A/N: This chapter might be a little confusing to some of you because there have been some changes to chapter one, and there will be coming changes to other chapters, that reflect an attempt to make the beginning of the story more historically accurate. So, to make it easy if you don't go back and reread chapter one, Peter was not wounded in Germany, but in Greece. I found a battle that was fought there that fit in my timeline, involved British troops and was lost. Over the next few days, earlier chapters will be revised to reflect these changes, so if you fancy reading the whole story again, feel free! (Oh, and don't forget to review and tell me if you like the changes!)

Part Twenty-Seven:

Over the course of the next week, Peter and Edmund managed to find a level of "Edmund-hovering" that was comfortable for both of them, but even the teachers could tell there was still tension between the brothers.

Quentin had tried to act as mediator on top of supporting both of them when they needed it, but it was beginning to wear on his school work and he knew it wasn't going to be long before he had to focus more on his studies and less on Peter and Edmund's ongoing struggles.

"All right, that's it! I've had enough of this!" Peter called out from across the room where he, Quentin and Edmund were all studying before lunch and afternoon classes. "I mean, how many times am I actually going to use Latin in my life!?"

From the ground near his bed, Edmund chuckled but didn't reply.

Quentin looked up from his own bed and shook his head. "I don't know, Pete," he said. "But, I wouldn't let Professor Darian hear you say something like that. He'll soundly berate you in English and Latin and then probably make you translate what he said during detention."

Peter laughed, closing his book and leaning over to grab his crutch. Setting it under his arm, the top now neatly wrapped in a hand towel, he pushed up until he was standing and nudged Edmund with the bottom end of the crutch.

"Come on, I'm hungry," he said. "They should have the serving line in order now."

With a groan, Edmund heaved himself to his knees and then to his feet and stretched. There were two audible pops as he extended his arms above his head and rose to the balls of his feet. The dark-haired boy winced on the second and rubbed his arm.

"I shouldn't have studied on the ground for so long," he muttered ruefully.

Behind him, pulling his school blazer back on, Quentin chuckled. "Only you two. I can't count the times Peter used to do that too." He drew abreast of the Pevensies and gestured grandly toward the open door. "After you, Sir Edmund and Sir Peter," he joked.

Peter and Edmund felt smiles about to erupt on their faces, so they turned and hurried – or in Peter's case hobbled quickly – through the doorway to hide them. Quentin, ever observant though, knew his words had made some impression, but for the life of him couldn't figure out what.

Realizing he had been lagging in the room, he surged forward and flung the door shut behind him.

Peter was on his second helping of shepherd's pie when the dining hall went completely silent – an unusual occurrence when full of rambunctious young men glad for a reprieve from classes.

Frowning, he twisted in his seat and looked toward the doorway.

There were two military police officers standing in the entranceway, the Headmaster beside them skimming the student tables as if looking for someone. He appeared to find him and with a frown pointed in the direction of the table Peter, Edmund and Quentin were seated at.

Dressed in the uniform of the Army, with red caps and a black armband emblazoned with a red "MP", they made their way through the tables filled with students, their sidearms very visible at their hips.

Peter's hand hovered between his plate and his mouth as they continued even closer, eyes seemingly locked with his. No, not seemingly – actually locked with his. Peter let his hand fall, released the fork and swallowed thickly.

What was going on?

"Corporal Pevensie?" said, the larger of the two men, a staff sergeant by the insignia he wore. "You'll need to come with us." His hand hovered near his sidearm, but wasn't actually touching it. Yet.

Peter didn't move immediately, completely confused by the sudden appearance.

Headmaster Clark appeared at the men's elbows, looking like he had just decided something. "I'd like to know why young Peter has to come with you," he said to the men. "As a student enrolled at this school, his well-being is of concern to me."

The staff sergeant glanced briefly at the headmaster before looking back down at Peter. "The corporal is under arrest for failing to return to duty and allowing the military to continue to believe he had been killed in action," he said, a tinge of loathing in his tone, though he did a decent job of hiding it. Deserters were the lowest of the low to the military.

Peter's eyes widened and he stuttered, "What!?"

