A/N: This is just writing itself, I tell you. I planned to make this the last chapter, but I just had too much to make it only one chapter so it's been split into two. This chapter and another after it. Part of this just decided it had to be done. I hope you like it!

Part Thirty-one:

Gymnasium…

Peter forlornly leaned his head on his palm and his elbow on his right leg – frowning at the odd sensation of knowing his arm was leaning on his leg but not feeling it in the leg. Some things about his bum leg still seemed unusual to him, but after a month he was getting used to it.

In the center of the large gym, Edmund and the rest of the fencing club had just ended warm-ups and were stepping through a few simple techniques on their own.

Peter's hand itched to pick up a foil and join them.

"All right, enough single practice!" Mr. Hanson suddenly called out. "Let's pair up and we'll try a few simple attacks and deflections. Just blade-work, we'll move onto footwork and lunges later in the lesson."

Edmund and his roommate Percival, whom he had taken to calling Perce, eyed each other and then moved to stand together. Peter did a quick count of heads and was momentarily disappointed to see there was an even number. He had half hoped they would need another body and he could get up and do something.

Sighing, he blew hair off his forehead and settled lower on the bench, wishing again that he had two working legs. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the calculating gaze of the fencing instructor, nor his sudden advance toward the bleachers.

"Peter?"

Looking up with a start, Peter found Mr. Hanson standing in front of him holding two foils. "Sir?"

With a smile, the man lightly twirled one of the foils. "These are simple exercises and since there are an odd number of people here, I could use someone to work with when I demonstrate."

Frowning, Peter looked past the man at the waiting students. "But there is an even number of students," he said, shaking his head in confusion.

Mr. Hanson leaned down. "But with me, that's an odd number of people. Now, come on. Get off that backside of yours and help me." He held out the foil in his left hand and waited, one eyebrow cocked in challenge.

Letting a small smile onto his face, Peter nodded and dragged his crutch out from under the bench beneath him. Standing, he took the blade from the man and held it in his left hand as he made his way to the group with Mr. Hanson.

Most of the students were eying the crippled boy with confusion, but no one muttered anything. Edmund had a broad grin plastered on his face and was immensely happy with himself for suggesting this plan to the instructor before the lesson began.

"All right, boys," Mr. Hanson said, turning to face Peter, who was still somewhat unsure of what he was about to do and had yet to settle into any form of ready stance. "Peter here is going to help me demonstrate the basic attacks and parries. Just with blades, as I said before." Turning to Peter, he asked him if he had had a chance to peruse the book he'd given him, and Peter nodded that he had. "Good, good. We'll keep this simple."

He gestured to Peter. "You can't stand like that…"

The boy smiled a little and nodded, adjusting himself so that he was holding the crutch under his left arm and putting all the weight on his left leg. His right leg, useless though it was, was out in front as was his right arm, now holding the foil.

He had his body turned the way the instructor had demonstrated back in their first class and Mr. Hanson nodded. "Feel somewhat steady like that?"

Moving his right arm around a little, he shrugged. "Pretty steady. It's a little unusual," he said honestly. "But I don't think I'm going to topple over."

With a chuckle, Mr. Hanson nodded and settled himself into his own stance. "For the first drill, I want you to parry my attack to the chest, and then come in with your own. It was the first thing you read in the book," the man said.

Peter frowned, but nodded. The foil felt so very light in his hand and his hand gripped the foreign hilt perhaps tighter than he should have. But he didn't want to make a fool of himself and was determined to do this right.

Mr. Hanson moved in with his attack and Peter didn't hesitate to parry it with a small tap, and then slip immediately into the riposte, aiming for Mr. Hanson's chest.

Both drew back to their start points and Mr. Hanson smiled and nodded. "Just like that. Nice and easy to start with," he said, turning to the class. "We'll go a little faster this time." Turning back to Peter he launched a quicker attack and Peter parried and countered faster than before.

Grinning a little more, he realized he could learn to like just doing this. It was better than sitting and watching any day and he was very glad Mr. Hanson had asked him to help.

"Give that a go with your partners," the instructor said, addressing the whole class. "Start slowly and build up in speed as you get the hang of it." He moved to stand beside Peter as the club members got down to work. "You're comfortable with a blade," he said to the blonde boy, who was still clutching the foil in his right hand.

Peter looked down at the blade and held it out, adjusting his grip on it again. "It's no broadsword," he said. "But that's probably good. The lighter blade doesn't set me off balance so much so I can sort of participate." He looked over at Mr. Hanson. "Thanks for letting me."

With a small sigh, the man looked out over the group. "I could tell how badly you wanted to be out there," he said, gesturing to the boys. "It's not often I find students as disciplined and interested in fencing as you and your brother and I wanted to let you participate. I know you can't do the lunges and the footwork, but, based solely on what I just saw, I think your blade work is already above par."

Blushing a little, Peter shrugged. "I think knowing how to read body language helps," he said. "I've learned to notice subtle muscle movements and even facial expressions and a lot of the time they give away when someone is going to move, and sometimes how."

Mr. Hanson eyed Peter in a new light. "I think watching you and your brother in a broadsword fight would have been quite a treat," he said quietly. "I actually brought some from home and was hoping Edmund would oblige me after the lesson. It's been ages since I picked one up, but I would love to give it a go."

Peter laughed. "I'm sure Ed will like that," he said.

Nudging Peter's arm, he said, "Next we'll show them a beat attack. Remember that one?"

"Where the attacker taps their opponent's blade away and makes a lunging attack?" he questioned, furrowing his eyebrows in thought. "That the one?"

"Yes," Mr. Hanson said, patting Peter on the shoulder. "Do you have a photographic memory to go with that sword skill?"

Chuckling Peter shook his head no and watched the man gather the students back together for the next demonstration. "All right, one more drill for today, we have to break a bit early, I'm afraid." Turning to Peter, he allowed the boy time to get set before continuing. "I'll be the attacker first. This is what we call a beat attack and it's really very simple, but quite effective. I tap aside Peter's blade – " he did do as he spoke – "and then move in with a lunge attack to his chest."

Backing up, he repeated the attack and then nodded to Peter to try it.

Brandishing the foil, Peter lightly knocked Mr. Hanson's foil aside, just enough for him to bring his own blade forward in an attack. Nodding at the correct move, Mr. Hanson moved back into starting position. "Faster this time," he said. "As fast as you can, because I'm going to counter your attack."

Peter's eyes narrowed a bit at that, but he nodded.

Both eyed each other and employing all the years of sword-fighting he had, Peter kept any evidence of his impending move out of his body language and off his face.

In a flash, he moved, tapping Mr. Hanson's foil and thrusting his blade forward. Of course, the man caught it before it hit him and Peter didn't score a hit, but Mr. Hanson was nodding in pleasure none-the-less.

