A hush had fallen over the castle in recent weeks. Everyone had noticed it. The annual ball they held in celebration of their victory over the White Witch had gone ahead as usual, but there was a change. Peter had become even more upright and proud, greeting dignitaries with ease, but if anyone had looked closely they would have seen concern written all over his face under the charming smile. Susan had danced willingly with all the men who asked for her hand, and had made a lovely sight in a fresh green dress, but her smiles were thin and her conversation lacked her usual warmth and vigour. Edmund had stood awkwardly in corners, avoiding the spotlight, only taking ladies hands when they were forcibly put into his. All the women he'd danced with had regretted it almost instantly, for his dancing, never brilliant, had become clumsy and there were more than a few crushed toes. Even Lucy wasn't her usual friendly self, watching her brothers anxiously.

Away from public life, Edmund threw himself into his work. Peter was partly pleased; he instantly felt a weight lifted off of his back and he enjoyed his brother's company in the small chamber set aside for their work. Or he would have done if Edmund had responded to any of his questions with more than a yes or a no. Within days of Emma leaving so suddenly, Peter wished she was back, if only so that the emptiness would lift out of Edmund's face.

Finding themselves alone one day in the library, Peter tried to broach the subject. Edmund had said so little, simply that Emma had gone and wouldn't be back any time soon. But Peter recognised something about his brother's face that said more.

Carelessly, Peter took a book off a shelf and opened it. He looked through it and then said artlessly, "I wonder we haven't heard anything about Aslan coming recently."

The tell tale red started at Edmund's ears. He seemed unaware of it. Turning his back on Peter, and pretending to be completely absorbed in some charters, he said, "Do you?"

"It's been at least a month since the last supposed sighting." Peter nodded. It was nothing new for the kings and queens to have a faun or dryad, or even a young unicorn, come rushing to tell them that Aslan had been seen. So far they had never been true. Peter couldn't help thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, Aslan had forgotten all about them. He instantly attempted to erase the thought from his memory, but it stayed, whispering secretly to him all day and night.

Edmund gave a false laugh. "Well, you never know," he said.

Peter fell silent again, but watched his brother restlessly flick through charters, not even reading most of them before opening another. Finally, he put a stop to it, if only for the sake of the fragile parchments, some of which were over one hundred years old.

"Ed, was it Aslan that took Emma away?" he asked.

Edmund visibly stiffened at her name. Slowly, not turning round, he nodded.

Peter fought back the feeling of irritation that he felt, not only towards Edmund, but Aslan too. He'd been here, he'd been within spitting distance of the castle, and he hadn't even spent five minutes with the High King. Instead he'd sent some girl back where she came from, in the process reducing his brother to a wrecked shell.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Peter asked, his voice clipped despite his attempts to remain calm. Susan would have done this so much better.

Edmund shrugged.

"You could have at least tried, Ed," Peter reproached him gently, but Edmund felt the criticism.

"What would have been the point?" he asked, turning round. "What difference would it have made?"

"I don't know, it could have helped to share things," Peter said uncomfortably, aware that this wasn't his usual role. Caring and sharing was more Susan's bag, or Lucy's. Even Edmund himself was better at the whole "let's talk about" thing. Peter was a doer, he could give orders and organise things, and greet noblemen and women. He couldn't talk to people about their feelings. Not even his brother.

"You didn't want to know," Edmund replied, turning back to his charters.

"Oh, Ed, don't be stupid," Peter protested.

Edmund suddenly whipped back around and faced his brother with fire in his eyes. It was the first time since Emma had left that Peter had seen some animation in his face, but this wasn't the excitement and happiness that he'd had before; this was bitter contempt and anger and passionate hatred, directed straight towards him. Edmund hadn't worn that look for seven years.

"The only reason you wanted to know," he said, his voice strangely controlled, "was because you have to know everything. You only wanted to know so that you could believe yourself to be the important High King who knows everything. It wasn't because you cared about Emma or me."

Peter felt every insult hit him and for the first time, they hurt. It wasn't that they hadn't argued in the seven years since they'd ascended to the throne; they were brothers, of course they had. Edmund had told Peter thousands of times to stop being so strict, and Peter had berated Edmund an equal number of times for disobeying him. But this was the first time that the attacks had even got under his skin, let alone straight to every essential organ.

"Ed, that's not fair," he said in a strangled tone, sensing that it was just the tip of the iceberg, and that more was yet to come, much more, and far worse.

"You couldn't stand to see me happy, could you?" Edmund continued, as though his brother hadn't spoken. "You couldn't stand to see me be anything to anybody other than Edmund, younger brother of Peter the High King. You've always been the centre of the world, here and back home with Mother and Father. You couldn't bare the idea that Emma liked me, and that just for once I might come out on top. Just for once, Peter, I was better than you, and you couldn't wait for it all to come crashing down. Well congratulations! You and your precious bloody Aslan have won! Again!" He slammed out of the library, the heavy wooden door, so lovingly carved by the fauns crashing behind him, and sending several books jumping off their shelves to the floor.

Within minutes, Peter saw his brother scorching across the sand outside on his chestnut stallion. He felt numb now, the pains had gone. Breathing was suddenly hard and he trembled slightly. Those words, those ideas. The bitter hatred and resentment. It had never gone away, it had never been cleansed by Aslan. It had always been boiling under the surface. And the worst part was that it was all true.

The door opened timidly, the hinges creaking slightly after their previous rough treatment. Susan came in.

"Peter? What happened? Why's Edmund crashing about so much?" she asked, her brow furrowed in concern and confusion. She put a hand on Peter's arm tentatively. "Is something wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Peter hesitated. Once upon a time Susan was his best friend, an ally whenever Edmund turned against him, and someone to help him drag Lucy out of her bouts of homesickness. Uncomplaining, dependable, honest. Now he couldn't share anything with her, a wall had built up between them. Roughly he pushed her away.

"I'm fine," he said gruffly, stalking out the door. "I can't waste all day in here talking, I've got things to be getting on with."

Edmund raced to the grassy knoll where he and Emma had spent hours together. He pulled his horse up roughly, ignoring the flecks of foam at the chestnut's mouth and his sodden sides. He threw himself out of the saddle and, burying his head in the lush grass, silently sobbed. His horse wandered away, cropping at the grass and regaining his breath, preparing for what would no doubt be an equally hard ride back to the castle; since Emma had gone, Edmund had no time for leisurely strolls, letting the stallion go his own way. Without making a sound, Edmund poured out his sorrows into the ground, his anger dissipating with each shuddering sob. It was always like this, it always had been. His flares of anger never lasted, he never had the strength to hold on to them. The anger and his ability to express it died out, leaving only the bitter resentment behind. He hated feeling like this. The loneliness, the not-knowing, the feeling that he was the only person in the world that felt like this. And he was. For who else left in Narnia had sold the country out for the price of a little bit of importance?