Chapter Text
The tent was quiet in the way that comes after too much pain.
Peter sat on the ground with Edmund in his arms, holding him close, one arm wrapped tightly around his back, the other cradling his legs carefully, afraid of hurting him. Edmund leaned against his chest, small and fragile, his breathing shallow.
Susan and Lucy sat beside them, watching Edmund with constant, silent worry.
Then the air shifted.
It grew heavier.
Still.
Peter looked up.
Aslan stood inside the tent.
No one had heard him enter.
He was simply there.
Edmund noticed him too.
His fingers tightened weakly against Peter’s shirt.
“Aslan…” Edmund whispered. “What’s wrong with me?”
Peter’s grip tightened instinctively.
Aslan stepped closer, his golden eyes fixed on Edmund.
“The enchantment placed upon you,” Aslan said, his voice calm and unyielding, “did not leave you without consequence.”
Peter’s heart began to race.
“He’ll recover,” Peter said quickly, almost pleading. “He just needs time.”
Aslan looked at him.
He did not soften his gaze.
“No,” Aslan said simply.
Peter felt his breath catch.
Edmund swallowed.
“What does that mean?” Edmund asked.
Aslan did not hesitate.
“The magic that bound your mind also weakened your body,” he said. “Your legs have been deeply affected.”
Peter shook his head slightly.
“No,” he whispered.
Aslan continued.
Edmund stared at him.
Peter’s arms tightened around him.
“You may never walk again,” Aslan said.
Silence fell.
Lucy gasped softly.
Susan covered her mouth, tears instantly spilling down her cheeks.
Peter froze.
Edmund didn’t move.
For a moment, he simply stared at Aslan.
Then—
Without warning—
Edmund pushed weakly against Peter’s chest.
Peter blinked.
“Edmund?”
Edmund didn’t answer.
He tried to pull himself upright.
Peter instinctively loosened his hold just enough to let him move.
Edmund placed his hands on the ground beside him.
His arms trembled violently.
“Edmund,” Susan said softly. “You don’t have to—”
Edmund ignored her.
He pushed harder.
His arms shook.
His body lifted slightly—
Then collapsed.
He fell back against Peter’s chest.
He gasped in pain.
Lucy’s eyes filled with tears.
“Edmund, stop,” she whispered.
But Edmund didn’t listen.
He tried again.
This time he managed to sit upright, no longer supported by Peter.
His face was pale with effort.
He planted his hands firmly on the ground.
He pushed.
His arms trembled uncontrollably.
His legs didn’t move.
Not even a little.
He pushed harder.
His breathing became frantic.
“I can—” he gasped.
His arms gave out.
He fell forward onto his hands, barely catching himself.
Peter reached for him.
“Edmund—”
Edmund pulled away.
He tried again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, his body refused him.
Each time, he fell.
Each time, his breathing became more desperate.
“Stop,” Susan begged, crying openly now.
Lucy sobbed quietly beside her.
“Please stop.”
But Edmund didn’t stop.
He pushed himself harder than his broken body could bear.
His arms shook violently.
His hands slipped.
He collapsed fully onto the ground.
This time, he didn’t try to catch himself.
He just lay there.
Breathing.
Shaking.
Broken.
Peter couldn’t take it anymore.
He grabbed Edmund gently but firmly and pulled him back into his arms.
Edmund resisted weakly at first.
“No,” Edmund whispered desperately. “I can—I can do it—I can—”
His voice broke.
Peter wrapped both arms tightly around him, holding him against his chest.
“Stop,” Peter said, his own voice breaking.
Edmund’s body went still.
Then—
He began to cry.
Not quietly.
Not bravely.
Desperately.
His hands clutched Peter’s shirt.
Peter buried his face in Edmund’s hair as tears streamed down his own face.
“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered.
His voice trembled violently.
“I’m so sorry.”
Edmund cried harder.
Peter held him tighter.
“I should’ve protected you,” Peter choked. “I should’ve stopped her. I should’ve—”
He couldn’t finish.
His body shook with guilt.
“I failed you,” Peter whispered.
Edmund pressed his face into Peter’s chest, sobbing.
Peter held him like he had when Edmund was small.
Like he could shield him from everything.
But he couldn’t.
And that truth was unbearable.
Susan wrapped her arms around both of them.
Lucy joined too, her small hands gripping Edmund tightly.
The four of them clung to each other on the cold tent floor.
Aslan watched silently.
Not intervening.
Not comforting.
Because some pain had to be endured.
And Peter held Edmund, crying into his hair, wishing more than anything he could carry this pain for him.
But he couldn’t.
So he did the only thing he had left.
He held him.
And he didn’t let go.
Steam rose gently into the cold Narnian air.
