"Swordplay"
Title: Swordplay
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Characters: Miraz, Glozelle, Caspian, Aslan, Edmund, Susan, Peter.
Prompt: #030: Death.
Word Count: 5982
Rating: 12
Summary: A death has far-reaching consequences, be they hate or grief or reconciliation, but those consequences are so much more poignant when they are effected in the depths of battle.
Notes: Written for fanfic100. A sequel to The Echo of Allegiance, because it was an idea that refused to leave me alone. This one explores that one more, but the core concept is the same. Very angstyful.
ETA: Went to Canada, took a printout, did some editing. Lots of editing. It makes me happy.
Swordplay
Miraz keeps away from the dead. The courtyard is strewn with their corpses, so he locks himself away in Cornelius' study and paws through the traitorous professor's belongings. He keeps the windows shut to keep out the stench that twists through the warm air. Death is a familiar face to the Telmarine, but he is disquieted by it. He stays away.
An ancient, dusty volume lies open in front of him. His attention and his fingertips linger on the same image - four child-monarchs of old, with shining crowns in their bright hair. Miraz's lips purse. He wonders about that image - and about those he saw last night.
Amongst the filthy Narnians, shoulder-to-shoulder with the usurper Caspian, there had been three children, fighting as if they had a lifetime of experience - experience they should not have. A paradox, and one that intrigues him, against his will.
With a snarl and a jerk, Miraz slams the book closed and sends it flying from the table. He slouches back in tight anger, just for a moment, and then pushes himself up and out of the chair.
His booted feet ring out in the cold stone corridors. He wonders; wonders on what he saw. A boy, by the gates - a trapped boy with fair hair and bloodied garb. Miraz had been watching, in the darkness, and now he wants-needs-to know who that fallen child is. He thinks he already does.
The stink of death floods his nostrils as he steps out into the sun. He doesn't flinch, even though some of the soldiers hold gauntletted hands to their faces against the reek. He rules these people. He cannot be seen to be weak in front of them. He is a Telmarine, and Telmarines are expected to be strong, no matter how they may feel inside.
He kicks at a Narnian's cloven hoof as he stands before the pile of bodies at the gate - bodies which have yet to be dragged away and disposed of. He sees-thinks he sees-a glimmer of fair hair, so he sets to work, tearing at the beasts, forcing them aside. He loses himself in his hate.
Miraz finally kneels among the broken corpses, his hands covered in dry blood, and seizes the boy-King's fair hair. There are arrows in his body and his dulled eyes stare sightlessly at the bright sky. "High King Peter," Miraz sneers. "The Magnificent."
"My lord?" A soldier stands quietly just behind him, expression fixedly blank.
Miraz drags the sword from Peter's hands and the scabbard from his hip. "Burn him," he orders, face impassive. "Burn the Narnian King."
Soldiers flock around their lord, dragging the fair-haired child away. A smear of crimson smudges itself across the courtyard, through the clearing debris. Miraz merely stands and studies the blade in his hands - carvings and ornamentation adorn the hilt, but the weapon is still light enough to be wielded with ease. He has never seen a sword like this.
The tyrant in him whispers that he should wield this blade as his own; flaunt the death of their legendary High King to the Narnians. But he can't - not quite. Not yet. Something holds him back. Something forces him not
The hairs prickle on the back on his neck, and Miraz spins around. For a second, he thinks he sees a flash of gold, but then he looks away and he is alone with the stench of death.
Miraz slides Peter's blade into its scabbard. He won't wield it just yet, to drive the Narnians to despair and defeat, but that doesn't mean he never will.
§§§
Glozelle supervises the burning of the pagan king. There is something in him which twists and protests when he sees the ruler's strange youth, but his Telmarine reserve snaps back into place. Orders are orders, even if the blasephemous Narnian King seems to be little more than a boy.
His features are impassive as his soldiers load the fair-haired body onto the impromptu pyre. There are no mourners, and Glozelle half-thinks that there is something not-quite-right about that. He readjusts his stance, and hardens his heart. Boy or not, he is still the enemy.
The soldiers step back, and Glozelle's lieutenant nods to him.
Ready.
