Disclaimer: I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it's all the work of C.S. Lewis. The song lyrics belong to Bette Midler and her song, Wind Beneath My Wings.

A/N: Hi, everyone! Speculation and missing scenes ahead for Prince Caspian. This fic is essentially set in the book universe, considering we don't have the movie…yet :grins:. But some of the ideas are throwbacks to the 2005 movie, too. Note, although the title is similar, it is not a companion piece to His Family's Keeper. I hope you enjoy it, though, and Happy New Year!

"Speech"

/Personal Thoughts/

One-Shot. Non-Slash.

.:The High King's Keeper:.

By Sentimental Star

IOIOIOIOI

Oh, and I, I could fly higher than an eagle,

for you are the wind beneath my wings,

'cause you are the wind beneath my wings.

---Bette Midler

IOIOIOIOI

Peter sighed softly as Edmund suddenly stood and left the meeting room without a word after the final verdict.

He looked less than happy.

"Your Majesty?"

That was Caspian, glancing uncertainly after the retreating figure of the other young man.

Peter smiled faintly. "You don't need to call me 'Your Majesty,' Caspian. 'Peter' works equally well, you know."

"Yes, Your Ma—Peter," the younger teen amended with slightly flushed cheeks and a sheepish grin. He let that grin fade into a look of concern. He also appeared somewhat uncomfortable. "Is Edmund, well, is he…?"

"It's nothing you did, Caspian," the older boy assured him, "don't worry. Ed never really liked it when I took on these challenges before—whether or not they occurred. Now that Miraz has accepted and we've been out of Narnia for so long, he isn't…terribly pleased with me at the moment. Ever since we left Narnia we've been practicing weaponry—because we don't want to lose our touch, and mainly because we missed it. Still, Edmund's Edmund," he smiled reluctantly, "and being Edmund, he doesn't like doing what he's told, particularly when someone's safety is in question."

/More so because it's your own/ an annoying little voice at the back of his mind reminded him.

Peter was not blind. He knew that Edmund considered it his duty to defend the High King's (and his older brother's) back. And he took that duty very seriously.

Half the reason Edmund had been the most frequently injured of the four of them was because he would not hesitate to take a sword-blow, arrow, or spear aimed for Peter (or either of their sisters, for that matter).

It had often been the subject of their most heated rows.

He smiled reassuringly at Caspian, squeezing the younger king's shoulder. "I'll talk to him tonight."

/Which would be/ Peter reflected with a soft sigh/right now./

He stood in the entrance to their temporary bedroom, resting his one hand on the rough-hewn threshold, and the other hand on his sword hilt, guiltily watching Edmund glare darkly at one of the sparse, underground plants that populated Aslan's How.

The fourteen-year-old hated making his younger brother upset, but with situations as delicate as this one, he knew it was almost impossible.

Peter was not a fool, either. He knew that if their roles were reversed (and sometimes they were) he would be the exact same way.

He decided to go with the joking approach. "What did that plant ever do to you?" he teased gently, at last stepping into the room and making his presence known.

Surprised, Edmund yelped and spun to face the entrance, hand automatically going to his sword and pulling it out of its sheath halfway before he realized who it was that entered.

Peter managed to grin as the other boy slid his sword back into the sheath with a faint ringing of metal. Crossing the floor, he sat down beside his brother on the ground.

His brother who was currently frowning at him.

He sighed again. "Ed…"

One word and Edmund understood. He kept frowning. "Don't, Peter. You know jolly well what I think of all this."

"There isn't any other choice, Edmund!" he exclaimed in exasperation.

"I KNOW THAT, PETER!" yelled with sudden intensity.

Startled, Peter pulled back slightly.

Apparently noticing this, Edmund subsided and repeated, rather more quietly, "I know, and I hate it." The last repetition became painful, "The rules won't let me take your place. I'm absolutely forbidden from doing so—and I hate it!" He turned away, trying to hide his burning eyes. His voice became a whisper, "It's not that I don't trust you, Peter. I just don't trust Miraz not to pull anything."

His older brother smiled fondly at him, shaking his head in amused disbelief. Reaching out for the younger boy, he curled an arm around his shoulders and pulled Edmund to him, making sure his head rested in the crook of his neck. "I don't either, Ed."

Tensing in the hold, the eleven-year-old accused, "But you're still facing him!"

"If you hadn't stormed off," Peter pointed out wryly, smile widening into a small grin, "you would have heard that all the army that's able will be there." He sobered, tightening his grip. "I need you there, Ed. I trust you to watch my back like I do no one else. Even more than the girls."

