Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me.

JUST BREATHE

Edmund saw and felt the cry rather than heard it. He saw the blue eyes widen and the hard, determined mouth open in surprise as the High King dropped to his knees. He felt the agony of the blade as if his own flesh and bone had been thrust through. He supposed it had.

Before the Ogre could rip its sword free from his brother's back, before Peter could do more than sink into the ravaged grass of the battlefield, Edmund was on them, bestriding his High King, his twin blades razoring through the enemy until, it seemed only seconds later, they were felled or fled and the army of Narnia raised a cry of victory.

That cry soon faded into silence, a silence broken only by one low, labored voice and, along with it, weak, helpless sobs.

"Don't, Ed. Don't." Peter's trembling hand, still mail clad, fell into Edmund's lap, too weak to reach his tear-stained face. "Don't cry."

Edmund seized that hand and pulled his brother up against him, burying his face in the golden hair that was tarnished now with blood and sweat. Everything in him wanted to scream denial, defiance. Peter was the High King. Peter was his King. Peter couldn't die.

Edmund fought for his every breath, gasping, desperate. There wasn't air enough to fuel his burning lungs and his sobs too.

Peter's fingers twitched, and Edmund pulled off his gauntlets. His hands were already bloodless. Cold. Dead.

No. No. No.

The sobs were winning, taking more and more of the air, conspiring with grief to starve Edmund's lungs and burst his heart, plotting with death to separate him from his dearest friend and best-beloved brother-King.

"Breathe, Eddie." Peter's cold fingers closed a little around his, and the blue eyes were calm. "Just breathe."

Edmund still struggled for air, scarcely aware of the voices behind and beside him, scarcely conscious of the words "Queen Lucy" and "cordial" in the urgent whispers. No one seemed to notice that the light was fading from the blue eyes, and Edmund couldn't draw breath enough to tell them to, to press them to, to command them to hurry.

"Just breathe," Peter murmured again, his lashes fluttering as his eyelids fell shut. "Promise me you'll just breathe."

With the gentlest of sighs, Peter went limp against him. Lungs heaving, Edmund laid Peter's head in his lap, pressing desperate hands to his lips, to his chest, finding nothing but stillness. Tears welled into his eyes, into his throat, finally cutting off his sobs, his breath. His fingers clenched fitfully at his brother's tunic, and he lifted his face to the sky, wanting to howl out the searing pain, wanting to shriek, to wail, to scream Peter's name, Aslan's, but the air couldn't get past the grief, no matter how desperately he gasped for it.

His arms went limp, Peter's head slipped from his lap and thudded into the grass at his knees, and still he was unable to draw breath. He fell forward and sank into the blood and the mud and the despair, his cheek at last pressed against Peter's beatless heart, his own heart struggling and pounding, his lungs in vain still striving until the fierce sun swirled over him and went black.

OOOOO

"Edmund? Come on, Ed."

Edmund gasped, and air flooded his lungs. Senses and memory returned. Searing grief returned. Peter was–

"Come on now. Breathe. Just breathe."

He knew that voice and the touch of those hands. One of them was under his shoulders, sitting him up. The other cupped his cheek, tender, soothing. No. It wasn't. It couldn't–

"Just breathe, Eddie."

"Peter."

Edmund managed to open his eyes a mere crack. It had to be morning. Light was pouring in, half blinding him, making it hard to see his brother's face, but it didn't matter. It had been a dream, a nightmare, and Peter was here now.

"Peter."

Eyes squeezed shut, Edmund flung himself against his brother's sturdy chest, feeling him warm and whole, feeling the beat of life in his veins, and better than all this, hearing his low laugh. Peter's laugh. Alive.

"Peter, Peter," he murmured. "I dreamed– You were–"

"Dead."

Edmund nodded, pressing closer, breathing his warmth, his scent, his very being. Whole. Alive.

"How many times, how many ways, will I dream you've been killed? The dreams, they're always so vivid, so real. Oh, Aslan, make it stop."

"You have to make it stop, Ed." Peter's hands were stroking his hair, soothing, caressing. "It will torment you until you trust Him with your life and mine. You can't stop living just because something happens to me. You have to go on."

"No." Edmund clung more tightly to him. "How could I?"

"If not for yourself, then for me, for the girls, for Narnia. If I'm going to carry on as He intends me to, I have to know you will, too. Whatever happens, we stand between His paws, and nothing can ever really separate us."

"I could never bear it."

Edmund looked up now, desperate, heartsick at the very idea of going on alone. Peter was haloed by the dawn light behind him, smiling as if it were the easiest thing in the world, and somehow he was more golden and magnificent than ever before.

"Just take one breath." His voice was gentle and sure and strong all at once. "And then another. And then another. And trust in the Lion."

He leaned Edmund back down again, urging him to close his eyes and sleep once more. Edmund still clung to him, pulling Peter with him until he was lying with his head on Peter's chest, cheek to his heart, listening to the low, calming voice and the soothing rhythm of the words.

"Just breathe, Eddie. Promise me you'll just breathe."

OOOOO

"Edmund."

Again Edmund gasped. Again the familiar pain and searing grief flooded through him. The tunic he clutched was dirty, stained with sweat and blood, stained with tears. The heart that should have beaten beneath it, beneath the place where he laid his cheek, was still.

"Edmund."

Lucy dropped down at his side, weeping as she caressed Peter's cold face, kissed his silent lips and then flung herself against him, weeping without consolation. Her little bottle of cordial lay discarded in the grass. Useless. Too late.

Dry eyed now, Edmund sat up and took her into his arms.

"Edmund, he's dead. Peter's dead. He's dead. He's dead. He's dead."

"Shh, I know."

"What are we going to do? Narnia needs him. We need him. What will we do without him?"

He calmed her with wordless murmurs and soft kisses across her brow, but when he spoke once more, the tears again spilled over. His voice broke. His heart broke. He could only cling there with her, eyes fixed on the beautiful serenity of the High King's face.

"We just breathe, Lu. Just breathe."

Author's Note: I don't really know where this came from, but it popped into my head in the middle of the night. As much as I tried to work on other things, it wouldn't leave me alone until I set it down and promised to present it properly to the world. Even in this alternate reality, I promise Peter is happy and well in Aslan's country, and Edmund will be with him again one day. Gentle Reader, please don't kill me.

–WD