WARNING: You may want tissues, and you may want to avoid any sad music while you're at it. There are several intense moments and there is quite a bit of angst (no real fluff, yet, although it's probably coming ::sheepish smile::).

Disclaimer: I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C. S. Lewis and Walden Media.

Author's Note: ::grimaces good-naturedly:: This was supposed to be a one-shot for Christmas and winter, but you never can tell where your muse might lead you. Then end result? This is more likely to turn into a two-shot or multi-chaptered fic (haven't quite decided, yet). I know where I want to go—the question is, how can I get it there? ::shrugs and grins sheepishly:: In any case, it's a prequel to Keeping the Faith, and it expands upon a little scene at the end of Chapter 20 in that fic (if you're curious, you may want to read or reread it). You don't have to have read Keeping the Faith in order to understand this—but I do hope you enjoy it!

Rating: T

Summary: Their first winter in Narnia is anything but silver bells and candy canes…(Book and Moviebased) (Brotherfic) (NO Slash) –PREQUEL TO KEEPING THE FAITH—

"Speech"

'Personal Thoughts (Italics)'

Memories (Italics)

Honoring Him

By Sentimental Star

Chapter I: Epiphany

The snows came early that year. Peter in particular had taken to watching Edmund all day, every day, worrying more about him than could possibly be healthy.

Indeed, at two, three o'clock in the morning most days, the guards knew their High King could be found in his brother's room, keeping silent vigil over the (often) restlessly sleeping eleven-year-old.

Tonight was such a night.

At midnight, Peter creaked open the door to his brother's bedchamber—just enough to slip inside with a lighted candle. His stockinged feet made no sound as he padded across the thick rug to place his candle on the bed stand near his brother's head with a faint clack.

As it had for the past several weeks, Edmund's tense, nightmare-ravaged body relaxed deeply into the mattress when his unconscious mind sensed his big brother's presence in the bedroom.

Gingerly sitting on the edge of the enormous bed, Peter reached out with a sad smile and gently clasped the back of his baby brother's head, caressing the dark hair tenderly. For at least at night, Edmund allowed himself to be taken care of—by Peter, anyway. The daytime…that was the girls' realm.

Edmund allowed Susan and Lucy (but especially Susan) to fuss over him to their heart's content, too afraid of offending them.

In fact, he'd become rather like a doll of late. Like he used to when they were littler, and Susan officially decided to mother Edmund even more than their mother did already. Only, this time, the younger boy did not scowl or complain (but still let her fuss—a little—anyway), but complied with any request without a word.

He knew it worried Susan (frankly, it worried him, too), so naturally, she responded by mothering him even more. He rather thought Lucy suspected, and contented herself with drawing off the older girl when she sensed Edmund growing a little overwhelmed and knew he would like some peace of mind.

On those occasions, Edmund would quietly, but respectfully turn down any invitation by Peter to come into his study or go riding, and would retreat to the library or the practice fields.

Peter tried not to let it hurt him, but it was hard when his brother—his only brother—would…well, not accept affection from their sisters, but certainly, let them show it…and not allow Peter the same.

Although…now that he thought about it…recently, Edmund had started slipping away almost as soon as the girls were through with their fussing and did not return to the family wing of the castle until well after sunset. They still saw him at meals—on occasion. But more and more frequently, he disappeared for hours on end and the next time the three siblings saw him, their brother was usually sound asleep.

Peter exhaled quietly through his nose and leaned down to nudge it against Edmund's cheek. "I wish you would tell me what's wrong," he whispered, shutting his eyes. "You're obviously not going to tell the girls, but I can help you, Ed." His voice softened even more, "I wish you would let me."

"Your Majesty?"

Peter jerked upright, scrambling to regain his balance and glad he had thought to leave his sword in his own bedchamber or else their General would be short a few limbs. "O-Oreius," he stammered, spinning to face the doorway of his brother's room and immediately aware of the startled whimper that emerged from the cocoon of his brother's blankets.

Peter hushed him, soothing his brow—some of his attention focused on the Centaur who waited patiently in the doorway, but most of it focused on the warm body curled against his hip.

Oreius seemed to sense this, for he merely shook his head with a faint, resigned smile. "If you will not return to your own chambers, my Liege, at least join your brother in sleep."

Peter smiled vaguely. "I will return to my own chambers soon. It's just…Edmund needs me here. Even if he's not awake, he senses it—senses me."

Oreius gave a quiet, noncommittal, "Hmm," carefully picking his way across the floor to stand in front of his young kings. Gently, he cupped Peter's chin in one large hand and leaned down to closely examine the fourteen-year-old's blue eyes. "Sire, if you will forgive my saying so…whilst your devotion is admirable, you cannot help your brother if you exhaust yourself."