Realizing who he was addressing, he added a hasty, "Sir, I did notify the army, before I came to school last week. At the soonest possible moment." He looked at the other man, who wouldn't even meet his gaze. "I went to the recruitment office in Finchley and was told it would be taken care of and to go to school."

Frowning, the staff sergeant looked toward the Headmaster before continuing. "The regional headquarters has no record of such a visit, or of such a command, Corporal. As far as they are concerned, you're a deserter." He shifted his gaze to Edmund, who was clenching his fist so tightly around his cup, it was a wonder it hadn't broken. "Even if you did report in, you haven't received a discharge."

Again, Peter frowned. "The corporal at the office said I would," he said quietly. "It slipped my mind that I haven't received word yet." He was talking more to himself than the man now.

Sighing, the MP shook his head. "It's your word against the regional headquarters, and I think headquarters trumps you, so get up and be quick about it."

There was a clang as Edmund stood up and pushed his cup away from him with a deep scowl. Peter could see that the transformation from Edmund the schoolboy to Edmund the Just King had already taken place, and his brother was furious.

"I was there, waiting outside, when he went, so it's our word against regional headquarters. He turned to his brother. "Peter?" the younger boy said icily. "Why don't you do as the man says, stand up and be quick about it?"

Drawing himself to his full height, the MP turned to Edmund with a grimace. "And who the hell are you, boy?"

Edmund, not in the least cowed, returned the grimace. "I'm Edmund Pevensie, the Corporal's brother," he said, just as icily as before. Looking down at Peter again, he grabbed his brother's arm and tugged. "Get up, Peter. Like the sergeant said."

Peter was shaking his head. "Edmund, stop it," he said, hissing it under his breath. But his brother was not a force to be reckoned with so deep was his fury. Glancing at the MP, Peter tried to calm the tension mounting. "I apologize for my brother, sir, he's upset," he said to the man.

Both MPs had moved their hands a little closer to their batons and Peter didn't want them to have to pull them out and use them on his little brother. Leaning down, he made to fish out his crutch under the bench, but Edmund pulled on his arm to stop him.

"No, Peter, they said get up, so do it."

Whispering, Peter shook his head. "You know I can't, Edmund."

Apparently not hard of hearing, the MP frowned. "Can't? And why can't you, Corporal?"

Peter looked up at the man, a scowl on his own face at the disdain in the man's voice. "I can't, sir, because only one of my legs actually works," he said fiercely. His own ire mounting as he berated himself for not going above the corporal in that recruitment office, Peter grabbed his right leg and tugging, dumped it over the bench. It hit the ground with a thud and he swung the other over after it.

Reaching down further, he pulled the crutch out from under the table and used it to stand. Leaning heavily on it, he looked up and met the man's eyes again. This time, there was a little less hostility.

"Aren't you going to handcuff him or something?" Edmund asked angrily. "Oh, wait, how would he walk then?"

Peter turned a harsh glare on his brother, appreciating that Edmund cared deeply for him, but not appreciating how the younger boy was riling up the MPs. Thankfully, the staff sergeant appeared to be deep in contemplation and wasn't entirely tuned in to Edmund's comments.

"Obviously this boy is in no condition to go back out and fight a war," Headmaster Clark suddenly stated, moving to stand beside Peter who was fighting back the overwhelming urge of his body to start trembling. "There has been some sort of misunderstanding, surely you needn't arrest him. He can't even walk unassisted, surely he couldn't be charged a deserter?"

The MPs were exchanging glances now, but said nothing immediately.

Edmund jumped back in. "You can't be entertaining the notion he could rejoin his unit!" The boy seethed. "This war's already taken our father and the use of Peter's leg, isn't that enough, damn it?"

"Edmund, language!"

"Language!"

Peter and the Headmaster jerked in surprise as both said the same thing at the same time and even the MPs let out a small grin at that. Sobering, the staff sergeant pursed his lips. "I agree, young man, your brother can't fight anymore. But he needs to be properly discharged, nonetheless," he said. He turned back to Peter. "If you come with us, we'll take you to the army garrison and have a medic verify your condition and get the discharge papers signed. You'll be back for dinner if everything is in order."

Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding and nodded. "Yes, sir," he said, looking back at Edmund. His brother was still fuming, but at least he wasn't yelling at the officer for making that suggestion.

