Lunarcentrism; Or How Peter Seems to Revolve Solely Around Edmund
Title: Lunarcentrism; Or How Peter Seems to Revolve Solely Around Edmund
Pairing: Peter/Edmund
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Edmund follows Peter after he goes on one of his night time walks the day before the battle.
Every once in a while Peter likes to bask in the moonlight. He never tells anyone where he goes, but always returns after a few hours, generally unmissed and more content and at ease than when he set out.
He can tell the difference now between the moon being almost full the few days before and after and when it actually is. But its phases aren't particularly important; the sight of the moon always excites something in him - he can't place what but he likes it.
Maybe, he thinks, it's because he wears his golden hair so proudly during the day; at night, the moon always brings a different ethereal shine to it: darker, more forbidden. It reins him in, so alluring that he thinks he may be part-mythical werewolf, swayed and pulled by the tides of the moon, a different creature within than out and only the night sky to stand as witness. For once, he is out of control and at the mercy of something other than himself.
Tonight is quieter somehow, the usual sounds of the forest almost completely gone and even the grass beneath his feet, eerily silent. Peter thinks it's foreboding. Funerals are silent.
The animals and the trees have picked a strange time to show reverence towards their king. Or maybe they've picked the perfect time but he tries not to think of that. He scuffles his feet, drags them maybe more than necessary, to make some sort of sound.
He walks the same curvy path: a little trodden, fresh with dew, skewed away from the forest to the field. This may be the last night that he will walk out to meet the moon, last night to say his goodbyes to the stars that have kept him company all through his reign, and still twinkle though his own time may be dwindling.
Peter tries to soak up every bit of it; this belongs only to him unlike the kingdom that he will soon be asked to give up.
He reaches his arms out to the sides and walks with his eyes closed, the way already mapped and memorized in his head. There is the light rustle of foliage from the forest that almost goes unnoticed if it wasn't the first sound of the night.
"I can hear you, Edmund," he calls out, not bothering to turn his head or open his eyes. Somewhere behind him he hears the vague sound of swears and Peter smiles a little to himself, his brother making long running strides towards him.
"How did you-?" Edmund pants as he finally catches up but stops when he sees the utterly content, utterly beautiful look on his brother's face, just the hints of a smile gracing his lips and the gentle sweep of his hair making him look younger than he is on the inside. Peter finally looks his age - a carefree boy of eighteen.
"Are you kidding me? Anyone could have heard you from a mile away with how loud you were being," he says, amused, while gracefully by stepping a large stone. He snorts when Edmund trips a little, almost not catching himself. He looks back at Peter's still closed eyes, sighing smugly that the High King -- and more importantly, older brother -- didn't notice.
"I saw that."
"No, you didn't," Edmund retorts.
"I felt that."
Edmund sticks his tongue out at his older brother and tries to mimic his actions, closing his eyes and walking with a certain amount of posture and grace.
"That too."
Edmund opens one eye, not all too surprised by the comfortable mannerisms and gestures they have adopted over the years, and mutters "Sure," before resuming his walk.
They spend long minutes in silence as they meander across the field following Peter's lead.
Peter tilts his head up to get a better angle at the moon. He lets out a quiet sigh, trying not to think of anything, the casual brush of his brother's sleeve effectively distracting him to the point that he looks forward to the sensation. He thinks, resignedly, that it is one he will miss.
"Peter?"
"Hmm?"
"What are we doing?"
Peter allows himself another smile in Ed's direction.
"Just walking," he says like it's the most simple answer in the world. And Edmund is glad that this is his brother talking, his brother with the sense of humor, with the smiles, and laughter, and carelessness, not the High King. Secretly, he's apprehensive that Peter isn't getting into the concentrated character that he has to be tomorrow, but this sight is so rare, especially since they went back to England, that he is happy for Peter nonetheless.
Peter stops abruptly and looks around, just a flicker of recognition across his features before he looks down, and finally sits himself on the ground where the grass has already been matted, the blades that form the edges of the contour, perfectly molding to his body. He motions for Ed to do the same.
Edmund doesn't know what to say. He thinks he should reassure his brother before tomorrow, but Peter begins abruptly: "You know, Ed, sometimes I come here to think and this is the first time that someone's ever tried to follow me."
Edmund attempts to open his mouth in protest, but Peter stops him with a hand.
"No, it's all right. I like the company. Sometimes I think too much," he adds with a wry grin which shifts into a contemplative one. "But you were always the real thinker in the family, the planner, and no one ever really credited you for it."
