. I envision them to be other's protector, their solidarity. Neither really had a traditional paternal figure growing up in Narnia, so I suppose I've always thought that they filled the role for one another, to some extent. In any case, I did my utmost to keep them in character while trying to convey that emotional bond.
But I have rambled too much, and shall now cease.
In any case, this fic takes place eight years into the reign of the four siblings; Edmund is 18, Peter is 21.
Enjoy, and please review :D
P.S. – Thanks to everyone who reviewed Absolution – your encouragement was phenomenal! And to Callista Miralni, for getting me into the right mindset to give a second Narnian tale a go.
It had been many years, but Peter still remembered.
The day of his first and greatest battle was a sequence of graphic images in his mind, for the most part; short clips of motion here and there, like some poorly edited slide show. Even the colors had dulled with time. Yet there was one stretch of memory that was completely untouched by age or distraction; it visited him regularly in his dreams, which turned promptly into nightmares with its appearance. He never admitted it – when occasionally questioned as to why he looked so pale, or the nature of the shadows lingering below his eye he would simply smile softly and excuse them as nothing more than the normal rigors of running a kingdom. His subjects fussed, but didn't pry. His siblings worried, but did not ask. And for that, Peter was grateful.
The stench of death was everywhere, permeating his senses and drowning out the sweet air that flowed through all of Narnia with its rotten redolence, as strong in his mind as it had been in reality. His vision was stained copper with blood, and streamed with the perspiration that slid down his flushed cheeks. He felt completely drained – each time he lifted his sword to parry the Witch's blows, he was nearly certain it would be his last semblance of resistance. Yet he continued to fight, the energy that fueled his very being seeping out of him steadily with every moment. He fought for the one who couldn't, who might never fight again, because Peter hadn't been able to protect him.
He would not let himself glance towards where his brother's bloodied frame lay sprawled on the grass beyond.
When he was forced to the ground, time stopped. When the sharpness pierced his arm, he knew the end was nigh. It was over. He had failed. He had failed everyone…
When the blade was about to come down upon him, he was almost relieved. But when the Great Lion leaped over him, pouncing on his adversary and pinning her beneath him before ravaging her with his massive teeth, everything that followed was a blur.
The next thing he could remember with any semblance of clarity was Susan's frantic, exasperated gaze upon him, as she demanded to know where Edmund was.
Then all that he had missed suddenly jumped ahead in his perception of time, and he realized with painful conviction that it was almost certainly too late.
He ran, breathless, dropping to his knees at his brother's feet, the world spinning around him with nauseating speed. All he could see was the blood that tinged Edmund's lips as his delicate frame was wracked with a coughing fit that seized his whole being and robbed the life from him all the quicker.
Peter could feel his brother's spirit ebbing away, could feel a draw from another place and time stealing him away, and Peter's grip upon Edmund's legs tightened, as if he could hold him there with his useless hands and his inadequate strength. But still he hoped.
Somehow he knew which breath would be Edmund's last, and as it was drawn, Peter's own heart stopped. He was barely aware of Lucy fumbling with her cordial at his side, and a part of him acknowledged that it would work, that it had worked, but in the dream, that was not enough…
Every time, the ending was altered, and when Edmund's eyes closed with a chilling finality, he never woke again. And every time, all that Peter was died along with him.
Sometimes, Edmund would look as he did when they were only small – dressed in the oversized red sweater he wore that fall evening at the park when was nearly run over by a bicyclist. In some renditions, the younger boy's hair grew out and he aged a year or two – his arm was in a sling and he was badly bruised from an accident on the grounds at school. Looking very much the same, minus the scrapes and the cast, he might appear instead wrapped carefully in blankets and tucked meticulously into bed, sweating out the nasty malady that had threatened his very existence for over a week of worry when he was eight.
At times, Edmund looked exactly as he had on the battlefield – covered in armor and blood, writhing upon the ground, taking his final breath, looking into Peter's eyes until the life had drained from them, with Peter himself standing helplessly by, tears streaming down his cheeks, shoulders heaving, heart breaking…
There were other versions, as well – one that recreated the dreadful illness that struck Edmund in his early teens and kept him bedridden for more than a month. They had been more than just lucky that he had pulled through at all, and Peter didn't have to think in order to recreate the ever-present tightness in his chest that had constantly labored his breathing while his brother lay on the brink of death.
