Of Brothers and Kings
Title: Of Brothers and Kings
Author: Lora Perry
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t sue
Summary: In which Peter and Edmund, the High King and the Just, talk of things that should have been talked about long ago, like the pain of coming home, and that dear sister of theirs.
Edmund shifts as he waits. The 10 o’clock train has yet to near, and glancing at his wrist watch it’s 10:02.
“Easy, Ed.” Pete says, switching his coat from one hand to the other. It is a black coat to match his black pants and black socks and black life. Black, black, black, black. Peter misses for the blues and yellows and reds he used to be dressed in.
“Sorry,” he grins back, watching the curve of the track for the train.
Peter smiles, slapping Edmund’s back for a few seconds. “It’s coming Ed, don’t worry.”
“I know Peter.” He responds gruffly, trying to sound menacing, and adult, and failing. Even now, his voice is still changing; transitioning back to the lower tone that it was before they returned. At sixteen Edmund it still so very much a boy; still very much at ill ease with the way his body is growing; it is frustrating to say the least, knowing already what his body will grow into and fed up with waiting; that is all the Pensives do now: they wait - wait and hope. “It’s just that, well call it stupid but…” he trails off, uncertain to bring up a topic that has been a sore, pussing wound in the side of all True Narnians.
“You just expected Susan to come.” Peter has always been able to read his mind and his emotions.
“Well… yes.”
“Edmund,” Peter sighs, ready to commence into another conversation about his loved sister and her unloved practices. Of how she won’t be returning to them any time soon, lost to a world that doesn’t make sense to him, to any Narnian.
“No Peter.” Edmund halts the already heard, several times, lecture with his hand (such a young hand, such an unsullied hand, such a scar less hand). “She’s our sister, she our Queen, she may always return.”
Peter is silent at that. Edmund has always aptly deserved his title of “the Just.” No matter how far Susan falls, Edmund will always be ready to see her come back; knowing it is right, knowing it is just. As he had done with Giants who had lost their way, or the wolves who had come back to Cair Paravel, apologizing for their misdeeds under the White Witch: Edmund was always ready to do right by them. He had heard, he had listened, and he had dispensed punishment, though never harsh, and seemed more to give the wrongdoers a way to ease the guilt of their misguided pasts.
Peter may have been High King, may have declared war, and saved damsels; but Edmund was the Judge, the lawmaker and the law abider, and it was he who always passed judgment. Traitor and thief alike were given the same ear, the same court. It was known throughout the land that if a traitor came forth and apologized, seeked penance for his ways in the Winter, that the Just King opened him with warm and welcome arms; whispers in the darker corridors of the Cair suggested it was his way of remembering Aslan’s own way with the Just King, after his own stint as a traitor. But such rumors were never well kept. Most simply admired their young king, and treasured his wisdom.
The Solomon of Narnia, Peter muses.
But for those who never came forth, who never seeked repentance, who went on in their horrible ways: rage like fire fell down on them when they were captured and tried (for even those who are against the crown, and against peace deserved a trial, no matter what.) The servants who ever had the misfortune of serving the Just King on those days were in fear of the inferno of anger that was alight on his face, his liquid brown eyes ablaze with disgust at the wrongdoings before him. Even the Queens, courageous and strong, kept their distance.
Peter frowns at those memories, at those times, when even he had to muster his will to speak to the passionate king. “Ed, you know she’s not coming. She just not going to show up, and apologize for forgetting.”
His brother sighs, glancing to look at his King’s face. “I know Peter. I know. But some part of me will always hope. You didn’t forget, neither did I, nor did Lucy. There’s hope, Pete. She’ll remember.”
Peter can’t do anything, can’t be heartless enough to recall the last time he had tried to speak to Susan of Narnia. Her eyes had been black and pitiless when he had begun to speak.
Really Peter, time to grow up and be real.
He shudders even now at the thought of the Gentle Queen, strong and beautiful; turning away courtiers because her heart belonged, first and forever, to Narnia; dancing with fawns in the new moon; singing with the mermaids during the festival of water. So alive. So in tune with the land and the sky and her people.
“You alright, Peter?” His brother’s questioning eyes fall on him. For a moment -a single powerful moment- Edmund appears to him as he was at twenty seven, home from a tournament in the South, tanned skin, a woman with cherry hair by his side; smiling as he halts his horse in the courtyard of Cair; dismounting first before helping his lady down; bowing before his King, an infectious smile on his face, while his lady curtsies in time with him; hugging the Queens he loves; introducing his lady; smiling, smiling, smiling.
Blue skies, white clouds, hope and love and life.
“Oh Ed. We have lost so much.” Peter says, the happy memory melting away like wax on a hot day.
“Pete?”
“We lost so much when we came back. We lost so much. Susan lost her way, you lost…” he cannot continue, cannot hurt Edmund where it hurts most.
“I know Peter.” Peter looks down at his little brother, still so little, the growth spurt not meant to hit ‘til next spring. He is so young. So young, and already so wise. “We lost a lot when we came back, but we found more here Pete. We have the professor and Miss Polly, and we have each other. Can’t you remember before we went, how awful we all were to one another? Pete, we gained so much when we returned, never forget that.”