"Not in England, at least," he says as an afterthought. Peter looks straight up ahead to the sky and to all of the last chances, yet unrealized, suspended above him. If tonight is his last night, he wants nothing left unsaid. He allows himself a sentimental grin. "You're my moon, Ed."
Edmund means to scoff, but Peter shakes his head. Nothing left unsaid.
"Really. It's so beautiful because you always seem to reflect this, this light," he smiles and throws one arm back under his head, "that you wouldn't see during the day because everyone is so busy staring at the sun but it's always there. It's like a quiet comfort for me, knowing that you're always there."
"And here right now," he adds. "And I guess I never really thanked you for that. For being my moon."
Peter shifts his head to the side to see the effect of his conversation on Edmund, but his brother stares resolutely ahead.
"You and your stupid sentimentality, Peter," he says angrily though his voice cracks from the effort of keeping tiny crystalline tears from spilling over the sides. He curls his lip in feigned disgust. "Where do you think up these things? Is this what you do with all this time when you're out here? Blabbing on about the moon. I think it affects your head. I don't even know-. It's-. Doesn't even make any-. Stupid lunar observations." He trails off with a huff, not too keen on letting the words wash over him, but the moon hangs just above him and he can feel Peter's breath beside him, warm and there, and they are constant reminders.
Peter, undeterred, leans over, the grass rustling beneath him, and places a hand on Edmund's cheek, and murmurs indulgently "Love you," into his hair before kissing his forehead.
He means to withdraw gently, content to leave the kiss and words for what they are - his last goodbyes - but Edmund grabs him, tears still shining, and pulls at him harshly, bringing his eyes level with his.
"Don't you ever say that again, Peter Pevensie. Don't you ever say it again like it's the last time you'll be saying it because I swear to Aslan if it is, then I'll kill you myself," he glares dangerously, tugging sharply at Peter's hair to emphasize his point.
Peter tries to pry Edmund fingers from their death grip, but he doesn't relent.
"Kind of counter productive don't you think?" he tries with a forced smile before noting the still serious and not amused look on Edmund's face just a little closer to the edge of breaking.
"Look. I'm sorry if it-"
"Shut up," and Edmund brings Peter down hard onto his chest, grateful that Peter isn't wearing the heavy armour he will be tomorrow but well aware that because of his loose linen shirt, he can probably hear his heartbeat thudding against his ribcage.
He cards his hands again through Peter's hair, muttering fervently "Shut up. Just shut up. I don't want to hear it," with each stroke. He plants wet sloppy kisses all over his brother's face and eyelids until Peter settles himself completely between Edmund's legs, their knees knocking and slipping against each other.
Chuckling, Peter tries to make himself more comfortable. "We used to fit better when we were older." He turns his head, pointed at the sharp boy angles not exactly lined up and trails a hand across Edmund's side, his own torso beginning where the other's ends.
"We still fit together now," Edmund says with a slight shrug as he brings more gentle hands into Peter's hair. "Just different." The strands run easily through as if made to taunt Edmund with the fleeting nature of everything that is them. Never enough, he thinks; never enough.
Each of Edmund's exhalations becomes a shaky sigh as he thinks of their future, one built on the unstable foundation of memories long ago. They've had precious few moments like this since they arrived in Narnia again and even fewer before that in England.
The hopes that he could have had of actually growing older with his brother, the prospects of relearning their bodies again are dashed in the overhanging somber tones of the next day's battle that drifts ever closer with each shift of the moon in the sky. He resents it, resents being compared to it if the mere sight of it can cause Peter so much pain. Even the sky, peppered with twinkling stars, seems to stare mockingly down at them.
Peter sighs against him and breathes in deep, oblivious to Edmund's own inner turmoil. "You still smell the same." He inhales again and nestles himself further into Edmund. "Like sweet tea. You know, the kind we used to make."
Edmund knows - the very mention of the scent bringing back memories of the Old Narnia, of sitting on terraces, of spring mornings and summer afternoons, of nostalgia, and of Peter's sun soaked skin.
Edmund tries to take it in, feels a little ridiculous sniffing at the air when all he catches is the smell of Peter's hair - boy with a hint of chamomile - but allows himself an affectionate smile. The years have not changed his brother, not in moments like this. The tears that were beginning to ebb, rise when the thought flits past his mind if they'll have any more, and what little hope he had, flees.
"I'm going to remember your scent forever," but there are hints of fear lacing Peter's voice as if forever wasn't going to be a long time, merely a few more minutes, hours, just the amount of time to make a memory and hold it in your mind, still poignant and fresh enough that even the edges remain crisp and unfrayed.
