A/N: I'm pretty happy with this chapter! Lots of scenes just sort of wrote themselves! Just a forewarning for all you loyal readers, I might not be on tomorrow to post since I have a job I have to do tomorrow night and probably won't have time to write. But I'll be back soon after! Enjoy this and please let me know what you think!

Part Twenty-Six:

"Aslan…"

Peter jerked and turned over, his right leg flopping awkwardly on the bed, tangled with the light blanket Edmund had laid over him before leaving the room.

Quentin stared at his roommate, uncertain if he should wake him. Peter didn't appear to be having a nightmare, but he was talking out loud and it wouldn't be right if Quentin heard something he wasn't supposed to hear.

"Why, Aslan? Haven't I already suffered enough?"

Wringing his hands together, Quentin made his decision and moved toward the door to the room, swinging it open with the intent to find Peter's brother Edmund.

He didn't have to go far.

Edmund was standing in the doorway, poised to knock.

"Aslan, I can't do this…"

Quentin saw the other boy's eyes widen before he was nearly bowled over in Edmund's haste to reach Peter. He wasted no time in shaking the older boy awake.

"Peter! You're dreaming," he called out, watching as blue eyes snapped open with a whispered "Aslan?"

Thinking fast, Edmund shook his head. "Uncle Aslan isn't here, Peter. Remember, you're in school. But I'll bet he wouldn't mind you writing to him, if you need to talk again."

"Uncle…Uncle Aslan?" Peter queried, rubbing his eyes hard and sitting up in bed. "What…"

Edmund shushed him with a hard look. "You were calling for Uncle As in your sleep, Peter," he said. "Were you dreaming about talking to him about the war again?"

Catching on – as he caught sight of Quentin behind Edmund – Peter nodded. "Yeah. Sorry about that." He met his old friend's eyes. "Please don't go spreading around that I talk in my sleep, Quen?"

The other boy raised his right hand and smiled. "On my honor, Pete. I won't tell a soul. It's no one's business anyhow. But mate, you might want to talk to someone if you are disturbed enough to talk in your sleep."

"I'll think about it, thanks," Peter said with a groan as he eyed the crutch leaning against the nearby wall and proceeded to scoot awkwardly across the mattress until he could grab it and lever himself up.

He ignored the very obvious hovering Edmund.

Nor did he comment on the raised eyebrow look from Quentin, who he could tell had a massive set of wheels turning in that head of his – just dying to ask why Peter appeared to be so unused to his crutch.

Quentin, thankfully, was not one to pry where it wasn't his business and with Edmund on one side and him falling in step on the other, Peter was relatively content as they made slow progress toward the dining hall.

That contentment disappeared as gazes shifted to the door when the three boys entered and conversation slowed to a dull murmur. Trying not to frown, and trying to shrug off the stares, Peter hobbled as steadily as he could to the nearest table and paused.

Eyes were still on him as he glared at the bench seat in front of him, then turned himself around and lowered himself down on the bench. Still not wiling to ask for help, he laid the crutch down on the floor under the bench, careful not to tip forward, and then straightened up and with a heavy sigh, grabbed hold of his leg and unceremoniously dragged it over the bench.

His other was easy enough to bring over and he was sitting, proud of this small accomplishment. Of course, the room was now eerily silent and it was beginning to bother him.

"I'm sure there are other things to look at, people. Have a little respect."

Peter wanted to wince at the distinctly "King Edmund" tone in his little brother's voice, but he didn't want to add to the situation so he just raised an eyebrow and looked out at the assembled students.

There was an obvious effort on the part of the students to shift their attention back to their mundane conversations. Peter, glancing out over the heads of the students, met the gaze of Headmaster Clark, who nodded to him before turning back to Professor Harkin.

"Well, that wasn't too bad," Quentin said cheerfully, though the cheer was tinged with sarcasm. "Maybe in a month or two they'll totally forget about you, Peter."

Groaning, Peter shook his head and reached for the sweet potatoes beside his right arm. "I hope it's sooner than that, Quen," he said. "I don't like all the attention."