"You nearly had me," he said with a smile. "Talk about your poker face."

Edmund was beaming at his brother and exchanged a glance with a wide-eyed Perce. With a smile, he said, "I told you my brother was good. If he didn't have that bum leg, and these were broadswords, you'd have to find your jaw after it hit the ground. He's that good."

For the next ten minutes, the boys practiced the beat attack and then mixed up the previous drill and this one, trying to surprise one another. Peter and Mr. Hanson had a lively session where the blonde boy managed to sneak one shot in on the man, but took the brunt of the attacks himself.

No one could have pried the smile off his face.

Though, the three boys watching from the nearby doorway wanted nothing more than to do just that. "Look at him," Rupert Halliwell growled. "Even being crippled, he still wows the crowd with his superiorness."

Hank and Martin exchanged glances and the former mouthed "superiorness" before they had to hold in laughs at their leader's lack of verbal skills. They hid their reactions when Rupert turned toward them.

"We'll show him," the boy said with a grin smile. "His brother will need a shower after this. That'll leave him alone. And where does he go when he's alone?"

Hank and Martin both spoke. "The willow tree."

"Edmund?"

The dark-haired boy turned to face the fencing instructor as he gathered his things and wiped a bit of sweat off his forehead. "Yes, sir?" he asked, eying where Peter was sitting on the bleachers, for all intents and purposes looking like he wasn't leaving anytime soon.

With a smile, Mr. Hanson dragged two familiar blades from under the nearest bleacher. "Care to have a go?"

Face erupting in a wide smile, Edmund dropped his bag and hefted the broadsword Mr. Hanson handed him. "Of course!" he said enthusiastically. "Are we going to wear any protective gear?" He eyed his fencing attire, but realized it was a far cry from the armor he was accustomed to wearing.

With a frown, Mr. Hanson nodded. "We may as well," he said. "Neither of us have any idea how talented the other is and we might benefit from some padding."

Both dragged on their jackets again, but left off the face masks.

Peter sat back in his seat ready for a good show.

Edmund and the instructor saluted each other respectfully before the boy set up in his customary stance, looking for all the world like he was born standing like that with a blade in hand and Mr. Hanson had a moment of doubt. Was this really such a good idea?

"Ready?" Edmund asked, and received an affirmative.

Nodding, the boy let Mr. Hanson make the first move. Moving forward in a decidedly fencing-like move, he advanced with his right leg in the lead, his blade in his right hand, thrust toward Edmund's torso.

But as he moved, the boy was already pivoting on his front leg and bringing his back leg around to the side, effectively putting him out of the blade's path. Edmund brought his blade across his body and sliced toward Mr. Hanson's exposed chest, nearly catching the man before he nimbly skipped backward.

Edmund was already moving forward to continue his assault, bringing the blade from right to left and forcing Mr. Hanson to quickly bring his own sword across his chest and to deflect Edmund's off to the side before moving forward, past the boy.

In a swift move, Edmund brought himself around to face his opponent, a smile still plastered on his face.

Stepping it up, the dark-haired boy moved in a flurry of strikes, driving Mr. Hanson back since the man seemed hell-bent on only moving forward or backward. When they were nearly across the room, the teacher finally relented and twisted around in a circular motion, allowing the combatants to return to the center of the gym.

Peter, sitting on the bleachers, noticed quickly that the clanging of broadswords had drawn the fencing club back to the gym and they were standing, gaping really, at Edmund and Mr. Hanson's now fierce movements.

The young boy had already landed a few light blows to Mr. Hanson's person and the man was smiling broadly as he tried out a few of the maneuvers that Edmund was employing, learning as he went.

Quentin appeared at Peter's side suddenly. "When you didn't show up to eat, I thought something was wrong," he whispered. "Then I heard about some kid fighting the fencing teacher and winning. Knew it had to be Edmund."

Word sure did travel fast. And the gym sure did fill up fast too.

There was a loud clang from the gym floor and Peter turned back to see Edmund standing calmly and Mr. Hanson brushing dust off his pants as he stood up. "That last move was something else, Edmund," he said with a chuckle. "Who taught you that?"

Grinning, he pointed his sword toward the bleachers. "Peter."

Patting Edmund on the back and catching his breath, Mr. Hanson was beaming. "You, Edmund, are a natural duelist," he said. "I think you have a future in fencing, my boy. I should very much like to offer to coach you on a regular basis, if you are interested."

Immediately, Ed's eyes latched on Peter's as the audience murmured in surprise. It was as if he was begging permission from his brother.

Frowning inwardly, Peter knew he was in a way, asking with his eyes if Peter would be all right with Edmund getting more involved with something they both loved – but only one could pursue.

Nodding lightly, Peter smiled at his brother encouragingly.

"I think I'd like that," the younger boy said with a grin.

Mr. Hanson took the broadsword from the boy and looked to Peter. "You taught him that last move, huh? Just how much of that did Edmund actually learn from you?"

Peter shrugged. "Some."

But Edmund smiled broadly. "More than some," he said. "I had a lot of trouble sometimes understanding our teacher. Peter would learn it all so fast and then explain it differently so I'd get it. I wouldn't be nearly as good if it weren't for him."

He patted his brother on the arm. "With one sword, Peter was nigh unbeatable when we sparred, and he could defeat our teacher on a regular basis. But I was always better with two swords, anyway." He chuckled. "I could only ever beat Peter when we sparred with dual-swords."

Mr. Hanson's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline -- which was saying something, since he had a bit of receding hairline. "Two swords?" He shook his head. "Edmund, I think I can make a winning competitor out of you. And not just with a foil. I think you'd do well in saber and epee as well."

Sighing, he looked at his watch. "But I have a dinner to get to," he said forlornly. "Can't keep the missus waiting. We'll talk more after mid-term holidays are over. Great job today. Both of you."

Quentin's eyes widened at that and Peter gave him an I'll tell you later look instead of explaining.

Edmund wiped at his wet hair. "I need a shower," he griped. "Peter, are we meeting at the willow? I want to see Lucy's letter!"

Nodding, Peter turned to Quentin. "Will you be there after chess club?"

"Righto, Peter," he said with a smile. "Gets out in an hour and I'll come out and find you guys as soon as I stow my board back in the room."

Standing with a grunt, Peter gripped his crutch and smiled. "You looked great, Ed," he said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a willow tree to get to and a brother and best friend to wait for."

He moved off quickly, leaving Edmund to head to the showers and Quentin to the chess club.

Whistling.

Then humming.

Now outright singing.

Peter couldn't believe how happy he was. He'd been able to pick up a foil and join in the fencing class. It looked like his brother might end up the next Olympic fencing champion someday. Things were looking up for sure.

