A/N: Oh, lovely. Another fic with Peter and Edmund in a dungeon. This one's a little more angsty and not quite as amusing as previous dungeon-installments. *shakes head* I don't understand why it is so interesting to see them in these sorts of horrible places, but my personal opinion is that it brings out the best in their characters, rather like how persecution and tribulation is the "refiner's fire" and is the process that shapes us into who we will be one day.

To my anonymous reviewer (emjay): I replied to all the other reviews via PM, but I hope you'll end up reading this reply on here. Thanks very much for your review! I, also, have found that fanfictions enrich my understanding of and love for Narnia, so much so that I'll be reading one of the books and feel almost as if something is missing. I shall definitely think about writing up a Susan and Lucy chapter (suitor-talk is a good idea...:D). Thanks again!

Enjoy. Bastables (I dearly hope!) up next.

14.

He was getting stiff, lying curled in the same position in which they'd dragged him into the tiny cell, weak and trembling with exertion and pain. And his arm was twisted under him, the rough stone beginning to gnaw at his bruised and beaten skin, but he had not the strength to move it.

He was almost asleep (because no matter how badly it hurts, he had never had hurt overwhelm utter exhaustion) when the little secret window at the bottom of the wooden door slid open. It was the door between his cell and the next, and had long been bolted and sealed shut. The cell next to his had been empty for days, ever since they caught him talking to the disheartened old lady who had been its former inhabitant and had punished him for it before removing her. Now, he lifted his head as much as he could and squinted as the faint rays of light shone in through the little door.

"Peter?" The voice was quiet, but sharp with surprise and bewilderment. Peter would have jerked in amazement if he'd had the strength, but as it was, he only managed to make a sort of gasping noise in his throat. "Peter—is it you?"

It took a monumental effort to push himself up from the floor and drag himself a few more inches until he was up next to the little window, but it was worth it when he looked through and saw his brother's face, peering in at him anxiously.

"Ed!"

They both reached forward at the same time, and though the hole was too small for much, they clasped hands. Peter let out a sigh of slight relief—Edmund's grip was very strong.

"I was so worried," Edmund was saying, his dark eyes gleaming, though his face was in a sort of light shadow. The other cell seemed to have more light. "They've asked me questions and threatened me with…with a lot of things. And they kept refusing to let me see you. I don't know why they would now…"

"Ed, you're alright?" His lips were dry, and when he wet them with his swollen tongue, they tasted of coppery blood. "They haven't hurt you? Lion's mane, if they've so much as touched you…"

For a second he thought he saw tears in his brother's eyes, but when Edmund spoke, his voice was cold. "Oh, they haven't. I've been treated like a guest—a royal guest. I am only in danger if they mean to kill me with kindness—or poison me at one of their banquets, though that would be sadly useless." He cocked his head in that way he always did when he was thinking and said, quietly, "How bad is it, Peter?"

He wet his lips again. "…not so bad."

He could tell by the silence that followed that Edmund was not convinced. "Peter. How bad is it? If you don't tell me in detail what…what they've done, I won't be able to plan our escape. I have to know—and not just because I'm worried."

Right. He was planning an escape out of this fortress. The lips of Peter's dry lips quirked. How he admired his brother's indefatigable sense of optimism.

He took a deep breath and began to count up his injuries. It was a long list.

"Um…twisted ankle, dislocated shoulder, something wrong with my kneecap, a few broken ribs—"

"How many is a few?"

Peter wrinkled his nose. "I'm not going to count them—maybe five?"

"That's more than a few."

"…"

"Go on."

"That's most of it. A flogging or two, as well, and my hand."

"What's wrong with your hand?"

"They…um…bruised it. Sword hand."

Edmund gave him a look and said, "Let's see it."

He didn't want to comply, but as his brother had not remarked upon the obvious exclusion of head and face injuries in the account, he decided not to press his luck. Edmund blanched when he saw the swollen right hand.

"Peter…"

"I think it's worse than it looks," Peter said. He had been lying shamelessly to himself for days now. Hopefully he was getting better at it.

Instead of coming back with some retort, Edmund just held his broken hand and looked at it, brown hair falling over his eyes. Which was exactly what Peter had been afraid of.

"Edmund, don't start trying to blame yourself for all this because frankly I haven't the energy to argue with you at the minute."

"But it was my plan—my stupid, idiotic, half-witted, mal-dreamed up plan—"

"And it was my idea that we switch places. And a good thing too. You know that you and the girls are my weakness." Peter moved his other hand to squeeze his brother gently. "I'm counting on you to be strong enough to hold out in spite of this. Me, I have the easy part. Physical torture is nothing (and, by the way, this is some of the lousiest torture I have ever had the displeasure to enjoy). It's what you're going through—the threat of guilt and responsibility, that overcomes me every time."

At last, Edmund let out a little laugh. "Funny. If I were in your place, I'd be a wreck. You'd be comforting me. How can you be so hurt and still…still…"

"Edmund." His voice was growing stronger now, because in talking it through, he'd worked out what was keeping him from going over the edge. "My strength is knowing that you are unhurt. I would willingly suffer a thousand floggings if it meant you and the girls were alright. It doesn't hurt when I think about how much worse it would be if our roles were reversed."

His brother laughed again, bitterly. "And my strength is supposed to be that at least you're not going through the guilt torture and blaming it all on yourself? You martyr."

Peter laughed and his ribs hurt him, but it didn't stop him from laughing again. "Just three more days, Ed. That's all you have to make it, and then you can tell them whatever you want but it will be too late. Peridan will have moved, and the information will be useless. They won't need us anymore."

"Right," Edmund replied. "So they'll kill us. Or ransom us. Do you think Susan would sell the silver candlesticks to get us back? After polishing them day and night for three whole years? No. So we'll be here forever unless they do decide to kill us, and then—"

"What?" Peter teased lightly. "Thinking twice about trying to escape?"

"Never," the younger said, with conviction. "Just…your hand…"

Peter touched his little brother's face gently and said, "Trust me, Ed. Physical wounds take less time to heal than emotional ones. Are you sure you're alright?"

The younger king nodded. "At least they let me see you—I'd been going mad with fear, not knowing whether you were even still alive."

"They may come at any time. To take you away." Peter felt Edmund tighten his grip on his hand and let out a quiet sigh. "Soon, Edmund. It will be over soon—whether we escape or are rescued."

There was an unspoken third way in which it could be over soon, but it was not one either brother was willing to consider. It harked at Edmund's mind so that after ten seconds or so he bowed his head against the door, still holding his brother's hand, and began to pray. Shifting his weight slightly and feeling every muscle and bone ache in reply to the movement, Peter joined him.

When the door opened half an hour later, Edmund squeezed Peter's hand once more and then stood. He was at peace, now, and would not need to be dragged away from his wounded brother.

It was only when he realized, however, that the man at the door was a fellow Narnian and that a sobbing Lucy was standing behind him and then flinging herself into his arms, that Edmund felt in full the gratitude and joy that comes with fulfillment of hope.

And he was definitely not letting Peter do this to him again.

"Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails." 1 Corinthians 13: 7-8