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. Oreius also does not belong to me. I do, however, wish I could play in Narnia.

Chapter Five

"Oreius?" The High King looked up at me and then back at his brother, blue eyes filled with worry. "Edmund, what is it? Tell me."

I moved closer to the bed where they sat, studying the dark colt's face. He was trembling now, still desperately clutching his brother's nightshirt, his upper lip gleaming with fine sweat and those near-black eyes fixed pleadingly on Peter. Again, he opened his mouth to speak. Again there was only silence.

He shook his head once more, and a single tear trickled from the corner of his eye. The High King looked again at me and then back at him.

"Tell me, Ed. Please. Say something." He stroked the dark hair back from the younger colt's temple, wiping away that tear as he did. "Ed?"

As gently as I was able, I turned Edmund's face up to me, searching his eyes. He flinched almost imperceptibly, as if he had to force himself to remember I was not one of those who had tortured him, mind and body.

"My King," I said, keeping my voice soft and low, "are you in pain?"

He pressed his fist against his heart, eyes welling now with tears, but he only shook his head.

"Can you speak?"

Once more he shook his head, and then he hid his face against his brother's shoulder.

Peter held him there, rubbing his back, his voice gently soothing even if there was panic in his eyes. "You don't–" His voice broke slightly and then steadied. "You don't have to worry, Ed. We'll get the healers to do something to fix it. Or we'll give you more of the cordial. It always–"

Edmund shook his head again, still huddled against Peter's shoulder. I knew it as well as my Kings did. The cordial had done its work. It was very unlikely to do more than it had already, one drop or twenty. Still, we could not stand by and do nothing.

"I will send again for the healers, My King," I told Peter. "And for the Queen Lucy with her cordial."

As I had feared, neither was of any use. The High King and the little Queen stayed at their brother's side as the Cherry Dryad finished her latest examination. Her sigh was as desolate as a bitter wind through bare winter branches.

"It is as I suspected, General," she told me when I drew her aside, her lovely eyes full of sympathy. "The cordial has healed all of his bodily wounds already. There is no reason, at least no physical reason, that King Edmund should not be able to speak."

"This was not caused by the wound to his throat?"

She shook her leafy locks. "He hasn't even a scar to show for that. But we can only guess at what scars he carries from when he was captive, what he might have seen, especially concerning the Gentle Queen. Unless those invisible wounds heal, there is nothing we can do."

"And how do such wounds heal, Cerise?"

She looked doubtful. "With time, perhaps, and by the grace of the Lion."

I dismissed her and returned to the Kings and Queen. They were still seated close together on the bed of the High King. All three of them looked up at me.

"What did she say?" Peter asked.

I glanced at Edmund, unwilling to give them the healer's bleak report, and then managed a grave smile. "It will . . . take time, High King. If King Edmund will rest and take proper nourishment, no doubt he will improve."

The High King was wary of my words, I could read that much in his eyes, but he forced a smile anyway and put one arm around his brother's shoulders.

"See, Ed? You're going to be all right. Really."

Edmund only took hold of his sleeve, trying again to speak. One word. Just one word. A word none of us could make out.

"What is it, Eddie? What do you want?"

Edmund stood up and tugged at Peter's arm, and Peter also stood.

"What is it, Ed?"

He mouthed the word again, and looked at me. I could only shake my head.

"What, My King? What would you have?"

He looked around, clearly frustrated, and then he pointed at Queen Lucy.

"Do you want me to get something for you, Edmund?" she asked, puzzled.

He shook his head and then pointed at her again. Then held his hand over her and looked at all of us. A taller Lucy?

Susan.

The young Queen looked at him, eyes filled with bewildered tears, and then at Peter.

Peter bit his lip, steeling himself. "I– I don't know, Ed. I don't think–"

The dark colt mouthed the word again, his expression suddenly hard and determined, and he tightened his hold on Peter's sleeve. Susan. Susan.

Then his determination melted into pleading. Once again he pressed his fist over his heart, and the anguish in his dark eyes was nigh unbearable. My own pain was great. I could hardly imagine that of my Kings and Queen. Of this King in particular. He needed to see his sister, to make his farewell, to beg her forgiveness, to know she was forever gone.

"Perhaps he should, High King," I said softly. "Perhaps we all should."

And, his head lowered in grief, the High King nodded.

Author's Note: So, tell me what you think.