Settled against the willow tree's trunk, with his crutch off to the side, Peter laid his head back against the old tree and watched the long, vine-like branches swaying in the light breeze.

It was mesmerizing and it was so peaceful that before long – Peter was fast asleep.

For once, his dreams were good. Laughing with Caspian and his siblings. Seeing Aslan and talking with him. The banquet and the stories. The mock fights and lying around in the grass afterward, basking in the warm sunlight.

Just as his dreams turned to bantering with Quentin and Edmund over stories of suitors, he was roughly jostled from his sleep as his body tilted to the left and his shoulder slammed to the ground.

Eyes snapping open, Peter saw a foot coming toward his chest and rolled away, sitting up and rubbing his sore shoulder as he did so.

Rupert Halliwell stood grinning behind Hank and Martin, who were advancing on him. The younger boy was slapping the end of a cricket bat against his open palm.

"Hello Peter," he said cheerfully. "Not much of a swordsman when you're down there, eh?" He laughed as Peter tried to move away from Hank and Martin, scrambling backwards until he was beside the tree.

As the stocky Hank drew his leg back to kick out at Peter, the former High King thrust his left leg out and slammed it into Hank's shin with enough force to knock the boy to the ground.

Clutching the wounded leg, he glared at Peter with tears springing from his eyes.

Martin and Rupe both converged on Peter and he instinctively protected his head against their blows, but could do little to stop the punches and kicks that were landing on his torso and back.

When they backed off for a moment, he spied the wooden handle of his crutch – just within reach if he lunged far enough. As Rupert brought the cricket bat down in a wide, swinging arc, Peter flung himself to the left and grasped the crutch in his right hand.

Throwing his weight back over, he brought the crutch up and it slammed into Rupert's bat with a bone-jarring crack and a splintering of wood. Incensed at the resistance, Halliwell swung the bat again, but it was a wide swing and Peter had no trouble at all bringing the crutch up to deflect it.

Seeing a recovered Hank limping over, anger in his eyes, he used the crutch to block another kick from the boy and sent him howling and clutching his foot this time.

Rupert took the distraction Hank caused and used it to his advantage, raising the cricket bat over his head and swinging as hard as he could downward at Peter. Gripping the crutch in two hands, Peter brought it up and caught the heavy strike with it.

There was a splintering crack and the crutch gave a little under the onslaught.

Releasing the crutch with his left hand, he twisted his right, sending the free end toward Rupert's stomach, and adding power to the blow by using his left hand to grab just below his right and add torque to the crutch.

It slammed into Rupert's solar plexus and the boy let out a great huff of breath and dropped the cricket bat, clutching his midsection and panting for air that didn't want to come.

Martin, seeing his leader ailing, darted forward angrily. Peter still held the crutch and used it to sweep the incoming boy's feet from underneath him. Falling forward with a shout, Martin's head hit the willow tree with a loud thud and the boy fell limp.

Peter winced, not having wanted to seriously injure any of his attackers. The blonde was bleeding from a split lip and holding tightly to his ribs, watching as Rupert and Hank eyed each other, then ran to Martin and grabbed his arms.

"Go, go," Rupert said, his voice barely audible through his gasps. "He can't walk with that thing now, anyhow." He turned and stumbled away, he and Hank dragging Martin's dead weight along with them.

Peter was still pumped with adrenaline and for the moment the pain wasn't so bad. He groaned when he saw Rupert was right about his crutch, it was cracked far too badly to support his weight.

And he had no idea how long before Edmund and Quentin would come out and find him. Shifting, he felt a sharp, fiery pain in his ribs and grunted. Bruised? Cracked? He couldn't tell. But he knew he needed to get them checked.

Looking around, he saw nothing to aid him in walking and glared at the distance between himself and the infirmary building. Grudgingly, he thought about shouting for help. It was a weekend, surely someone would come outside? It wasn't that cold out!

But no, there didn't appear to be anyone outside.

Tossing the crutch down beside his bag, he shook his head and started to pull himself along awkwardly, his right leg dragging behind him and making progress slow.

At this rate, he'd get to the infirmary in a few days.

Reaching the corner of the gymnasium building, behind which was the infirmary, Peter paused for a break, rubbing his chest and trying to relieve the rapidly growing pain from his ribs.

Glancing back toward the willow tree, he sighed when he saw no sign of Edmund. Quentin's chess club still had 40 minutes or so before they let out, so he hadn't really expected to see his friend.

Shaking his head, he set off again, rounding the bend and losing sight of the tree.

By the time he got to the infirmary building, he was about ready to faint from exhaustion. Or pain. Or both. And things had been going so well today. "Never a dull moment," he muttered, finally reaching the nearest door and edging it open.

His eyes were met by the stocking-clad legs of the school nurse.

"Pevensie?!" she exclaimed. "What on earth?"

He looked up, pained eyes meeting her wide ones. "Had a spot of trouble, ma'am," he said quietly, wincing at a painful jolt in his chest. "And my crutch is broken."

Stooping, she lifted him up and slung his arm over her shoulder, drawing a sharp hiss from him as his ribs protested violently. "This just isn't your year, is it, Peter my dear?" she said, shaking her head. "But I'll have you fixed up in no time."

Outside, Peter's broken crutch lay beside his abandoned book bag. A cracked cricket bat and spots of spilt blood littered the ground a few feet away.

Earlier…

Toweling his hair dry as much as he could, Edmund couldn't stop grinning. All the while in Narnia, Peter had been the competitor and Edmund was very excited that this time – this time he'd be getting his chance to shine.

And with Peter's blessing.

Running a quick hand through his dark locks, he stowed away his shower gear and slung his bag over his shoulder. He'd taken a little longer this time, daydreaming about fencing matches and competitions, and had to finally drag himself out of the hot shower because poor Peter was waiting outside.

"Hey, Pevensie," Jimmy Santory waved from a nearby shower stall where he'd just finished himself. "That was something else in there! You're really good with a sword! Where'd you learn all that?"

Smiling lightly as memories of Narnia and Oreius flitted in his mind, he turned to Jimmy. "My brother and I learned when we went to the country," he said. "The man we stayed with was a sword master in his heyday." He shook his head. "It's too bad about Peter's leg. He's better than I am, and that would have been a great match to see."

"Better?" Jimmy breathed. "I can't imagine. See you after hols!"

Edmund nodded and hurried away, glancing at his watch. Peter was going to be wondering what was taking him so long by now.

Bursting through the doors and onto the back lawn of the school, he aimed toward the willow tree in the distance and was vaguely surprised to see Peter's bag – but no Peter. Perhaps his brother was on the other side of the tree, for some reason?