"Forever? You don't need forever. All we need is the next few years. Decades, maybe, if we're lucky," Edmund tries, the words serving as in impromptu prayer.
This is the same Edmund he's always known, being strong and resiliently hopeful by choosing to ignore all else. Peter's own mind is not even capable of wrapping around the idea of a decade. This is war. Tonight and tomorrow are all he expects.
"Ed, if I die-" And before he has time to finish, he is roughly flipped over onto his back, Edmund straddling his thighs and eyes glittering dangerously.
The moon forms a glowing halo around his head and Peter can't help but smile at the vision, cataloging it as another that he hopes to remember. It might help him to picture this during the battle, his beautiful brother whom he would do everything to protect, even die. Peter lets the relief wash over him that at least for the moment he is safe.
"It's not something I want to dwell on either," he continues softly, rubbing the backs of Edmund's hands with his thumbs while he looks away, eyes darting nowhere in particular, trying vainly to rid himself of the biting at his eyes.
A hot drop splashes against Peter's chest, but Edmund makes no motions to wipe the stains away. Peter sits up, his brother sliding down a little in his lap, head still turned adamantly to the side and his body shivering almost imperceptibly.
Peter wraps his arms around him, forcing Edmund's head into the crook of his neck where the tears pour onto his skin from behind closed lashes. When he rubs his back with a soothing hand and breathes sadly "Oh, baby brother," Edmund grips his shirt tighter, like he used to do when they were kids scared before a storm. Or when they were older and there were no clothes to grab hold of, just bare slick skin and hands that had all the time in the world. His own grip tightens at the memory as he tries to give Edmund something real to hold onto again, if just for a short time.
"You don't even know what this is doing to me." Edmund's hurt voice comes from behind clenched teeth and he only presses harder into Peter.
Peter realizes that he really doesn't; he was the one always charging off on his own expeditions or campaigns, leaving behind his siblings to worry about when, if ever, he would be back. He was the oldest, the High King; he did everything first without much thought as to how it would affect them, though, he knew it would. His own confidence in himself was what kept him going, but now he can't imagine just that being enough for Edmund.
Still, those years between battles and peacetime - somehow they'd managed to survive fifteen years like that and despite everything, they were the most wonderful fifteen years of his life.
"There isn't anything to be smiling about, Peter."
"How did you-"
"I felt that," Edmund says, an echo from before.
Peter kisses the juncture between Edmund's neck and his shoulder.
"That too."
Peter gives a wild, desperate laugh, perhaps one more boisterous than he is used to. But it doesn't matter. This is his brother. His beautiful made-up-of-moonshine and soft skin and sharp wit and intelligence and affection brother.
"No matter what happens. I'm never going to let you go. Okay? I'll always come back no matter what." Only to you. Like gravity. He feels Edmund nod against his neck and shut his eyes again, wet lashes just brushing skin.
Tears threaten to spill from his own eyes and he looks up at the moon imploringly, clutching Edmund to himself. This is his: his brother, his Edmund, his moon. He watches it travel across the sky until he can no longer keep his eyes open and his arms go slack and they both fall asleep against each other in the grass only to wake up to the dawn and the light pinks in the air, the dazzling brilliance of the sun bathing the world in gold that Peter thinks, at that moment, is less beautiful than any night sky could ever be.
He lazes about in the grass twirling a long stem in his hand and running the feathery tip against Edmund's cheek. It's almost like it was before and if he just pretends, his mind takes him back to other days when duty could wait and battles were long ended and afternoons were spent exactly like this.
Edmund wakes and for a moment, Peter thinks he sees the older Edmund shining in his eyes, happy and unclouded by worry or fear. They flicker back with the reality, and he suddenly looks small lying there, knees tucked in. They're both small, he realizes, no matter how much fills them up inside.
When they make their way back to the castle, they make sure their movements are slow and languid, filled with touches and caresses and light kisses that only prolong the walk. Edmund holds Peter's hand firmly in his own, laces their fingers together, and almost silently asks Peter if he's ready, but Peter beats him to it and gives him a brave, albeit melancholy, smile.
This is his brother, he thinks. The one who can walk straight-backed and proud, every inch the King he is, to whatever awaits him, and still hold his little brother's hand.
Just before they reach the castle, Edmund tugs Peter towards him and whispers against his cheek "Love you too," the last remnants of his tears not quite landing against Peter's face as he pulls away to give him a soft kiss, almost brotherly but so much more. He knows they both need that final reassurance.
