Traitor.

It was carved on his back, chest, and stomach. Pete and the girls didn't know. Being hungry and a few kicks here or there weren't all he'd suffered at the hands of the witch; no, that sadistic dwarf had made sure of that. She'd watched him, didn't stop the dwarf, didn't care that Edmund's ten year old self was being brutally tortured. He'd been rescued a while later, had a healer patch things up quickly, and for six years the scars had remained. At ten, he hadn't known why they hadn't faded, but now he did – it was because he was a traitor. He had betrayed Narnia. And he didn't deserve Peter or the girls' love, or to be a king. He was a worthless traitor. One that deserved to die.

Sad as it was, this was really the way Edmund thought. Whispers, gossip, insults, and injuries had worn down his reserve and changed his way of thinking. But he didn't need their slander to confirm it: it was written all over his body. Of course, Peter the Magnificent Golden Child hadn't helped. Ed knew that Peter was the humblest person to live, but it didn't help that he was perfect and everyone liked him better.

Six years, and it had come to this. Six years of enduring and fighting and hurting and bleeding and loving, oh yes, that damned love for his idol of a brother that had kept him from sliding too far. But now, even that was gone, mused Edmund, staring at his pale, pale wrists and setting the cold metal of a knife to wispy veins, ignoring the countless smaller scars that, until now, had let him live: red-blood life, healthy life, endured by hurting himself and desperately convincing himself that he could, indeed, still feel.

Pete,

I don't deserve to be a king or to live. See you in Aslan's country, unless he condemns me to Hell for my sins.

Ed

A shallow breath, and he ran the cleaver over his right wrist. Deep, deep red. Pale, pale flesh. Hurting, hurting heart. The only way to ignore it was with different pain. The cleaver dropped. Liquid life ran, and Edmund waited, palms up, eyes closed, waiting for Death himself.

Peter strode through the halls. Edmund had skipped dinner, and Peter was anxiously searching for him, hoping, wishing, praying that what he had constantly feared for six years was not happening. He had heard the whispers, the muttered curses and the mistrusting glances. A ten year old didn't deserve that. Hell, a sixteen year old didn't deserve it. Edmund's betrayal – a stupid mistake when he was young, no doubt fueled by Peter's own arrogance and neglect, not to mention the enchanted candy – had passed. He ruled justly and fairly, and worked often to the point of exhaustion, proving nothing to those who would peg him as "traitor" till his death. Edmund's door leered in front of him, daring him to enter and mocking him for putting off what he knew was inevitable. Gathering up resolve, Peter took a deep breath and opened the door. He frowned. Edmund was nowhere in sight. "Edmund?" He took a few steps into the room. "Ed? Where are you? Ed- oh, Aslan…"

Edmund was lying in a pool of scarlet. Peter rushed to him and gently turned him over, fighting to keep down the bile that was threatening to make an appearance to join the blood. There were scratches and cuts, lines and carvings all across his wrists, arms, and thighs. Peter's eyes widened when he realized what Edmund had done. Just then, Edmund stirred slightly and he opened his eyes a slit. "Pete?" His voice was hoarse and slightly cracked. Peter didn't hesitate. He scooped the feather-light Ed up in his arms and carefully but hurriedly rushed out the door.

"It's okay, Ed," he breathed. "We'll get you to a healer." Edmund shook his head.

"Pete… just let it happen…"

/

"How could I let things slip so far? I knew this was coming; why didn't I stop it?" Peter thought, rushing down the halls to the nearest healer. The door banged open, startling the healer currently working, and Peter entered, dropping Edmund carefully onto the table.

Grabbing various potions and bottles, the healer jumped into action. He took off Edmund's shirt, gasping in shock. Peter's eyes widened when he saw the carvings, as well. TRAITOR, spelled out on his brother's malnourished torso. He traced the 't', stopping as tears dripped onto his brother's ransacked body. How he had suffered silently! How Peter had just let it happen, never inquiring more than necessary about that night, just so his guilt over letting him be there would alleviate over time! He grabbed a lifeless hand and held it, weeping so unashamedly and brokenly that no one would have dared to mock it.

The healer was making quick work, but stopped. Peter looked up. "What?"

"He missed the vitals that would have killed him by a mere margin," – here Peter gasped with relief – "but he appears to be unconscious, and blood loss, even to this extremity, shouldn't cause that."