As he drew closer, his brows furrowed more and more.

"Peter!" he called out. "Sorry I took so long, but I got sidetracked thinking about what Mr. Hanson said." He trailed off as he tripped on something. Stooping down, he picked up a book. Peter's geometry text. "What in the world? Peter?"

Reaching the tree, he spied Peter's crutch and his eyes widened.

It was broken.

Nearby was a cricket bat.

And it was cracked.

"Peter!" Edmund called out, springing into action and sprinting the rest of the distance to the tree. Reaching down, he picked up the crutch and paused in mid-stand.

Blood.

Panic jolted through Edmund and he clutched the crutch and darted around the tree. "Peter?!"

No Peter.

His sharp eyes, used to tracking and picking up the smallest of details, took in the splotches of blood, the trampled grass and the strewn school supplies. Someone had attacked Peter. And he had a good idea of who it had been.

"Halliwell," he growled. "When I find you…"

But he had bigger things to worry about. Like finding Peter before they hurt him more. Focusing closely at the marks on the ground, he noticed what appeared to be heel marks from someone being dragged.

"Peter…" he whispered. "Where did they take you?"

Realizing he would need aid against Rupert and his bullies, since he was sure it had been them, he turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him toward the common room where the chess club met.

He nearly bowled over three boys huddled together discussing algebra in his haste to reach the common room. Slamming through the doorway, he didn't care that all heads turned toward him or that he looked like a panicked rabbit being chased by a wild wolf.

"Quen!" he panted. "Need you."

The other boy didn't hesitate for even a second, standing so fast he nearly upended the table with his and his opponent's chess board. Casting back a quick "Sorry" he hurried toward Edmund, who immediately latched onto his arm and dragged him into the hallway and away from prying ears.

"Edmund, calm down!" Quentin said, pulling on his arm to relieve the pressure Edmund was putting on it. "What's gotten into you?"

Shaking his head, Edmund kept dragging Quentin as he spoke. "Peter…something's happened," he said. "I found his crutch and his school stuff and blood and trampled grass. Someone attacked him, Quen. I just know it and I need to find him. I think they might have dragged him off."

Quentin's eyes widened. "What!?" He didn't need to be tugged along any longer; he was immediately running faster than Edmund, whose legs were shorter. Bursting through the doors, both boys sprinted back to the willow tree.

"See?" Edmund pointed to the ground. "Those two lines are heel marks. The ground is soft enough still that whoever they dragged left them in the grass."

Quentin swallowed, taking in a splotch of blood. "Bloody hell, Peter…what have you gotten into now?" He shook his head. "We need to get help, Ed."

"What?" Edmund asked, already looking around for more signs of where Peter had been taken.

"Ed, I know you were a King and probably dealt with stuff like this all the time, but this isn't Narnia. We have no authority! We need to get Headmaster Clark. We can't do anything to Peter's attackers…he can!"

"There's no time!" Edmund growled, dark eyes flashing. "Damn it, Quentin…he's my brother, and without his crutch, he won't be able to walk! He's at their mercy, and that blood means that he's hurt. If he's unconscious, he'll be even more vulnerable! We have to find him! I'm not going to wait around and go through channels while Peter is missing!" Edmund pointed at the tracks. "I can find Peter. If you don't want to help, that's fine. But I am not leaving him alone."

Quentin looked between Edmund and the bloody ground, before his eyes went to the drag marks in the grass. "Let's go then," he said, setting off in the direction of the gouges.

Edmund nodded and the two hurried along, following the telltale signs of a body being dragged through the grass.

In the opposite direction of the infirmary.

"Shut up, Hank, he's fine!"

Edmund and Quentin couldn't make out Hank's reply from outside the supply shed near the greenhouses. Whatever it was, his tone made it sound like he wasn't agreeing with Rupert on something.

"No nurse!" came Rupert's raised voice.

Edmund's interest was peaked beyond his ability to curtail it and before Quentin could stop him, the younger boy kicked open the supply shed door and bathed the inside of the building in the light of the rapidly setting sun.

He was about to call out "Peter" when he realized there were only three boys in the shed – Rupert, Hank and a very groggy Martin. So instead, he seethed, "Where is my brother? What have you done with him?"

Quentin stepped into the shed beside Edmund, watching with trepidation as the younger boy shook with anger and clenched his fists tightly against his sides. It looked like Edmund was at the very edge of his control.

Rupert looked up at the newcomers with surprise that quickly turned to anger. "Don't know, don't care, Pevensie," he said. "That cripple brother of yours gave Martin a concussion. Maybe they'll throw him out."

Edmund took another step forward, one clenched hand drawing back for a strike. "If he did anything to any of you, he had good reason," he said with venom in his voice. "I'm not going to ask again. What have you done with Peter?"

Hank and the groggy Martin exchanged glances, but said nothing.

Rupert had no qualms about taunting Edmund, perhaps not noticing that the other boy was on the verge of snapping. "We just knocked him about a bit," he said, standing slowly. "Nothing he didn't deserve, the deserter."

"My brother didn't desert!" Edmund shouted, shocking all of the boys with the volume and the anger in his voice. "I told you, Halliwell, if you ever said those words again I would make you pay and I didn't care if I would be expelled for it!"

He felt Quentin tugging on his shirt in the back, trying to make it seem like he wasn't. But Edmund ignored him, advancing with a sharp twist to dislodge the hand attempting to stay him.

"Peter stayed behind and tried to make sure everyonewas away before he retreated from that battle in Greece and he nearly died because of it!" he said, still loudly but not yelling. "You have no right to call him a deserter!"

Edmund was about to lash out at Rupert, who only now seemed to realize he was in danger of bodily harm and was cowering back from the enraged Edmund. Fist tight and drawn, Edmund took the final step to bring Rupert within range.

And froze as a glint of gold caught his eye and a voice sounded in his head.

"Edmund…"

The voice was warm. Familiar. But the tone was sharp and brooked no arguments.

The voice was Aslan's.

Reeling backward as if he'd been slapped, Edmund looked down at his fist and then back at Rupert. The other boy had backed up against a wall and was now warily eying Edmund as if he were a bomb about to explode.

A conversation – one that seemed ages in the past – came to the forefront of his mind. Standing above a Narnian encampment with Aslan, looking out over the assembled troops.

He had been young, foolish, and he had thought revenge was justified. Even if only for a few moments before he looked upon his siblings and realized the truth in Aslan's words.

"Revenge is a coward's way out…" he whispered to himself.

Drawing himself to his full height, he turned to Quentin. "They aren't worth it," he said. "Let's go find the Headmaster. We must find Peter and make sure he's all right."

Turning on his heel, he strode from the supply shed leaving three stunned boys in his wake and walking beside one very relieved friend.