Beside him, Edmund was dishing out his own meal, oblivious to the fact that normally he would have sought out his own friends. But then again, Edmund's friends from the last term they had attended school were no longer the sort the dark-haired boy would hang out with. He had changed drastically since their first time in Narnia.

"Oy, Edmund!"

Twisting in his seat with a grimace, Edmund saw the old ringleader of his former posse of friends rapidly approaching through the crowded dining hall.

"Rupe," the younger Pevensie said with a small grimace. "Good to see you well." Though I'd rather not have to see you at all, he thought inwardly.

The red-haired boy came to a halt just behind Edmund's seat and glanced non-to-secretly at Peter, a sneer plastered on his face. "Why aren't you sitting with us, mate? Too busy babysitting the older brother?"

Peter bristled beside him and Edmund could see Quentin lay a restraining hand on his brother's leg before remembering it had no feeling and moving the hand to Peter's arm.

Edmund's face drew into a tight scowl as he peered up at Rupert Halliwell through his too-long fringe. "Sorry, Rupe," he said sweetly. "I didn't know I needed your permission to sit with my brother, nor that helping someone was considered babysitting. Is that what I was doing all the last term when I helped you with your homework? Fancy that…"

Rupert's face turned a bright shade of red and he huffed. "Funny, Pevensie," he said with a slight growl of frustration. "Go right ahead and keep on doing the goody-boy routine." The boy looked over at Peter again, but said nothing to him. Turning, he stalked off.

Wrinkling his nose, Edmund turned back to his food as if nothing had happened. Peter was still beside him, staring at the boy with surprise. Finally, he broke the silence.

"Edmund, what was that?"

Not looking up from his meal, Edmund waved his hand. "That was Rupert Halliwell and he's a bully." Now he did look up. "And I used to be one, Peter. I don't want to associate with that anymore so…I took care of it. I'll make new friends."

Peter frowned. "Not if you keep 'babysitting your older brother', you won't." He picked at the chicken on his plate. "I'm making things difficult already."

Edmund sighed, putting his fork down. "It's no trouble, Peter. You're more important than some friends," he said. "Besides, Quentin there is a good man, I'll be friends with him!"

Quentin smiled. "No problem. You're a good kid Pevensie Jr."

But Peter wasn't convinced. "Friends your own age Ed," he chided. "Not my age." Looking out across the hall, he gestured vaguely. "If you stay with me, all of them are going to ostracize you."

Edmund shook his head. "Nah," he said. "They'll get over you soon. And then things will be fine. Just wait and see and have a little faith."

Peter sighed. Sometimes there was just no use arguing with Edmund.

The next morning…

Peter groaned as he ran a brush through his blonde hair, tipped to the side to stay upright. His crutch was leaning on the sink in front of him and he was dressed, though that had taken a long time since he found the job to be better suited to someone with four arms, not two.

When his hair was somewhat flat, he tossed the brush into his toiletries basket and eyed the crutch on the wall. On a whim, he reached down and smacked his right leg, only to have to clutch the sink as the action knocked him off balance.

There hadn't been any feeling in the leg.

"Damn, damn, damn," Peter muttered, breathing steadily to calm himself. It was never fun feeling like you were going to fall over and knowing it before hand.

"All right there, Peter?"

Craning his head, the eldest Pevensie spied his brother leaning against the doorframe to the bathroom, arms crossed across his chest – though it appeared to be less a position of comfort than a way for Ed to restrain himself from rushing to Peter's side.

Shaking his head, Peter turned away and reached for the crutch. "I'm fine, Ed," he said with a scowl. "I just had to check, you know. Just in case. But there's still nothing."

Edmund chose not to comment as Peter drew abreast of him, clutching his basket in his left hand and leaning heavily on the crutch. The top of the crutch was wrapped with an old shirt and Edmund raised an eye at that.

"What?" Peter said with a grimace. "It was killing my underarm! Might not look very nice, but it's effective."

Raising his hands in surrender, Edmund laughed. "I didn't say anything! It's your armpit, I'll leave it to you to protect it." He dodged out of the way as Peter's toiletry basket swung at him.

As it headed back to Peter's side, Edmund swiped it with a smile and went back into his brother's room to return it to the shelf in the closet. Quentin came out, watching Edmund with a shake of the head.

