Fic : A Thin Veneer of Civility (Narnia)
Title : A Thin Veneer of Civility
Author : Gunbunny
Fandom : Narnia.
Pairing : none.
Rating : A bit of violence. No blood.
Summary : Some people really don't understand the concept of playfighting. (post-PC)
Disclaimer : Not mine. CS Lewis's.
Feedback : I accept burnt offerings and alcohol.
Archive : http://burntcopper.com/fic , anywhere else feel free.
Notes : Follows on from Original Suspicious Bastard.
Captain Llewellyn walks into the club, removing his hat and attempting to shake the rain off. The man behind reception looks at the puddles of water he's leaving on the rug and asks pointedly "May I take your coat, sir?" He's been trained too well to let the evident distaste show on his face or in his tone, but it's implied.
"Thankyou." Llewellyn says, shrugging out of it and handing him the sodden coat and his hat, before walking through from the hall. Inside the main room it's a bit boisterous. From the looks of it, it seems that they've been indulging. And it's busy enough that you can't spot someone immediately. He grabs one of the officers walking past. "Have you seen Pevensie? He said he'd be in here today."
The man he's accosted takes his fag out of his mouth and gives him a contemplative look. "That depends."
"Depends on what?" Llewellyn asks.
"Depends on whether you wanted the vicious bastard or the one with a complete lack of anything resembling a moral compass."
Llewellyn blinks slightly. It's not the first time he's heard unflattering opinions of Pevensie, but... "Ah. The blond one? Peter?"
"Oh, the leader of men." He jerks his hand in a vague direction. "Over there. His brother's doing that spooky act of shadow to his brother's sun of his if you want to talk to him as well. Bloody creepy if you ask me."
Llewellyn pushes through the crowd to find his quarry in an armchair, drink in hand and bag of ice held up to his face with the other. His younger brother Edmund's reading in the chair next to him. Pevensie looks up as he approaches. "Llewellyn, nice to see you. Problem?"
"I've got a message to pass on. What did you do to your face? You can't have been in a fight, there's no pile of unconscious or groaning bodies around."
"Fencing match," Edmund volunteers, not looking up from his book. "Got a bit boisterous."
"I wasn't aware you fenced." Llewellyn says.
Peter shrugs. "They insisted that it was our turn."
---flashback---
When it came to discussing the situation later, everyone agreed that it was Mcgregor and Bennett who'd started the bit on knights, jousting and sword-fighting when everyone else had been discussing fencing at school. They couldn't remember whose idea it was to take the swords off the wall and attempt to recreate the fights of one's childhood, but it had certainly been Mcgregor and Bennett who started it all. Trying to lift solid metal bars proves to be quite difficult as it is, let alone waving them about to crash against the other person's in a satisfying manner, but they're giving it a damn good try. Everyone's cheering the chosen fighters on as they stagger back and forth, attempting to hit the other's sword.
There's been four bouts before someone pokes the elder Pevensie. "Come on, old man, have a go, you're practically salivating. I bet you played knights as a child like the rest of us. Didn't you fence at school?"
Edmund murmurs "Do we tell him we were chucked out for being too violent, and that I lasted less time than you did because the fencing master was still carrying a grudge against you?"
Peter elbows him, then replies truthfully "I've done a bit. Didn't last too long."
Edmund steps up to fight him, since strangely no-one volunteers to go up against Peter Pevensie in any sort of fight willingly. Edmund doesn't have quite the reputation that Peter does. "Now, remember, old man, it's not fists," Jacobs says cheerfully as he hands Peter a sword. "Longer reach than a knife, and different handling from a rifle butt."
Edmund and Peter weigh the swords in their hands before moving into the cleared space. "You remember how to use one of these, don't you?" Edmund grins.
"At least they're real swords," Peter replies.
"Come on, chaps, touch blades at the very least. Show some effort," Walker admonishes, since they're not doing anything but watching each other and shifting their balance a bit.
"When we're ready," Edmund says mildly.
They shift a couple of paces, eyeing the other up, and it's looking boring. The other officers were hoping for some entertainment, since the Pevensie brothers are somewhat notorious for their violence in any fight. Even if they can't use a sword to save their lives, the crowd were expecting something. Hacking at each other, perhaps. Instead, all they're doing is watching each other.
Suddenly, with no perceptible shift in mood, Peter moves forward, lightning-fast, slashing across Edmund's chest. Edmund brings his up in time to block, just. He turns it towards Peter's neck, Peter dodging and blocking as Edmund re-directs his aim at his stomach. As the block slides off, Edmund kicks at his knee, buckling Peter's leg, only Peter's coming up at the same time with an elbow to his gut. Edmund breathes in sharply, backing off half a step, then hitting Peter in the face with the hilt, just sliding away from another gut slice that's presented flat side on for some reason, turning and hitting Peter in the shoulder with the hilt of his sword, deadening his arm. And again until Peter dropped his sword, then aiming a slice at his neck.