Headmaster's office…

"You say there was blood on the ground? And Peter's crutch was broken? And you saw a cricket bat, also damaged? This is quite a serious offense, if true, boys." Headmaster Clark swiftly stood and came around his desk to stand beside the two boys.

Edmund was wringing his hands together. "I don't know where Peter is, sir," he said. "I'm worried. There were three of them and only one of him and I don't know how badly he might be hurt…"

A hand on his shoulder slowed his words and Edmund turned worried eyes on Quentin, who said softly, "He'll be all right, Ed, you know your brother."

The headmaster nodded. "Why don't you start with the first logical place for Peter to go, if he was hurt," he said gently. "The infirmary."

The younger Pevensie's eyes widened. "Now why didn't I think of that before?" he murmured. His eyes snapped to Quentin's when the other boy chuckled suddenly. "What?"

Smiling, Quentin turned Edmund toward the door. "I expect you didn't think of it because you were sure that Peter had been dragged off after seeing those tracks," he said. "You had no way of knowing it was Martin they were dragging, not Peter."

The headmaster prodded them out the office door. "Off with you, I will take care of Mr. Halliwell and his cohorts," the man said, turning toward doors that would take him to the back lawn and the supply shed Edmund and Quentin had located the bullies inside of.

Mind locked on finding Peter, Edmund fairly flew down the corridor toward the infirmary. During his friendship with Rupert, Hank and Martin he had landed himself in the hospital wing a number of times, and knew the way there like he knew the back of his hand.

Skidding around the corner, Quentin on his heels, he nearly bowled over the slight, older woman who was the school's nurse. Madame Hendrix held up her hands and halted him.

"Slow down," she scolded. "This is a hospital wing, not a race track. Where were you going so quickly, boys?"

Edmund, clutching his chest from the run, swallowed. "We're looking for my brother," he said. "Peter Pevensie. He's been hurt, we know, but we can't find him anywhere!"

The woman grabbed Edmund's shirt and shushed him.

"Your brother is here," she said quietly. "But he is sleeping. You must be quiet or I will throw you right back out of here." She pointed to a nearby curtained off area. "He has two cracked ribs and a lot of bruising, but he'll be fine with rest and time."

Edmund was gone before she finished her sentence. Quentin paused long enough to thank the woman for letting them know what was wrong with Peter before he too disappeared behind the curtains.

Peter was pale, but he wasn't deathly pale. He was sleeping peacefully, turned on his left side with one arm tucked under the pillow and the other clutching the same.

Edmund stood like a stone beside the bed, just looking at his brother. He took in the split lip, the bruise darkening his brother's cheek and the stiff way the older boy slept.

Sighing, he leaned forward and gently laid a hand on Peter's right hand, resting on the pillow. The blonde stirred with a muttered, "What?"

He must not have been deeply sleeping.

"Peter?" Edmund whispered. "Are you awake?"

Blue eyes fluttered open and Peter blearily blinked at Edmund for a few moments before realizing who was by his side. "Ed!" he said. "I'm sorry!"

Edmund frowned. "Sorry? For what, Peter?"

Struggling, Peter tried to sit up, but Edmund held him down at the shoulder and he stopped moving with a frown. "I couldn't stop them," he said. "I know I must have worried you, Ed." He looked past Edmund to the other boy in the alcove. "Quentin. You too."

The boys both waved him off. "Worried? Who was worried?" Quentin chuckled. "We knew you'd be fine, Peter. Mighty High King and all."

Peter slapped his leg with a small smile, laughing. His laughter turned into wincing as his cracked ribs protested angrily. Breathing was uncomfortable, deep breathing was quite painful and laughing was not a good idea.

Gripping his chest, he grunted lightly. "Ugh," he said with a frown. "No more jokes, please." Edmund sat on the bed beside him and rubbed his back lightly until Peter was relaxed. "Thanks, Ed," the blonde said with a smile.

They were interrupted when the curtain was drawn back and Headmaster Clark appeared with three boys in tow. Hank and Martin looked petrified, but Rupert was still seething as he looked at Peter.

The High King in the boy was certain there was more to Rupert Halliwell than met the eye, but the boy was angry that the bully wouldn't leave him alone and continued to call him a deserter.

"Ah, Peter," the Headmaster said, taking in the boy's death-grip on his ribs and the tightness of his expression. "I've spoken to the boys and they have given me their side of the story. I'd like yours, now."

For the next few minutes, Peter retold what had happened to him at the willow tree. Edmund had to keep his hands tightly clenched in his brother's bed sheets lest he jump up and deck Rupert for what he had done to Peter.

When the tale was finished, the headmaster shook his head sadly. Turning to the three boys, he said, "After speaking with Madame Hendrix, it is obvious you three caused serious bodily harm to Mr. Pevensie, and did so intentionally," he said. "It will be my recommendation that you be expelled from the school for your actions."

Peter and Edmund exchanged glances. Expulsion hadn't really crossed their minds, but when they thought about it, the beating had merited such an action from the headmaster.

They were all surprised when Rupert suddenly shouted at Peter, trying to get to him but being restrained by Hank and Martin.

"I hate you! Why did you come back when he didn't!? I hate you!" There were tears of anger and perhaps of something else streaming down his face. "I hate you," he said again, this time in a whisper.

Peter was mortified. What was the boy talking about? He had to know.

"I don't understand," he said quietly, frowning at Edmund. "Who? Didn't come back from what?"

Rupert swiped furiously at his eyes. "My brother!" he yelled. "Don't remember him, do you Pevensie? His name was Teddy Halliwell. He was in your squad, wrote about how great you were. Weren't so great when you let him die, were you!?"

Peter's eyes widened. He never thought something like this could be the reason for Rupert's antagonism. "Private Halliwell. Teddy? Your brother?" he whispered, eyes glazed as he cast his memory back to Greece. Teddy Halliwell had been two years older than Peter and had been a good soldier. He followed orders when given and never complained. "I remember him."

Rupert's eyes seemed to narrow. "Do you remember when he died then? Do you!?"

Edmund wanted to stop the conversation right there. Thinking about his war experience always hurt Peter. But he remained silent. Part of him thought he might understand where Rupert was coming from if his brother had been killed in Greece. He had once thought his brother had died there as well.

Peter sighed. "I remember seeing him," he muttered, not really talking to any of them, but caught up in his memories. "I grabbed his arm and shoved him toward the retreating squads. He went. A few minutes later I was wounded and knocked out. I don't know what happened to him."

Rupert was still sobbing angrily. "He never made it out!" he cried. "He died in that mud hole. And you didn't. You came back and you…you…my…why didn't you help him!?"