The headmaster nodded his agreement. "That sounds fair," he said before turning his attention on Quentin, hovering at Edmund's elbow. "I would ask that you allow Mr. Connors to accompany Corporal Pevensie. He will need the assistance when he is dismissed."

Edmund bristled. "But…" he began, only to be cut off by a glare from the headmaster this time. "I…" a cock of the man's head stopped any further comment from the younger boy.

"You, young Mr. Pevensie," the headmaster said, "need a little lesson in when it is appropriate to be sarcastic and when it is not. You are lucky you are underage, or these fine policemen may have been within their rights to arrest you."

Peter's pleading gaze was all that stopped Edmund from retorting. Seeing the trepidation in his older brother's eyes, Edmund all but deflated into a nearly sobbing mess. "Peter," he said quietly. "I…I'm sorry how I've been acting. Just…just hurry back, okay?"

Quentin moved around Edmund and took up a position to Peter's right.

"I'll be fine, Ed," Peter said with a small smile that came nowhere near his eyes. "I'll see you at dinner."

Edmund wanted to run after Peter as his brother, flanked by Quentin on one side and the MP staff sergeant on the other, passed through the entrance to the dining hall and out of Edmund's sight.

It almost felt like watching Peter step into that ring to duel Miraz. There was nothing he could do to help Peter, no way to protect him. A hand on his elbow shook him to awareness.

Looking up, he met Headmaster Clark's sympathetic gaze. "Come, Pevensie," he said. "We'll go have that talk now. Bring your meal, this might take a while."

Gulping, Edmund turned, grabbed his plate and amidst a sea of stares, followed the Headmaster out of the dining hall in silence.

In the Headmaster's office…

"Have a seat."

Edmund gulped, setting his plate down on his lap after he had lowered himself into the chair across from the Headmaster's desk. Looking up, he waited for the scolding to begin.

"Eat."

A frown crossed the young boy's face. "Sir?" he said, confused. "I thought you wanted to talk to me? About my sarcasm with the Redcaps. And…well…aren't you?"

With a small chuckle, the Headmaster shook his head. "No," he said. "That was just a ruse. I didn't think you wanted to remain in the dining hall after a scene like that, and I wanted to be sure you actually ate. So, eat."

With disbelief on his face, Edmund looked from the food on his lap to the Headmaster in front of him a few times before he shook of the shock and dug into his shepherd's pie, thoughts inevitably dwelling on Peter.

Those thoughts were interrupted when the man across from him leaned on the desk and spoke. "So, Edmund, is it?" At Edmund's nod, the Headmaster continued. "I'm hoping I was correct in supporting your brother, that he really is not a deserter, like I suspected."

Pausing in mid-bite, Edmund's eyebrows narrowed and he swallowed fast so he could speak. "My brother is no deserter," he fairly growled. "He is the most honorable person I have ever met. He would never do that. Peter spent three months in hospital after he was shot, and two more trying to get home."

Clark held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I believe you," he said quickly. "But I had to ask. I put a lot on the line when I spoke for your brother. Aiding and abetting a deserter is a serious offense."

Deflating, Edmund nodded. "Sorry, sir," he said. "I seem to be a little over-protective of my brother. He's just been through so much and when those Redcaps showed up, I just couldn't see past it when they said they were here to arrest him. After everything he's done."

Clark was silent for a moment.

"I notice your brother and you do not room together," he said. "Even after I gave you permission to stay with him. Is there a reason for that?"

Edmund sighed. "Peter's stubborn, sir," the boy said, picking at his plate now. "I told him but he said he had to learn to deal with his disability on his own. I just want to help him, but he keeps pushing me away."

Nodding, Clark sat back. "I expect he would," he said. "I imagine your brother feels he should be the big brother. The authority figure. Probably because of his age, and because of his military experience. To suddenly have to depend on you, his younger brother – in a military setting, a subordinate – must be difficult to grasp."

The younger Pevensie brother cocked his head to the side and looked at the Headmaster closely. "Sir? Did you fight in the war?" He added, "It just sort of sounds like you have an understanding of military men."