Just outside Aslan’s camp, the soldiers had prepared a wooden tub filled with hot water. Beside it sat a bottle of shampoo, a bar of soap, a folded towel, a wooden bucket, and a neat pile of fresh clothes for Edmund.
The water glowed faintly in the morning light.
Peter stood before the tub holding Edmund in his arms.
Neither of them spoke.
Edmund’s arms rested weakly around Peter’s neck. His legs hung limp, his bare feet brushing against Peter’s thigh as Peter shifted his weight slightly.
They were both uncomfortable.
Not with each other.
But with what this meant.
Peter swallowed.
“Well,” he said quietly. “Here goes.”
He lowered Edmund gently to the ground, keeping one arm around him to steady him.
Edmund sat there, small and fragile beside the steaming tub.
Peter reached for the hem of Edmund’s shirt.
He stopped.
Edmund’s face had changed.
He wasn’t resisting.
He wasn’t crying.
But he looked embarrassed.
Small.
Vulnerable.
Peter froze.
He suddenly realized what he was asking of him.
Edmund had already lost so much control over his own body.
Peter couldn’t take this choice from him too.
He pulled his hand back.
“Oh,” Peter said quietly.
He breathed out slowly.
Then, without another word, Peter began to undress himself instead.
He pulled his jumper over his head.
Unbuttoned his shirt.
Stepped out of his trousers.
Edmund watched him.
For a moment, he looked confused.
Then he giggled.
A small, weak giggle—but real.
Peter looked at him and smiled.
“What are you doing?” Edmund asked softly.
Peter shrugged slightly.
“You didn’t think I’d make you go in alone, did you?”
Edmund smiled.
It was small.
But it was there.
Peter stepped carefully into the tub, the hot water rising around his legs. He winced slightly at the heat, then sat down fully, letting himself adjust.
He looked at Edmund and held out his arms.
“Come here.”
Edmund hesitated.
Then nodded.
Peter leaned forward, gently removing Edmund’s clothes piece by piece, careful and respectful, never rushing him.
When Edmund was ready, Peter lifted him into his arms.
“Up you go,” Peter said softly.
He lowered him into the bath beside him.
Edmund flinched slightly as the hot water touched his skin.
Peter immediately steadied him.
“It’s alright,” Peter said gently. “I’ve got you.”
Edmund relaxed slowly against him.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
They simply sat there.
Warm.
Safe.
Together.
Peter reached for the shampoo.
“Your turn,” he said lightly.
Edmund rolled his eyes weakly.
Peter poured a little into his hand and began gently working it into Edmund’s hair, massaging his scalp carefully.
Edmund closed his eyes.
Relaxing.
Trusting him.
When he was done, Edmund took the bottle with slightly shaky hands.
He poured a bit too much.
Peter laughed softly.
“Careful.”
Edmund stuck his tongue out weakly and began rubbing it into Peter’s hair.
His fingers were clumsy.
But Peter didn’t mind.
Not at all.
They rinsed each other’s hair with the bucket, laughing quietly when water splashed into their faces.
Peter reached for the soap next and gently washed Edmund’s arms, his shoulders, his back.
Careful around the bruises.
Careful around everything.
Then Edmund did the same for Peter, slower, weaker—but determined.
When they were done, they simply sat there.
Peter leaned back slightly.
Then, without warning—
He flicked water at Edmund.
Edmund blinked.
“What was that for?” Edmund said weakly.
Peter smirked.
Edmund splashed him back.
Peter gasped dramatically.
“Oh, you’re in trouble now.”
He splashed Edmund again.
Edmund laughed.
Actually laughed.
A real laugh.
Clear.
Alive.
They splashed each other back and forth, water spilling over the sides of the tub.
Laughing.
Grinning.
For those few minutes—
There was no war.
No witch.
No curse.
No guilt.
Just two brothers in warm water.
Just Peter and Edmund.
Just boys again.
It was the most fun either of them had since the war began.
Eventually, Edmund grew tired.
His splashing slowed.
His body leaned gently against Peter’s chest.
Peter wrapped an arm around him instinctively.
Edmund rested there, warm and safe.
Peter kissed the top of his head.
And for the first time since Aslan’s words—
He allowed himself to believe that maybe—
Some part of Edmund was still whole.
Morning light filtered softly through the canvas of the tent.
Outside, the camp was quiet. Frost still clung to the ground, and the air smelled faintly of smoke from last night’s fire.
Inside Peter and Edmund’s tent, the four Pevensie siblings sat together around a small wooden tray.
Breakfast had been prepared for them—warm bread, butter, boiled eggs, and tea.
Edmund sat wrapped in a blanket, leaning against Peter’s chest. Peter’s arm rested securely around him, holding him upright without making it obvious.
Susan and Lucy sat across from them.
No one spoke.
They ate slowly.
Carefully.
The silence stretched longer than any of them liked.