Indeed, sometimes the reincarnations of Edmund that inserted themselves into Peter's nightmares weren't even ones whose lives had been threatened. Oftentimes, a fifteen or sixteen year old brother appeared to him, perfectly healthy and capable but for the blood pouring from his midsection, and the coldness seeping into his limbs. Most recently, Edmund had taken to appearing as he was now; the perfect example of everything a King should be: wise, noble, just, compassionate, knowledgeable, youthful, personable, joyful, experienced, agreeable, and above all, loyal. And each time he watched that Edmund die, slowly and agonizingly, all the more intolerable because he was so real, so much the Edmund that Peter held most dear in that very instant, Peter awoke with his heart pounding against his chest with a ferocity that threatened to bruise his ribs. Sometimes it took a good half-hour to slow his breathing, as he did his best to convince himself that these visions weren't premonitions. That these horrifying images were not predicting the future. That it simply wasn't true.
And it was at times like these that the High King Peter, Magnificent though he was, would curl into himself in the middle of his bed, hug the covers about him as he did when he was but a boy, and shake bitterly with the sobs he silently suppressed.
Edmund liked casually recalling the past. It was a hobby of sorts – reliving battles, journeys, meetings, balls, and any other notable event that crossed his mind at a given interval. He could talk for hours about strategy, negotiations, and policy, and still managed to hold grand discussions on dancing, decorum, and chivalry. Yet there was one thing about the past Edmund did not enjoy.
Edmund hated remembering.
The memories would assault him at the most inopportune times, while over the years he had grown exceedingly skilled at brushing them aside until he could properly address them. Yet they still hurt, more than he knew they had a right to, so different was he at the time. Yet the guilt still engulfed him without mercy, and the self-loathing still plagued him without relent. His people had forgotten - and more importantly, forgiven – many years prior, and his family hadn't placed blame upon him from the moment he set foot into Aslan's camp after being rescued by Oreius from the White Witch. He still bore faint scars about his wrists from the experience, an ever-present reminder of his immense shame.
Yet, for all intents and purposes, he could forgive himself these failings. He could accept that he had betrayed his beloved family, that he had fallen to trickery, and that he had been a fool. What he couldn't forgive, however, was whatever it was that he had done to make his elder brother look at him with such intense disdain, such complete disappointment and utter rejection shining in his sapphire eyes; emotions planted there because he had been a selfish, cowardly traitor.
Edmund had overlooked the tension between himself and his siblings prior to his betrayal, partially because he could not properly recall what it had stemmed from – could not properly recall anything about that period any longer, really. Strangely, the lapse in memory had never really bothered him. Somehow, he knew subconsciously that whatever lay beyond that barrier in his mind held more suffering – more regret. More specifically, he was certain that it held knowledge of an even greater rift between himself and his brother. And if Peter had been disgusted with him for giving them up to the Witch, he had no desire to learn what had led the older King to dislike Edmund in a more normal set of circumstances.
Of course, the time for distance was over now, and Edmund and Peter were closer than they had even been, for all appearances. Yet the shadows cast by the secrets they kept from one another were towering, and no matter how much effort both put into ignoring them, they continued to fling their obstinate blackness upon the relationship of the siblings. Edmund had never said anything nor even hinted at the fact, but in truth, the thing he desired more than anything was the unconditional love of his brother. He knew that Peter loved him, but he couldn't help but believe that, should the worst happen, and Edmund by some evil chance of fate end up in the thick of it, Peter would cast him aside without a second thought. It was that fear that tore at his heart in the waking hours, and sent him into tremors by night.
Because Peter meant the world. And Peter's approval wasn't important, Peter's pride didn't matter, and Peter's acceptance and esteem were useless without Peter's love.
Peter hadn't been informed of Edmund's departure until the morning prior. Perhaps it had been best that way – it allowed him to worry less. He had never been very comfortable with Edmund leaving on his own; the girls nearly always had escorts, or each other, but Edmund was permitted to travel short distances alone through friendly lands. He was scheduled to be back within three days' time – a short reprieve to visit with some fauns to the west who were having a small dispute with a family of badgers.