The Headmaster nodded. "I did," he said. "I fought in a number of engagements in the last war and rose to the rank of Second Lieutenant. Much like your brother, it was a wound that took me out of the fight." He glanced towards his right hand and pulled back on the sleeve.

Edmund followed the man's gaze to the Headmaster's right hand and gasped. There were only two fingers and a gnarled mess of scar tissue where there should have been a five-fingered hand.

Raising the damaged limb, the man met Edmund's eyes. "You didn't notice it, did you? Many don't. It's not something overly obvious. But it did take some time to learn to function with my left hand."

He pulled the cuff of his sleeve back down. "After this, you might find your brother to be a little less evasive," the Headmaster said. "Sometimes it takes a traumatic experience for one to realize the important things. Like family. And leaning on each other."

Edmund nodded. "Yes, sir," he said. "I think I have to talk to Peter."

Clark stood, gesturing to Edmund, who pushed his plate onto the desk and stood up. Steering the young boy around by the shoulders, the man nodded. "I think you do, as well. And it's best not to leave it for long. I will overlook you being out of bounds tonight. But only tonight."

With a smile, Edmund nodded. "Thank you sir," he said. As the door to the office shut behind him, he sighed and turned toward his brother's dormitory. He would wait there for Peter and Quentin to return.

This "at-arms-length" business with his brother had to stop. And it had to stop tonight.

Military hospital in London…

Peter let out a puff of breath and leaned forward again, peering down the hallway where the senior MP had gone five minutes ago to fetch the medic who would determine whether Peter was going back to school – or going to jail.

"Stop that," Quentin finally exclaimed, drawing a chuckle from the younger MP sitting on the other side of Peter, lounging back in his chair since there wasn't much of a threat of Peter running away on him. "If you keep fidgeting like that, I'm going to tie you to that chair, Pevensie."

Growling, Peter sat back and started to twist his crutch in circles.

A hand shot out and stopped it mid-twist.

"I mean it."

With a small smile, Peter relinquished his hold on the crutch and Quentin pulled it over to his other side and out of the blonde boy's reach. Peter resisted the urge to lean forward and look again.

The entire 40 minute ride in the MP jeep had been full of Peter bouncing his good leg, biting his lips, sighing and looking warily between the two MPs in the front seats. Now, he was running out of nervous movements to make.

"Corporal?"

Peter's head shot up and took in a short, older man who standing directly in front of him. How he had gotten there, the young man couldn't fathom, since he hadn't heard or noticed him.

"Sir?"

The man gestured for Peter to come with him and didn't argue when Quentin, after handing Peter his crutch, followed them down the corridor. The hospital was bustling with activity and Peter tried not to look at the men missing various limbs, wincing as they worked to regain balance and function in society.

Before going far, they turned left into an exam room and the doctor shut the door behind Peter, Quentin and the older MP. The younger had taken up a position outside the door.

"All right, take this and leave only your shorts on," the doctor said, pointing to the exam table in the far corner. Peter moved over to the table and eyed the light sheet he was holding, then eyed his clothes and then eyed Quentin. Seeing the look, the doctor waved Quentin over to Peter and turned away again.

The MP stood nearby, but not too close to intrude.

Undoing the button and the zipper of his trousers, Peter sighed and then pushed them roughly downward, feeling the scrape on his left leg and nothing at all on his right. Quentin helped him to get out of them and then helped him hoist himself up on the table and handed him the sheet.

Aside from hairy legs, no blemishes adorning Peter's skin could be seen.

The MP eyed the young man critically. "Don't look like an injured leg to me," he muttered, purposely loud enough for Peter to hear.

Glaring was his first instinct, but Peter only shook his head and unbuttoned his blazer, then his white button-up shirt and pulled both off in one go. That left him in his white undershirt and his under shorts.

The doctor was now in front of him, waiting expectantly and Peter took the time to let out one more sigh before the storm.

Grasping the bottom edge of his T-shirt, he pulled it up and over his head. He heard the gasps of surprise and hesitated before pulling the shirt completely off, his face hidden from view as the others acclimated to what they were seeing.

Okay, so it looked like he'd been in a war. He had...but not all the scars they were seeing had come from fighting this war. Lucy's cordial healed the injuries, but they still scarred and Peter sported more than one.

