"I'm here," he knows how thin that sounds, weak, and he hurries so quickly to follow it that there is only, briefly, a series of crackles, like the air popping and the gramophone itself threatening to stop working. He closes the sound, tries to cut off what he was initially trying to feed into it, and when there is only the almost listless, background snap of the machine, he tries again, his voice soft in a way it would have been during a duel's respite if he hadn't been approaching desperate. He had been though, and that's more water under the bridge even if he tries to ignore its origins. Fear is not a look or feeling Peter will ever be comfortable with or allow himself to be resigned to, but he feels it sharply now, more, heavier even though there is nothing left of him for anything to weigh upon.

"I haven't a lot of time," he warns, his voice much stronger now, stronger than the gramophone can take credit for. This, this is all Peter, all the brother who finds himself both relieved and appreciative that Edmund believes it is him from the start, that he doesn't waste time, that in a sense, he just knows. For a moment, his brother looks his true age too, and Peter wonders if it's only death that lets him see flashes of years they haven't had reason to think of in ages--metaphorical for them, and devastatingly literal for others they never meant to leave behind.
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wandbreaker

January 2012

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