"Active, that one," he said to Peter. "Always on the move?"

Peter nodded with a small smile. "That's Edmund."

"What's Edmund?"

"Never mind."

(((((((((( )))))))))))))

"Here's my stop," Quentin said, turning to Peter and Edmund just outside the algebra classroom. "I'll meet you two for lunch, then? What do you have right before, Pete? Biology?"

Peter looked at the timetable in his hand and nodded. "Yeah, with Professor Harkin. I'll wait there for you guys."

Edmund appeared to be deep in thought. Then he turned to the two older boys. "I'll be a little late," he said. "I'm coming from the other side of the school. I'll just meet you outside the dining hall."

Quentin shrugged. "Fine by me," he said, then turned and entered the classroom.

Peter and Edmund continued on, the former already feeling the burn in his back from leaning on his crutch. Today was going to be rough if he was already sore and hadn't even made it to one class yet.

Edmund probably noticed, but had chosen not to comment. In a few minutes they reached an intersection of corridors – Edmund's history class was to the right and Peter's Latin class to the left.

"I can get there from here," Peter said, nodded down the right corridor, "you can go to your class. You don't want to be late." He made to leave but Edmund drew abreast of him again.

Setting his best "I'm King Edmund and I'm not going to back down" look on his face, the younger boy shook his head. "It's no trouble, Peter," he said. "I'll walk you there. You aren't used to carrying your book bag and at least for the morning, I'd like to be here in case you need help."

Peter huffed in annoyance. "I haven't fallen yet, Ed," he said, wearily deciding not to argue with his brother or they'd both be late to class.

Edmund grunted. "Yes, I remember you saying something quite similar back in Narnia. Before you proceeded to trip on a rug and reopen your shoulder wound…"

His brother eyed him with a level glare, but couldn't argue. It was true.

Slowing to a halt outside his classroom, he turned to Edmund full on. "I appreciate the help, Ed," he said. "But don't be outside this classroom when I get out. Your next class is completely in the other direction…and you will be late."

Edmund wanted to argue, but Peter had on his best "I'm High King Peter and even though you're a king, you have to listen to me now" look on his face and it was something the younger boy never came out on top after seeing.

"Right, fine," he said. "But don't overdo it, Peter. I don't want to have to scrape you up off a hospital wing bed and drag you back to your room later today."

Peter stuck out his tongue childishly and then hobbled into the doorway behind him. Edmund glances at his watch and then gasped. "Oh damn," he said, turning and bolting down the hallway. He was a minute away from being late to his first class.

Lunchtime…

It wasn't unusual for Quentin to tag along with Peter. But it was unusual for him to channel Edmund with his hovering and with a frown Peter wondered if his brother and his best mate had been talking behind his back.

Maybe they devised this "dog Peter's every hobble" plan when I was in the bathroom this morning, he thought to himself with a small shake of the head. Edmund, you are too much sometimes.

"Where is Pevensie Jr.?" Quentin complained, craning his neck and trying to see over the incoming students streaming into the dining hall. "He's late. We've been waiting five whole minutes and I'm a strapping, young, healthy, growing boy. I need my food."

Peter laughed. "Yes, it must take a lot of food to feed that ego of yours, Quen," he said with a smile. "I don't see him. It can't hurt to go in and find a seat. He'll just have to look for us."

Turning around, careful not to trip anyone with his crutch, Peter let Quentin lead him into the dining hall. He nearly bowled into the other boy when his friend stopped short.

"So that's why he wasn't out there!" Quentin exclaimed, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Edmund! We were waiting for five whole minutes for you outside!"

Peter peered around Quentin and his eyes narrowed.

Edmund was standing at the end of the closest table, in the middle of pushing a desk chair up to the end where there was no bench in the way. He looked up at Quentin's voice.

"Oh, sorry about that," he said, gesturing to the chair. "It took a bit longer than I expected getting this through the masses without clocking anyone over the head with it."

The younger boy noticed Peter had not moved toward them and was glaring at him. Inwardly, he had been expecting a fight, but he had held out hope it wouldn't be the case. He could feel that hope crumble up and fade away.