Peter smiled self-consciously, softly rubbing a hand across Edmund's back. His brother's face turned and dug into his thigh. "I know, Oreius. I promise I'll take care of myself."

The Centaur snorted warmly, gently releasing his chin. "Good. I should hate to send your sisters after you."

When Peter looked appropriately wary, Oreius straightened (the older boy swore he saw a small, satisfied smirk flit across their General's lips) and inclined his head in a bow, "Your Majesty," before quietly exiting the room.

As soon as the door fell shut behind the Centaur, Peter spoke out loud, "I think I should be worried, Ed."

Edmund's only answer was to shift against his leg, still soundly asleep.

IOIOIOIOIOI

An hour later, thinking it wise to obey Oreius's not-so-direct order, Peter scooped up his candle holder and made to stand.

He did not even get that far.

A soft noise of protest from his brother stilled any movement. When he felt a tug on the corner of his sleeping tunic, any thought of leaving immediately flew out of his head. Edmund's hand had fisted itself into the fabric.

"Ed…" Peter breathed, setting the candle and its holder back on the bed stand. Gently, he grasped his little brother's shoulder and head, carefully urging him into the middle of the mattress—before crawling under the quilts next to him and curling up at his side. "You shall be quite cross with me in the morning, I think," he murmured.

But for tonight at least, Edmund was his.

IOIOIOIOIOI

Peter woke early the next morning to an empty bed. He frowned and gently pressed his hand into the indent beside him, finding it still slightly warm.

When he joined his sisters for breakfast, his attitude was more querulous than usual, but Lucy and Susan (wisely) decided not to comment. A couple of discreet inquiries after breakfast revealed that Edmund had gone riding at dawn and was not expected back for the rest of the morning. When asked, the guard questioned could not recall who had gone with him, but suspected Oreius and Philip as both Centaur and Talking Horse were not in the castle.

Peter went about his duties that morning with something of a distracted air: why (and how) had Edmund left without waking him? Why had he rushed off—ostensibly by himself—without informing anyone? Why (and this question hurt most of all) hadn't he asked Peter to go with him? He had to know his older brother would welcome any time spent with him…didn't he?

Peter's brow furrowed in thought, and he paused where he had been restlessly pacing the length of his study.

Edmund was never particularly vocal about his wants and needs (Peter blamed his time spent with the Witch); most of the time his siblings were reduced to guessing what he needed at any given moment. It wasn't very accurate and, sometimes, Peter despaired of ever convincing his brother of his worth.

It was little things, at first: the way Edmund would shy away from his touch; the forced smiles; the haunted, hunted eyes; the—

'No,' Peter told himself forcefully, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. 'Don't go there.'

He resumed pacing the length of his study, trying to ignore the covert glances Susan kept casting him over her stitchery. Lucy had long ago set hers aside, and was currently watching him as he completed one circuit of the room and then another.

Finally, Susan had had enough. Slamming her embroidery down on the desk with a force that belied her title, she cried, "For Heaven's sake, Peter! Sit down! Wearing a groove in the floor will not make Edmund come home any quicker!"

Peter spun on heel to face her, scowling as he opened his mouth to tell her exactly what she could do with her advice…and was mercifully interrupted by a frantic scratching of paws at the study door.

Quickly, he strode over to the door and yanked it open (perhaps a little too forcefully), staring a little as an unfamiliar Fox kit tumbled into the chamber.

He was little more than a baby and could do nothing at the moment except whine at him. Urgently. And paw at his leg.

The queasy feeling that had slowly been blossoming all day in the pit of his stomach abruptly leapt up into his throat. As the girls gathered around him and knelt on the ground, cooing at the Fox kit, Peter jerked the door all the way open and dashed out into the hall, ignoring his sisters' startled cries.

'Something's happened,' he realized, as his feet pounded against the floors of the flagstone corridors. 'Something's wrong…'

As he burst around the corner and into the main entrance way, it soon became clear what: not three yards ahead of him stood Oreius, plainly soaked. The Centaur's strong arms held a weakly trembling, cloak-wrapped bundle. And it was even more thoroughly soaked than the General.

"…You must let yourself heal, your Majesty!" Oreius's voice was uncharacteristically loud, and Peter dimly wondered what could have shaken up the normally unflappable Centaur so badly. "You are not worthless; your life is not forfeit; and you are no more expendable than your brother is! Indeed, I'd even venture to say that under no circumstances should you make yourself expendable! I walk the halls at night—I know where your brother ends up each evening and how long he stays! You—and your sisters—are his life, your Highness! The very reason he draws breath…!"

