Well, I suppose it is drizzling a little outside…so ok. Here goes. A big thanks to all reviewers! I wasn't at all sure whether to continue or not, but…very well, I suppose…

Disclaimer: If the ghost of CS Lewis would be so kind as to NOT strike me down, I don't own it. Do I look rich?

Warnings: Light incestuous slash (Peter/Edmund). Nothing beyond kissing, really. And slow development. Extremely.

Pairings: Peter/Edmund (eventually), Tumnus/Lucy.

Rating: PG13 American, 12 English.

Anomaly

Darkly beautiful, sweetly Fair

What is beauty? What higher power deems a person beautiful?

There are a great many types of beauty; the fickle mirage of a stately lady, whose beauty is only skin deep, as they say.

The beauty of an untouched, innocent child, whose beauty stems of a purity no sinner can bear to behold.

But most puzzling of all, is a beauty which shines from within. A beauty so pure, so fair, so unbearably bittersweet and yet so alluringly wonderful. So much so it is simple, cruel agony to merely stand in its presence.

My High King shone with a beauty so blinding, even as you writhe in agony, you feel an intoxication so deep you cannot tear your eyes away.

The King of my Heart was not faultless; nor was he pure. No. He was tainted, marred with the accusing blood of foolish innocents. Innocents which loved him; such as I love him. They died for him; and now, slowly, so cruelly slowly, he is dying for them.

And I am dying with him.

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Midsummer's Day, Fifth year of the Golden age.

The quiet of the dying night was almost unbearable; and although the creeping warmth of the rising sun was spilling into the world around him, Peter only felt cold. A deep, unsettling cold which ached deep within his chest. It penetrated every fibre of his being, engulfing his very form with an empty feeling.

His feet were bare; somehow, the feel of sun-soaked leather wrapped about his feet was oppressive. And the cool sensation of dewy grass beneath his feet was somehow refreshing. He walked slowly, entranced by the eerie stillness of the world turning from night to early morning.

It felt almost like a dream; wandering the length of the castle, along the edges of the cliffs, around the moat, and back again. Time and again, over and over, for what seemed like an endless stretch of repetition. Wood, cold stone, wet grass beneath his feet.

Edmund was nowhere to be found.

He had been searching all day, since breakfast that morning. Not frantically, but with a strange sense of calm. Somehow, he felt that Edmund needed to be alone, at least for a while. And when he was ready to be found, Peter would be able to find him. It was just a feeling, but Peter knew.

He stopped quite suddenly, and glanced up, as a languid breeze spun about him in a complex dance. He had long since shed his cloak, and he suddenly felt terribly exposed, brittle in the sway of the wind. Goosebumps rose up his arms, but he stood quite still.

The wind was spiralling East; bringing with it the faint scent of something brutally distinctive.

He inhaled deeply, noting the sweet musk of pollen dust which was interwoven with the scent which was distinctly Edmund. It was a very strange smell, he supposed, in some ways. Exotic.

Since his encounter with the white witch, Edmund had lost his love for Turkish delight. The two flavourings, however, rosewater and lemon essence, still had some appeal to him. He had also discovered a passion for dark, bitter chocolate, and so combined these three sensations into his daily life.

Peter began to walk automatically towards the natural cliffside stairway leading down to the beach, as in his mind's eye he pictured his brother sneaking a rosewater truffle from the gilded box which stood in his study. Edmund's study was his realm, a private sanctuary all to himself, and he spent most of his time there. Anyone caught intruding usually left promptly, in order to avoid the various flying projectiles headed their way (usually a large, heavy book).

Peter wasn't entirely sure why Edmund smelt of lemons. Maybe it was because of the lemon juice which he used to neutralise the alkaline nib of his quill pens; or perhaps it was just the way he was. Either way, it was an unusual combination, for a boy; roses, dark chocolate and lemon rind. It sounded like some sort of dessert.

He sighed almost contentedly as he slid off the last ridge in the stairway and his feet met smooth yet coarse sand. He had always loved the seaside, since he was a very young boy. It had felt like the end of the world to him then, with the ocean stretching seamlessly at liberty far beyond his eyesight. It was peaceful.

He stood tall, staring out at the silhouetted darkness of the eastern sea. It was dangerous, but somehow, that made it terribly alluring. The unknown, no matter how frightening a concept, held a liberating quality.