"What's that?" Peter said, still not moving. "Because, last I checked, there were benches in here and therefore no need for chairs…"

Quentin, sensing the turmoil, halted midway between Peter and Edmund. "Whoa, boys," he said diplomatically. "No sibling spats in the dining hall. I'm sure that's a school rule."

Edmund glared right back at Peter. "You had trouble last night and this morning. This'll help. Just take the seat, Peter," he said. "It's not a big deal. And I already lugged it all the way here."

Peter hobbled over to the table and resolutely stood to the right of the bench end. With a fierce scowl, he thrust the crutch toward Edmund who reeled to catch it.

Then without so much as a warning, Peter leaned down and grasped the table top, and sat on the edge of the bench. Sliding to the left, he easily moved down until he was sitting comfortably at the table.

Reaching forward to the closest food, he turned to Edmund. "Since you did lug it all the way down here, feel free to sit on it," he said, before turning away and loading his plate.

Quentin, standing where he had first stop, met Edmund's gaze over the blonde Pevensie's head and shrugged. The younger brother shook his head and angrily thrust the crutch under the bench Peter was sitting on, non-to-gently smacking into his good foot.

"You're being stupid, Peter," he grumbled. "You won't always be able to get an end bench seat. Someday someone is going to refuse to budge over for you and you'll wish you had this chair."

Peter looked over at him briefly. "Doubt it. I can sit on a bench, Edmund. I don't need you to go getting me chairs. What are you going to do next? Build a ramp so I don't have to go up and down the five steps outside?"

He briefly wished he could take back the words, since it was obvious they had hurt Edmund by the look on his brother's face. But the look vanished as Edmund regained his defiance and glared at Peter.

"Suit yourself," he said, dishing food out onto his own plate. "But don't come complaining to me if you can't wedge yourself into a seat in here without belting someone with your floppy leg."

Edmund winced inwardly. Oh that was callous, Ed, he thought as he saw Peter bristle at the term "floppy leg". But it was too late to take it back now and he resolutely refused to apologize. If Peter could be so stubborn, so could he.

Wanting to have the last word, Peter grimaced. "I won't. I'll just be sure that "someone" is you, dear brother. Surely you wouldn't hold it against me?"

The two both scowled and Quentin flung his hands up in the air. "Why me?" He looked from one to the other. "You love each other so much that you can't stand each other! Amazing."

Peter smacked him in the arm. "Shut up, Quen."

In Edmund's room after classes…

Flinging his book bag onto his bed, ignoring the crash it made when it slammed into the wall, Edmund paced the center of his room, glad that his roommate was nowhere in sight.

"Damn him," Edmund grumbled. "Too stubborn for his own good. He's going to overdo, I just know he is. He always does. I wish Su and Lu went to school here, the three of us together can usually knock some sense into him."

Drawing to a stop in front of his dresser, Edmund put both hands on the top edge and pushed against it, squashing it against the wall to try and dispel his frustration.

"What did that dresser ever do to you?"

Spinning around, Edmund saw Quentin standing in his doorway. "What?"

The older boy stepped in and gestured to the dresser. "You appear to be trying to shove it through the wall?" He chuckled lightly when Edmund jerked his hands back and examined the indents in his palms.

"Did you stop by to tell me to lay off Peter?" He said, spinning toward his bed and shoving the battered book bag aside again to sit down. "Because if you did, I'll tell you now it's pointless. I'll get that stubborn git to accept some help if it takes me all term."

Quentin actually sighed. "It might," he said quietly, sitting on the bed beside Edmund. "I don't know you, really," he continued. "But I've known Peter since we were little. And something tells me you know what sort of challenge you are facing."

He leaned back on his elbows. "But something else tells me you aren't, perhaps, familiar with what a permanent disability does to someone's mental state."

Edmund was listening now, shuffling back until he was up against the wall behind him. "Well, no, I've never had to deal with something like this before," he admitted. "Have you?"

The older boy nodded and also shifted back. "My father, fresh out of boot camp, was so excited to get a chance to fight in the war," he said, eyes distant. "It was his first battle and it wasn't even particularly nasty. But he was hit in the back by a shard of shrapnel and paralyzed from the waist down."