It would've been nasty if Peter hadn't dropped and rolled, grabbing his sword with his other hand, striking at Edmund's feet with his and knocking them out from under him, the end of the roll sending him to his feet again, thumping Edmund in the gut as he goes down and Peter comes up. Another hit to his windpipe as that comes into range. Peter slashes across Edmund's throat with the flat side, Edmund just blocking before Peter kicks his wrist, then kicking the sword out of his hand as Edmund's hand spasms slightly, dropping a little to hold the sword to Edmund's throat.
"Yield?" Peter asks.
Edmund glares at him. "That was terrible and sloppy." He sounds like he's telling him off for badly done english homework, not sword-fighting technique.
"Out of practice, I know," Peter sighs.
"Precisely," Edmund grins, kicking out with his feet to get Peter's leg, pushing the sword away from his throat with one hand. However, Peter recovers fast, dropping to land on Edmund before Edmund's managed to move more than a few inches, using the weight difference to his advantage to pin him as he holds the sword across his neck.
"Not that out of practice to fall for that one," Peter grunts.
"Er, chaps?" comes the query from one side. "I think you can stop now."
Edmund grunts. "Listen to the man and get off me, Peter."
"If you insist," Peter grins, levering himself up, then helping Edmund up.
"I'm, um, I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but fencing doesn't actually resemble a brawl with swords." Thomson pipes up.
"Good thing we weren't attempting fencing, then." Edmund says, brushing himself off. "Fencing's useless anyway. I don't know how you're supposed to kill people with a bit of whippy metal."
The audience sobers up on hearing that one, as they're reminded that these are Pevensies. They don't understand the concept of sportsmanship and only ever think of how fast you can end a fight in your favour.
"Ah. Well. I'm still sure that swordfighting doesn't involve bashing someone in the face with the hilt and kicking their feet out from under them." Helston ventures.
"Shows how often you've been in a swordfight, then," Peter says, grinning. He's not even out of breath, considering the speed they were moving at. He inspects the blade. "Decent balance, at least. Pity they weren't sharp."
"You'd prefer them sharp?" Morris says in disbelief. "You could've done some real damage!"
They turn to look at Morris blankly. It's Peter who asks "What do you think a sword is for, Morris?" As they're standing there, swords held loosely by their sides as though they were natural extensions of their arms, it's a little too easy to picture. Especially if you're one of the unfortunates who've been privy to watch one or the other in any situation where knives were involved. The swords don't look like antiquated toys anymore. In the hands of the Pevensies, they look like precisely what they were fashioned to be - a simple killing tool.
No-one else feels like messing around with swords anymore, not after that exhibition. Always seems a little unfair, somehow, when someone brings on the serious side of a prank.
---end flashback---
Llewellyn shakes his head. "How they thought it might have gone any differently is beyond me," he pulls an envelope out of his pocket and hands it to Peter. "Notice of your next posting, apparently. Or something like that. It could be a reprimand for all I'm aware. The important message that I've been told to pass on is that you apparently owe Ferrars a bottle of whisky. What did you do?"
Peter takes the envelope, holding it up to study the scrawl on the front, then tucking it into his pocket. "Cheers, I'll look at it later. I don't owe him a bottle of whisky, he just insists I do."
"From what I heard, it took him two weeks to get the mud out," Edmund remarks. "And then there was the matter of his moustache."
"I'm still not going to buy him a bottle of whisky, he should've been prepared for that kind of thing," Peter replies, lifting the ice and working his jaw a little before putting it back on.
Llewellyn sighs. "One would imagine that kind of thing was a natural hazard of being anywhere near you, Pevensie. I'm off to get a drink."
It takes a bit of effort to get the attention of the barman. Attlee and Walker are propping up the other end of the bar. "What're you in for, then?" Attlee asks. "I thought you'd been locked in that office with the paperwork for new orders until Michaelmas at the very least."
"Came in to see Pevensie," Llewellyn replies, picking up a couple of nuts from a bowl. "What idiot encouraged them to fight?"
"We're blaming McGregor and Bennett," Attlee says. "They started it. We'd just been messing around before then, but whoever it was forgot that they don't see any difference between battlefield and club."
Walker drinks some of his whisky and sneers. "That's the problem with those two. You keep being lulled into thinking that they're normal coves, then they do something that reminds you that they're really savages with a thin veneer of civility. Why they haven't chucked them out as a disgrace yet is beyond me."
Attlee rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his own drink. "Probably because we find them rather useful in the field, old chap. You keep going on about this and it's getting rather boring. I'd rather have them in front of where I can see them, at any rate, and I'm sure most of the men would agree with me."