No one knew what to say.
No one wanted to say the wrong thing.
Edmund stared down at his untouched bread.
Peter watched him from the corner of his eye.
Susan stirred her tea without drinking it.
Lucy swung her feet slightly, watching everyone else.
The silence grew heavier.
Until—
Peter suddenly let out a loud fart.
It echoed in the small tent.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then Lucy burst into laughter.
Susan covered her mouth, laughing despite herself.
Even Edmund blinked in surprise—
Then let out a weak laugh of his own.
Peter grinned sheepishly.
“Well,” he said, shrugging. “At least something still works.”
Lucy laughed harder.
Susan shook her head.
“You’re disgusting.”
Edmund smiled faintly.
But then—
His smile faded.
His eyes dropped.
Slowly.
To his legs.
They lay motionless beneath the blanket.
Still.
Unresponsive.
Useless.
His hands tightened slightly in the fabric.
The laughter faded.
Susan noticed first.
Her heart sank.
She reached forward and gently placed her hand on Edmund’s shoulder.
“Edmund,” she said softly.
He didn’t look up.
She hesitated.
“I know how you feel.”
She paused.
Then shook her head slightly.
“No,” she admitted gently. “I don’t. I don’t know how you feel.”
Edmund’s eyes flickered slightly.
“But I do know this,” she continued. “No matter what happens… no matter what changes… you’re still our brother. You’re still part of this family.”
Lucy nodded quickly.
“We’ll always love you,” she added. “Always. And we don’t care if that means we have to take care of you forever.”
She said it without hesitation.
Without fear.
Like it wasn’t a burden.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Edmund looked at her.
Really looked at her.
Peter tightened his arm around Edmund slightly.
Then, in his familiar big-brother voice, he said lightly,
“Well… I suppose it does mean I’ll have to carry you everywhere now.”
Edmund glanced up at him.
Peter smirked.
“Which is terribly inconvenient, by the way.”
Lucy giggled.
Susan rolled her eyes.
“And exhausting,” Peter continued dramatically. “You’re getting heavy.”
“I am not,” Edmund said weakly.
“You are,” Peter insisted. “You weigh at least… three tons.”
Lucy laughed.
Susan laughed.
Edmund laughed too.
Peter nudged him gently.
“But I suppose,” Peter added softly, “I’ll manage.”
Edmund leaned slightly into him.
Trusting him.
Belonging there.
For a moment—
Everything felt okay.
Then—
The tent flap opened.
Cold air rushed in.
Mr. Beaver stood there.
He looked serious.
Grave.
His eyes moved between the four siblings.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said.
Peter straightened slightly.
“What is it?”
Mr. Beaver swallowed.
“The Witch,” he said.
“She’s demanded a meeting with Aslan.”
The warmth in the tent vanished instantly.
Susan’s hand tightened on Edmund’s shoulder.
Lucy froze.
Peter’s arm tightened protectively around Edmund.
“She’s on her way,” Mr. Beaver finished quietly.
No one spoke.
Peter felt Edmund’s body press closer to his chest.
And without thinking—
He held him tighter.
The camp had fallen silent.
Aslan stood at the center, unmoving, his golden mane stirring faintly in the cold wind. Around him stood soldiers, centaurs, fauns, and talking beasts, their weapons ready but lowered.
And at the front—
Peter.
He held Edmund in his arms like he always did now, one arm under his legs, the other supporting his back. Edmund rested weakly against his chest, his head tucked beneath Peter’s chin.
Susan stood at Peter’s right.
Lucy at his left.
No one spoke.
Then—
The sound of crunching snow.
All heads turned.
The White Witch emerged from the treeline.
Her white gown flowed behind her like frost spreading across glass. Her pale face was calm, almost amused.
Behind her followed her henchmen.
Wolves.
Dwarfs.
Creatures twisted by winter.
She walked forward slowly.
Gracefully.
Everyone braced themselves.
They expected her to stop before Aslan.
She didn’t.
She walked past him.
Past the soldiers.
Past the centaurs.
Straight toward Peter.
Peter instinctively tightened his grip on Edmund.
Edmund clutched weakly at Peter’s shirt.
The Witch stopped only a few feet away.
She studied Peter’s face.
Not with hatred.
With recognition.
With something almost like fondness.
Then she smiled faintly.
“We meet again,” she said softly.
She tilted her head.
“Stefan.”
The soldiers stirred in confusion.
Susan frowned.
Lucy blinked.
Edmund weakly lifted his head.
Peter froze.
His brow furrowed.
“…What?”
He didn’t understand.
But something inside him—
Something deep and buried—
Recoiled.
The name felt wrong.
And yet—
Familiar.
The Witch’s smile widened slightly.
“I understand,” she said gently. “You do not yet remember who you are.”
She turned her gaze toward Aslan.
