Disclaimer: Narnia, Peter, and Edmund all belong to the estate of C.S. Lewis, and I make no money in borrowing them to use in my stories. The Dream Dasher belongs to elecktrum, and the wolves of the Western Wild belong to a friend. Meg, however, is mine. All mine.

AN: This story sprang to life the moment I read the line below from elecktrum's story Thole, and it spoke to thoughts I've often had in considering the Pevensies and their very close relationship. Had Peter and the rest grown up a second time in our world and possibly married, I believe it would have been rather difficult to accept someone new into their fold - not only due to the looming concept of Narnia, but also to the tight family bonds that existed between the four of them as siblings. This story fits into my Song of the Phoenix Alternate Universe story arc, where Peter and Edmund were late and missed the train accident that would have killed them, and it also follows a story I have developed but not yet written ('s Day, which tells of Peter and Meg's courtship). The basic themes speak in spite of these details, however, and I hope you enjoy.

For elecktrum...

Running the Gauntlet

"...I knew the girls hadn't seen me as much as they had each seen themselves as my wife. I resolved then and there to let my siblings pick out whom I married. Anyone that could survive Edmund would be worth consideration."
- Peter in Chapter 30: Circle, Steel, and Mist, Into the West by elecktrum

"He was joking, but for some reason I could not define, the notion of my brother running off to get married was disturbing to me."
- Edmund in Chapter 35: Remade, Thole by elecktrum

I had the strangest conversation today.

Well, perhaps it wasn't so odd when one considers with whom I spoke. Or the subject of our discussion. After all, is it not a normal thing to be put to the question by the mother or father of your intended? Or as in this tragic case where no mother or father existed, by the brother? Certainly, one might say, it is entirely appropriate for either family to descry the quality of the man or woman they are welcoming into their fold. I would agree, and I will most likely do the same when it comes to be my brothers and sister's turn.

So, really, the conversation was not entirely strange, if one considers the circumstances.

No, not strange at all.

…

I was not entirely surprised to look up from the patient charts I had spread willy-nilly over the charge desk and see the tall, lanky form of Edmund Pevensie leaning rather nonchalantly against the door jamb. I had been expecting a visit eventually, given the close nature of the brothers' relationship. Though I wasn't entirely sure exactly what Edmund would say, given the reserve with which he treated me. He was very polite – nay, chivalrous to the extreme – but believe me when I say he had honed inscrutable observation to a fine art.

As cliché as this sounds, his eyes saw straight through you and clear to the other side.

"I don't wish to interrupt," he said, eschewing the trite exchange of greetings. "I'm sorry."

I waved my hand and sat back in the creaking chair. "Please don't be," I responded.

The silence following was tinged with awkward hesitancy. Edmund met my gaze, and my spine stiffened. His lips tightened briefly.

"Do you have a moment?" he asked, nodding towards my paperwork.

Not really. But here and for this purpose and person, I would make an exception. "Yes," I said and stood.

Edmund took my coat from the hook beside the door and helped me into it, and when I had buttoned all the buttons and straightened the collar and checked my pockets, he offered me his arm. I took it.

We progressed through the waiting room, and I stopped to give Miss Anderson notice that I was away from my desk, and then we were out through the revolving door into the fresh, springtime air. A sprightly breeze nipped our noses and cheeks, and I was glad for my coat. I directed Edmund to a small bench located a bit further out on the hospital lawn, and he led us there.

He helped me to a seat and dropped down next to me so that we were nearly facing one another instead of sitting side by side. Antagonists, rather than allies. With that thought, I felt an uncharacteristic jolt of unease. What could he want? For several heartbeats we regarded one another silently, and then he took a breath and spoke.

"I hear you've had an experience," he said, and though his tone was quiet and respectful, the slight emphasis he placed on the word 'experience' made it anything but ordinary.

Aha. I sat a little straighter as I marshaled my thoughts.

He waited.

"Yes," I finally replied, and a small smile pulled at one corner of his mouth.

"Then let me welcome you to the club," he said, and amusement danced in his eyes for a second or two before sobering completely and sharpening. "I hope my brother comported himself honorably."

My breath caught in my throat as unbidden, my vision was overwhelmed by the sight of Peter, singed and battered and nearly beyond endurance, plunging his lance towards the dragon's throat. The nauseating stench of sulfur, brimstone, and blood again clotted my sense of smell, and I almost gagged on the memory of it. I must have swayed or lost color alarmingly, for Edmund made a small noise and reached out to steady me. The strength in his grip grounded me, and I inhaled deeply of the good, clean air.

"He did indeed," I answered fiercely, feeling the burn of embarrassment at my silliness. "He was magnificent. He still is."