END
Author : Gunbunny
Fandom : Narnia.
Pairing : none.
Rating : A bit of violence. No blood.
Summary : Some people really don't understand the concept of playfighting. (post-PC)
Disclaimer : Not mine. CS Lewis's.
Feedback : I accept burnt offerings and alcohol.
Archive : http://burntcopper.com/fic , anywhere else feel free.
Notes : Follows on from Original Suspicious Bastard.
Captain Llewellyn walks into the club, removing his hat and attempting to shake the rain off. The man behind reception looks at the puddles of water he's leaving on the rug and asks pointedly "May I take your coat, sir?" He's been trained too well to let the evident distaste show on his face or in his tone, but it's implied.
"Thankyou." Llewellyn says, shrugging out of it and handing him the sodden coat and his hat, before walking through from the hall. Inside the main room it's a bit boisterous. From the looks of it, it seems that they've been indulging. And it's busy enough that you can't spot someone immediately. He grabs one of the officers walking past. "Have you seen Pevensie? He said he'd be in here today."
The man he's accosted takes his fag out of his mouth and gives him a contemplative look. "That depends."
"Depends on what?" Llewellyn asks.
"Depends on whether you wanted the vicious bastard or the one with a complete lack of anything resembling a moral compass."
Llewellyn blinks slightly. It's not the first time he's heard unflattering opinions of Pevensie, but... "Ah. The blond one? Peter?"
"Oh, the leader of men." He jerks his hand in a vague direction. "Over there. His brother's doing that spooky act of shadow to his brother's sun of his if you want to talk to him as well. Bloody creepy if you ask me."
Llewellyn pushes through the crowd to find his quarry in an armchair, drink in hand and bag of ice held up to his face with the other. His younger brother Edmund's reading in the chair next to him. Pevensie looks up as he approaches. "Llewellyn, nice to see you. Problem?"
"I've got a message to pass on. What did you do to your face? You can't have been in a fight, there's no pile of unconscious or groaning bodies around."
"Fencing match," Edmund volunteers, not looking up from his book. "Got a bit boisterous."
"I wasn't aware you fenced." Llewellyn says.
Peter shrugs. "They insisted that it was our turn."
---flashback---
When it came to discussing the situation later, everyone agreed that it was Mcgregor and Bennett who'd started the bit on knights, jousting and sword-fighting when everyone else had been discussing fencing at school. They couldn't remember whose idea it was to take the swords off the wall and attempt to recreate the fights of one's childhood, but it had certainly been Mcgregor and Bennett who started it all. Trying to lift solid metal bars proves to be quite difficult as it is, let alone waving them about to crash against the other person's in a satisfying manner, but they're giving it a damn good try. Everyone's cheering the chosen fighters on as they stagger back and forth, attempting to hit the other's sword.
There's been four bouts before someone pokes the elder Pevensie. "Come on, old man, have a go, you're practically salivating. I bet you played knights as a child like the rest of us. Didn't you fence at school?"
Edmund murmurs "Do we tell him we were chucked out for being too violent, and that I lasted less time than you did because the fencing master was still carrying a grudge against you?"
Peter elbows him, then replies truthfully "I've done a bit. Didn't last too long."
Edmund steps up to fight him, since strangely no-one volunteers to go up against Peter Pevensie in any sort of fight willingly. Edmund doesn't have quite the reputation that Peter does. "Now, remember, old man, it's not fists," Jacobs says cheerfully as he hands Peter a sword. "Longer reach than a knife, and different handling from a rifle butt."
Edmund and Peter weigh the swords in their hands before moving into the cleared space. "You remember how to use one of these, don't you?" Edmund grins.
"At least they're real swords," Peter replies.
"Come on, chaps, touch blades at the very least. Show some effort," Walker admonishes, since they're not doing anything but watching each other and shifting their balance a bit.
"When we're ready," Edmund says mildly.
They shift a couple of paces, eyeing the other up, and it's looking boring. The other officers were hoping for some entertainment, since the Pevensie brothers are somewhat notorious for their violence in any fight. Even if they can't use a sword to save their lives, the crowd were expecting something. Hacking at each other, perhaps. Instead, all they're doing is watching each other.
Suddenly, with no perceptible shift in mood, Peter moves forward, lightning-fast, slashing across Edmund's chest. Edmund brings his up in time to block, just. He turns it towards Peter's neck, Peter dodging and blocking as Edmund re-directs his aim at his stomach. As the block slides off, Edmund kicks at his knee, buckling Peter's leg, only Peter's coming up at the same time with an elbow to his gut. Edmund breathes in sharply, backing off half a step, then hitting Peter in the face with the hilt, just sliding away from another gut slice that's presented flat side on for some reason, turning and hitting Peter in the shoulder with the hilt of his sword, deadening his arm. And again until Peter dropped his sword, then aiming a slice at his neck.