Glozelle steps forward and touches the flaming torch in his hand to the pitch-darkened wood. The flames leap up, eagerly voracious. Heat blasts into the Telmarine's face, but he doesn't move. He stands firm and watches the boy-king's face, through the fire; the fair hair and the crimson spatter aross the cheek.
But he's just a child.
Glozelle quashes the thought.
The soldiers behind him shift, just slightly, and he can sense their sudden discomfort. His forehead furrows, and he looks again at the boy, and he abruptly shares their trepidation.
The boy's body refuses to catch alight. The heat from the pyre causes a trickle of sweat down Glozelle's cheek, but the battered corpse remainds unaffected - clothes do not burn and flesh does not scorch.
Something protects him, Glozelle realises. Something does not wish him to burn.
In the flames, behind the flames, he sees the flicker of movement. Just for a second, but there. Golden movement: there and then gone.
The flames roar brighter, and Glozelle is forced to take a step backwards. Armour clinks at his back - his men are afraid of this nothingness, and he abruptly realises that he is too.
His hand flies to his sword.
The pyre blazes bright white, just for a blinding second, and then they are left in darkness. The flames have gone, and with them the boy's body.
"Narnian sorcery!" comes the superstitous whisper.
For the first time Glozelle thinks of the fair-haired child as not boy, but as a Narnian king, and his palms grow sweaty.
§§§
In the How, with his back to the Stone Table, Caspian dreams of fire and death. As he dreams, his subconscious knows that this is unremarkable-death is in the How's fiery air-but something deeper whispers that this is strange. This dream is different. It feels like a life, but a life not his own - something which those spinners of fable and fantasy might call 'a vision'.
In his dreams, through the exhausted haze, he sees Peter's bloody face, and that is enough to jerk him awake.
The How's air is warm against his skin, and he pushes himself more securely against his stony resting-place. He brushes tangled hair out of his face, and is surprised to feel tears on his cheeks. Caspian's fingertips linger on those shimmering tracks, and then he lets his hand fall to curl in his lap.
-Peter's face, through the fire; the fair hair and the crimson spatter across the cheek-
Caspian draws his knees up and lets his hands hang between his legs, like a child hiding in a corner. He wonders at his dreams - the vividity, the strangeness. Peter's face, enshrouded in fire, and so real that he feels sick.
He shivers, just a little.
"Son of Adam." The sonorous voice that booms in the cavern should surprise Caspian, but it doesn't. He suddenly feels lulled, drowsy. His reflexes are numbed. He doesn't want to move. He merely watches the air in front of him. "Do you know me?" the voice continues.
Caspian blinks laboriously. "Aslan," he offers, and he has to fight to keep his speech from slurring. What is this? he thinks distractedly, but he cannot focus long enough to find an answer.
"I want to show you something."
The air in front of Caspian turns in on itself, shimmering and twisting. The Telmarine Prince watches, if only because it is the only act his sluggish body will let him perform. A figure coalesces, pale and transclucent. The figure's hands lie at its side, and stately blue robes clothe its stil form. It lies on its back, but not on the ground - above it, but only in shining outline.
Caspian cannot see the figure's face, but he doesn't need to. He knows. He always did.
"The High King lies in state," Aslan says, "suspended in time."
"Can you bring him back?" Caspian asks, the tears springing fresh to his eyes. "Can you make him live again?"
"His path is separate to yours. His choice has been made. It is done." The shining image of Peter Pevensie fades away, leaving only firelight to illuminate the cavern. "After the war is done, I shall fully return what is left of the High King." Maybe Caspian is imagining things, but he thinks he can hear regret in that powerful voice - regret for losses that should not have been lost and for opportunities that should have been taken. "Maybe then those left behind may find some consolation."
"Are you leaving?" Caspian asks, and he feels some life start to seep back to his limbs. He knows that he sounds as if he is a pleading child, but there is enough of the sluggish apathy left for him not to care.
"I must."
Peter is gone. Aslan will not stay. The armies are falling apart with no one to lead them. And Edmund says that I am to blame. I am lost. Caspian thinks all of these words and scattered phrases, but voices none of them. He doesn't need to. The lion knows.
"Be strong. They will need you as much as they needed their brother."
"I am not Peter."