Peter's eyes were wide and if they looked closer, those assembled would have seen the tears in them. Edmund surely did. He gripped Peter's hand tightly, drawing his brother's attention. The younger boy's eyes were all but shouting, It's not your fault, Peter.

Looking up, Peter locked eyes with the younger Halliwell. "I couldn't," he said quietly. "I wish I could have saved them all. But I couldn't. I'm sorry about your brother. I'm so sorry."

Rupert broke down finally and only his friends' grips on his arms prevented him from falling. The headmaster looked between the two boys, a deep frown on his face.

Peter met the man's gaze. "Sir," he said quietly. "I know you planned to expel him, but in light of what's been said, I think a little leniency wouldn't be inappropriate here."

Edmund looked at Peter and for a moment swore he could see a golden crown on his brother's head. It wasn't there of course, but High King Peter was in that room.

Headmaster Clark nodded lightly. "We might make an exception and only place a warning in Mr. Halliwell's file," he said quietly, putting a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Young Rupert," he said gently. "You get off with a warning this time. Please understand that Peter is not responsible for what happened to your brother. You need to look past your anger and honor your brother's memory. Beating up a young man he admired and trusted is not the way to do so."

Rupert swallowed thickly, looking at Peter with tear-filled eyes.

"I miss him. Every time I see Pevensie and his brother, it hurts," he said quietly.

Peter found himself wanting to reach out and comfort the boy who had laughingly watched his friends beat him up. He wouldn't, but he understood now why Rupert had been so angry with him.

He had come back and Rupert's brother had not.

Edmund felt similarly. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing, just gripped Peter's hand tighter in his. Part of him felt horrible for thanking the powers that be that Peter was alive, not dead like Teddy Halliwell. The other part of him couldn't help but feel grateful it had been someone else's brother and not his.

The headmaster steered Rupert, Hank and Martin out of the room, leaving Peter, Edmund and Quentin staring at the ringleader of the bullies – and pitying him. He had a legitimate reason to be upset, but obviously no guidance on how to handle it properly.

Edmund silently prayed. Aslan, I don't know if you help others in our world, but that boy could use some of your wisdom right now. I know how much it helped me to become a better person.

On the train departing Arkley Station…

Peter leaned on the new crutch Madame Hendrix had given him. His face was contorted in pain from the pressure he was putting on his ribs, but there was no way he was going to be able to use a wheelchair – so he had to make do with the crutch.

Edmund was searching the nearby passenger cars for Susan and Lucy, knowing the girls would have gotten on the train before them since it stopped at their boarding school first. Quentin was standing quietly as his side.

"Pevensie?"

Turning as best as he could, Peter's eyes widened when he saw Rupert Halliwell standing behind him with his hands tucked into his coat pockets and his suitcase sitting on the ground by his feet.

"C…can I help you, Halliwell?" the oldest Pevensie boy said haltingly, unsure if the other planned to hit him again or not.

For a moment, Rupert looked like he wasn't going to reply. But then he looked down from gazing forlornly into the air and met Peter's eyes with his own. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I've been talking to the headmaster and I've realized I was…" he paused, running a hand through his hair. "I've realized it wasn't your fault that Teddy died."

He saw Peter flinch sharply and frowned. "I shouldn't have treated you like I did," he said slowly. "It was wrong of me to assume you left him to die to save yourself."

Looking down at Peter's leg, he added, "And I was wrong to say you were faking your injury. I just wanted to say I was sorry for beating you up and saying those things."

He looked down now, kicking at the ground at his feet.

Peter licked his lips and cast about for the right words. He wasn't sure there were any right words, but he had to say something. "I wish I could have saved Teddy," he said quietly. "I wanted to get them all out of there. But I was hit before I could. I had no idea Teddy hadn't made it out. I'm sorry you lost your brother, Rupert."

He looked past Rupert to where Edmund was restraining Susan and Lucy and imagined the pain he would feel if he had lost Ed at Beruna. Glancing back at Rupert, he felt he had to say something more.

"I didn't lose a brother," he continued, "But I did lose my father and I know, perhaps, a bit of what you are going through. Nothing will really make it better, but I hope you find some way to go on."

Rupert nodded. "We will," he said. "The headmaster said he'd give me the name of a friend. A psychologist. Someone I could talk to about my anger."

With a small smile, Peter nodded. "It should help, Rupert," he said, shifting painfully as the train lurched around a corner. "If you want to talk about Teddy, I'd be happy to tell you some of the antics he pulled during our time together," he said quietly. "You know where to find me."

Rupert didn't say yes, but he also didn't say no. Peter figured it was a start.

The other boy nodded indistinctly, picked up his suitcase, and disappeared into the throng of youngsters aboard the train. Quentin put a comforting hand on Peter's shoulder, and then both boys looked toward the three younger Pevensies when Lucy fairly shouted to them.

"Peter!" she cried out, finally breaking free of Edmund's grasp and launching herself toward Peter. She skidded to a halt in front of him, noting his pained expression, and gently pulled him into a hug. "I've missed you!"

Holding in his wince, Peter forced a smile onto his face as Lucy pulled away. "I've missed you too, Lu," he said quietly, wobbling unsteadily as the train lurched again. Susan and Edmund came up beside them and the latter grabbed Peter's shoulder to prevent him from falling.

"Let's go sit," Susan said, eying Peter with raised eyebrows. He nodded and smiled lightly, determined to avoid worrying his sisters for as long as he could. Though, it appeared Susan was already onto something amiss.

As the train barreled toward Finchley, the Pevensie siblings and Quentin found an empty compartment. The latter had received a letter from home stating his parents were away, and Peter and Edmund had offered to ask their mother if Quentin could stay with them for the two weeks off.

"I'm sure she'll agree, Quentin," Susan said when the boys had explained nearly everything that had happened in their absence. The oldest girl turned to Peter. "Who was that boy you were talking to, Peter? He looked vaguely familiar."

Sighing, Peter looked out the window as he spoke. "That was Rupert Halliwell. One of Ed's former friends," he said in explanation. The girls both knew who those boys were and were surprised Peter had been speaking to one of them. He looked toward Edmund, silently asking him to tell the tale.

Leaving nothing out, Edmund told Susan and Lucy about the taunts and culminated in the fight and the revelations in the infirmary. By the end of the story, Peter was leaning against the window fully, as if trying to squeeze through it to avoid speaking.

He was surprised when it was Lucy's hand on his shoulder that turned his attention back to the other occupants of the compartment. "Peter?" his youngest sister said quietly. "Remember what He said about the night raid. I think the same applies here."

With a wan smile, Peter nodded. "Thanks Lu," he said. "It'll just take a bit of time to get over the shock of it. I had put most of Greece behind me and learning Teddy was Rupert's brother and that he had died, it sort of thrust it all back into my mind again."

