Peter/Edmund weird! fic....
Title: Liberté, égalité, fraternité, ou la mort!
Pairing: Peter/Edmund
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, incest, slash, run on sentences, (using parenthesis), hitting people over the head with literary quotes...
Summary: Peter dreams of a new world and Edmund plans a revolution inside his head
POV: First person, Edmund (yikes)
Disclaimer: None of this is mine, I'm just slightly crazy
Notes: I'm sorry if this is slightly confusing time wise, jumping back and forth, I tried to make it as easy to follow as I could...
Dedicated:To my brothers sisters in arms redleaf0, sockofnether and faerie_dance...all of whom are WAY overdue a dedication from me! XD
They found, like many explorers before them, that somehow, in their absence, they had got into trouble at home.
~Arthur Ransome
In those years which are now so distant they seem almost grey and bathed in fog in my mind, Peter and I would share a room. We were too poor for a house with more than three bedrooms (which when you've lived in a palace with a hundred spare rooms, seems a little ridiculous). Sometimes he would come and lay on my bed, him outside the covers, me inside, hot and stuffy but not moving.
He would read to me, and the stories I remember, the stories I loved, were full of pirates, magic carpets, three wishes that could never come true. (What would you wish for Ed?)
One book which lay beside my bed permanently, its pages bent back, its cover torn, was Swallows and Amazons, a dream of another world, freedom wrapped in a summer holiday fantasy.
We would daydream sometimes about having our own world, with our rules, like the children in the story books.
“Imagine it Ed” Peter would whisper to me, eyes made of glass and far away where I could not reach him, where I could not follow.
“We could make the laws, not the adults, and what do they know about truth?”
I leant against him and listened avidly, the pictures Peter painted bursting bright behind my eyelids. We were joined together in united hate of authority figures and adults who should, but did not know better.
I wonder when Peter stopped being on the side of the revolution and became one of the adults. Why did he want to be Dad? I never understood that. He already had such an enviable position in my eyes; oldest brother, golden haired angel, strong and quick at everything…
What would he do if he were me, I sometimes thought. Would he go crazy if he had to look at dirty brown eyes and skinny limbs in the mirror every morning? Or would he swallow the pain and let it turn to bitterness like I had?
No, he never understood where all my frustration came from, and I didn’t want him to. I almost enjoyed being a mystery, the problem child, the one in the corner that no one mentioned. And above all, it made it easier for me to watch Peter. I lived inside my head, a secret world I had created, and he never knew how lonely I was there without him.
************
There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things.
~Machiavelli
People forget I’ve been in Narnia for the second longest time of anyone, besides Lucy. Mustn’t that mean something? Aslan must have seen me as part of his plan mustn’t he? Although somehow that is a placebo of comfort, being a pawn in a lion’s game!
I saw the look in Peter’s eyes when he saw Narnia. Part of me already wanted to protect it from him. No, I thought, this world existed without you Peter, it existed before you knew about it, you didn’t create it, you’re merely a conqueror.
But it was too late, Narnia and Lu and Susan and the Beavers, all convinced that Peter was the way to a new world, a way towards salvation.
The prophecy was all anyone ever talked about. I was sick of it. Didn’t they know that thousand of prophecies were made every day? The only thing that made prophecies come true was that people believed in them. It was ridiculous, a fifteen year old boy as King, even I wouldn’t (couldn’t?) have made that up in my head.
A child would not place themselves on a throne of gold to be bowed down to; a child would create a place of nature and equality, they wouldn’t want absolute power, they wouldn’t crave responsibility.
But there we were, made happy by a lion’s word and breath. It was true, he had saved our lives, although mine belonged to Father Christmas if I believed everything Lucy told me about her little bottle of cordial (three wishes Ed, what would you wish for?)
So I sat there on my solid throne, feeling happy because my brother was there beside me after so many years, knowing my smile had little to do with the crown on my head, and everything to do with another the shining disk , one that lay inside my chest, inside my soul.
Still Peter never came to read to me anymore.