"Then don't try to be," is the rumbling answer, and Caspian can hear the great lion's laugh. That laughter-that snatch of humour in the darkest of times-gives him hope, and the hope in turn returns strength to his limbs. He blinks the apathy away, and spins around, searching for the tawny creature Lucy loves so much. All he sees is a blur of gold at the edge of his vision.
"Aslan?" he asks into the silence.
§§§
Edmund paces across the grass, giant and centaur at his side, and feels sick. It's not the situation, because the situation is familiar - he has made this walk before: this walk across open ground to an enemy camp to bargain and placate and flatter. In fact, this happening would make him feel so at home, if only the difference between what was and what is was not so sickeningly marked.
Caspian, not Peter.
And it is that thought that makes him ill.
Edmund's throat closes, and his fist clenches in the red fabric of his tunic. White knuckles are stark against crimson. Bone on blood. The more-than-boy wants to vomit.
He misses his brother, more than he could possibly have imagined. Every second of every minute of every day.
Focus.
Miraz doesn't offer him a chair in his pavilion, but that was to be expected. Seated versus standing. Miraz holds the advantage, but Edmund doesn't mind. More accurately, he doesn't care.
The proclamation is read - the declaration. Caspian's name graces the scroll's end, signed with a curl and a flourish. It should be Peter's. Edmund can half-see his brother's mark now - the blocky writing, the curling initial. The High King's signature.
Edmund rolls up the scroll brusequely, and he can feel Miraz's calculated gaze lingering on him. The Telmarine has felt his conflict. "Prince Edmund-" he begins.
"King," Edmund corrects, not looking up.
He has caught Miraz off-guard. "Pardon me?" the usurper queries.
A tiny internal smirk flickers through Edmund. "King Edmund," he stresses. "Just 'King', though." Another phrase curls itself around his tongue-something involving High King and confusing and Peter-but he can't speak it. His memories still his voice. He is silent, and he is hurting.
Miraz inclines his head, and there is a flicker of cruelty in his gaze. "King Edmund," he begins again, duplicating the messenger's stress, "I must ask. Why is it that you allow Caspian to fight for the Narnian people? Surely, he is not one of you - he is a Telmarine, after all." He spreads his hands expansively. "Not to be trusted."
"He is one of us, now," Edmund answers firmly. "His birth doesn't matter - he leads us, and he believes in us."
Miraz nods, and he settles into a contemplative pose, curled fist resting against his chin. "But surely there should be another who leads you," he needles subtly. "A king of old, like yourself - a High King, not some upstart Telmarine princeling who believes he can command such a legend as yourself."
"Caspian is our leader," Edmund repeats stubbornly.
"But surely, your brother-"
"No."
The quiet in the tent is suddenly charged. The Telmarine lords shift and exchange nervous glances, and Wimbleweather shuffles his feet guiltily, as if the abrupt hostility is his fault. Glenstorm's hooves stamp and his nostrils flare. If the centaur had been permitted to bring a sword to this meeting, the gleam of steel would have shone in the tent. Only Miraz and Edmund are still, head to head, emotionless and angry. Duellists, but not with violence.
It is Miraz who finally makes a move, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table that sits between the two. "Peter," he says softly. "That was his name, correct? I have been reading the history books: those books of Narnian legend. High King Peter, the Magnificent. Defeater of the White Witch, bringer of peace to Narnia of old. The King who took victory in battle; Beruna, Archenland, the Lantern Waste." Miraz studies Edmund keenly. "Would he not be a better leader?"
"Doesn't matter," Edmund says flatly, face blank. "Caspian is our leader, not Peter."
"And what if Caspian fails you?"
"He won't."
Miraz leans back, and lets his cloak slip back from his shoulders. The action seems accidental, but Edmund knows that nothing the Telmarine says or does is wholly spontaneous. That simple movement has been planned and thought out, and it is devastatingly effective. Standing out against his dark mail, crimson stark against filthy grey, lies Peter's sword, strapped tight to Miraz's hip. Intimidation and oppression. Miraz wants him to falter.
Edmund feels the sickness roil over him once more.
"I believe your precious Caspian has already failed you, King Edmund," Miraz goads quietly. "Failed you, and cost your Magnificent High King his life."
