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Edmund’s consciousness swirled in and out like waves on a stormy shore. Somewhere in the haze, he thought he heard his name, faint and urgent, like a voice from a dream.
Panic briefly seized his chest, but then he felt something else—a pair of arms lifting him, cradling him like he was the most fragile thing in the world.
His head rested against a chest, and the sound of a heartbeat, loud and frantic, reverberated through his ears. It was familiar. Comforting. There was a scent too, one that carried faint traces of home—of safety. Warmth enveloped him despite the cold air biting his skin. Peter. He was in Peter’s arms.
But why?
His body felt heavy, his limbs like lead. His eyes refused to open, weighed down by exhaustion he couldn’t shake. Sleep tugged at him like an irresistible tide, and Edmund almost surrendered.
Yet something nagged at the edges of his mind—Peter’s panic. He could feel it, the tremor in his brother’s grip, the ragged edge to his breaths. And then there was the wetness on his cheek—not his tears, but Peter’s.
'Why are you crying, Pete? I’m just sleepy. I’ll be fine. I just need to rest.'
The words formed in his mind but never made it past his lips.
It didn’t matter, the cold air bit at his face, but Peter’s warmth was enough.
Everything else faded.
♧♧♧
Meanwhile, Peter’s world was falling apart.
He staggered through the chaos, Edmund’s limp form clutched tightly in his arms. His own body ached, every nerve screaming from the burns and cuts that littered his skin, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t.
“Please!” Peter shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation.
“Someone help! My brother—he was hit by a bomb—please!” His words barely rose above the cacophony around him.
People were screaming, running in every direction. Some were on the ground, motionless, others calling for their loved ones.
The market that had been so alive moments ago was now a scene of devastation.
Peter’s heart pounded in his chest as he scanned the chaos, but no help came. His arms tightened around Edmund, his hands trembling as he adjusted his brother’s weight.
Edmund was so still...Too still.
“Ed, please,” Peter whispered, his voice cracking.
“Stay with me. Don’t you dare leave me.”
He stumbled toward what seemed like a safer corner, away from the smoke and falling debris.
His legs burned with every step, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.
Peter crouched behind a pile of crates, shielding Edmund from the worst of the cold air. His hands brushed against Edmund’s face, pale and smudged with dirt.
Tears welled up in Peter’s eyes, blurring his vision.
“Edmund, hold on,” he begged, his voice barely above a whisper now.
“We’re going to be okay. You’ll be okay.”
But even as he said it, doubt clawed at his heart.
England was at war, and he’d been foolish to forget. Foolish to think they could come here and be safe after Narnia. He’d failed Edmund—failed to protect him when it mattered most.
Peter buried his face in Edmund’s hair, his tears falling freely now. The warmth of his brother’s body was fading, and all Peter could do was hold on tighter, praying to Aslan, The Lion might be listening.
♧♧♧
The smoke had cleared, leaving an eerie stillness in the market. Where chaos had reigned an hour ago, now there was only silence, broken by the distant cries of the injured and the faint groan of collapsing buildings. Peter sat slumped behind the pile of crates, Edmund’s lifeless body cradled in his arms.
The warmth he’d clung to was gone, Edmund’s skin was cold now, his face pale, the blood on his clothes had dried, the crimson stains dull against the fabric.
Peter’s tears had long since dried too, leaving his face streaked and hollow. His body was numb, his mind a blank void.
He hadn’t moved for what felt like hours, murmuring the same words over and over again like a broken prayer.
“Aslan, please… don’t take him. Please. He’s my brother, please…”
His voice cracked, barely audible, as his hand brushed Edmund’s hair back from his forehead. The gesture was soft, almost instinctive, as if Peter hoped that the simple act might stir something in Edmund. But there was nothing.
No flutter of breath, no warmth returning to his skin.
Peter stared at Edmund’s face, his blue eyes now dull and empty. His mind screamed that this wasn’t real, that Edmund couldn’t be gone, but the cold, heavy weight in his arms said otherwise.
His little brother—his brave, stubborn Edmund—was gone.
Peter swallowed hard, his throat raw.
“You weren’t supposed to leave, Ed,” he whispered hoarsely.
“You were supposed to fight back, like you always do. You always get back up. So why… why this time?”
His chest felt hollow, like his heart had been ripped out and replaced with a crushing emptiness.
The thought of going home sent a wave of nausea rolling through him, He imagined his mother’s face, her hopeful expression turning to devastation when she realized Edmund wouldn’t walk through the door, He thought of Susan and Lucy, their laughter silenced by grief.
But then another thought hit him—a darker one. What if home wasn’t there anymore? What if the bombs had taken everything? What if there was no one waiting for them at all?.
Peter’s hand trembled as he rested it against Edmund’s cheek, the coldness there cut through his thoughts, grounding him in the horrible reality he was desperate to escape.
“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
“I don’t know how to go on without you. I don’t know how to face them… to tell them…”
The words died in his throat as his body gave out. He tried to stand, tried to lift Edmund in his arms to take him home, but his legs refused to obey. His strength had left him along with his hope. He sank back to the ground, his body slumping forward until his forehead rested against Edmund’s.
For a long time, Peter stayed there, unmoving. His breath was shallow, his mind and soul frozen. His lips trembled as he whispered one last plea, knowing it would never be answered.
“Aslan… please… bring him back to me.”