He scanned the beach, beginning to meander aimlessly across the sand. The sand by Cair Paravel was not like the sand back home; like everything in Narnia, it was somehow softer, more real. Almost like the entirety of the world of mankind was a mere shadow of this place.

He smiled, as he finally caught sight of a dark, huddled figure far across, down by the water. The tide seemed to be lapping at its feet, but it lay quite still, like a statue.

Peter wasn't concerned, however. If Edmund was in immediate danger, he would have felt it; known, somehow. His arms swung limply at his sides, the loose sleeves of his tunic rippling in the slight breeze as he approached the hunched figure of his brother. His sense of fleeting calm was rapidly lost in an unstemmed flow of gripping guilt.

He had failed so many people lately.

But he had no time to think of himself, nor the sorrows of those who fell by his hand; not literally, of course. But he had caused their deaths. His allegiance now, however, was to his family. He had neglected them in favour of his own grief, and he had to put aside his turmoil in favour of aiding them.

He halted, mere inches from his brother's form; Edmund lay curled on his side, head tucked down, hiding his features. He was breathing steadily, but he seemed uneasy in his sleep. If he was, indeed, asleep.

Peter felt a foreign smile curl his lips, and he knelt carefully down, content to sit for a while and watch Edmund sleep. He had always done so, since Edmund had first been born. His little brother was the first sibling who truly seemed to need him; Susan had always been more of a companion than a protégé. The very first night, at the hospital, Peter had spent hours simply standing on aching feet, hands clutching the bars of the cot, staring in awe at this strange, helpless creature which had suddenly become his responsibility.

He had always felt, and still felt, a deep affection for his brother. A connection. He could not explain it; with Susan, he found a safe haven, a shelter from the storm. She was his best friend, his partner in crime, and sometimes, even his protector. With Lucy, he felt a happiness which needed no words to describe; she could bring him light in the darkest of times.

But Edmund…

Edmund was his rock, his salvation, his…everything. When he was with him, he could never feel cold, not in the harshest of winters. And when he was not, he was lost.

"Found you."

Peter muttered, as though they were still young and bright eyed, and he had simply won yet another round of hide and seek. He had never been beaten by Edmund, ever. He always knew where to find him. He understood how Edmund's mind worked. But more than that, he simply knew. Always.

"I'm sorry."

It sounded pathetic.

Peter automatically reached out to smooth Edmund's dark hair, frowning absently as he thought. He knew Edmund's outburst this morning had been through frustration, and anger; anger towards himself, Peter.

It was no use apologising. No matter how many times he did so, it made no difference. He would hurt them again. Over and over and over, until at last neither they nor he could take any more. He felt worn, and empty. Incomplete. He had never felt so miserable in Edmund's company before.

Not that this was really classified as 'company'.

Peter let his hand fall away, folding it neatly against his burning chest. He winced, and gritted his teeth, stretching his back upwards with several painful snaps of his spine. They were old injuries now; the bruises faded, but the pain remained. He wasn't even sure if it was physical anymore.

His ribcage had been crushed inwards by the fist of a giant, during one of the later skirmishes. The intensity of the pressure had been so great, that dancing crimson and sooty black spots had formed before his very eyes. It may have been this lack of sense at the time, which led him to hear his brother's voice calling out in terror for him.

Whether it had been real or not, it saved his life. Given him the prompt he needed to stab the brute in the neck with his free arm. His broken free arm, incidentally. Well, fractured. But it could have been broken. Peter wasn't sure. He had lost sight of, well…everything, during that war.

He sometimes felt like he left himself behind, and he now lay dead among his countrymen, his children. The Narnian people he loved, who died for him.

He felt a wetness flood his palm, and quickly released his fist from its curled position. His brow furrowed as he inspected the damage. The skin had broken, but luckily not so much as to create a steady flow; just a well. He let out a long breath, and fished a handkerchief from his pocket.

"…n…o…"

Peter's fingers fumbled on the knot as Edmund hissed a quiet whimper in his sleep, and tossed over, seeming to subconsciously move towards Peter. Edmund's face was contorted in what appeared to be fear, his freckled nose scrunched up and his brow furrowed in a grimace.

"…don't…"

Peter secured the makeshift bandage, before placing his free hand on his brother's forehead. He frowned when he found it was sticky with sweat. He brushed the gathered strands back from Edmund's face and leaned over, trying to make sense of his brother's fragmented murmurs.

