Author's Note: I want to start out by thanking Isaiah58 for letting me do this. This is a companion fic to her ficlet "Sorted". I read it, and I couldn't help but think about how interesting it would be to write one of the same from Edmund's point of view. So, I asked, Isaiah said yes, and here's the result. I hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: I do not own the Chronicles of Narnia, however much I would like to.

I don't have the foggiest idea, Pete, why you always have to have it sorted. You always have to be so Magnificent, so High. It used to be a good trait. I used to look up to you for it. I used to stand by your side, or sit next to you on our thrones, or ride my stallion alongside your own, and wonder how I could be so worthy as to have a brother like you. You were kind, gentle, understanding, clear, concise…everything I wished I could be. You didn't criticize, you didn't make stupid mistakes. You were perfect, in my eyes, and in everyone else's. Even Aslan knew, the day he saw you, that you were above all else. He made you High King over all Kings, you, a mere 13 year old. And you deserved that title, Peter.

But now, you've changed. The kindness in your eyes, the understanding, that has all faded. It isn't gone, thank Aslan, but it's nowhere near what it used to be. You've grown colder. You always act like you need to do everything on your own. You take on an entire gang of boys at once, with odds nowhere near in your favor. But when I try to assist you, when I try to do anything in my power to make things a little more fair, you scold me. You insist you had it sorted.

It's as though you enjoy the idea of a possible defeat. You act as though you have to do everything on your own now, that no one is allowed to help. You used to say the same thing, of course, but your motives have changed. Before, you would try to keep me out of battle to keep me safe. Now, you force me out so you can prove yourself. You don't seem to care that I want to help you anymore. You don't seem to care that Aslan won't come roaring in to save you, and that Lucy can't heal you, and that Susan can't comfort you, and that I can't help you.

I'm the only one left to help. Lucy and Susan can comfort all they wish, but I'm the only one who stands a chance at saving you from more bruises and bleeding. And when I do manage to break into the fight and help you, you don't act grateful. You don't thank me, you don't ask if I'm okay, and you won't answer me when I try to ask you the same question. You simply brush me off and keep quiet.

Over time, I have come to realize that it's not about proving yourself. At least, not as much as I had expected. It certainly isn't about keeping me safe. You've simply changed. You battled other nations for over a decade, and now you can't bring yourself to stop. And I've realized that, no matter how many times I join in, no matter how many bruises of my own I come to sport, you'll never be grateful. You'll never want me to help you, and it's not like the fights are ever any of my business anyway. You get yourself into them over the smallest of matters. Someone scoffed about something you said once, someone mentioned you had a spot on your shirt, someone bumped you in the stairwell…they are all pathetic reasons to get in such drastic fights, and yet you do it. I can't save you every time, and I'm slowly realizing you don't want me to.

Without your trust in me, how can I have trust in you? If you don't trust me to save you, to help you, to want to help you, how can I ever expect you to save me, help me, want to help me? You've lost a part of yourself in the wait to return to Narnia, and you're losing the part of me you had as well. We used to be so close, do you remember? I used to fall into your embrace after a battle, or a nightmare, or just because I felt like it. We used to love each other whole-heartedly without caring who saw. Now, you won't even pat me on the back for fear of attracting attention.

We used to be there for each other no matter what. We fought countless battles, back-to-back and side-to-side, comforting each other as Lucy made her way to us. We used to be each other's sword and shield, keeping the other safe at all times. I can still see them, you know, the scars we bore. They've vanished now, as though they were never there to begin with. But every time I look at you, some part of my mind repaints them on your skin and I see the Peter that ruled Narnia. I see the High King that fought and bled for his land rather than the fair-skinned teenager who bleeds for no reason that everyone else sees. I see the real you. But it's as though you've lost sight of who you truly are, and you don't care enough to look at me, your beacon. You're too interested in what lies in the opposite direction.

You don't know the marks I've got now, the ones I've borne because I tried to save you. I've had too many bruises to count, a couple of cracked ribs, and some good cuts that have left their mark on my skin. I've got a couple of remaining scars, none of which I think you've ever seen. It's been months since you've tended to me like that, and sometimes, I think it's been months since you've cared to.

I have to wonder what your new friends think of me, what they think of you. What kind of older brother needs assistance from his younger sibling to win a fight? And what kind of younger sibling would put himself in the line of fire for a brother that must find him annoying? They either think I'm crazy or I simply admire you for no reason. And they must think you're either pathetic or you simply tolerate my existence because you've been scolded for doing otherwise.

You're supposed to be Magnificent.

What happened, Peter?

You used to have it sorted.