************
We must enter and take possession of the consciences of the children, of the consciences of the young, because they do belong, and should belong to the revolution.
~Plutarco Calles
There were four seasons in Narnia, but the way people talked, it was as though it was endless summer. I can’t think of anything worse, always summer and never autumn, spring or winter? To me, that would be just as dismal as eternal winter, in fact, I can’t think of anything more boring.
Sometimes I missed home so much my stomach hurt and in those moments I looked for Peter to say, or do something, anything to make me feel better.
But Peter’s golden rays never shone far enough to break the shadows of my despair.
Once when we had read long and late and my head was lolling against Peter’s shoulder I asked him questions about our dream world.
“Say I wanted the new world to be a republic….” I said, half lucid and heavy with sleep.
“There always has to be a leader Ed…and if it’s a monarchy, maybe you can be king too”
I was young enough to listen to him, but old enough to know that something didn’t quite fit.
“But there still has to be one true leader, a higher king I suppose…?”
Peter laughed a little and ruffled my hair (he was always doing that and I hated it)
I listened to my big brother, he always knew what was right.
And of course, it turned out in the end that Aslan had it all planned out for us anyway, although sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we had chosen a different side…then the memory (being bound, captive) comes back to me and I feel nausea pumping through my veins. The witch was a dictator, she never would have let Narnia be free, although temptation comes back all too easily for me when I wonder at what my position could have been, and what Peter’s fate may have been.
Maybe I could have had my republic after all.
************
The beginnings and endings of all human undertakings are untidy.
~John Galsworthy
Peter confided in me once, that the endings of the books we read were the scariest part to him. Not the deaths, not the violence, but the moment the adults came back and you woke up and remembered those children were children after all.
If endings are the most frightening part of the story for Peter, I wonder how he felt that day we tumbled back, out of the wardrobe, back into the stillness of real life (more terrifying than the chaos of any battle).
Maybe if I knew that, I could explain why Peter and I still share a room (even though we have moved out of Mum and Dad’s house and live by ourselves in a run down apartment in the town.)
Peter still comes to my bed, but now he slips inside the covers, hot breath and clingy arms, always moving.
He never reads to me anymore, unless it is the newspaper. Dry facts: marriages, births, deaths, (three wishes Ed…)
The floor beside our bed is littered with half empty water glasses, tear stained tissues, torn up paper and underneath that, stubby ends of cigarettes which Peter thinks I have not seen.
We may think we’re free, hidden away from the world, but this is not really living, and we both know, it is worse than a make believe world with no ending.
Sometimes Peter paints a dream out for me while I rest against him, but he prefers to speak with sharp caresses and shallow grunts instead of words, eyes made of fire and far away, dragging me along to follow.
We are not so different now, him and me. He is no longer a golden angel, he is a damaged, darkened human being. Does he go crazy looking at himself in the mirror every morning? I still swallow up my pain and I fear someday I will be made entirely of bitterness and nothing else.
I like to tease him sometimes.
“You think you’ve conquered me don’t you Peter? Think you own me like a country or a property? You’re not my salvation Peter, you never were.”
Peter never answers but takes me hard against the wall, floor, edge of the bed, all uncomfortable, desperate and urgent, pushing me to the point where I will gladly scream that he is High King and that I am nothing without him. Which may well be true…but I would never give him the satisfaction (peace) of knowing it.
And afterwards, Peter laughs, an empty, hollow laugh. I want to ask him what is so funny but I fear the reply.
But I stay with my big brother, he tells me this is the only thing we can do, and I listen, he always knew what was right in the past, even if this is something I never found in any story book, or in any other place but this.
Is this what Aslan had planned out for us? Somehow I doubt it. And if we had chosen a different side? The memory comes back to me, the real chains of metal the Queen cut for me with such care…and I compare them to the sweet gentle capture (prison?) Peter builds for me now. Temptation comes back all too easily and I know what my position should be, I know where I belong, and what Peter’s fate will be.
