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‟Ed!” Peter startled, then grinned, stepping inside and closing the door. They were alone, though the noise from the common room below continued unabated; few of the boys had retired yet, but Peter had his tiny room to himself anyway.
No one else would have let himself inside in Peter’s absence - likely, Peter thought cynically, about half due to the punishment they’d catch for messing about with a prefect’s belongings, and about half due to the fact that even if he’d cleaned up his act enough to earn the position, the school population hadn’t forgotten their fear of Peter - but Edmund was sitting on his bed, smiling back at him.
‟Happy Christmas.” Edmund held up a small box bound with a vivid scarlet ribbon, and Peter took a breath, chest feeling suddenly tight.
‟Thought we were skipping presents.” Peter said softly as he crossed the room. There had been some joshing about how his brother didn’t have to try to suck up to him as much of the dorm had exchanged small gifts, and Edmund had passed out his own - but not to Peter.
Quiet joshing. Peter always returned any gift that felt more like an attempt to curry favour than a truly friendly gesture, and he took imprecations on his honour very seriously.
Edmund shrugged. ‟Have it.” he nudged, and Peter accepted it, dropping down beside his brother. ‟I thought this one . . . might be better in private.”
Peter eyed him, but didn’t hesitate before plucking at the ribbon, pulling it loose and opening the box to find-
Peter took a sharp breath.
It was a small ornament really, the like of which he - they all - had once had dozens; perhaps not unremarkable, but comfortably commonplace.
It was, it felt so in his hand - to a place now very far out of reach.
Peter stroked the small golden shield with his thumb - what once would have been one among many Edmund must have worked for months at least to afford - brushing over the body of the sculpted lion, and felt something on the back of the pendant; not so dramatic as the front, but. . .
He flipped it over and raised it closer to his face. There was a crown graven into the otherwise smooth back, neat but shallow, and almost unreadably tiny words etched around it. Edmund’s own work, he thought, swallowing. In script no more than a handful of people in this world could hope to understand.
‟My King,” Edmund said softly, tucking his chin on Peter’s shoulder and one arm around his waist, ‟always, Pete.”
Peter took a deep breath, only a little unsteady, and closed his eyes. ‟Thank you.” he returned just as softly.
He rubbed the back of the pendant again, then slipped it over his head, tucking it inside his shirt and turning to drag Edmund in close, chest aching.
The Lion faced the world, an echo of his long-lost shield - and Edmund’s words rested close to his heart.
My brother. My King. My beloved.