Looking through his fringe, he eyed the doctor – who in turn was eying the long incision on his mid-section. The MP, undoubtedly of stalwart character, actually looked a little sick and chancing a look at Quentin, Peter saw his best friend had his hands to his mouth and was chalk white.

Regaining control of himself, the doctor set about poking and prodding and cataloguing the battle history on Peter's body. After noting a number of things on his chart, he looked up into Peter's face.

"It appears you received this long wound here, and this shoulder wound, most recently, am I correct?" the doctor said, pointing to the wounds as he mentioned them. Upon Peter's nod, he moved behind the young man. "There is no exit wound, so I assume the torso wound is so large because of this?"

Again, Peter nodded.

The doctor reached out and touched the puncture scar near the base of Peter's spine, where he had been struck by the mace in Narnia. "What caused this? It doesn't look like an exit wound from a bullet, but something definitely punctured you here."

Peter resisted the urge to sigh. "I was hit by flying shrapnel, sir. It didn't go deep and I was able to pull it out myself and bandage it up."

The doctor came back around front. "And you say you have no feeling in your right leg? None at all?"

Peter nodded once more.

"Elaborate, corporal," the doctor said, gesturing with his hand.

Sighing, Peter glanced to Quentin first, then back at the doctor. "I was told by the doctor who treated me that there was a lot of swelling around my spine," he said. "And over the three months I was in the hospital, there was enough nerve damage done to cause me to lose feeling in my right leg." He frowned. "Initially it was both, but I regained it in the left."

Nodding, the doctor pulled a sharp instrument from a nearby table.

"Lay back," he said, helping Peter to do so.

He started at Peter's mid-right side and poked the instrument at intervals, noting Peter's uncomfortable winces. They stopped as soon as he reached the young man's right thigh. With a frown, the doctor pushed a little harder, nearly enough to draw blood.

Still no reaction.

"Close your eyes," he told Peter. When the boy hesitated, he turned to Quentin. "Your friend will be here to make sure I don't do anything inappropriate or damaging."

With a small nod, Peter did as he was told.

The doctor grasped his right foot and torqued it. Normally, someone would tell him to stop when it began to get uncomfortable. Unless they had no feeling in the leg. And Peter said nothing.

"You can open them again."

Helping Peter sit up, the man had him hang his legs over the side of the exam table and then proceeded to lightly knock his left leg just below the knee. The leg twitched in response.

He repeated the action on the right.

Nothing.

Standing up straight, he made a note in his chart and then turned his attention to the MP.

"Staff Sergeant Giles," he said. "This young man is indeed paralyzed in one leg. There is weakness in his torso from extensive trauma. He is not fit for duty and it is my recommendation that he be discharged."

To Peter, he said, "I can't imagine what it must have been like traveling for months from Greece to Britain so soon after receiving such injuries," he said. "I would like to apologize for the entire British Army for putting you through this." With a look to the MP, he added, "You are free to go, Mr. Pevensie. Your discharge paperwork should arrive at your school within 10 days."

Peter nodded mutely, shaking a little in the chilly room. "Thank you, sir," he said. "May I get dressed now?"

The man smiled. "Yes, go right ahead, young man."

Quentin jumped forward and helped his trembling friend, unable to tear his eyes away from the many scars that Peter's body held. Apparently he wasn't the only one.

"What happened to you that caused so many scars, Mr. Pevensie?" the MP said haltingly. The doctor stopped short and turned to hear the answer too.

Peter groaned inwardly. He'd been hoping they wouldn't ask about that. He sported the scar from his run-in with the Ettinsmoor giants, the ones from the most recent duel with Miraz and minor ones from fights during the Golden Age.

"When I was a child, I was involved in an auto accident," he said quietly. "An out-of-control car hit me when I was crossing the street. There was a lot of damage. But I recovered well. I've only got scars and vague memories from that."

He was aware of Quentin's eyes narrowing, but was glad the other boy didn't comment on it. His best friend knew there had been no such accident in his past. Peter was sure he would have to talk to Quentin later – and knew his friend well enough to know the other young man would not let this go.