Silently, head full of anger and doubt and grief, Edmund steps forward, feet making little sound on the grass as he moves towards the Telmarine leader. The proclamation in his hand feels illogically heavy - the weight of his responsibility, and his position. "I haven't come here to discuss politics or grudges or the past," he answers quietly, firmly. "I came with a proposition - a way to end this without everybody dying." He can hear Miraz's Telmarine lackeys shifting uncomfortably - even they do not want everyone to die; just their Narnian opposition, and the insinuation that the casualties might be wider-reaching than that troubles them. He knew it would. Miraz's eyes are hard, and focused on the young king before him with diamond-sharp intensity.
Inexplicably, there is a brief intoxicating thrill that twists its way through Edmund - this, negotiation and compromising, comes flooding back to him in memories of the years that his body no longer shows, and he loves that. He is King Edmund once more, and the King can overcome the griefs that would incapacitate the boy.
He steps forward again, and the edge of his bright tunic brushes against Miraz's table. The proclamation rests in his hand, all-important and yet insignificant. Edmund smiles - a dark, challenging smile that belongs to the Just, not the Pevensie. "So I ask you. Do you accept?"
Thoughtfulness blazes in Miraz's posture. He studies Edmund, and he seems to see something new. There is respect, and fear.
It's an expression that Edmund likes.
Slowly, Miraz inclines his head. "I accept."
And it is done.
Edmund nods curtly. He should feel excited-joyful and exuberant at his success-but the sckness still twists his stomach and his emotions. The King cannot quite suppress that. He turns, and walks away, Glenstorm and Wimbleweather flanking him.
"King Edmund?"
Edmund pauses at Miraz's call, and glances back over his shoulder.
Miraz gazes with apparent indifference back at him, but he is angry - Edmund can tell. "I will kill your leader with your brother's sword," he says flatly, simply. It is a statement of intent, but it feels like fact.
At that moment, at that goadingly-harsh cruelty, Edmund can almost understand why Caspian hated Miraz enough to swerve from their immaculate battle plan and cost Peter his life. But only almost. There are some things that can never be forgiven. "You can try," he answers, just as flatly, and keeps walking.
When he returns to the How, after he tells the others that the duel with be met, he finds a quiet corner and empties his stomach in violent, wracking heaves.
§§§
Caspian and Edmund stand alone, waiting. The Telmarine is armed and armoured, ready for a fight that may well be the last he ever battles. The Pevensie's face is set as he tightens the straps on his companion's armour, and his mind is elsewhere. They make a strange pair. United, yet so far apart.
Miraz watches them from across the arena, but they don't seem to care. His forehead furrows.
"Edmund," Caspian says softly, "do you think I even stand a chance?"
For a moment, Edmund is stricken by the hopelessness of that question - but only for a moment. He pulls tight the last leather straps of Caspian's greaves, and straightens. "He's more experienced than you," he says evenly, "but you're younger than he is. Tire him out, and don't be afraid to fight dirty. This isn't a game anymore - if he defeats you, he will kill you." He lets his hand rest on his companion's shoulder, just for a second. "You stand for more of a chance than you think," he encourages, and hopes that it doesn't sound as hollow as it feels to say. Duels were always Peter's area of expertise-the dance and elegance of single combat with so much at stake-and Edmund knows that the Narnians would have much more hope if it was the High King arming for battle, not the inexperienced Caspian. He can't say that, though - he can't even consciously think it. What might have been, and what is. They can never meet.
Caspian's chin tilts up, and Edmund knows that his insincere words have brought hope to the new ruler. He feels old. He moves away and retrieves Caspian's sword, and it's strange in his hands. His nose wrinkles discontentedly - the Telmarine weapon is heavy, and Edmund cannot ever imagine fighting with it.
He puts it down again, and draws his own sword.
"Edmund?"
Edmund smiles, just a little. He holds out his own light, perfectly-balanced length of Narnian steel, and offers it to Caspian. "Fight with this." He's not giving Caspian an option of refusing, he knows that, but he doesn't really mind.
"I cannot," Caspan protests.
"Yes, you can." Edmund suddenly feels different - almost crueller. He doesn't want to coddle Caspian anymore. "You're about to fight as a Narnian leader, so you will be armed as such. Take it."