Edmund looked down and drummed his long fingers against his knee. The brim of his serviceable black trilby hid his expression, and I had no idea what he was thinking. But then, unless one knew him as well as Peter, did anyone really ever know what he was thinking, even if they were staring him in the face? Unlikely.

"An interesting choice of words, Meg," he said, looking back at me. "I presume he has told you already…" He trailed off, almost daring me to finish the sentence.

"Of Narnia?" I responded boldly, and he cocked his head slightly. "Yes, he told me. In fact, we were at Dragon Hill for that very reason. He took me there to tell me what he was; who he is."

He was completely still and glacier calm – not a twitch could be seen. "And?"

"And what?" I said crossly, for I was rapidly growing tired of this game. "I didn't think he was insane, if that's what you're asking. And I certainly don't think so now, not after what I've seen and experienced."

He said nothing and looked away towards the fountain burbling away to our right. "Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed…" he whispered almost inaudibly.

"I believed him the first time," I said, deliberately sharpening the edge of my voice, "before we went…wherever we went, in case you missed what I just said. So please do not quote Scripture at me."

"My apologies," he said smoothly, "but my concern isn't necessarily that you believed him. Perhaps it is more that you may have believed too readily – and then seen the proof in the armor, so to speak. It must be quite a feather in your cap to have snared a knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, not to mention the High King of Narnia." His face was hard now, and cold, but I hardly noticed.

I opened my mouth and shut it, trying to keep the instant, torrential flood of indignation from breaking past my hastily erected gates. It took several deep breaths before I trusted myself to speak. "I have not lost my head over this," I said firmly, though still with some heat, "And just so you know, I certainly am not bedazzled or intimidated by his past. He is not a king here in this world – not even a knight, though heaven knows he still behaves as one – but I would love him, and do, regardless."

Edmund sat back with something akin to triumphant satisfaction in his bearing, and I realized with some chagrin that I had been provoked into a corner. He blew out a short breath. "That's what I needed to hear."

"Then why didn't you bloody ask if I was after him just because I wanted a knight in shining armor?" I shot back, "It would have simplified things."

"Look here," he said, ignoring my outburst, and though his words indicated short-temper, the tone was oddly soothing. "I want you to understand something."

He leaned forward, and earnestness marked him now – almost desperation, I thought. "Peter is a good man, with capital letters. He is incredibly noble and selfless, and stubbornly so – and such qualities are extremely attractive. You don't know how many times I saw him besieged by women who wanted nothing more than to get their claws into him. They didn't even care they wouldn't be queen."

I raised my eyebrow. "Not be queen? Not High Queen?"

For the first time, a true grin appeared, and it was a sly expression, gleeful. "No indeed," he replied, "With help from several councilors during our first years in Narnia, I wrote a law designed to keep any of us – my sisters included – from being sought after solely for the title and prestige and power. It stated whoever married any one of us would be known only as the 'Royal Consort', with no claim to Narnia's throne." He paused, and the smile grew feral. "Some called it the 'Dream Dasher'."

"But it didn't dash every dream?" I asked, eyeing my future brother-in-law with new respect. Peter wasn't unintelligent by any means, but he favored being direct and facing things head-on, much as I did myself. Edmund, it seemed, possessed cunning; a sharp, calculating sagacity lay beneath that quiet façade. It would bear remembering.

He sobered. "Unfortunately, no. There were some who saw Peter in his best golden armor and didn't care what their title would be, just so long as he belonged to them."

And in the silence following that remark, I suddenly heard the intent behind it, as clearly as if he'd said it aloud, and finally understood what he was doing – what he meant in coming to me this way.

…and he belongs to me instead…

"Edmund," I said softly, reaching out and touching his hand. "I'm taking his name, not the other way around. He will still be your brother."

He blinked, and his face paled, but he held my gaze. I felt almost as though two holes were being drilled straight through my head by the force of his will, but I did not turn away, either. "He's taken care of me my entire life, even when I resented it and made his life unbearable," he said at last, and his voice wavered and nearly dropped to a whisper. "He has forgiven me my betrayal, when I deserved nothing more than his condemnation. He has risked his life for mine countless times – he has been wounded in my stead and endured sickness and deprivations tenfold for my sake. He has frustrated, irritated, infuriated, and exasperated me on one hand and endured, pushed, encouraged, and loved me unconditionally on the other.

"We have ruled a kingdom together – our strengths complementing the other's weaknesses. We have celebrated together – dining in a banquet hall beyond your wildest dreams, eating and drinking food and wine better than you could imagine. We have adventured together – testing ourselves against improbable quests and throwing ourselves against impossible odds. We have fought together – back-to-back and side-by-side, laying waste to the enemies of Narnia by the might of our swords and by the grace of Aslan. We have bled together – as brothers in arms, brothers in mind, brothers in heart. Do you hear me? Do you understand this?"