It had been four days.
Peter knew how likely it was to be detained on this sort of business – it was customary that in such instances the altercation in question was much less serious and pressing than it was made out to be. As actually resolving the matter was usually over in a day or so, the parties involved would often convince their royal guest to remain with them for a time and enjoy their hospitality in return for clearing up the misunderstandings between neighbors. If no serious matter recalled them to Cair Paravel, the siblings were inclined to accept, if not for the simple courtesy of it, then for the splendid food and company.
Yet, Peter still worried for Edmund. He held court with much distraction, ate little, and could focus on nothing but the great window in his personal study that overlooked the main courtyard.
Where was he? Was he safe? Was he harmed in any way?
Did he miss home? Did he miss his family? Miss his brother?
His brother certainly missed him. Terribly.
"It's nothing," Edmund had said as they carried him in, though his tone belied his discomfort. "Just a scratch."
Peter had judged differently. His mind was reeling as he saw the blood on his brother's tunic; he only barely heard Edmund call over his shoulder as he was ushered into his private quarters.
"Make sure Philip's alright; the journey back was rough on him."
It was a stab wound, from a dagger by all appearances. It was deep, and long, as if the blade had penetrated the flesh and then been dragged downwards across the left side of his back.
Peter had sent for the Healers as soon as he'd met Edmund in the courtyard, having noticed from a distance that the younger King was ailing in some way by the manner in which he carried himself upon his horse. Edmund had protested, claiming he'd been tended to already and all he required was a hot bath and a warm meal, nothing more.
Peter, of course, would have none of it.
It turned out that it had been a Dryad healer and her student, a young centaur, who had caused the injury. The centaur, named Talineus, was learning natural herbal healing methods in the forest when his tutor had recommended that he practice a bit a defense, citing his unusually pacifistic nature as a potential weakness should he ever be called for battle, while she gathered some herbs to replace their stores. The inexperienced Talineus had unwittingly taken to a dagger-throwing exercise, and it was only his second attempt in which he missed the tree set as his target and hit the resting Edmund instead.
Both had heard the cry of the wounded King, and had swiftly followed the sound to Edmund's camp, where Philip, his loyal steed, was already by his side. The Dryad, both mortified by the situation itself and gravely concerned for the wellbeing of the young ruler, took the opportunity to provide her pupil with practical knowledge as she healed the gash in Edmund's shoulder as best as she could.
"I was only thankful that she stopped the bleeding," Edmund said with a slight grin as he recalled the events. "It would have been awfully difficult to attempt it myself in that spot."
Apologizing profusely, both creatures had apparently offered their assistance in helping the King back to the castle, yet Edmund had politely declined, confident that he and Philip would make it back before nightfall without difficulty.
Peter hovered in the background as the Royal Healers assessed Edmund's condition. He released his breath only when they confirmed his brother's tale – the wound had indeed been treated by Dryad medicine, and Edmund was in no immediate danger. They had replaced his dressings, and had thus approximated his recovery to be complete within two days' time, suggesting that he remain bedridden until the wound had healed completely to avoid any potential complications. Edmund looked prepared to offer some protest, but in that moment he caught Peter's gaze from the shadows, and something in the elder's eyes kept him silent.
The frenzied attendants left after a few minutes after some persuasion from Edmund, not to mention countless promises that he would indeed obey the recommendations to remain in bed. Only Peter remained, staring intently at his brother from his station in the darkened corner. Edmund could sense his distress, and read it immediately as disappointment, as anger.
"We'd just stopped for a small luncheon, Peter, nothing more. Philip and I had only planned it to be a short rest; the fire I built to heat our provisions would only have lasted half an hour at most, in any case. It was an honest case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time," Edmund tried desperately to explain, his voice suddenly very small.
Peter crossed the room slowly, his hand rubbing the stubble on his chin, refusing to make eye contact with his brother. This only made Edmund feel worse.