“But Ed. All that was lost.”
“Yes, Peter, I know. I know better than you.” Those dark storm cloud of eyes fill with deep dark and Peter wonders at the things they hide.
“What? What do you mean?”
“Do you remember when we were in Narnia helping Caspian?” Peter nods. He never forgets anything about Narnia, nor could he ever forget his last few wonderful days there, getting Caspian ready to lead his land. “Lucy came to me in tears. Two thousand years had passed, Pete. No fawn has ever lived to be more than two hundred.”
“Oh.” Peter sees what is coming, his heart turning and mourning at the thought of the old fawn, so gracious and helpful. Lucy’s truest friend, a smart and logical mind, a great dancer: gone by the time they had returned, felled by the one enemy he could not challenge: time.
“She cried so hard that night. Worse than when you sent Mikain to the South to help with the treaties and he didn’t write.” Peter smirks a small bit at the mention of those days. He had been particularly protective of his young sister’s heart when she turned eighteen. And Lucy had been particularly fond of the young boy: he was smart, dashing, and handsome. And Peter hadn’t liked it one bit. The young soldier, fresh faced and in love with a Queen had needed the experience, had needed the weathering, had needed to know fear. Though, looking back now, Peter frowns at his brash decision to send the young Lord’s son south. Lucy had cried awfully hard those first few nights without word: long, drawn out tears, sobs that has racketed in her chest. She had thought him dead.
“Oh Ed. It must have been awful.”
“It was horrible Pete. She must have sobbed for hours in my arms. You were off making plans with the centaurs, and Susan was trying not to flirt with Caspian, and I had a little woman-girl devastated that she had deserted a friend.”
“Was that the night you found out about…”
“About ‘Lesta? No. No,” He shakes his head, “I had already figured it out.” Edmund sighs, turning back to the tracks, waiting for the late train to arrive. It was the 10 o’clock train they were supposed to be on, wasn’t it?
“What? Ed, why didn’t you talk to one of us?” Peter, always so in harmony with his siblings, is stunned by the double revelation. First Lucy with Tumnus, but Ed, sweet, in love Edmund…Oh Aslan, your wisdom is wise but your deliverance hurts those who love you most.
Edmund swings his head around. His eyes are hot with emotion and his voice is heat and barely leashed anger. “Talk, Pete? We had just come back to a land, our land, in the brinks of a civil war! You were having a crisis of faith, Lucy was disappointed in everyone: Narnian and Telemariane, and Susan was so enamored by the Prince and so disgusted by you that I could no more talk to her than I could talk to the moon. There was no time to talk of anything but war and retribution and two foolish Kings trying to raise a witch from her doomed grave! There was no time!”
“We would have made time!” Peter demands, seeing his failures so clearly now. His failures as both King and as brother. Why hadn’t he been ther to help his brother through his darkest of hours?
“We had no time as it was! The Telmarines were basically knocking on the How’s door the moment we arrived. We had troops to get ready, a fortress to solidify, and a King to make. I knew we had no time. No time to grieve, no time to reflect. A war was coming.”
“Edmund…”
“Forget it Pete, I have.”
“But Ed.”
“Forget it.” Ahh, the judge tone, the one used to seal convictions and write new laws: brusque and strong and ending.
“That tone may work on the people, but it will not work for your King.”
The moment Peter Pensive says it he regrets it. Edmund stiffens, his eyes switching from an ocean of emotions thrashing about to a thick stone wall; he was, alas, unreadable. “Then what,” Edmund hisses out through gritted teeth. “would my King like to hear.”
“Oh Aslan, Edmund. Talk to me!”
“What would my King like to speak of?”
“Just stop, Edmund. Just stop. If you do not wish to speak, you do not have too.”
“But my King,” the Just retorts, “you demanded that I speak.”
“Enough! Edmund of Finchey, you will stop such behavior.” Peter halts, changing from speaking as a High King, his high, grandiose tones to speaking as a brother, soft calm, placating a giant bear to show him his paw. “As your brother I beg of you, speak to me. Open up to me.”
The silence that he is met with breaks his heart. “Oh, Ed. Have you been grieving this whole time?”
“What?!” Edmund’s head snaps up, staring into his brothers eyes. “Damn the Lion, of course I have! But not just for ‘Lesta, but for Mr. Tumnus and Mr. and Mrs. Beaver and Oreious and Su’s handmaiden Gísla and the courtiers and the servants and everyone. Peter I grieved for them all, for the loss, and for never saying goodbye. They were our people, and we abandoned them! They had lost their Kings and their Queens, and they were alone.”
“We did not abandon them, we had no choice. We were as Aslan had planned. They must have understood.”
“But we still left. We still left. We left our people.” He sobs out, his dark eyes filling with tears that he will not shed. Far too many tears he has already wept for a lost country, a lost way of life. Far too many. His defenses break; his knees go weak; he looks to his brother, to his King. Help me, he wants to cry. But he is a King of Narnia, and he will not break. Peter’s heart slowly cracks into a thousand pieces at his brother, so utterly devastated.
Edmund, kind and just, the noble order, King, sighs softly to his brother, “We left them, Peter. Forsook them.”