"…ter…Pe…ter…"

Peter swallowed as his heart began to beat painfully fast. This had once been natural to him. A simple matter of gathering Edmund into his arms and telling him it would be alright. But, in a twisted, twisted way…Peter did not want to touch Edmund. Edmund was so…well…innocent was not the right word. Edmund was the sole remaining part of him which was still untouched by sorrow.

Well, not completely untouched. But for weeks now, Peter had felt ugly, and dirty. Unworthy of the love of a brother so deserving of more. He was a failure; pure and simple. He swallowed, the dreadful aching beginning to press in against his ribs once more.

The tide lapped at his feet, and he shrugged them away, hastily turning to shift his brother back away from the rising water line. The moment was broken, and he felt the familiar numb cold fill his mind in entirety. He welcomed it. It was a sanctuary in itself, in a strange sort of way.

"Come on, Eddy. Time for bed."

He said, mimicking the words of a golden haired boy with a feather-light heart. A boy who had died mere weeks ago.

He levered his brother carefully up onto his back. Edmund grew quiet, and made an inquisitive sound, before slumping limply over Peter's shoulders. Peter smiled weakly, and hoisted himself up until he was standing.

He was halfway up the beach, lost in sluggish, aimless thought, when Edmund shifted, his hands twisting the material of Peter's tunic. Peter halted, head bowed, his fair hair falling into his eyes. Quite suddenly, Edmund turned his head and nuzzled the back of Peter's neck, almost like a kitten stating affection.

Edmund inhaled deeply, his nose now buried in Peter's freshly washed hair, before muttering something contentedly and allowing his head to slip down to rest between his brother's shoulder blades.

All was still.

A slight breeze blew up, and the moment was broken. Peter shivered, and although Edmund's warmth was seeping into his back, he still felt so bitterly cold. Edmund felt so heavy, heavier than he had ever felt before. The physical metaphor of a burden, Peter supposed.

He bowed his head once more and marched stiffly onwards, refusing to glance up at the surely breathtaking view of the rising sun over the eastern sea. He had begun to shiver uncontrollably, slight tremors, but they did not stop. Edmund shifted uncomfortably and whimpered.

"Sorry, Ed. I'm…sorry."

He fumbled over the words of comfort. He felt unworthy to tell his brother anything but this; a feeble apology. For it was all he could do now. He could try, oh, he could try desperately hard. But they held him back. The fallen, whom he abandoned to their endless cold.

Peter quickened his pace, determined to get away; far away, as soon as possible. With each passing moment, he felt increasingly guilty for simply touching Edmund. Like some sort of dirty creature marring an innocent child.

'But Edmund is…my brother…and he would love me no matter what…'

The little boy protested, rising up in sudden defiance, before faltering and shying away from the monster he had grown to become. His suppressor felt anger, but it was soon quenched as a wave of sorrowful longing enveloped them both.

'What right do I have…to bear such a title?'

He was no better than the beasts who slew his people. They may as well have died by his own hand. Why, why had they grown so foolish? Had he truly deceived them so completely that they would sacrifice their life for his own? He was not worthy of such devotion. And now…

'Who could ever love a monster, a murderer, such as I?'

Edmund was heavy and hot on his back, almost burning him. He winced, flinching, and broke into a lumbering run. As he drew closer to the drawbridge of the palace, a breeze blew up, and the glorious dawn broke at last to a colder world.

'If he only knew…he would turn from me in disgust, like they all have. If he only knew…'

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I once heard, in a world in a faraway dream, that when it rains it mean the angels are crying. I often asked myself; why? Why were the angels crying? What could be done to ease their sorrows?

Nobody answered my prayers; the angels continued to weep, weep until they were bled dry, and finally the rain would stop. But it did not mean their suffering had ended.

What must I do…to make my angel's suffering end?

If he broke, I would bleed for him. If he hurt, I would weep his tears for him. If he fell, I would die for him.

But love is never quite that simple.

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A/N: It's confusing, I know. But it's sort of supposed to be. Peter is not possessed, nor is there anything inside of him…it's all in his mind. The rest, you can interpret at your own free will.

What happened in the war will be revealed in due course.

I would like to state, that this whole fic is the result of a terrible truth…the truth that I am now officially in love, and let me tell you, it sucks! But I don't mind, which sucks even more.

Anything you have to say, I want to hear it!

Thanks for reading!