Automatically, with the air of one used to obeying orders, Caspian reaches out and closes his hand around the hilt, and Edmund has released it before the Telmarine can consciously react. He steps back, arms crossed across the lion on the front of his scarlet tunic. Caspian looks up at him, but there is something in the not-boy's eyes that just dares him to argue, to bicker, to complain. Something which needs the confrontation, which craves it.
Caspian keeps silent.
Edmund nods, almost to himself. "If you lose, I will take this weapon from your dead hands and keep fighting, for my people and my brother," he says softly, and there is something dangerous in his voice. "But if you win, you will keep my blade, and I will take Peter's sword from Miraz and we will destroy your people's army together. Is that clear?"
Caspian doesn't listen to Edmund. He listens to King Edmund, and shivers trickle down his spine. "It is," he says.
There is nothing left to be said, and so they stand side-by-side in silence.
§§§
Miraz can see the two, across the field that is about to be full of battle. He cannot hear their words, but he doesn't need to. They move and interact, and that is enough.
He sees the Narnian boy hand his own blade to the Telmarine upstart, and the first traces of what might be apprehension rent their way into him. He shifts in his hard-backed chair. His own blade-the one he took from Caspian's father-feels heavy against his hip, even though he remains seated. He remembers the lightness of the High King's sword, and feels strangely nervous.
This is a battle that he cannot afford to lose, and if the hubristic Caspian fights with a Narnian sword, then Miraz will take up the same blasephemous arms in mirror image of his nephew.
"Glozelle," he says, "fetch me the Narnian's weapon."
The soldier snaps out a nod, and runs away, the pad of his booted feet swallowed up by the green grass.
Miraz unstraps his unwanted weapon and lets it slip to the stone underfoot. His eyes never leave his opponent, but he isn't looking at Caspian. Edmund, the Narnian King of old, is the one who he studies - the one who is still grieving, who still wears a black strip of fabric around his right bicep. Respect, and memory. Miraz knows that it's Edmund who is goading the Narnians into rash battle, when they are so outnumbered, andthat it's due to the boy that Caspian has challenged a much better swordsman to a duel. He wonders at that, but it doesn't really matter. Not anymore.
Caspian walks out into the centre of the arena, and his dark eyes are sharp on Miraz. He doesn't speak to reiterate his challenge, as is tradition in the Telmarine ritual of the duel, but that oversight doesn't disguise the younger man's intent. There is fire in his eyes and aggression in the lines of his body. Miraz remains seated, waiting.
"My lord." Sharp steel lies hidden in its crimson sheath in Glozelle's battle-worn hands. The bright colours are stark against the dark uniform of the Telmar Guard; almost startingly so.
Miraz seizes the hilt and drags it from the scabbard.
§§§
Edmund watches as the two combatants face each other, and he wonders if he should be allowing a Telmarine-an invader-to fight for the future of every Narnian at his back. Despite everything he said to Miraz as bluster and bravado, he wishes it was his brother that he was standing in support of.
Peter, he thinks, and the name rings in his mind as an echo of the first clash of Narnian weapons out on the battlefield. He misses his brother more than he ever thought he could. Miraz and Caspian are busy doing battle, and he sould be watching and worrying, but he can't stop thinking that if he'd been there at his brother's side then all this would be different. Maybe if he'd been there to protect his sibling, he would still be alive.
Caspian cries out in pain, and a single tear gathers itself at the corner of Edmund's eye. He wipes it away.
The girls are safe, he tells himself. They're looking for Aslan, and he won't let any harm come to them. They're safe. That's something, at least.
Miraz grunts, out on the field, and Edmund closes his eyes. He can't do this - the emotionless ruling and the complexity of politics. He just wants to be a schoolboy on a train, with a torch in his satchel and his silings arguing around him.
Never again, he thinks, and his fingers flex.
He opens his eyes again, just in time to see Caspian fall. Something deep inside him, buried so far beneath the anger and grief that he never quite realised its presence, cries out in shock and horror at the Telmarine's fall. Caspian groans with pain, and Edmund's sword falls from the duelist's hand. Everything falls apart in that instant.