"Always."
Pairing: Peter/Edmund
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Edmund follows Peter after he goes on one of his night time walks the day before the battle.
Every once in a while Peter likes to bask in the moonlight. He never tells anyone where he goes, but always returns after a few hours, generally unmissed and more content and at ease than when he set out.
He can tell the difference now between the moon being almost full the few days before and after and when it actually is. But its phases aren't particularly important; the sight of the moon always excites something in him - he can't place what but he likes it.
Maybe, he thinks, it's because he wears his golden hair so proudly during the day; at night, the moon always brings a different ethereal shine to it: darker, more forbidden. It reins him in, so alluring that he thinks he may be part-mythical werewolf, swayed and pulled by the tides of the moon, a different creature within than out and only the night sky to stand as witness. For once, he is out of control and at the mercy of something other than himself.
Tonight is quieter somehow, the usual sounds of the forest almost completely gone and even the grass beneath his feet, eerily silent. Peter thinks it's foreboding. Funerals are silent.
The animals and the trees have picked a strange time to show reverence towards their king. Or maybe they've picked the perfect time but he tries not to think of that. He scuffles his feet, drags them maybe more than necessary, to make some sort of sound.
He walks the same curvy path: a little trodden, fresh with dew, skewed away from the forest to the field. This may be the last night that he will walk out to meet the moon, last night to say his goodbyes to the stars that have kept him company all through his reign, and still twinkle though his own time may be dwindling.
Peter tries to soak up every bit of it; this belongs only to him unlike the kingdom that he will soon be asked to give up.
He reaches his arms out to the sides and walks with his eyes closed, the way already mapped and memorized in his head. There is the light rustle of foliage from the forest that almost goes unnoticed if it wasn't the first sound of the night.
"I can hear you, Edmund," he calls out, not bothering to turn his head or open his eyes. Somewhere behind him he hears the vague sound of swears and Peter smiles a little to himself, his brother making long running strides towards him.
"How did you-?" Edmund pants as he finally catches up but stops when he sees the utterly content, utterly beautiful look on his brother's face, just the hints of a smile gracing his lips and the gentle sweep of his hair making him look younger than he is on the inside. Peter finally looks his age - a carefree boy of eighteen.
"Are you kidding me? Anyone could have heard you from a mile away with how loud you were being," he says, amused, while gracefully by stepping a large stone. He snorts when Edmund trips a little, almost not catching himself. He looks back at Peter's still closed eyes, sighing smugly that the High King -- and more importantly, older brother -- didn't notice.
"I saw that."
"No, you didn't," Edmund retorts.
"I felt that."
Edmund sticks his tongue out at his older brother and tries to mimic his actions, closing his eyes and walking with a certain amount of posture and grace.
"That too."
Edmund opens one eye, not all too surprised by the comfortable mannerisms and gestures they have adopted over the years, and mutters "Sure," before resuming his walk.
They spend long minutes in silence as they meander across the field following Peter's lead.
Peter tilts his head up to get a better angle at the moon. He lets out a quiet sigh, trying not to think of anything, the casual brush of his brother's sleeve effectively distracting him to the point that he looks forward to the sensation. He thinks, resignedly, that it is one he will miss.
"Peter?"
"Hmm?"
"What are we doing?"
Peter allows himself another smile in Ed's direction.
"Just walking," he says like it's the most simple answer in the world. And Edmund is glad that this is his brother talking, his brother with the sense of humor, with the smiles, and laughter, and carelessness, not the High King. Secretly, he's apprehensive that Peter isn't getting into the concentrated character that he has to be tomorrow, but this sight is so rare, especially since they went back to England, that he is happy for Peter nonetheless.
Peter stops abruptly and looks around, just a flicker of recognition across his features before he looks down, and finally sits himself on the ground where the grass has already been matted, the blades that form the edges of the contour, perfectly molding to his body. He motions for Ed to do the same.
Edmund doesn't know what to say. He thinks he should reassure his brother before tomorrow, but Peter begins abruptly: "You know, Ed, sometimes I come here to think and this is the first time that someone's ever tried to follow me."
Edmund attempts to open his mouth in protest, but Peter stops him with a hand.
"No, it's all right. I like the company. Sometimes I think too much," he adds with a wry grin which shifts into a contemplative one. "But you were always the real thinker in the family, the planner, and no one ever really credited you for it."