************
I think I'm coming down with something *spins woozily*...thanks for reading (if anyone did XD)
Pairing: Peter/Edmund
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, incest, slash, run on sentences, (using parenthesis), hitting people over the head with literary quotes...
Summary: Peter dreams of a new world and Edmund plans a revolution inside his head
POV: First person, Edmund (yikes)
Disclaimer: None of this is mine, I'm just slightly crazy
Notes: I'm sorry if this is slightly confusing time wise, jumping back and forth, I tried to make it as easy to follow as I could...
Dedicated:To my brothers sisters in arms redleaf0, sockofnether and faerie_dance...all of whom are WAY overdue a dedication from me! XD
They found, like many explorers before them, that somehow, in their absence, they had got into trouble at home.
~Arthur Ransome
In those years which are now so distant they seem almost grey and bathed in fog in my mind, Peter and I would share a room. We were too poor for a house with more than three bedrooms (which when you've lived in a palace with a hundred spare rooms, seems a little ridiculous). Sometimes he would come and lay on my bed, him outside the covers, me inside, hot and stuffy but not moving.
He would read to me, and the stories I remember, the stories I loved, were full of pirates, magic carpets, three wishes that could never come true. (What would you wish for Ed?)
One book which lay beside my bed permanently, its pages bent back, its cover torn, was Swallows and Amazons, a dream of another world, freedom wrapped in a summer holiday fantasy.
We would daydream sometimes about having our own world, with our rules, like the children in the story books.
“Imagine it Ed” Peter would whisper to me, eyes made of glass and far away where I could not reach him, where I could not follow.
“We could make the laws, not the adults, and what do they know about truth?”
I leant against him and listened avidly, the pictures Peter painted bursting bright behind my eyelids. We were joined together in united hate of authority figures and adults who should, but did not know better.
I wonder when Peter stopped being on the side of the revolution and became one of the adults. Why did he want to be Dad? I never understood that. He already had such an enviable position in my eyes; oldest brother, golden haired angel, strong and quick at everything…
What would he do if he were me, I sometimes thought. Would he go crazy if he had to look at dirty brown eyes and skinny limbs in the mirror every morning? Or would he swallow the pain and let it turn to bitterness like I had?
No, he never understood where all my frustration came from, and I didn’t want him to. I almost enjoyed being a mystery, the problem child, the one in the corner that no one mentioned. And above all, it made it easier for me to watch Peter. I lived inside my head, a secret world I had created, and he never knew how lonely I was there without him.
************
There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things.
~Machiavelli
People forget I’ve been in Narnia for the second longest time of anyone, besides Lucy. Mustn’t that mean something? Aslan must have seen me as part of his plan mustn’t he? Although somehow that is a placebo of comfort, being a pawn in a lion’s game!
I saw the look in Peter’s eyes when he saw Narnia. Part of me already wanted to protect it from him. No, I thought, this world existed without you Peter, it existed before you knew about it, you didn’t create it, you’re merely a conqueror.
But it was too late, Narnia and Lu and Susan and the Beavers, all convinced that Peter was the way to a new world, a way towards salvation.
The prophecy was all anyone ever talked about. I was sick of it. Didn’t they know that thousand of prophecies were made every day? The only thing that made prophecies come true was that people believed in them. It was ridiculous, a fifteen year old boy as King, even I wouldn’t (couldn’t?) have made that up in my head.
A child would not place themselves on a throne of gold to be bowed down to; a child would create a place of nature and equality, they wouldn’t want absolute power, they wouldn’t crave responsibility.
But there we were, made happy by a lion’s word and breath. It was true, he had saved our lives, although mine belonged to Father Christmas if I believed everything Lucy told me about her little bottle of cordial (three wishes Ed, what would you wish for?)
So I sat there on my solid throne, feeling happy because my brother was there beside me after so many years, knowing my smile had little to do with the crown on my head, and everything to do with another the shining disk , one that lay inside my chest, inside my soul.
Still Peter never came to read to me anymore.