It would've been nasty if Peter hadn't dropped and rolled, grabbing his sword with his other hand, striking at Edmund's feet with his and knocking them out from under him, the end of the roll sending him to his feet again, thumping Edmund in the gut as he goes down and Peter comes up. Another hit to his windpipe as that comes into range. Peter slashes across Edmund's throat with the flat side, Edmund just blocking before Peter kicks his wrist, then kicking the sword out of his hand as Edmund's hand spasms slightly, dropping a little to hold the sword to Edmund's throat.
"Yield?" Peter asks.
Edmund glares at him. "That was terrible and sloppy." He sounds like he's telling him off for badly done english homework, not sword-fighting technique.
"Out of practice, I know," Peter sighs.
"Precisely," Edmund grins, kicking out with his feet to get Peter's leg, pushing the sword away from his throat with one hand. However, Peter recovers fast, dropping to land on Edmund before Edmund's managed to move more than a few inches, using the weight difference to his advantage to pin him as he holds the sword across his neck.
"Not that out of practice to fall for that one," Peter grunts.
"Er, chaps?" comes the query from one side. "I think you can stop now."
Edmund grunts. "Listen to the man and get off me, Peter."
"If you insist," Peter grins, levering himself up, then helping Edmund up.
"I'm, um, I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but fencing doesn't actually resemble a brawl with swords." Thomson pipes up.
"Good thing we weren't attempting fencing, then." Edmund says, brushing himself off. "Fencing's useless anyway. I don't know how you're supposed to kill people with a bit of whippy metal."
The audience sobers up on hearing that one, as they're reminded that these are Pevensies. They don't understand the concept of sportsmanship and only ever think of how fast you can end a fight in your favour.
"Ah. Well. I'm still sure that swordfighting doesn't involve bashing someone in the face with the hilt and kicking their feet out from under them." Helston ventures.
"Shows how often you've been in a swordfight, then," Peter says, grinning. He's not even out of breath, considering the speed they were moving at. He inspects the blade. "Decent balance, at least. Pity they weren't sharp."
"You'd prefer them sharp?" Morris says in disbelief. "You could've done some real damage!"
They turn to look at Morris blankly. It's Peter who asks "What do you think a sword is for, Morris?" As they're standing there, swords held loosely by their sides as though they were natural extensions of their arms, it's a little too easy to picture. Especially if you're one of the unfortunates who've been privy to watch one or the other in any situation where knives were involved. The swords don't look like antiquated toys anymore. In the hands of the Pevensies, they look like precisely what they were fashioned to be - a simple killing tool.
No-one else feels like messing around with swords anymore, not after that exhibition. Always seems a little unfair, somehow, when someone brings on the serious side of a prank.
---end flashback---
Llewellyn shakes his head. "How they thought it might have gone any differently is beyond me," he pulls an envelope out of his pocket and hands it to Peter. "Notice of your next posting, apparently. Or something like that. It could be a reprimand for all I'm aware. The important message that I've been told to pass on is that you apparently owe Ferrars a bottle of whisky. What did you do?"
Peter takes the envelope, holding it up to study the scrawl on the front, then tucking it into his pocket. "Cheers, I'll look at it later. I don't owe him a bottle of whisky, he just insists I do."
"From what I heard, it took him two weeks to get the mud out," Edmund remarks. "And then there was the matter of his moustache."
"I'm still not going to buy him a bottle of whisky, he should've been prepared for that kind of thing," Peter replies, lifting the ice and working his jaw a little before putting it back on.
Llewellyn sighs. "One would imagine that kind of thing was a natural hazard of being anywhere near you, Pevensie. I'm off to get a drink."
It takes a bit of effort to get the attention of the barman. Attlee and Walker are propping up the other end of the bar. "What're you in for, then?" Attlee asks. "I thought you'd been locked in that office with the paperwork for new orders until Michaelmas at the very least."
"Came in to see Pevensie," Llewellyn replies, picking up a couple of nuts from a bowl. "What idiot encouraged them to fight?"
"We're blaming McGregor and Bennett," Attlee says. "They started it. We'd just been messing around before then, but whoever it was forgot that they don't see any difference between battlefield and club."
Walker drinks some of his whisky and sneers. "That's the problem with those two. You keep being lulled into thinking that they're normal coves, then they do something that reminds you that they're really savages with a thin veneer of civility. Why they haven't chucked them out as a disgrace yet is beyond me."
Attlee rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his own drink. "Probably because we find them rather useful in the field, old chap. You keep going on about this and it's getting rather boring. I'd rather have them in front of where I can see them, at any rate, and I'm sure most of the men would agree with me."
END