"Not in England, at least," he says as an afterthought. Peter looks straight up ahead to the sky and to all of the last chances, yet unrealized, suspended above him. If tonight is his last night, he wants nothing left unsaid. He allows himself a sentimental grin. "You're my moon, Ed."
Edmund means to scoff, but Peter shakes his head. Nothing left unsaid.
"Really. It's so beautiful because you always seem to reflect this, this light," he smiles and throws one arm back under his head, "that you wouldn't see during the day because everyone is so busy staring at the sun but it's always there. It's like a quiet comfort for me, knowing that you're always there."
"And here right now," he adds. "And I guess I never really thanked you for that. For being my moon."
Peter shifts his head to the side to see the effect of his conversation on Edmund, but his brother stares resolutely ahead.
"You and your stupid sentimentality, Peter," he says angrily though his voice cracks from the effort of keeping tiny crystalline tears from spilling over the sides. He curls his lip in feigned disgust. "Where do you think up these things? Is this what you do with all this time when you're out here? Blabbing on about the moon. I think it affects your head. I don't even know-. It's-. Doesn't even make any-. Stupid lunar observations." He trails off with a huff, not too keen on letting the words wash over him, but the moon hangs just above him and he can feel Peter's breath beside him, warm and there, and they are constant reminders.
Peter, undeterred, leans over, the grass rustling beneath him, and places a hand on Edmund's cheek, and murmurs indulgently "Love you," into his hair before kissing his forehead.
He means to withdraw gently, content to leave the kiss and words for what they are - his last goodbyes - but Edmund grabs him, tears still shining, and pulls at him harshly, bringing his eyes level with his.
"Don't you ever say that again, Peter Pevensie. Don't you ever say it again like it's the last time you'll be saying it because I swear to Aslan if it is, then I'll kill you myself," he glares dangerously, tugging sharply at Peter's hair to emphasize his point.
Peter tries to pry Edmund fingers from their death grip, but he doesn't relent.
"Kind of counter productive don't you think?" he tries with a forced smile before noting the still serious and not amused look on Edmund's face just a little closer to the edge of breaking.
"Look. I'm sorry if it-"
"Shut up," and Edmund brings Peter down hard onto his chest, grateful that Peter isn't wearing the heavy armour he will be tomorrow but well aware that because of his loose linen shirt, he can probably hear his heartbeat thudding against his ribcage.
He cards his hands again through Peter's hair, muttering fervently "Shut up. Just shut up. I don't want to hear it," with each stroke. He plants wet sloppy kisses all over his brother's face and eyelids until Peter settles himself completely between Edmund's legs, their knees knocking and slipping against each other.
Chuckling, Peter tries to make himself more comfortable. "We used to fit better when we were older." He turns his head, pointed at the sharp boy angles not exactly lined up and trails a hand across Edmund's side, his own torso beginning where the other's ends.
"We still fit together now," Edmund says with a slight shrug as he brings more gentle hands into Peter's hair. "Just different." The strands run easily through as if made to taunt Edmund with the fleeting nature of everything that is them. Never enough, he thinks; never enough.
Each of Edmund's exhalations becomes a shaky sigh as he thinks of their future, one built on the unstable foundation of memories long ago. They've had precious few moments like this since they arrived in Narnia again and even fewer before that in England.
The hopes that he could have had of actually growing older with his brother, the prospects of relearning their bodies again are dashed in the overhanging somber tones of the next day's battle that drifts ever closer with each shift of the moon in the sky. He resents it, resents being compared to it if the mere sight of it can cause Peter so much pain. Even the sky, peppered with twinkling stars, seems to stare mockingly down at them.
Peter sighs against him and breathes in deep, oblivious to Edmund's own inner turmoil. "You still smell the same." He inhales again and nestles himself further into Edmund. "Like sweet tea. You know, the kind we used to make."
Edmund knows - the very mention of the scent bringing back memories of the Old Narnia, of sitting on terraces, of spring mornings and summer afternoons, of nostalgia, and of Peter's sun soaked skin.
Edmund tries to take it in, feels a little ridiculous sniffing at the air when all he catches is the smell of Peter's hair - boy with a hint of chamomile - but allows himself an affectionate smile. The years have not changed his brother, not in moments like this. The tears that were beginning to ebb, rise when the thought flits past his mind if they'll have any more, and what little hope he had, flees.
"I'm going to remember your scent forever," but there are hints of fear lacing Peter's voice as if forever wasn't going to be a long time, merely a few more minutes, hours, just the amount of time to make a memory and hold it in your mind, still poignant and fresh enough that even the edges remain crisp and unfrayed.