Hands folded across this lap, Edmund studied his own intertwined fingers with an unnatural intensity, effectively avoiding so much as looking at Peter. Therefore, he started at the unanticipated contact when Peter seized his chin and tilted his head upwards, forcing Edmund to look at him. Studying the deep, expressive eyes that now stared up at him from that crestfallen face, Peter took a shuddering breath before he spoke, his tone even, yet barely audible.
"If you had moved in just that moment; if you had so much as sat down even the slightest bit to one side instead of the other, closer to the trees instead of farther…"
His large, yet gentle hands held Edmund's face in place as he stared intently into the shocked chocolate eyes that bore into his own cerulean ones, his left palm travelling downwards, fingering the edges of Edmund's bandages idly through his nightshirt; lingering over the younger man's heart as he pondered the dreadful possibilities…
Peter turned away just as Edmund had reached out to comfort him, and that unintentional rejection nearly quenched all of the resolve that Edmund had managed to build within himself at the encouragement his brother's tenderness had offered. But somehow Edmund knew that he had to take this one chance, regardless of what he might lose in the process. And so, doing perhaps the most truly brave thing he had ever done, and ever would do, he reached out and touched Peter's arm with a firmness that said without words that he needed Peter to stay.
Peter paused only a moment, then reached out in return, his eyes brimming with tears and shining with a tenderness that could be rivaled by none. Sitting upon the bed next to Edmund's prone form, he brushed his fingertips affectionately across his brother's alabaster cheek.
"I love you, Ed. I love you." They were the only words that he could think of; they encompassed the singular sentiment that filled his mind at that very moment.
Edmund looked at him with a heartbreaking disbelief, causing Peter's breathing to hitch with emotion. In that moment, Edmund looked all the scared little boy that teetered on the edge of death from a stab wound sustained protecting his older brother. That, and that alone, caused Peter's tears to fall.
"Edmund…" Peter choked, hesitant for only a moment before he took his younger brother in his arms, clutching his frame as he wept. Slowly, Edmund extended his arms and returned the embrace with equal ardor.
"Do you have any idea what you mean to me?" Peter asked in a hoarse, nearly inaudible voice, rubbing Edmund's back instinctively in an attempt to calm them both. "Can't you see how much you matter? Can't you see that… that… that if I were to loose you, I wouldn't be able to live? That you are everything to me?"
Edmund offered no response, but his face was now buried against Peter's neck, and the elder King could feel the growing wetness against his skin from the tears his brother shed. Peter tried to stop his tears, knowing that he would be useless in comforting Edmund if he too was sobbing.
Secure in his brother's arms, Edmund cried for what seemed like hours – cried for the first time in ages, and cried for all the insecurities, all the anxieties, all the wrongs and mistakes, all the horrible things he'd ever done or bore witness to, all the fears that plagued him, and all the worries he held about the future. With each tear that streamed down his face, a bit of those emotions was carried away with it. And through it all, Peter was there, holding fast to him, never letting go, never telling him he was too old for this, or too weak, or too emotional, but whispering nonsense to him in a low, soothing voice, trying to remedy everything – trying to make the world better. Perhaps Peter really did love him… no matter what…
When Edmund's weeping had finally subsided, his breathing was still rugged, and he had a great deal of trouble speaking. Yet he was determined, and Peter listened patiently as Edmund slowly articulated against his shoulder:
"D…Do you re…ally n…need me? T-to be h…here? To r-rule?"
Peter's eyes closed in saddened comprehension. "Edmund, what you mean to me has absolutely nothing to do with our reign. The fact that the rule of our sisters and us would fall without you is irrelevant in light of the fact that, at the end of the day, you still wouldn't be there. You, my beloved brother, are more valuable to me than a crown and a throne will ever be. I can think of nothing that could outweigh your worth."
Edmund began crying once more, though it was more controlled than before. Clutching the trembling frame, Peter could no long hold back his own tears and began shaking with his own repressed emotions, his tears falling upon his brother's head.
"I'm sorry Ed," Peter choked. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough; I'm sorry I didn't… didn't see what it was you needed, all these years. I'm sorry – I…I've failed you…"
Something in those words sobered Edmund instantly, though Peter continued to cry in his arms. Straightening, it was now Edmund who took the role of the rock, the comforter, the protector.
