Disclaimer: I do not own Narnia, Peter, Edmund. Narnia is C.S. Lewis's work of brilliant genius.

It was fall again. Fall, when the heavy raindrops fell from the drab gray sky to land on the dead fallen leaves. The cold, dampness made the young king shiver. For indeed there was a chill in the air. He straightened again for the umpteenth time, stretched his back to get rid of the kinks, and drew the blanket around his shoulders tighter. He had been sitting in the same positing for what felt like hours. Doing nothing, some would say. But in fact he was doing something. He was watching.

The King turned his gaze back to the silent form lying in the bed. The youth's chest rose softly, under the heavy sheets and comforter, sometimes hitching in a cough or two. Beads of sweat layered his forehead and face. The young man still hadn't moved, not once in the whole time the watcher had been sitting there. He almost wished he would; wished he would wake up open his eyes and make some snarky remark. Something so that the king would know he was alright, that he was getting better, that this cruel sickness would soon be over. But he did not; instead he only slept on and on, still and silent.

It rather scared the young king. How many days had the sickened youth lain similarly still? Not speaking and hardly moving. He thought perhaps if the young man had at least had been restless, perhaps he could calm him with softly murmured words of comfort or stroke his hair soothingly. It saddened him too, for it put the one who was watching in a bind as much as the one who was sick.

And it hurt so deeply, to see the victim of such illness cough, struggling for breath before sinking wearily deeper into the pillows. Watching, waiting, knowing there was nothing you could do. No way he could take the young man's misery and pain away and bear it for him, only that he must struggle through it himself. That you must sit and wait and pray that the Emperor over the Sea and his Son would be their strength and that they would give him strength to over come the sickness.

And then quietly as a soft breath of wind, there was a whisper. "Peter?