The gleam of Peter's sword flashes down, and Caspian has time for one last scream. The Telmarine army shouts its delight, but the Narnians are silent. Horrified. They wait.
Edmund forces the grief away. Later.
Miraz kicks at his fallen opponent's weapon-Edmund's weapon-and stalks towards the one remaining Narnian king. He hasn't even broken a sweat. "I warned you that you were foolish to place your trust in such an unproven leader," he jeers. "He has failed you, but he is not the one who must suffer for it." A cruel sneer curls his lips. "Hand over your power to me, as we agreed. Sell your people into slavery and abdicate from your ancient throne, King Edmund. It is the only choice you have left."
Boy-king faces down invader-king, but only one of them is truly regal. Edmund thinks of his battered people, and his broken family, and his blackened armband, and he raises his chin in defiance. Fire blazes anew. "Never," he answers. He knows he is unarmed and alone and so vulnerable, but he remembers who he once was-a negotiator for their kingdom, but a warrior in his heart-and he is not afraid. "We are Narnians, Miraz. And we will never surrender."
Miraz smiles, and it is the smile of a snake. "Then I am afraid that you will not see the sun set this night." Peter's sword comes up, and it is Miraz's hand at the hilt. The edge of the blade rests against Edmund's neck, and he feels it nick his skin. The faintest tang of blood suffuses through the air. "I feel it fitting that you should die by your brother's blade," Miraz comments softly. The tip of the sword flicks dark hair away from Edmund's neck. "Or maybe ironic would be a better word."
Edmund isn't panicked. There may be a blade at his throat, but he knows that his fate doesn't matter. Lucy and Susan are alive, and they are on their way to Aslan. Narnia will triumph; there is no doubt about that. In the end, his fate doesn't matter.
He closes his eyes. Peter, he thinks, and he wonders if he actually does feel that whisper of reply in the darkness, or if it's just his imagination.
The sword leaves his neck: he can picture its arc back in his head. He's seen this end to a duel before - an execution, ignomious and emotionless. Peter carried out this end before, when he was forced to. His opponent had been a Telmarine then, too, and the competition for Lucy's life. Now, the Telmarine is winning, and the stakes are so much higher.
Edmund hears the crack of a blade through the air, and then the softest of chuckles.
His eyes fly open.
Caspian stands before him, Edmund's sword in his hand and a bloody stain on his dark tunic. Miraz lies at their feet, and his head is separate from his body.
Edmund blinks, and absorbs the information. He nods half-approvingly, and smiles, and studies Caspian. "You saved my life by pretending to be dead," he states blankly, just for clarification.
Caspian nods, and presses a hand to the wound in his shoulder, pulling the armour away. "Don't look so shocked," he remonstrates. "You did say I could do it." He smiles slightly. "And that I should 'fight dirty'."
Edmund's smile falters. "Not something Peter would have done," he says softly. "He was always for too noble for things like that."
"I'm not him," Caspian replies, and there is solemn acceptance in his voice. "I can never be him, and I would never try to be."
There are other things at that moment which should occupy his attention-the cheering of his people, the Telmarines rallying under Glozelle, the dark murmur of his splintered heart-but Edmund can only focus on Caspian, and everything that has transpired. He hurts, but not because of the Telmarine - not anymore. Edmund smiles, just a little. "Good."
Shouts rise from the Telmarines. They are on their way - full of war and hate. The Kings must prepare. "You should return to the How," Edmund urges, and a bittersweet smile abruptly curves his lips. "And you should follow the plan, this time."
Caspian hears the blame and the accusation, but he doesn't resent it. He nods, and Edmund turns to face the oncoming hoards. The dismissal is felt, but the Telmarine doesn't move. Not yet. There are other things that still need to be said and done.
Caspian kneels, and picks up Peter's sword. He steps up beside Edmund and joins him in his watch of the Telmarines. Neither looks at the other. "You need a sword to fight with," Caspian says, and he extends the blade to his companion. "Your brother's would seem to be fitting."
Edmund takes the blade, and his fingers wrap reverently around the hilt. He is silent, reflective. Just for a moment. "I only ever wielded this once before," he says quietly, "and that was to save Peter's life." He smiles, just a little. "Ironic, really."