"No, Peter, never," he cooed into his older brother's ear. Edmund smiled softly at him, his eyes glittering with the intent to refute. "Peter, you couldn't fail if you tried."
Slowly, as his upper arm was still somewhat sore, Edmund pulled back from Peter's embrace and gripped him firmly by the shoulders.
"Peter, my beloved brother – you are the most noble, most loyal, and most honest person I've ever known. You are the… the epitome of all that is good in this world."
Peter flushed at the words. He diverted his gaze to the ground, unable to meet his brother's eyes. "I am not such a hero, Ed. I'm no man to be idolized."
"Perhaps it is wrong," Edmund reflected, "to place any human upon a pedestal. However, you've not fallen yet, and I don't expect you to."
Peter shook his head, tears continuing to fall at intervals down his face, glistening in the firelight that spilled through the room. Edmund considered leaving the argument at that, but thought better of. Not tonight – tonight they would get everything out.
"You'd understand, Peter. You'd understand if you knew."
"Knew what, Ed?"
Edmund sighed, for a second appearing as if he was unwillingly to go on, or unsure as to how he wished to continue. Expressing his emotions had never been something the younger brother had relished in. "Knew what effect you truly have on people. What you do for them, without even realizing it." His voice trailed off, and he finished in a whisper, "What you've done for me."
Peter only looked at his brother, slightly dumbfounded, and utterly confused.
"You taught me what love meant, Peter. That was the greatest gift you ever could have given me."
Comprehension began to bloom in his eyes, but ultimately Peter still did not understand. Edmund continued.
"When I was small, though I cannot remember details, I know that I felt love through the same veil as all young people – you love your family because it's what you're meant to do. Yet I never knew what love was really about. That it meant sacrifice without thought of the consequences, or of reward. That it meant giving wholly of oneself, for someone else. That moment, when I saw Jadis coming for you, I didn't think. I didn't have to. It wasn't about me, or anyone else, really – it was just something I had to do. And I knew, on some level, that it was most unlikely I should live to tell the tale. But that didn't matter. All that mattered was that you were safe - that you lived. As I brought my sword down upon her wand, it was the first time I could recall that I thought nothing of myself. My actions were completely selfless; they were driven purely by love, nothing else. And after, looking back, I see that was enough. More than enough. Because here you are; alive, and well. That's all I wanted, you see. I realized that, more than anything, I just wanted you to be there. Always. Because I care about you more that I can rightly justify. And it was at that moment that I realized I didn't need to rationalize it. I didn't need to be able to explain what I feel. It just is, and that's all right. I knew what it meant to me, what it still means to me, and I had shown that meaning to you, through my actions, and that was what was important, really. You taught me that, Peter. Loving you taught me that."
Edmund took a deep, steadying breath as he finished, embarrassed at his declaration, but ultimately happy that it had been said. Peter, on the other hand, sat staring at his brother, wide-eyed and shocked by that honesty Edmund had suffused into his speech. And he knew, by the emotion in the younger man's eyes, that it was wholly and entirely true.
"I couldn't ask for a more wonderful brother, Edmund. Nor a more perfect friend." The tears that glided down Peter's cheek now were ones of happiness – blissful testaments to his joy, and his love for his one and only brother. Edmund smiled uncontrollably, drained emotionally, but delighted at the results.
"Nor could I," Edmund replied in earnest, though no longer able to hide his fatigue, and allowing a yawn to slip through as he finished speaking.
"You need your rest," Peter declared upon noting his brother's languor, referring to the injury that had led Edmund to the bed in the first place. Deftly, Peter tucked in the exhausted young man as he would have when he was much younger, smoothing the sheets and fluffing the pillows.
"Goodness, Peter, you're like a mother hen," Edmund teased him with a grin, his eyes closed and his voice weary, but good-humored.
Peter chuckled. "Perhaps that's a good thing." Edmund only smiled back, already too close to sleep to be capable of a coherent reply. Peter bent down towards his ear.
"Goodnight, Eddy," Peter whispered into his hair, placing a kiss upon his sleeping brother's dark locks before retreating to his own room for the night.