************
We must enter and take possession of the consciences of the children, of the consciences of the young, because they do belong, and should belong to the revolution.
~Plutarco Calles
There were four seasons in Narnia, but the way people talked, it was as though it was endless summer. I can’t think of anything worse, always summer and never autumn, spring or winter? To me, that would be just as dismal as eternal winter, in fact, I can’t think of anything more boring.
Sometimes I missed home so much my stomach hurt and in those moments I looked for Peter to say, or do something, anything to make me feel better.
But Peter’s golden rays never shone far enough to break the shadows of my despair.
Once when we had read long and late and my head was lolling against Peter’s shoulder I asked him questions about our dream world.
“Say I wanted the new world to be a republic….” I said, half lucid and heavy with sleep.
“There always has to be a leader Ed…and if it’s a monarchy, maybe you can be king too”
I was young enough to listen to him, but old enough to know that something didn’t quite fit.
“But there still has to be one true leader, a higher king I suppose…?”
Peter laughed a little and ruffled my hair (he was always doing that and I hated it)
I listened to my big brother, he always knew what was right.
And of course, it turned out in the end that Aslan had it all planned out for us anyway, although sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we had chosen a different side…then the memory (being bound, captive) comes back to me and I feel nausea pumping through my veins. The witch was a dictator, she never would have let Narnia be free, although temptation comes back all too easily for me when I wonder at what my position could have been, and what Peter’s fate may have been.
Maybe I could have had my republic after all.
************
The beginnings and endings of all human undertakings are untidy.
~John Galsworthy
Peter confided in me once, that the endings of the books we read were the scariest part to him. Not the deaths, not the violence, but the moment the adults came back and you woke up and remembered those children were children after all.
If endings are the most frightening part of the story for Peter, I wonder how he felt that day we tumbled back, out of the wardrobe, back into the stillness of real life (more terrifying than the chaos of any battle).
Maybe if I knew that, I could explain why Peter and I still share a room (even though we have moved out of Mum and Dad’s house and live by ourselves in a run down apartment in the town.)
Peter still comes to my bed, but now he slips inside the covers, hot breath and clingy arms, always moving.
He never reads to me anymore, unless it is the newspaper. Dry facts: marriages, births, deaths, (three wishes Ed…)
The floor beside our bed is littered with half empty water glasses, tear stained tissues, torn up paper and underneath that, stubby ends of cigarettes which Peter thinks I have not seen.
We may think we’re free, hidden away from the world, but this is not really living, and we both know, it is worse than a make believe world with no ending.
Sometimes Peter paints a dream out for me while I rest against him, but he prefers to speak with sharp caresses and shallow grunts instead of words, eyes made of fire and far away, dragging me along to follow.
We are not so different now, him and me. He is no longer a golden angel, he is a damaged, darkened human being. Does he go crazy looking at himself in the mirror every morning? I still swallow up my pain and I fear someday I will be made entirely of bitterness and nothing else.
I like to tease him sometimes.
“You think you’ve conquered me don’t you Peter? Think you own me like a country or a property? You’re not my salvation Peter, you never were.”
Peter never answers but takes me hard against the wall, floor, edge of the bed, all uncomfortable, desperate and urgent, pushing me to the point where I will gladly scream that he is High King and that I am nothing without him. Which may well be true…but I would never give him the satisfaction (peace) of knowing it.
And afterwards, Peter laughs, an empty, hollow laugh. I want to ask him what is so funny but I fear the reply.
But I stay with my big brother, he tells me this is the only thing we can do, and I listen, he always knew what was right in the past, even if this is something I never found in any story book, or in any other place but this.
Is this what Aslan had planned out for us? Somehow I doubt it. And if we had chosen a different side? The memory comes back to me, the real chains of metal the Queen cut for me with such care…and I compare them to the sweet gentle capture (prison?) Peter builds for me now. Temptation comes back all too easily and I know what my position should be, I know where I belong, and what Peter’s fate will be.
************
I think I'm coming down with something *spins woozily*...thanks for reading (if anyone did XD)