"Forever? You don't need forever. All we need is the next few years. Decades, maybe, if we're lucky," Edmund tries, the words serving as in impromptu prayer.
This is the same Edmund he's always known, being strong and resiliently hopeful by choosing to ignore all else. Peter's own mind is not even capable of wrapping around the idea of a decade. This is war. Tonight and tomorrow are all he expects.
"Ed, if I die-" And before he has time to finish, he is roughly flipped over onto his back, Edmund straddling his thighs and eyes glittering dangerously.
The moon forms a glowing halo around his head and Peter can't help but smile at the vision, cataloging it as another that he hopes to remember. It might help him to picture this during the battle, his beautiful brother whom he would do everything to protect, even die. Peter lets the relief wash over him that at least for the moment he is safe.
"It's not something I want to dwell on either," he continues softly, rubbing the backs of Edmund's hands with his thumbs while he looks away, eyes darting nowhere in particular, trying vainly to rid himself of the biting at his eyes.
A hot drop splashes against Peter's chest, but Edmund makes no motions to wipe the stains away. Peter sits up, his brother sliding down a little in his lap, head still turned adamantly to the side and his body shivering almost imperceptibly.
Peter wraps his arms around him, forcing Edmund's head into the crook of his neck where the tears pour onto his skin from behind closed lashes. When he rubs his back with a soothing hand and breathes sadly "Oh, baby brother," Edmund grips his shirt tighter, like he used to do when they were kids scared before a storm. Or when they were older and there were no clothes to grab hold of, just bare slick skin and hands that had all the time in the world. His own grip tightens at the memory as he tries to give Edmund something real to hold onto again, if just for a short time.
"You don't even know what this is doing to me." Edmund's hurt voice comes from behind clenched teeth and he only presses harder into Peter.
Peter realizes that he really doesn't; he was the one always charging off on his own expeditions or campaigns, leaving behind his siblings to worry about when, if ever, he would be back. He was the oldest, the High King; he did everything first without much thought as to how it would affect them, though, he knew it would. His own confidence in himself was what kept him going, but now he can't imagine just that being enough for Edmund.
Still, those years between battles and peacetime - somehow they'd managed to survive fifteen years like that and despite everything, they were the most wonderful fifteen years of his life.
"There isn't anything to be smiling about, Peter."
"How did you-"
"I felt that," Edmund says, an echo from before.
Peter kisses the juncture between Edmund's neck and his shoulder.
"That too."
Peter gives a wild, desperate laugh, perhaps one more boisterous than he is used to. But it doesn't matter. This is his brother. His beautiful made-up-of-moonshine and soft skin and sharp wit and intelligence and affection brother.
"No matter what happens. I'm never going to let you go. Okay? I'll always come back no matter what." Only to you. Like gravity. He feels Edmund nod against his neck and shut his eyes again, wet lashes just brushing skin.
Tears threaten to spill from his own eyes and he looks up at the moon imploringly, clutching Edmund to himself. This is his: his brother, his Edmund, his moon. He watches it travel across the sky until he can no longer keep his eyes open and his arms go slack and they both fall asleep against each other in the grass only to wake up to the dawn and the light pinks in the air, the dazzling brilliance of the sun bathing the world in gold that Peter thinks, at that moment, is less beautiful than any night sky could ever be.
He lazes about in the grass twirling a long stem in his hand and running the feathery tip against Edmund's cheek. It's almost like it was before and if he just pretends, his mind takes him back to other days when duty could wait and battles were long ended and afternoons were spent exactly like this.
Edmund wakes and for a moment, Peter thinks he sees the older Edmund shining in his eyes, happy and unclouded by worry or fear. They flicker back with the reality, and he suddenly looks small lying there, knees tucked in. They're both small, he realizes, no matter how much fills them up inside.
When they make their way back to the castle, they make sure their movements are slow and languid, filled with touches and caresses and light kisses that only prolong the walk. Edmund holds Peter's hand firmly in his own, laces their fingers together, and almost silently asks Peter if he's ready, but Peter beats him to it and gives him a brave, albeit melancholy, smile.
This is his brother, he thinks. The one who can walk straight-backed and proud, every inch the King he is, to whatever awaits him, and still hold his little brother's hand.
Just before they reach the castle, Edmund tugs Peter towards him and whispers against his cheek "Love you too," the last remnants of his tears not quite landing against Peter's face as he pulls away to give him a soft kiss, almost brotherly but so much more. He knows they both need that final reassurance.
"Always."