…I have experienced so much more with him than you could ever know…

…do you know what it is you are doing to me?

…do you know how hard it is to let him go?

I was nearly speechless. "Edmund…" I began faintly, and he held up a finger, smiling shakily.

"Things change, Meg, and I should be used to that by now – with all the changes we have endured," he said, "Though I think the dread of this particular day has been in my heart for a very, very long time. It is one thing to lose him to death. It is another to lose him to distance; it's almost worse, somehow."

"You aren't losing him, Edmund," I said, "I could never take your place in his heart, nor do I wish to do so."

"I know, up here," he answered, tapping his head. "It will just take a bit longer for it to get through down here." He tapped his chest and smiled again, stronger this time, having mastered himself and perhaps worked through some of what was bothering him. "And things between us will be different – they can't help but be so, and it's right and good for both your sakes. I think…" he hesitated. "I think I just want assurance that you will take care of him the way he has taken care of me. Will you show that same devotion to him? Will you truly love him?"

I considered my next words carefully. "I cannot promise to never make a mistake," I said, and he inclined his head a bit in deference to honesty. "But before God I will promise to love him to the best of my ability. To be patient and kind and faithful and not a keeper of wrongs. I will make his house a home, one he will be glad to enter and abide. I'll feed him properly and make sure he clothes himself properly and soothe him when he needs it and agree – and disagree – with him as the situation calls for it. I will let him teach me – and hopefully I will be able to teach him.

"This isn't about a story-book king or the kind of knight who slays dragons. It isn't about how good he looks in armor or how beautifully he handles a sword. It's about Peter. Peter Pevensie, the archivist, the historian, the lover of legend. The man who laughs loudly and serves uncomplainingly; the stubborn, bossy, proud idiot he can be and the kind, selfless hero he is. I loved him before I knew, Edmund. Love. Not lust or some silly school-girl fantasy. He isn't a fairy-tale come true. He's a man – an imperfect man, at that. And yet, I – love – him."

I find it somewhat difficult to explain what came next. We sat looking at one another, and Edmund, who had been regarding me thoughtfully and seriously as he listened, took up my hand, which had been clenched against my lap, and covered it with his own.

"Then all I have to say, Meg," he said, holding my fingers gently, "is may Aslan's richest blessings be upon you and upon my brother. May you drink deeply and live fully, delighting in one another, balancing one another, helping one another, and sharpening one another. May you be gifted with the children of your heart, and may you be granted the wisdom, patience, and love to nurture and raise them. May you grow in grace and beauty as the years pass, and may you cherish each moment and memory created by your time together. Most of all: above all things, through all things, and with all things, may the Great Lion Himself give you joy – in each other, in your family, in your shared path, and in Him. I, Edmund, sometimes called the Just, King of Narnia, and Knight of the Order of the Table, give my brother, Peter, High King above all kings and Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, into your keeping and declare your union to be blessed by the crown of Narnia. May it ever be so, ever and ever, until Aslan calls us home."

And he leaned forward and tenderly kissed me on both cheeks, heedless of the wet tear tracks there. I closed my eyes and inhaled, a concentrated pull of air, and for a brief instant, I tasted the fresh tang of salt sea air, then the rich, verdant perfume of the forest, both laced with the exotic spice of incense: bergamot and coriander and latakia.

I swallowed, hard and opened my eyes again. "Thank you, Edmund," I said, and he reached inside his coat and jacket and pulled out a handkerchief soft from many launderings, which he handed over with a small, kind smile.

"Brides in Narnia had that reaction, too," he said, still smiling, but I noticed his eyes were just a tad brighter than normal, and his whole expression was porcelain brittle.

"I'm not terribly surprised," I responded, dabbing at my face and trying to give him space. "You have a definite gift for speaking. Rather inspired, in fact."

Edmund shifted a bit and the fragile moment passed. "You're very kind," he said and then stood after tucking his handkerchief back into his jacket. "May I?" he asked, offering me his arm.

I took it, and we began to walk back towards the hospital. "You know," he said lightly as we went, "The Wolves in Narnia I knew – the packs in the Western Wild – had a ritual to ascertain the toughness and the stamina of enemies, friends, potential mates." A sidelong glance, one full of that sly humor. "It involved the pack forming two lines and then the wolf in question traversing the corridor between them all the way to the end, being bitten, clawed, and full-out challenged – sometimes even fighting – as he or she went. They called it arro-roe-ro, 'running the gauntlet'."

"And so I've passed through successfully?" I asked, understanding his point and taking it as his unspoken offer of comradeship and friendship in pursuit of the same goal – loving and caring for Peter as brother and husband. We reached the hospital entrance.

He chuckled, a low pleasant sound, and then grinned at me. "With flying colors," he said and opened the door.