Outside the hospital…

"Well this is wonderful," Quentin muttered, standing dejectedly next to Peter, who was sitting on a bench nearby. "First you nearly get arrested, then you get poked and prodded and I learn you have a zillion scars I knew nothing about, and now we have to fend for ourselves to get back to school and we have no money."

Peter groaned. "I know this, Quen," he said. "And I'm sorry you got dragged into this. I'll think of something. I promise."

The other boy stooped down in front of his friend and shook him lightly. "Peter Pevensie. You. Are. Not. To. Blame," he said slowly, enunciating each word. "And I wouldn't have let you go alone if they paid me to, so it isn't as if you dragged me anywhere."

"You can't be."

Peter and Quentin looked up in surprise.

An army captain was standing a few feet away from them, his eyes riveted on Peter. "I know you," he continued. "But, you're supposed to be dead. Killed in action. I told your family myself."

Scrunching his face up, Peter gazed more closely at the man.

Something was familiar about him. It took Peter several moments to place the man's face, but after a moment he had it.

"You were one of the messengers who brought word of my father's death," Peter whispered. Quentin stiffened beside him, looking between Peter and the captain. "It was a mistake, my being dead. Someone must have just assumed, since I was shot and never showed up at a hospital."

The captain moved closer.

"What was the name? Pevens? Parsey?"

"Pevensie," Peter said with a smile. "Peter. Formerly Corporal, but just now officially discharged from the army." He extended his hand to the man, who took it with a smile and introduced himself as Captain William Banks.

Looking between them, he noticed their uniforms. "School blazers? Where do you attend?"

The boys explained the day's events and finished with their current dilemma. Peter shook his head. "My brother will flip if I'm not back by supper," he said. "He was really upset when they took me away."

Nodding, Captain Banks gestured to a parked army-issued jeep nearby. "I'll give you two a ride back," he said. "I'm free for the night and I'm headed out Arkley way, anyhow. It wouldn't be any trouble at all."

Both boys smiled broadly and nodded in agreement.

Grabbing his crutch, Peter levered himself up with a grimace and nearly ran into the captain who had failed to move when he saw what the younger man was doing. Eying the crutch and Peter's obviously unresponsive leg, he frowned and sighed.

"Sir?" Peter said, looking up at the man's face. "Is something wrong?"

Banks nodded. "Yes, Peter," he said, laying a hand on the young man's shoulder. "I just hate seeing young men, like yourself, who will have to live with a disability all their lives because of this war." He shook his head. "I'm just blathering on, though, let's get you two back to school where you belong."

Peter wasn't sure how he felt about that. On one hand, he was a boy here, and one who had probably seen too many horrors for one his age. But he had been a man once. Had been a King. Had led troops in battle and slain many foes. He had sat at court and mediated between other rulers, and had also officiated over weddings.

It was odd to suddenly be told he belonged in school.

Captain Banks didn't know about Narnia, and so he was perfectly within his rights to believe as he did, but part of Peter was still the High King and that part of him bristled at the school boy side of him.

Clambering into the captain's jeep, he settled in for the 40 minute ride back to Arkley.

Peter and Quentin's room…

5:43 .

No Peter.

Edmund paced.

5:57 .

Still no Peter.

Edmund bounced on the balls of his feet.

6:01 .

"Where are they!"

Edmund flung himself down on Peter's bed and hugged the pillow to his chest, breathing in the scent of Peter's shampoo. He had tried to study. Tried to read a book. Tried to take a nap. Tried to take a shower. Well, he'd succeeded at the shower, but it hadn't taken his mind off Peter.

The only thing he had done besides that was write a letter to Susan and Lucy.

It wasn't fair to keep them in the dark about what had happened, even though he hated worrying them. The letter wasn't finished yet, because he still didn't know if Peter was in jail or not.

"Argh!" He flung the pillow against the wall and drew his legs in, huffing as he wrapped his arms around them. "Why couldn't I have gone with you, Peter? At least then I wouldn't have bitten my nails to the quick worrying."

He eyed said nails with disdain.

Then he eyed the clock again.

6:02 .

"Damn," he said, letting his head fall into his hands. "I'm going nuts here."

There was a chuckle from the door and Edmund's head snapped up.

"I'd say going was way past, Ed, and you have arrived at already nuts."