Peter frowned. "What are you suggesting?"

The healer hesitated. "If I had to guess… no, it's completely improbable…"

"Just tell me."

"Dark Magic."

/

Peter sat by the bed, watching Edmund's every move. It'd been two weeks, and his breathing was peaceful and steady, but he was anxious for his brother to wake up and explain. When the healer had told him Ed was alive, he'd felt as though he'd come out of a long, dark tunnel into the sunlight. This time, he was determined to not let Edmund slip back into his own black passageway.

Movement on the bed caught his gaze. Edmund stirred, then opened his eyes. He looked around groggily, offering a half-smile to his brother, who jumped onto the bed next to Edmund and gathering him in his arms, burying his face in the ebony hair. Edmund closed his eyes and accepted the love of his brother. Not an idol, not a thorn, not a bane, but his brother.

"I was so sure I'd lost you." Peter held Edmund as tightly as he dared, plenteous bandages whispering that Edmund still had a long way to go. Edmund closed his eyes and placed his hands on Peter's arms. "I didn't think you loved me."

Peter held his Ed all the tighter. "I will always love you, no matter what you think and no matter what you do." He leaned back against the headboard, holding Edmund to his side comfortably with one arm, as Edmund rested his head on Peter's shoulder. Edmund closed his eyes as Peter stroked his hair.

"Ed… the letters on you… where did they come from? Who did that to you?" There wasn't anything Edmund wouldn't tell Peter now. Eyes closed, he answered softly,

"The witch's dwarf." He told Peter everything, not caring now as strong arms held him, long fingers traced patterns on his arms, and gentle hands smoothed away the tears that rushed down his face.

"It's a good thing he's dead already." Edmund could tell Peter was trying to restrain his anger so as not to upset him. Peter sighed heavily. "Was that why… you know… the whole thing-"

"People talk, Peter. Don't think I don't know what everyone says about me." Edmund unwrapped Peter's arms, scooting away from him. Peter scooted right back next to him.

"Let me fix it. I'll make a law, some proclamation…"

"Achieving what? A week of peace before things go back to the way they were? This is something I have to deal with, Peter."

"But I need to help."

Edmund looked at his earnest brother, intense in his vow. "Then forgive yourself."

Peter blinked, not expecting this.

"I'm serious, Pete. You've forgiven me, and I've forgiven you, but you have to stop blaming yourself for my sins and for not stopping me… how long ago was it?"

"Two weeks."

"Right, then, two weeks ago."

Peter was silent for a moment. "I will, on one condition."

"Name it."

"You follow your own advice." Edmund started to protest, but Peter shushed him. "I won't let you feel like the villain for the rest of your life. It was one mistake, Ed. Aslan has forgiven you, the girls have, and so have I. It's time you forgave yourself as well." Now it was Edmund's turn to be silent. He arranged Peter's arms around his body and rested against him.

"Edmund?"

"Hm?"

"Aren't you curious as to why you were unconscious for two weeks?"

"Judging by your tone of voice, not half as curious as you. Why?"

"The healer said it wasn't normal."

Edmund thought. "The witch." He settled down again next to Peter, thinking his answer sufficient.

"What does she have to do with anything? "

"Dark Magic, Peter."

Peter bolted upright, utterly shocked. "What? How do you know?"

Edmund made a thoughtful face. "The dwarf cut me, but under the witch's power. The letters stayed pristine for six years, Peter – after a while I knew something was going on. Those words were meant to make me suffer. I suppose that my attempt to end my life – ending the suffering as well, you note – reacted with the magic and knocked me unconscious."

"You're mental. How the hell did you put that together?"

"Aslan was the one who battled it, Pete. He was there."

"Where's there?"

"Inside me, I suppose."

"But the witch is dead!"

"I know. The letters were laced with one last stamp of her power, I guess, designed to torment me to the end." Here he laughed dryly. "I doubt even she knew exactly how much. Anyway, Aslan wasn't finished with me. He's the only reason I'm alive." Peter thought back to the healer's words – he missed the vitals that would have killed him by a mere margin – and silently thanked Aslan for what he knew had been due to him. Outwardly, he simply gathered his brother closer and kissed the top of his head.

"He's the only reason any of us are alive, Ed."

A/N: Major editing. The first version was so embarrassing, gah.