He ignored the sharp intake of breath from Edmund beside him, resolutely keeping his voice as calm and as neutral as he could. Talking about his father wasn't easy.

"He was so bitter, Edmund," he said. "And he was nothing short of cruel sometimes. To me, my brother, especially my mother. It got so bad that my parents nearly divorced over it."

Edmund gulped beside him and in a voice that belied his age, asked, "Did it ever get better?"

Quentin shifted so he was facing the boy beside him, taking in the knees tucked to the chest and the trepidation in the eyes. "Yes," he said gently. "But it took time. I can't count the number of days I would walk downstairs to find my father on the ground, unable to get up after a fall. And he was always so angry.

"After a while, he learned that it was all right to ask for help. After that, things got better and my parents didn't fight as much. My father started to live again."

Reaching out, he laid a hand on Edmund's shoulder. "Give him time. Something tells me he hasn't been lame in one leg for very long," he said. "He's acting like my father did at first. Like it's all a bad dream and will go away. Denial. Stick by him, Edmund, because the day will come when he does need you."

Standing, he faced the bed. "Let him simmer for a bit. Let him fall a few times. And then be there to collect him when he realizes he needs your help," he said. "I'll look out for him in the meantime."

With a frown, he added, "Just, try to watch how you bait him. Don't let your own frustration get between you. My parents would do that all the time, and their words hurt each other more than anything."

As he reached the door, he cracked a smile. "And if you tell Peter I was here and we talked," he said with a wicked grin, "I'll have to deny everything and tell him you're loony."

Edmund smiled a little at that and nodded. "I won't tell him. And Quentin? Thank you. I was already angry when you guys came in and I let things get out of hand. It won't happen again."

As the door clicked shut, Edmund shifted and flung his head back onto his pillow, staring up at the ceiling. Quentin's story made him feel a little better, knowing that what was happening with him and Peter was normal.

He scowled as he remembered just why he had been in such a sour mood when Peter and Quentin had entered the dining hall.

"Well, well, what have we here? The babysitting brother!"

Edmund rolled his eyes before turning around to face Rupert and his cohorts, Hank and Martin, all Edmund's age-mates and former friends. They sure didn't waste any time turning on him.

"Rupe," Edmund said, hefting his book bag higher on his shoulder. "And your sidekicks Hank and Martin. Did you need something in particular, because I'm meeting someone for lunch and I'm already late." He gripped the chair beside him harder when the other boys' eyes alighted on it.

Hank, the biggest and dumbest of the bunch, put a foot up on the chair seat and grinned. "That your brother's throne? Cause you wait on him hand and foot like a little servant boy serves a King?"

Edmund inwardly shook his head, because outwardly would only cause more trouble. If only you knew, you dumb oaf, he thought to himself. Peter was a king, and always would be to Edmund. The irony wasn't lost on the younger boy.

Rupert shoved Hank's foot off the chair and sat himself down in it, leaning back and crossing his legs at the ankles.

"Don't be a git, Hank," he grunted. "Little Eddy needs to bring his cripple brother a chair. Next he'll be bringing him breakfast in bed. And then, dare I say, he'll be doing his homework. Must be nice for your brother, not having to do anything, and all because of a bum leg. I'll bet he let himself get hurt on purpose."

That did it. Edmund grabbed hold of the chair and yanked hard, toppling Rupert to the ground with a surprised yelp followed by a howl of pain as the boy landed hard on the tile floor.

"Don't you ever insinuate my brother let himself be shot so he could get out of a little homework, you worthless piece of scum," he hissed, not shouted, in a dangerously low voice right into Rupert's ear. "I don't care how many thugs you bring with you, if I hear so much as a whisper like that again I'll pummel you and I don't care if they expel me for it."

Without so much as a backwards glance, Edmund grasped the chair and hoisted it up. He walked away, leaving Hank and Martin to drag Rupert to his feet. He knew he would be in for it later, once Rupert regained his dignity. Edmund could only hope it didn't include a sound pummeling of his body.