Peter's cheeks were, by now, flaming red. He couldn't step out and reveal himself now—he was too mortified—but neither could he simply stand here, knowing the absolutely wet, absolutely miserable bundle in the Centaur's arms was, in fact, Edmund.

"B-But, Oreius," his little brother spoke through chattering teeth, "Peter…Peter is…"

"Right here," his brother announced loudly, taking his cue and stepping out into the entrance hall before a further word could be spoken. His light smile hid the rock of worry in his stomach, "What did you do to yourself this time, Ed?" he jested tenderly, coming into view.

Peter did not expect the emotion that flushed his little brother's cheeks or that filled his little brother's eyes as he caught sight of him. It was too intense, too full. It had been ages since his little brother had looked at him like that. In fact…Peter couldn't ever quite recall seeing such an expression on his brother's face before, and it did funny things to his heart which was currently flip-flopping in his chest. He wet his lips, feet rooted to the floor. "E-Ed?" he whispered.

A fierce struggle seemed to be going on inside his brother: self-disgust and self-loathing waged a silent war with such undiluted longing that Peter's heart gave a painful wrench.

The longing won out and mellowed into something much softer as Edmund took in him standing there, struck dumb and motionless by his baby brother's private war—one, Peter suspected, that had been raging since Aslan had restored him to his siblings over a year ago.

Abruptly, Edmund broke off their gaze and glanced up at Oreius—who gave him a faint, imperceptible nod as a warm smile played at his lips. Edmund swallowed and nodded back, seeming to blink against tears, before unwrapping a hesitant hand from around Oreius's neck…and holding it out to Peter.

In the next instant, Peter was across the floor and hanging onto his little brother's hand for all he was worth. He knew he was blubbering like an idiot as he rained down fevered kisses onto the slender appendage, but could not quite bring himself to care. Never—never ever, ever—had Edmund willingly sought Peter for anything in recent years. Long ago he must have, but with the war and their father fighting overseas—

"Your Majesty?"

Peter glanced up at Oreius, tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks.

The Centaur smiled softly. "Your arms, Sire."

It took a full two seconds for the older king to understand, but when he did, not even a heart's palpitation passed before he was accepting his little brother's soaked body into his arms.

As soon as he had Edmund, Peter sank to his knees, ignoring the chill of the flagstones as it penetrated his woolen leggings and murmuring brokenly into the dark hair, "It's all right (hitched breath). You're all right now, Edmund (bitten back sob). Everything will be all right..."

Above him—dimly—Peter heard Oreius quietly excuse himself from the presence of his two kings, but did not register the Centaur's hoof beats as their General left. His entire awareness had narrowed down to the circumference of his arms and the small, shivering form within it.

A few seconds later, the murmured stream of nonsense was interrupted by Peter's quiet hiss as Edmund's icy cheek brushed against his neck: "Aslan, Ed! You're freezing!" Quickly unclasping his heavy cloak, he wrapped it tightly around his younger brother, briskly rubbing up and down the younger boy's arms.

"Don't…Peter…" Edmund protested feebly, weakly pushing at his brother's chest. "It's…it's winter. You'll—"

"Hush," Peter chided, gently grabbing Edmund's hands and using his grip on them to pull the eleven-year-old close. "It doesn't matter."

With tears stinging the corners of his eyes, Edmund leaned his head forward into the crook of Peter's neck.

Two seconds later, he yelped as his big brother suddenly swept him fully into his arms and stood. His own flew around Peter's neck. "P…Put me down, Peter!" he sputtered, attempting (futilely) to struggle. He barely had enough strength to squirm. "R-Really! I'm perfectly all right, you kno—" he broke himself off in mid-retort when their eyes met.

"Ed?" Peter prompted, frowning slightly.

Edmund continued staring at him. Finally, after a few moments, he released a shuddery breath and bowed his head, curling his fist into the velvet of Peter's tunic. "Never mind," he whispered, "it isn't important."

Peter's lips thinned. "I beg to differ, little brother. But you shall explain exactly what you meant later…after you have had a warm bath."

This, at least, seemed to rouse Edmund. "You are not giving me a bath!" he yelped.

Peter was sure his brother must have been utterly startled when his rather stony expression blossomed abruptly into a brilliant grin.

IOIOIOIOIOI

"OUT!"

"But, Ed, you can barely—"

"Doesn't matter. Out. Now. I said you weren't giving me a bath and I meant it!"

Torn between elation (Edmund hadn't been this vocal about his dignity in over a year) and worry (Lion's Mane, he could hardly stand!), Peter bit his lip and intently studied his little brother's pale face where the younger king gripped the stone archway leading into his personal bath.