Edmund raised his head and frowned petulantly at him. "Is it so wrong to want my big brother to stay safe?"

Peter laughed, somewhat thickly, and pulled Edmund back down to rest against his neck. "You prat! Why are you always so stubborn? I trust you, Ed…" his voice softened, "but you don't always have to protect me."

A derisive snort was his answer. "Yeah, right," the younger king muttered sarcastically, finally relaxing into the one-armed hug.

oOoOoOoOoOo

(Seven Hours Later)

Dawn's first faint rays sneaked into the room through various cracks in the stone and earthen wall, waking one of the two slumbering forms who were sprawled out together on the floor.

With a slight groan, Peter stirred and began stretching, automatically tightening his arm around the warm body of his younger brother where Edmund had fallen asleep on top of him. Blinking his eyes open, the fourteen-year-old gave a somewhat bleary smile down at the other, before carefully extracting himself from the younger boy's hold.

Managing to climb to his knees, Peter gently laid Edmund back on the ground. The eleven-year-old sighed in his sleep and stirred, but otherwise, did not awaken.

Smiling fondly, the older boy muttered, "You're a regular brick, Ed." Leaning down, he ghosted a kiss against his little brother's cheek before sitting back on his heels and watching Edmund as he slept on, eyes tender.

Peter stayed there a few minutes, just allowing the scene before him to soothe his rather frazzled nerves. In spite of the brave front he had put up for his brother, for Caspian, and for the Narnians, he was, truthfully, terrified.

Miraz might be a usurper, but Peter did not doubt he was a skilled one.

Edmund insisted Peter's own skills with a sword were legendary in Narnia now, but he rather thought they'd exaggerated them a bit.

The older king blew out a breath and, brushing one last kiss against Edmund's forehead, swiftly stood to his feet with a faint ching of metal. Feeling calmer, Peter turned and quietly strode out of their shared sleeping room, dim with the early morning light, and down the torch-lit stone corridors.

It was time for a few hours' practice.

Unnoticed back in their chamber, Edmund sat up, gazing after his older brother's retreating figure with burning eyes.

Quickly, he climbed to his feet. Trying to keep his footsteps silent, he followed Peter out the threshold and down the hallway, sword at his side.

Whether by some ancient magic within the stones or some other blessing, Peter never realized he was being shadowed.

Edmund followed fifteen paces behind him, keeping to the darker crevices and alcoves. He knew he was being ridiculous, but honestly, could not quite bring himself to care at the moment.

Peter had the tendency to be overly noble, and it often drove his younger brother insane. The older boy would not hesitate to disregard his own safety if it meant his siblings, subjects, or others in need, would be protected.

Of course, it fell to Edmund to make sure his brother was not idiotic enough to get himself killed while doing so.

If one followed that line of reasoning, then one would naturally realize that Edmund was the exact same way. But no one was brave enough—or suicidal enough—to tell him that.

His brother led him outside the mound itself and into a wooded clearing some dozen meters to the right of the stone labyrinth. While Peter stopped in the center of the clearing, Edmund stopped at its edge, watching his brother within its confines.

The older boy had since closed his eyes, and from his vantage point, the eleven-year-old could see him taking in deep, steadying breaths. All at once, in one fluid motion, Peter withdrew his faithful sword from its sheath.

As Edmund watched on, the High King came alive through his well-loved, well-remembered routine:

Swing left, swing right, undercut, spin…

Parry, thrust, downwards swing, upwards swing…

Slash to the left, slash to the right, follow-up, hilt…

The routine soon became an intricate dance, one well-known to both participant and on-looker. The rosy rays of light glinted off the flashing sword, filtered through the branches of the still-slumbering trees and giving it a golden glow:

Swing left, swing right, undercut, spin…

Parry, thrust, downwards swing, upwards swing…

Slash to the left, slash to the right, follow-up, hilt…

And Edmund had to look away, clenching his eyes shut and tightening his hands—one into a fist, the other around his own sword hilt.

Before he even registered his own movements, the younger king found himself in the center of the clearing with his sword out.

A CLANG rang clearly through the brisk morning air as metal met metal, and interrupted the High King in the middle of a downward swing.

Spell broken, Peter blinked at Edmund in utter surprise and drew his sword back. "Ed?" he questioned cautiously.

And well he might. The younger boy's jaw was set and his face dark. If his brown eyes were just a bit too bright, it went unnoticed in the early morning light.

Especially when he gracefully spun his sword around and brought it down on Peter's own with deadly accuracy.

CLANG! went their swords again.