Her expression hardened.
“Tell him,” she said coldly.
Silence.
Aslan did not respond immediately.
His golden eyes rested on Peter.
Heavy.
Grave.
“Tell him,” the Witch repeated, her voice sharp now.
The soldiers looked between them.
Susan whispered, “Aslan…?”
Lucy’s hand trembled.
Edmund weakly gripped Peter’s collar.
Peter’s voice came out barely above a whisper.
“…Tell me what?”
Aslan exhaled slowly.
Then he spoke.
“In your past life,” Aslan said quietly, “you were called Stefan.”
The name hung in the air.
Heavy.
Final.
Peter’s breath caught.
“You were her brother.”
The Witch smiled faintly.
“You ruled Narnia beside her.”
Gasps spread through the camp.
Susan’s eyes widened.
Lucy shook her head faintly.
Edmund stared at Peter in shock.
Peter himself looked like the ground had vanished beneath him.
“No,” he whispered.
“No.”
Aslan continued.
“You cast the eternal winter.”
The words struck like thunder.
Silence fell.
Peter’s grip on Edmund tightened unconsciously.
Susan stared at him.
Lucy covered her mouth.
Edmund’s voice came weak and trembling.
“…Peter?”
Peter shook his head.
“I didn’t—”
But his voice faltered.
Because deep inside—
Something stirred.
Fragments.
Shadows.
Snow.
A throne.
Loneliness.
Aslan continued gently.
“You also befriended a faun named Tumnus.”
Mr. Tumnus, standing among the soldiers, froze.
“And his brother,” Aslan said.
“And his two sisters.”
Peter’s breathing grew uneven.
“They died in the war.”
Aslan’s gaze moved to Susan.
Lucy.
Edmund.
“They were reborn,” Aslan said softly.
“As your siblings.”
Susan staggered slightly.
Lucy grabbed her arm.
Edmund stared at Peter like he didn’t know who he was anymore.
Peter looked down at Edmund—
Terrified.
Broken.
“I didn’t know,” Peter whispered.
“I didn’t know…”
The Witch stepped closer.
She looked at Peter with cold satisfaction.
“You see now,” she said softly.
She leaned closer.
“You are not so different from me after all, Stefan.”
Peter shook his head violently.
“I’m not him.”
“You are,” she replied calmly.
Her eyes moved to Edmund.
“Now,” she said.
“Hand him over.”
Peter’s entire body tensed.
His arms wrapped tighter around Edmund instinctively.
“No.”
The Witch’s expression did not change.
“Oh,” she said softly.
“But you will.”
She raised her hand.
Flicked her fingers.
Suddenly—
Edmund gasped.
His body jerked violently.
His hands clawed weakly at Peter’s chest.
His eyes widened in terror.
He couldn’t breathe.
“Peter—”
His voice broke.
Peter’s heart stopped.
“EDMUND!”
Edmund convulsed in his arms.
His chest tightened.
His breath vanished.
His body trembled uncontrollably.
Susan screamed.
Lucy cried out.
“STOP!”
Peter shouted.
The Witch watched calmly.
Coldly.
“I still control him,” she said.
Her voice was quiet.
Deadly.
“Taking his legs was only the beginning.”
She stepped closer.
“Next, I will take his sight.”
Edmund whimpered weakly.
“Then his hearing.”
Susan sobbed.
“And perhaps,” the Witch continued calmly, “his mind.”
Peter fell to his knees, holding Edmund desperately.
“Please—”
Edmund’s fingers dug weakly into his shirt.
He was dying.
Peter looked down at him.
Broken.
Helpless.
Then—
Something inside Peter changed.
He looked up.
His voice trembled—but did not break.
“Fight me.”
The Witch tilted her head.
Peter stood slowly, still holding Edmund.
“My army,” he said.
“Against yours.”
The Witch smiled.
“If you win,” Peter said, his voice shaking, “you can have Narnia.”
She studied him.
“And the boy?” she asked softly.
Peter hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Edmund whimpered in his arms.
Peter closed his eyes.
Then opened them.
“…Yes,” he whispered.
The word nearly killed him.
“You can have him.”
Susan gasped.
Lucy cried, “Peter, no!”
But Peter didn’t look at them.
He looked only at the Witch.
The Witch smiled.
“Very well,” she said.
“The battle begins at dawn.”
Peter’s voice broke as he spoke.
“Stop hurting him.”
The Witch flicked her hand.
Instantly—
Edmund gasped violently.
Air rushed back into his lungs.
His body relaxed weakly.
He was alive.
Still broken.
Still unable to walk.
But alive.
Peter collapsed forward, holding him tightly.
The Witch turned away.
Without another word.
Her army followed.
Snow swallowed them.
And Peter stayed on his knees.
Holding his brother.
Knowing what he had just done.