“Oh Edmund,” Peter whispers, crushing his brother into his chest, gathering the lost king into his arms. “So long, so long you mourned in silence. But you hear me, Edmund, King and Narnian, you did not abandon your people. You did not abandon your duty.”
They stay there, brothers and Kings, arms wrapped tightly around each other for a time, desperate for a tether to the world, desperate for contact. Alone in each other’s arms and in the silence, the two young boys turned Narnia men begin, once again, the journey of healing.
“You don’t want to believe Pete,” Ed says, staring at the High King’s neck, unable to break the bond that seals him to the Magnificent’s chest. “You don’t want to believe that Su will come back. But I have to. So many we have already abandoned. We cannot abandon our Queen as well.”At last, Peter understands, understands his younger brother’s determination towards the Gentle, lost Queen. How, how could he have been such a fool?
“You’re right, Ed. I’m sorry. She is a Queen” The High King says, unabashedly apologizing for his wrong thoughts on the exiled Queen.
“And, Peter, she is our sister.”
And Peter, High King of Narnia, King of all Kings of the blessed land, can only nod. For he may have never lost his faith in Aslan, may have never lost his faith in Narnia, but he had lost his faith in his sister. And he thanks the lion for giving unto him a brother whose steadfast heart would never turn away a lost lamb or sibling. And he nods, because words escape him, won’t form in his mouth, emotion cottoning his tongue, and water pooling in his eyes.
Edmund smiles up at his brother, his King, before slowly departing from the needed embrace. “Look at us,” he mock scowls, “like two chamber maids crying over a spilt pot of milk. No way of a King.” He smiles at Pete, a weak, half hearted attempt, with only a small glimpse of the white teeth hidden behind pink lips. Not the full, bright smile that the High King was so used to seeing in the Days of Old, riding on the horses, sword fighting in the courtyard, both sweaty and tired and exhilaratingly alive; no, that smile had been left in Narnia too.
Left with the blue skies and the white clouds.
Peter laughs, his eyes bright with mirth, “Oh indeed, young King the Just. ‘Tis no manner of a King to weep over spilt milk.”
“Now, a Queen, your majesty, a Queen would cry over it.”
“But of course, your highness. Queens are such silly little girls in that manner. They also seem to weep at the sight of a spider”
“An ant”
“A bat”
“A bee”
“A centipede”
“A turtle.”
“What?” Peter stops, looking at his young brother. “A turtle?”
Edmund smiles. “Oh yes, a turtle.”
“Why a turtle?” The High King must know. Already, Peter is imagining several different scenarios, each one more bizarre than the last. A giant turtle maybe? Or one of the more playful younglings, dressed up as a turtle? But for the Lion’s sake, why would the two have been afraid? A turtle is still a turtle. “Tell me, King Edmund, how such an event came to pass.”
“I’m afraid, your majesty that I was sworn to secrecy.” Edmund blissfully responds, his eyes alight with joy and trickery.
“Is that so, King Edmund?”
“Alas, sire, it is. I was sworn to secrecy by not one but two great Queens of Narnia. And you as a King, sire, must know the vengeance for breaking an oath to two Queens of Narnia?”
“Indeed I do, King Edmund, and I would fear for your life if Queen Lucy or Queen…” He hesitates, drawing in his breath, pictures that young woman: that young monarch, black hair and green dresses, laughing with those fawns and those mermaids, so alive, so bright, so his sister, “…or Queen Susan heard of your oath break.”
He smiles at Ed. “For I know that Queen Susan has a mighty and cunning way of installing retribution should a secret come exposed.”
“Indeed, High King Peter, she does. I believe it may involve itching powder or cobblestone cleaning.”
“Nasty thing those cobblestones. Very hard to clean.”
“Aye, your Majesty. ‘Tis why I think she makes those who cross her scrub at them.”
“You are right, young monarch. Still, if one knows the right technique, cobblestone cleaning can go quickly.”
“Oh, sire? Is that true? Perhaps you could bestow on a young and learning King a piece of wisdom in this regard.”
“Well, no. I never actually mastered any technique with cobblestone cleaning. But a warm bath afterwards does dull some of the ache of scrubbing.”
“A King? Bested by cobblestones.”
“You would be wise, young monarch, to fear the cobblestone.”
They laugh, tilt their heads back and laugh loud. They picture those great, grey and black cobblestones that lead up to the Cair, the wear and tear they received over the years, from hooves and feet and paws and claws. They see the sun that glimmered on them during the summer, and the feel of a wet, soapy, brush in their hands, the hard pressure against their knees and shoulders as they scrubbed, all the while listening to the shrieks and giggles of two young queens and one cherry haired consort, as they watched from above.
Edmund smiles, his lips parting, a reminder of those great smiles of Narnia; Peter knows that it is not the full thing, but he prays to Aslan that one day he may again see his younger brother smile the way he did one day in the courtyard, a young lady of the South by his side.
“Edmund,” Peter begins to say, but is drowned out by the whistling approach of the train, now quickly advancing into the station, the billowing stacks of smoke and the smell of coal a cold reminder of where he is, and where he isn’t.