Startled and unnerved, the older boy backed up a step, again withdrawing his own blade. His brother had thrown his full strength behind that blow.

"Ed?" This time the question was slightly more panicked.

Sure they had sparred before—many times, in fact—but usually not with their full strength and assuredly after some sort of warning or explanation.

There was none here.

Once more, Edmund did not answer. Instead, he once again swung his sword around. Halfway through the rotation, he swung it upwards.

As metal met metal for a third time at full strength, Peter backed up another step.

Even more unnerved, he looked into his younger counterpart's face. His brother's eyes narrowed and a wash of cold swept through Peter's veins as he abruptly understood what Edmund was trying to do.

He already knew the eleven-year-old was not happy with his decision to fight Miraz in one-on-one combat. That had been established the previous evening.

He trusted Edmund not to kill him, or endanger him in any way.

He trusted his younger brother with his life—and a good deal more than that.

But he had not expected this sudden assault—styled as it was to prepare him for the upcoming combat. This would be a no-holds-barred sparring match, and Edmund seemed fully intent on challenging him to his breaking point and beyond.

And if that meant possibly injuring his older brother, so be it. It would destroy the younger boy, but he would do it.

As they started circling each other, Peter reflected uneasily that Edmund had always been like that.

But there was no time for further idle thoughts.

CLANG! went their swords again.

CLANG!

Thrust.

CLANG!

Parry.

CLANG!

Left slash.

CLANG!

Right slash.

CLANG!

Right swing.

CLANG!

Left swing.

CLANG!

Undercut. Spin. Downwards swing. Upwards swing.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Drop.

And drop, Edmund did, so quickly that it took Peter completely by surprise.

"Edmund!" the older boy cried in concern as the eleven-year-old suddenly crashed to his knees, sword point slamming into the ground and hanging onto its hilt for dear life.

Peter—all his brotherly instincts coming to the fore—dropped his own sword and fell to his knees. Smartly avoiding the other's sharp sword, he immediately grabbed Edmund in a tight hug.

The younger boy relinquished his death grip on the hilt, only to dig his fingers into the material of his brother's overtunic a moment later. Burying his face in the older boy's neck, ignoring the cold press of chain mail against his skin, Edmund started sobbing.

As shudders tore through the small frame clinging to him, Peter began fervently wishing that there was not so much mail—dwarf-wrought though it was—between them. Normally, it would not have mattered.

But this was not a normal situation and Edmund, clearly, could have done with the feel of an actual body. Because warmth meant life, and clothing meant safety.

As it was, Peter could not remember the last time Edmund had reacted so violently to a token combat, nor did he pretend to know its cause now.

"Ed?" he whispered.

A sob and Peter winced. Still, he barreled ahead, "Edmund, what is it? What's wrong?"

The younger boy's arms crept up to wrap around his neck, causing Peter's throat to tighten and forcibly reminding him of how a very young Edmund used to creep into his bed at night because he was scared of ghosts.

"Ed?" he managed again, voice sounding somewhat strangled.

"I can't stand this, Peter!" came the broken, rather muffled, cry. The arms tightened. "I never could! You know I never could!"

The fourteen-year-old squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his little brother closer. "We've been through similar combats before, why is it any different now?" His breathing hitched, however, his words notwithstanding.

"Because you could die! Because you could be killed and I can't do anything about it! Because I'm terrified out of my mind! Because you're my brother and I love you! Because I don't want to lose you! So we were kings—fine! Peter, we're children again—only children! Miraz is an adult who's had who bloody knows how much experience!" the younger boy yelled.

Peter groaned and pulled Edmund onto his lap, eleven though his brother was, burying his face in the shorter boy's hair.

Dawn had finally broken fully through the trees. A short distance away, the others within Aslan's How could be faintly heard, going about their preparations for the coming morning.

He could only hope no one decided to emerge too soon. Before anything else, they needed to work through this.

"You know, Ed," Peter muttered as his brother continued sobbing, "you're not making this any easier."

"I don't care!" the younger boy retorted, his own breath hitching.

Actually, he did care. Very much, in fact. But he was not about to tell his older brother that. Peter already knew, anyway.

"Yes, you do," the older boy replied quietly. His lips twitched upwards into a small, knowing smile. "You always have. Why else would you practically attack me?"

That drew a wet, reluctant chuckle from his younger brother. "Air generally doesn't make the best opponent, Peter."

"No," the fourteen-year-old conceded quietly, his smile softening into a tender one. "Little brothers do. But big brothers generally prefer to be warned, you know."