Peter had fallen asleep under a wondrous blanket of absolute serenity. Speaking with Edmund had not only quieted the anxieties that had plagued his mind, but had eased his heart as well. It had been quite honestly years since he had felt so contented – so tranquil. So at peace with the world.
The smile on his face as he rested would have been a rare sight for any who may have stumbled upon him. As it happened, he slept undisturbed that evening.
However, sometime midway through the night, Peter awoke once again. It wasn't a dream, nor a nightmare, that had shaken him from his repose, and for a brief moment he was struck by that oddity in itself. He was unaccustomed to sleeping throughout he night at this point, but without the disturbing visions that plagued his subconscious mind to rouse him, he could not imagine what might. He listened intently, searching for some out-of-place sound which may have disturbed him, but the wind rustling gently through he trees outside his window and the dying crackle of the fire in the hearth were the only noises he could detect – both abysmally normal.
Sitting up, Peter began to analyze the situation, wondering what had awoken him, and knowing full well that he'd be unable to resume his rest until he had solved the puzzle. Yet, as he rose from his bed and began pacing – as he was wont to do when he was thinking – he became suddenly aware of the strange feeling situated in the pit of his stomach. It was a gnawing, dormant sort of hollowness; a nagging sensation that made him feel… empty. And melancholy.
Loneliness, he deemed it to be, without considering the connotations of the emotion.
Unthinkingly, he left his room and padded barefoot through the quiet corridors of the castle that he called home, making his way silently towards the room that housed his younger brother.
Hearing voices, he hid himself awkwardly in a small niche between two windows, pausing quickly and holding his breath as he saw Edmund's door open. The lighting poor, he could only make out the silhouettes of the two figures from the light emitted by the candle they held between them. Yet Peter would have known them anywhere – it seemed that Susan and Lucy had felt the need to pay their injured brother a visit that night, as well. As the two girls, huddled conspiratorially about their candle, turned the corner, Peter released the air in his lungs and crossed the space to the door quickly, entering it with equal swiftness and silence.
He shut the large door with care not to make a sound – it seemed that his sisters had not awoken Edmund with their stay, as he lay sleeping upon the large bed in the same position Peter had left him in hours prior.
Impulsively, Peter nudged back the quilt ever so slightly, easing himself onto the bed gradually, careful not to shift the weight and disturb the sleeping occupant. Eventually, Peter lay next to his brother, under only one of the blankets, and curled uncomfortably along the edge so as not to touch Edmund's outstretched arm.
Edmund, however, detected the presence even in his slumber, and edged unconsciously towards the warmth to his right. He looked so small, so young, so innocent in his sleep. Peter wrapped his arm carefully around his brother, smiling broadly as he rested his head atop Edmund's, holding the younger man's head protectively to his chest.
Within minutes, both were sound asleep.
When Edmund awoke some hours later to the sweet scent of flowers, placed meticulously at his bedside while he rested by his concerned and gentle-hearted sisters, he felt lighter than he had ever felt in his entire life. He was… liberated. He was floating. He was free.
He then registered the warmth radiating around him, the solid, living being curled beside him, and the steady, strong, and wondrously soothing heartbeat beneath his ear, and the events of the previous night came rushing back to him.
His brother loved him. The brother he idolized, the brother he was proud of, the brother he stood beside in all things, the brother he hero-worshipped and adored, strove to be like in so many ways, the brother he himself loved more than his own life –loved him. Peter loved him. Had always loved him. Would always love him. He was somehow very sure of it now.
He turned in the bed, careful not to jostle his left arm too much, so as not to disturbed the wraps about his wound (he was hopeless at trying to fix them without redressing the entire thing), situating himself so that he faced Peter's still-sleeping form. Watching him, breathing deeply in his repose, Edmund saw the worries and cares that plagued him in the daylight hours melt away, and he looked like a young boy once more. Carefully, Edmund reached about his brother, pulling Peter towards him. He wrapped his good arm around him, securing him in place.
"Thank you, Peter," Edmund whispered into the sandy strands of hair that fell onto the closed eyelids as he pressed his lips to the crown of Peter's head.
And somewhere, in the midst of the first pleasant dreams he'd known in ages, Peter heard his brother's words. And smiled.