He wanted to respect his brother's privacy (and was beyond relieved his sibling's token stubbornness had finally reared its head), but did not trust the eleven-year-old's clearly wobbly legs to hold him upright.

He toyed anxiously with his hands. "J-Just promise you'll yell if you need any help."

Edmund rolled his eyes. "Yes, Peter. Lion forbid I drown while bathing—"

Edmund squeaked when Peter abruptly grabbed him in his arms and gave his ribs a hard squeeze, before setting the younger boy carefully back on his feet.

Impatiently dashing more tears away, Peter quickly turned around and headed in the direction of the kitchens, his pace nearly a jog.

Edmund hung onto the threshold as he stared after his brother's quickly retreating figure, eyes very wide as he watched him go.

When the older king was no longer in sight, the eleven-year-old sank to his knees, shoulders trembling and one shaking hand fisted tightly against his mouth as he fought against the tears he couldn't in Peter's presence. As he had so many times over the past year, he wondered what, in heaven's name, he could have done to deserve two such wonderful sisters and such a devoted brother.

Like a whisper, Oreius's words to him on the return journey here came back to him:

"…That is a lie, your Majesty. A lie and a heresy. You are an honorable young man; you are a deserving young man. To believe otherwise is to dishonor Aslan's sacrifice…It also dishonors your brother's…"

The dark-haired king buried his face against his leggings, the tears on his cheeks easily getting absorbed into his damp leggings. 'Aslan help me…what have I done?'

IOIOIOIOIOI

Forty-five minutes later, Edmund stumbled out of the bathing chamber, any signs of his previous distress rinsed away. When he staggered into his room, still rather unsteady on his feet, he found his clothes had already been laid out for him.

Peter wasn't there, but the setup had his brother's touch written all over it: every spare blanket in the castle seemed to have been heaped on his bed.

Edmund swallowed, blinking back tears, 'I can't handle this right now.'

Tucking his shaking hands into his robe, the younger king tottered over to his bed and fumbled with too clumsy hands to pull his sleeping tunic over his head. Feeling his legs suddenly give out beneath him, Edmund bit back a gasp and grabbed wildly for a balustrade just out of reach.

Just before his knees buckled completely, warm arms abruptly caught him around the waist and fetched him up against a solid body.

"I told you that you could barely stand!" Peter's thick voice came from above and behind him.

Edmund felt heat rise on his cheeks.

Hooking his brother's arm over his shoulders, Peter gently helped him into bed and underneath the quilts. Once the younger boy was situated, his older brother delicately smoothed the blankets over his legs.

His actions forced Edmund to look away, lest the stinging heat creep into his eyes and pour down his cheeks.

Luckily, Peter had also turned away and reached for something he had apparently set to the side. By the time his brother had turned back around, Edmund had composed himself and sat propped up against the pillows at his back, quietly watching Peter.

In his hands, Peter cradled a steaming mug. When he noticed Edmund's dark eyes on him, he smiled uncertainly and leaned forward, gently pressing the mug into the younger boy's hands, "Here…eat up. It's long past noon meal and you need it."

Edmund's cold fingers automatically curled around the warm ceramic mug. When Peter lightly blew across the top of it to the cool the liquid within it, Edmund swallowed against the lump that had risen in his throat. Tentatively, he leaned down and took a sip.

Flavor exploded on his tongue: it was rich and hearty and good…and so very familiar.

His head snapped up and he stared at Peter. "This…this is Mum's recipe," he choked.

Peter watched him anxiously. "Do you like it? It…it isn't too salty, is it? This is my first time making it without Mum's help, so I—"

Edmund, who had gone to take another sip, choked and sputtered on it. Glancing up, coughing, he demanded hoarsely, "You made this? You made this?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing, Eddy," Peter remarked, eyebrows knitting together worriedly.

Edmund wordlessly shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut and clutching the mug to his chest as his emotions seesawed between elation and despair.

"…You—and your sisters—are his life, your Highness! The very reason he draws breath…!"

A callused thumb touched his cheek, tenderly rubbing away the moisture that had abruptly spilled down his skin. "Ed?" Peter murmured.

"Oh, Peter…!" Edmund nearly burst into tears.

An alarmed older brother quickly relieved him of his mug and set it aside. Grabbing him by the shoulders, Peter immediately bent until they were eye level, his worried blue eyes (now more gray than blue) drilling into Edmund's. "What's wrong?"

Unable to explain, Edmund vigorously shook his head, biting back a sob. 'Oh, Peter, Peter, Peter…! I'm so sorry!'

Tbc.