His sister nodded and briefly tightened her grip on his shoulder before spying a piece of paper sticking out of his coat pocket. She pointed to it with a broad grin. "You liked my letter! You kept it!"

He nodded and drew it out. "You have a way with words Lucy," he said quietly. "They are your greatest strength – and at times your greatest weapon as well." Both of them inwardly cringed remembering when Peter had been the victim of her words.

There were smiles all around. Peter had let Edmund read the letter and Susan had read it before Lucy sent it. Only Quentin was looking at them oddly. "Sibling moments," he muttered, waving his hand. "Non-sibling here!"

Peter laughed and thrust the letter toward his best friend. "You can read it and know what we're talking about, then," he said with a smile. "Since you know about Narnia and all." He suddenly blanched when Susan and Lucy jumped and stared at him, jaws hanging open. "Oops."

Edmund sighed. "Yeah, you two, we told him about Narnia," the younger boy said. "He noticed too many odd things about us and he confronted Peter. It took a little while, but he believes us."

Still holding the letter, Quentin looked up and nodded. "It's fantastic," he said, "But I have no reason not to believe Peter and Edmund. Still could use a bit more proof, but hey, you can believe in God and never actually see Him, so why not this Narnia place?"

Lightly waving the letter, he said to Lucy, "You ought to be a writer. You really are very good with words."

The youngest girl blushed and Peter took the letter back and tucked it away.

All five youngsters spent the rest of the trip talking about school and exchanging the good and the bad of their classes and classmates. When the train rolled into Finchley Station, Peter was the first up, since it would take him the longest to get off.

Wincing, he held out an unsteady hand to the nearest person, who happened to be Quentin. His friend looked worriedly at him, but at Peter's vigorous head shake, said nothing.

Inching their way to the nearest door, Peter stopped at the top. Edmund halted behind him and looked to Quentin, who was about Peter's height. "Why don't I hold the crutch and you use Quen to get off?" he said. Nodding uncertainly, Peter handed his brother the crutch and eyed Susan at the bottom of the steps.

Quentin came up on his right side, stepped down a step and waited as Peter wrapped his arm around his friend's shoulder, gripping the handrail with his left hand.

Leaning on Quen and pushing off the handrail, he was able to move down the steps. It wasn't painless, but it worked for their purposes. At the bottom, Edmund handed him the crutch back and they moved a few feet from the train so it could move on while Peter rested.

Susan gulped and tapped Peter on the shoulder.

"What?" he said, looking up, still clutching his chest against the pain. He followed her gaze and frowned deeply. "Oh. That."

They were eying the twenty or so steps from the underground to the street level above. And they both knew there was no way that Peter was going to be able to get up them.

"Looks like you'll be needing a ride."

Peter looked to his other side where Quentin had a look of determination on his face. Handing his suitcase to Edmund, who looked questioningly back, Quentin gestured for Peter to let go of his own case and to hand his crutch to Susan or Lucy.

"What are you doing?" Peter asked nervously.

Quentin chuckled. "I'm not going to carry you like a baby, if that's what you're afraid of, Peter," he said. "Besides, I think that would hurt your ribs too much. But I could get you up the steps piggy-back style."

Eyes widening in understanding, Peter shook his head. "Are you sure? I'm not that light, Quentin…"

Waving his friend off, Quentin moved in front of Peter and stooped enough for the other boy to wrap his hands around his neck. Reaching back, he grabbed Peter's bum leg first and situated it, before grabbing hold of his left and grunting as his friend's full weight was suddenly his to bear.

"Ugh, Pete," he said as Edmund helped make sure Peter was secure. "No more jammie dodgers for you, mate! Packing on the pounds!" He was smiling broadly, even though Peter couldn't see it and had lightly smacked the back of his head.

The five were soon out on street level and Susan, who had money from their mother for a cab, but knew they wouldn't all fit, was perusing the bus schedule as Peter regained his crutch and valise.

"Thanks, mate," he said to Quentin, even though his cheeks were stained red from blushing at being carried like a little girl. They had gotten a few odd stares, but seeing the crutch in Susan's hand, many appeared to understand.

"There's a bus arriving in a few minutes that goes near home," Susan finally stated, turning to face her siblings and Quentin. "I think we ought to take it. Mum's expecting us by cab, but we can't all fit."

Nodding in agreement, they caught the bus when it arrived and disembarked a street over from Dorset Drive. All eyes fell on Peter as soon as they were off and the bus driving away.

He sighed. "It's a bit of a walk, but at least there are no stairs to climb," he said with a small smile. "I'll be fine, guys. Honest."

Edmund swooped in and picked up his and Peter's bags before the blonde could reach down for his. "I'll be taking these," he said, his tone firm and resolute. Peter knew it was his "I'm a king, listen to me" voice again and nodded his understanding.

As they walked, and Peter labored, they each wondered how Mrs. Pevensie was going to react to her son's bum leg. When Peter had left for school, it had been hard to walk, but he could.

Of them all, Peter was most worried of her reaction. She had already been through so much, he hated to add more to her woes. But there was nothing to be done for it.

25 Dorset Drive, Finchley…

A cab slowed down outside the house and Helen Pevensie inched closer to the window. But no, it wasn't stopping, just slowing for the stop sign at the end of the road.

She sighed heavily and shook her head.

The kids should have been home by now. The train would have reached Finchley station at 6:15 and it was now 6:45. Plenty of time for them to disembark and catch the cab.

Running out of things to straighten up in the house, she sat on the sofa and began tugging on her shoes. Having worked late, she hadn't stopped to pick up the mail so now was as good a time as any.

Throwing her coat over her shoulders and slotting her arms into the sleeves, she buttoned it up against the October chill and then pulled open the door and stepped outside.

It was getting dark and she expected there was only about ten minutes of sunlight left in the day. She hoped the kids were all right. "Perhaps the train was delayed," she said, muttering under her breath as she tucked her hands into her pockets and walked to the mailbox.

Now that Peter was no longer in the Army and Mr. Pevensie had passed on, most of the post was utility bills that she was struggling to pay. There were the letters from the kids, of course, but with hols here, Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy hadn't sent any letters this week.

Sighing again – she'd been doing it since she started cab-watching – Mrs. Pevensie turned back toward the house and took a step forward. But movement out of the corner of her eye stopped her from continuing.

There were five figures coming down the street. One leaning on a crutch, one rather short. Two appeared to be girls, by their skirts, the other three boys. But she only had four children, so it couldn't be.

Could it?

Helen turned and looked more closely.

Light from a passing cab illuminated one of the faces. Lucy.