Shifting so he was no longer against the wall, Edmund flopped backwards and let his head rest on his pillow, staring up at the ceiling. He was angry at himself for letting his brush with Rupert, Hank and Martin leech into his treatment of Peter.

But there was nothing he could do about it now. What was done, was done and he wasn't going to dwell on it. Easier said then done, he grumbled to himself.

With a sigh, he crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. If Peter didn't want help, Edmund would lay off for a bit and observe from a little further away. He wasn't about to leave Peter to fend for himself.

The masses had been pretty quiet so far, but as the novelty of a wounded war veteran in their midst died down, Edmund expected there would probably be others like Rupert who would use Peter's disability against him.

"I still can't believe he suggested Peter got hurt on purpose!" Edmund exclaimed, squeezing his eyes shut against the memory. "Who would do something like that?!"

There was a quiet huff of breath beside him and Edmund nearly jumped off the bed. His roommate, a skinny boy named Percival, shook his head and laughed at Edmund's surprise.

"Sorry I startled you," he said, "but you just sounded so indignant. It's true though, there are people out there who injure themselves to get out of war duty." He held up a hand when Edmund looked ready to jump down his throat. "I'm not saying your brother did that. Matter of fact, I doubt it because most who do that are cowards and their injuries are minor. Your brother obviously went through a lot."

Edmund calmed down and grumbled a "Yeah" to his roommate before the room fell into quiet and the boys broke open their shiny, new textbooks for their first set of homework assignments.

In Peter and Quentin's room...

"Floppy leg? Floppy leg? I'll give him a floppy leg," Peter muttered, sitting on his bed with his useless leg jutting out in front of him and a deep frown on his face as he stared at it. "He's right though. It is useless."

Fingering the pant leg, he poked and prodded the leg in question and concentrated, hoping to feel even the slightest sign of something. But there wasn't anything.

Glancing at the closed door, he shook his head. "Oh Aslan, I know you warned me, but I just don't know if I can do this! This stupid leg's put a wedge between Ed and I, and I just know it's only a matter of time before people start rumors about why I'm like this."

With a weary sigh, he eyed his book bag and the pile of homework he had already been given. He'd been groaning an awful lot that day, but what was one more?

"Is life really that bad?"

Peter jerked and dropped the book he'd just pulled out. "Quen!" He seethed. "Stop doing that! That...sneak-up-on-people-and-scare-the-wits-out-of-them thing."

The other boy laughed and flung himself down on the end of Peter's bed. "Oh come on, you know you love it!" He fingered the book his roommate had dropped. "You're not going to start studying already are you? It's far too early!"

Tugging the book back, he nodded. "I don't have much else to do anyway. It's not like I can go out and play cricket or something." He gazed out the window and frowned.

Quentin sighed now. "Peter, you've got to stop moping," he said suddenly, drawing a glare from the other boy but not letting it affect him. His father's glares had been a hundred times worse.

He felt the bed shift and was surprised to see Peter shove his leg off the edge and grab his crutch. "What are you doing?" he said, confused. "I thought you were studying?"

Peter turned to him with a fierce look. "My moping appears to be bothering you, so I'll take it to the library where I can mope in peace," he said shortly.

The other boy shook his head. "Pete," he said, "you and my father a few months ago would have gotten on sportingly."

His friend stopped at that and turned back to him. "What are you on about?"

Quentin stood and steered Peter back toward the bed, pulled the crutch from his grasp and pushed the other boy until he was seated again, bewildered now.

"I mean you and he are lousy disabled people," he said. "Don't you remember? I wrote you about my dad's paralysis?"

Peter's jaw dropped. It had been just before he'd left to fight himself when Quentin had written to say his father had been wounded and was left paralyzed from the waist down.

Turning wide eyes on his best mate, he swallowed. "I'm sorry, Quen," he said. "I had forgotten. I've just had so much on my mind and I ... I'm sorry. I didn't even ask how he was doing."

The other boy waved him off. "I understand, Peter," he said. "Probably more than anybody here, actually. He's better now, he lets us help him and he has started doing things he used to love. Like going fishing. His arms are wicked strong now and he casts like a pro."

Peter chuckled. "I'll bet," he said quietly, no longer intent on leaving.