Leaning on his crutch, smiling lightly, was Peter. Right behind him trying to hide a grin, Quentin was bobbing up and down on his feet. "Are we going in, Pete?"

The other boy smacked backward trying to hit him, but missed. Rolling his eyes, he entered the room and moved over to where Edmund was still perched on his bed, blinking in surprise at being surprised by their entrance.

"You're back!" He suddenly shouted, making Peter wince and rub his ear.

"Yes, and I'm now deaf."

Edmund flung his arms around Peter's shoulders and squeezed. "Okay, I never, ever want to repeat anything like this ever again," he said, his voice muffled by Peter's blazer. Realizing he was talking into his brother's shoulder, he picked up his head and looked into his eyes. "Is everything all right? You aren't going to be arrested? Or sent away?"

Peter shook his head. "No, I'm here to stay now, Edmund," he said quietly. "I should get the discharge papers in a little over a week. It's just Mr. Pevensie now, no more Corporal."

Releasing a great sigh, Edmund finally let his face break into a smile.

"I'm so glad, Peter," he said. "I was counting down the minutes waiting for you to get back." He paused, shifting his glance to Quentin before continuing. "I felt awful that we have been at odds still and I thought I might not have a chance to apologize for being so bloody over-protective."

"Language," Peter muttered automatically, then cringed when Edmund glared at him for it. "Sorry, habit," he said with a small grin. "Honestly, though, Edmund, I've been a bull-headed idiot myself and I should have accepted at least some of the help you were offering."

The dark-haired younger boy smiled. "Yes, it would have made things much easier for both of us," he said. "But I think I have to start offering to help a little less and you might be more inclined to let me help when I offer. We both have to learn what is too much and what isn't."

Quentin, perhaps sensing the conversation was about to begin going in circles, leaned in close to Peter and Edmund and leveled an intense glare on his best friend. "You, Peter Pevensie, have a lot of explaining to do," he said firmly. "You got hit by a car as a child, did you?" He stood up and paced away. "Funny that," he continued, "I'm your best mate and I've never heard of this horrific accident that left you with a body full of bloody scars!"

Peter winced as Quentin's voice rose in volume and hoped no one could hear them through the walls. "Calm down," he pleaded. "It's a long story, Quen. I swear, I didn't keep it from you in the way you think I did. Oh, it's complicated…"

Edmund frowned. He knew Quentin must be referring to the scars Peter had gotten in Narnia over the years of their reign, and probably the newer ones from their adventures with Prince Caspian and the Telmarines.

He met Peter's inquisitive look and could read in his eyes a desire to tell Quentin about Narnia. Neither boy was sure that it was allowed, but nor were they sure it wasn't so Peter sighed and thought for a moment.

Would he even believe me if I told him about Narnia? That we went to a magical land and were Kings and our sisters Queens and we fought alongside Centaurs and Fauns, against Giants and other Fell Creatures?

"Quen, you wouldn't believe me if I told you how I got these," he said quietly, not meeting the other boy's eyes. "It really is complicated."

Quentin was suddenly only a foot away. "Why don't you at least try, Peter?" he asked. "Aren't we best friends? Don't you tell me all the important, life-altering things in your life? Even if you don't tell me the details, you at least let me know something happened."

He gestured to Peter's torso. "I had no idea you had so many scars," he said. "No idea that something obviously serious had happened to you. Now I have to wonder what else you are hiding from me? Do I know you at all?"

Peter looked up at the hurt in Quentin's eyes and didn't know what to do. Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke in a rush...while he still had the courage to do so.

"Would you believe me if I told you that my brother and sisters and I traveled to the country during the worst of the Blitz and while there, went through the back of a wardrobe into a magical land where we learned we were the prophesized saviors of a world and then proceeded to fight against a witch and her army before being crowned Kings and Queens and ruling for many years before returning here a year ago?"

He panted when it was all out.

Quentin looked at him angrily. "If you don't want to tell me, don't, but I don't appreciate you lying to me. And so flippantly." He turned, flung open the door, and angrily stomped out.

He didn't hear Peter whisper, "But it wasn't a lie…" or see Edmund hug his brother again to try and comfort him.

A/N: Uh oh...(runs and hides)