"Children!" Helen called out, dropping all the mail and not caring in the slightest. Moving quickly, she intercepted Lucy and gathered the smiling girl into a tight hug. "Oh I was getting worried!"

She stood up, releasing Lucy, and drew Susan, who was directly in front of her, into a hug as well. Returning the gesture, Susan winced lightly when she felt her mother stiffen suddenly and jerk back.

Pulling away, she turned and followed the woman's gaze.

Peter.

"What…what happened?" she asked, hurrying forward and holding Peter by the shoulders, getting a good look at the still visible split lip and blue-green bruise. And the crutch. "Peter. Oh my goodness."

He peeked up at her through his fringe. "I'm all right, Mum," he said quietly. "It's a bit of a long story. Can we go inside first? It's been a long trip and we're all kind of tired."

Snapping into action, the woman nodded and took one of the bags Edmund was carrying, kissing him on the forehead gently in greeting. She spied Quentin and nodded to him but refrained from getting into why he was there just yet.

Holding the door open, she watched as Peter made his way to the couch and Quentin helped him sit on it. It wasn't lost on her that he was in pain and it hurt her heart to think he had been injured again.

Edmund and Lucy took the bags into the respective rooms, and then Lucy ran back outside to pick up the dropped mail. Helen sat beside Peter, who was half-smiling, half-wincing at her.

"Peter?" she said. "Please. Talk to me."

Quentin backed away, and grabbed Edmund as he went. The younger boy was about to protest, but Susan put a hand on his shoulder and shook her head. She understood as Quentin did that Peter would want to talk to their mother alone.

Lucy was grabbed as she ran back from getting the mail and was tugged along as well, leaving the oldest Pevensie child and the mother in the living room alone.

"Mum," Peter said, twisting carefully until he was facing her. "After we left for school, I had a bit of a … a relapse, I guess you could call it," he said. "I've lost all feeling in my right leg and have been getting around with a crutch all term."

He paused as her hand fluttered to her mouth and her grip on his hand tightened. "Oh Peter," she said, tears gathering in her eyes, but not yet spilling. "No feeling at all? I don't understand. You were fine, a little sore is all, last I saw you."

Peter bit his lip. "I know, Mum," he said. "But there was a chance this could happen. I…I just didn't want to believe it, so I didn't tell you. And I didn't mention it on the phone because it was something I had to tell you in person."

As the tears began to fall, Peter swallowed hard to hold back his own. He hated hurting his mother, and he could tell she was hurting for him. He reached out carefully, mindful of his cracked ribs, and drew the woman into a hug. Her sobbing increased as she rested her head against his shoulder.

"Peter, why is this happening? Haven't we gone through enough?" She sniffed and pulled back a little, tear tracks marring her cheeks. "How are you taking it? I can't…I can't imagine, Peter. I wish there was something I could do for you."

Mustering all the High King he could, Peter put on a smile and wiped his mother's tears away. "I'm fine, Mum," he said. "I'm alive. That's enough for me. Even if I can't get up and run around, I'm with you guys and that's all that matters."

She smiled. "My son," she said quietly. "I must have missed when you grew up. I still think of you as my little man and remember you climbing on a stool to reach the cookie jar."

He snorted. "I'm not so little anymore," he said with a grin. "I can get those cookies just fine from the ground." Sobering, he bit his lip again. "There is something else I need to explain," he said. "Well, two things actually."

Resting back against the couch, he looked over the back of it and down the hallway where the children's rooms were. Four sets of eyes were peeking out of two different doorways. With a smile and slight wave, he gestured for them to return to the living room.

Mrs. Pevensie chuckled. "They were all watching, like little hedgehogs poking out of their holes?"

Peter nodded and laughed lightly. Very lightly. "Yeah," he said. As soon as the others had reached them and had jostled each other around for good seats, Peter spoke again. "I had a bit of a run-in with a few school troublemakers. That's why I'm so stiff and sore."

Edmund huffed. "What he may be trying to avoid saying, Mum, is that he got beat up a bit," the boy said, meeting Peter's eyes and daring him to stop him. The older boy didn't take the dare. "He has two cracked ribs and a bunch of bruising, but Nurse Hendrix said he would be fine."

Helen looked on the verge of tears again, so Peter quickly jumped back in. "The boy who did it was very upset that I survived the battle in Greece and his older brother didn't," he said quietly. "I sort of understand where he was coming from, and he is going to be getting counseling. I'd like to just put it behind us."

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Helen turned to Quentin. "It's good to see you, Quentin," she said, making an effort to drive any melancholy from her voice and change the subject. "I was a bit surprised outside, since no one told me you'd be coming."

Quentin smiled. "It has been a while, Mrs. Pevensie," he said. "If it's a problem, I can take the bus home."

Peter slapped his forehead. "Oh, dear, sorry Mum!" he exclaimed. "It was last minute, I hope you don't mind that I invited him!" He turned sheepishly to the woman. "His parents went out of town and he'd have been home alone for the half term holidays."

Before Peter could talk around in a circle to plead his case, Mrs. Pevensie held up a hand. "Peter, dear, it's fine. Quentin is more than welcome to stay here."

She was about to continue when Lucy shrieked suddenly in delight.

"Lu?" Susan questioned, looking at the youngest sibling who was tightly gripping a letter in her hands and fairly bouncing in her seat. "What are you so ecstatic about?"

Holding out the letter to their mother, Lucy bubbled with excitement. "Can we go, Mum? Can we? Oh please Mum. Please!"

Helen scrunched her eyebrows together as she took the letter and perused it. As she reached a certain point, her eyes widened and she gasped. "Oh my!" She exclaimed. "What an invitation!" Turning to her completely confused older children, she smiled. "Professor Kirke has asked us to come stay at the estate for the holidays. He said the old place gets a mite lonely and he'd love to have us brighten the halls for a while."

Quentin shifted uncomfortably. But Helen caught the move and shook her head. "Don't worry, dear, I'm sure the professor wouldn't mind another guest," she said. "Lord knows he has the room. To be sure, I'll send word and ask."

Peter was thrilled at the idea of going to the country. Memories of following Lucy through the wardrobe were flitting through his mind, and he imagined there were similar ones on his siblings' minds.

"When do we leave?" he asked with a broad grin.

"Two days, if all goes well," Helen said brightly. "Oh this is wonderful! But where are my manners. You five must be positively starved. Come on, let's have a bite to eat, shall we?"

There were five very enthusiastic exclamations of "yes".

A/N: First off, jammie dodgers, I've been told, are a tasty British treat made from shortbread and raspberry flavored plum jam. I tried to look them up and it seems the company existed during the 40s. Hope I'm right! Please review and let me know what you thought of that MASSIVE chapter! Longest yet. And there is one more to come. Just one. I promise…yeah, I've said that before…