Edmund chuckled again and his tears started coming faster. "It makes the sparring match more interesting."

"Too bloody right," Peter grumbled, shifting his younger brother in his arms, one arm tightly encircling the eleven-year-old's back, the other hand coming up to cradle his head against his shoulder. "I don't think anyone's thrown me that much before. Somehow, I doubt the object of a sparring match is to nearly give your opponent a heart attack."

Edmund was crying too hard to answer.

"That's it, Ed," Peter murmured, kissing the younger boy's forehead. "Let it all out. You know I absolutely hate doing this to you, right?" Edmund kept sobbing and there was no answer. He had not really expected one. So he continued talking, keeping his voice low and pitching it to soothe, "I never liked seeing you cry. Sure, I don't like it when the girls cry. But when you cry…I don't know, it just…hurts. Remember when Dad was drafted? I don't think any of us slept well that night. Mum sat up with Susan and Lucy in their room, because they were crying so much. I was there, too, but I couldn't cry. Not in front of Mum and the girls."

He sighed sadly, gazing off in the distance. London seemed so far away from here.

Noticing Edmund's sobs were apparently quieting, the older boy went on, "When I realized you weren't in the girls' room with us, I suddenly started panicking. You used to always come to me or Dad if you needed someone to talk with or just to hug. You didn't that time. It was right after you started that awful school, wasn't it? I think that was when I first noticed you were starting to change." He shook his head. "I left Mum with the girls and went looking for you. I found you in her and Dad's room, on Dad's side of the bed. You were crying so hard, Ed, and you looked so…so…small…It scared me. You know what Dad told me before he left. When I saw you in their room…like that…I-I think that's when it really hit me. Dad was going off to fight in the war. Because he wasn't there, I had to be the responsible one, the grown-up." He grimaced slightly. "So I did the most un-grown up thing I could have. I started crying. I sat with you, and hugged you, but I was crying."

He had not been expecting a response. So when Edmund spoke up, voice soft and thick, he started, "Even grown-ups cry, Peter. You saw Mum that night. Besides, the only thing I cared about right then was that you were there, and that you were hugging me."

That had been one of the last times they'd hugged, before Narnia. But neither said anything about it. They had reconciled long ago, and now it was over and done with.

Peter grinned, glancing down at his younger brother. "Still with me, are you?"

Edmund smiled faintly, and raised his head. The tears had subsided to a slow trickle, but he ignored them, nodding. "Yeah," his voice cracked slightly.

"Good," Peter returned, still grinning. His blue eyes were just a little too bright in the morning sunlight and dawn had since passed. "You know I love you, right?"

The younger boy gave a thick laugh, pulling back and drying his tears with the heels of his hands. "I was going to say that!"

Peter caught the two hands and gently dragged them away from the eleven-year-old's face. Leaning down slightly, he met his brother's eyes. "I know, Ed," whispered quietly. He grinned again. "It was somewhere between the being terrified out of your mind part, and the afraid of losing me part."

Edmund finally grinned in return, relaxing enough to give another laugh. "I've been an idiot, haven't I?"

"No, Ed, you haven't," Peter replied softly, gently pulling his brother to his feet as he stood himself. He brushed some of Edmund's hair back in place before grabbing him in another hug. "You needed this. And in some ways, I needed it, too. You aren't the only one who's terrified."

The younger boy laughed again, hugging him back. "So we'll be terrified together, shall we? What a fine pair we make."

Peter grinned, returning him to the ground and ruffling his hair. "Come on. Let's head back inside before they send out search parties."

The two boys picked up their swords, Edmund swiping his clean of dirt, and replaced them in their sheaths. Then they turned and headed for the entrance they had emerged from what seemed like an eternity ago, leaving their burdens in the quiet glade behind them.

Peter swung his arm around his younger brother's shoulders as they walked, both content to keep silent. Edmund, for his part, gladly relaxed into the hold and rested his head on the fourteen-year-old's shoulder, allowing himself, for just a few minutes more, to be merely an eleven-year-old kid.

As they neared the How's entrance, Peter felt his younger brother lift his head away from his shoulder and straighten up, squaring his own. He did not, however, release him.

When they were only two paces away from the entrance, the older boy halted them.

Confused, Edmund glanced up at his brother.

Peter turned and suddenly gently grasped his face. "Peter?" the younger boy questioned, startled.

He was met by an intent blue stare. "I'm not going anywhere, Edmund," the fourteen-year-old advised him seriously. "I promise."

IOIOIOIOI

For you are the wind beneath my wings.

IOIOIOIOI

The End!