Eying Quentin, he took a deep breath. "So, how did he adjust? To not being able to walk? Relying on everyone for help all the time? He must have been...angry."

Because I know that I am, he thought to himself.

Patting Peter on his good leg, Quentin nodded. "Yeah, he was angry for a while. He was mean." He eyed Peter before continuing slowly. "A bit like you were with Edmund earlier."

Peter winced but didn't reply.

"Yep, it got so bad that Mum and Dad nearly divorced. For a while, they didn't speak to each other and we really thought they would never speak again."

Peter looked at him from the corner of his eye, but still didn't speak. Quentin knew, though, that he had the blonde boy's attention now.

"Mum was this close to just flinging in the towel and giving up," he continued, pretending not to hear Peter shifting uncomfortably beside him. "I tell you, Pete, he was a right bastard at times."

There was a flop as Peter flung himself backward and put his arm over his eyes with a groan. "I'm an idiot," he said. "Aren't I?"

Quentin brightly nodded. "Yes, I'd say so."

Peter glared at him. "Oh, you're supposed to say, 'Of course not, Peter, you're a wonderful chap and I'm glad to call you my best mate'."

The two boys laughed for a moment before Quentin leaned against the wall beside Peter's bed and gestured to Peter's leg. "So how did this happen?" he said quietly. "I'll understand if you don't want to give me details, but you know I'm not going to go spread things around and you might need someone to talk to when you and Edmund are at odds."

Peter sighed and removed the arm from in front of his eyes slowly, peeking out at Quentin before replacing it there and frowning. "Was a bit over three months ago," he said quietly. "We were retreating and, I had to be Peter and couldn't leave anyone behind." He pushed his arm tighter to his face, not wanting to look at Quentin as he spoke.

The words were stuck in his throat and he let out a puff of breath before pulling his arm from his face and awkwardly sitting up to lean against the wall beside Quentin.

Patience wasn't something Quentin was good at, but he held his tongue and waited to see if Peter would go on. When nothing was forthcoming, he ventured, "So...you...what? Got shot?"

There was a pause. Then a nod.

Seeing how it was going, Quentin pursed his lips. "And...it...hit you in the back?" There was a shake "no" at that, so Quentin frowned and said, "Um...went near your back?"

Peter nodded hesitantly, still not speaking.

Quentin drew in a breath. "You're not going to make this easy, are you Peter?" He muttered, shifting to look at his friend who was staring off across the room silently. "Do you want to just leave this alone for now?"

Peter almost said yes. Could feel the word on the tip of his tongue. But it wasn't what came out. "No," he whispered. "I...I want you to know what really happened, because there will be all kinds of rumors soon."

He peeked at Quentin now. "I didn't lose feeling right away," he said. "It was later…at the hospital. And at first I couldn't feel either of them." He knew he was on slippery ground now, so he continued slowly. "There was swelling. It went down, but the damage was done and I never got feeling back in this leg."

His friend nodded lightly. "So you've had to learn to deal with it pretty recently, huh?"

Peter sighed and bobbed his head up and down. "I'm beginning to wonder if coming to school was a bad idea," he said haltingly, picking at a thread on his blanket. "Maybe it's just too much to do at once. Getting used to this and being back in school. I mean, it's surreal to be here after being in Germany." Or Narnia...

But Quentin was shaking his head. "No, it's good that you're here," he said. "My dad wallowed in self-pity and bitterness at home all day while we were in school and mum worked. Being around others, can be bad with the bullies and people who don't understand, but it is also a good thing."

He jostled Peter. "Are you good? No more leaping down your brother's throat? Because I'd hate to see you guys at odds like my parents were," he said with a mock glare.

Peter scrunched up his face. "What're you, my mother?" But he laughed soon after. "I'll be good. I just need time to adjust and I don't like being smothered."

Quentin nodded. "Right then, noted. Don't smother Peter."

He dodged a playful slap and then the two sighed and flipped open books on Peter's bed, content now to silently study.

A/N: Nudges you readers to hit that little Review button so we can have 200 reviews! What a milestone! Didn't think I'd be getting that many on this story, nor did I think this story would be so LONG.