"So use it once more," Caspian says, "to save the lives of your sister, and every Narnian who stands with you today. Miraz is dead, and so they are weakened. We can do this, even if Peter's path has split from ours."
Silence, but just for a moment.
"We can do this for him," Edmund answers slowly. "For the High King."
Caspian nods, and smiles, and returns to the How.
§§§
The battle is met, and with every stroke of his brother's blade Edmund scythes deeper into the enemy's ranks.
"For the High King!" the Narnians cry, full of passion and warlike joy.
When no one is listening, and it doesn't really matter, Edmund screams his brother's name with so much pain that all who hear him, Narnian and Telmarine alike, feel his heartbreak as if it were their own.
§§§
The Telmarine castle is no Cair Paravel, but it is quiet, and for that Edmund is glad.
Aslan has been among the people since their victory at Beruna, but now he speaks to Susan alone. They are secluded in the banqueting hall, now, the Lion and the Queen, and Edmund can hear Susan's soft weeping through the oaken door. Aslan is speaking of Peter; he must be - there is nothing else that would recall such despair to his so-strong sister.
Edmund doesn't move. He stands in seclusion, hidden in the shadows. He doesn't hurt, anymore-he screamed out his agony on the battlefield, so there is nothing left to be painful-but that isn't a good thing. He is numb; he can't care.
Peter's sword rests against his hip. The weight is a constant reminder of everything and of nothing.
The door creaks open. Susan slips out: there are tear-tracks down her cheeks, but her eyes are dry. Edmund steps forward, and they watch each other, just for a second. Their pain shares itself, and Susan seems to relax. She steps forward and tugs Edmund to her, crushing her arms around his shoulders. Neither speaks. Neither needs to.
"He wants to see you," Susan says quietly in her brother's ear, and then lets him go. Her skirts brush softly against the stone floor as she pads down the hall, repetitive and hypnotic.
Edmund listens to her progress, and then follows her previous path into the banqueting hall. The smack of his boots against stone echoes in the cavernous space as he paces towards Aslan, who stands resplendent at the end of the hall. The lion doesn't look around, but Edmund doesn't presume to believe that his presence has gone unnoticed. He comes to a halt a litte way back from the solemn creature and clasps his hands at his waist. He waits.
"Edmund," Aslan says heavily.
Automatically Edmund dips his head respectfully. "My lord," he answers, and his voice is flat. The numbness refuses to leave him.
Aslan lets out what might be a sigh, and he glances back at the not-young King. "Come here."
Edmund obeys, and for some strange reason his steps falter the closer he gets. It is as if there is something his body knows which his mind does not: instinct over intellect. His echoing paces bring him to Aslan's side, and then they stop with such abrupt suddenness that he almost stumbles.
Peter.
"I am sorry," Aslan says, and there is such sincerity in that deep voice.
Edmund moves forward as if in a trance, and all respect for the lion or ingrained courtly manners are forgotten. His brother's body lies before him, raised on a stone platform, skin unbroken and clothes fresh and clean. Peter's eyes are closed and his hands folded across his chest. He looks at peace.
"I could not save him," the lion answers in response to the unasked question. "There are some things that, once they have been put in motion, cannot be undone."
His knees bend, seemingly of their own accord, and he kneels beside his brother. His fingers skip out, dancing through Peter's fair hair and across his forehead. His lips work soundlessly, and a lone tear traces its way down his cheek.
Edmund has not yet let himself cry. He has shouted and fought and vomited, but every time his eyes have filled with tears he has dashed them away. Now, he doesn't care. Silently, he lets himself weep, and weep properly. He bends his head to press against Peter's shoulder, and his whole body shakes.
Aslan touches the boy-king's arm. "Grieve," he commands. "Let him go."
The paw slips from Edmund's skin, and the lion pads away.
There is silence, just for a moment, and the only movement is the uncontrollable tremble of the suddenly so-young boy. For once, the King gives way, and just allows who he once was to fall apart.
Edmund's fingers flex in Peter's hair, and his fist tangles in his shirt.
After a while-a long while, it seems-his hand slips from his brother's clothing and drops to his side, fumbling at the clasp that binds the bright scabbard to his hip. His fingers act as if they are drunk - they fumble and miss and slip on the buckle. He perseveres, through the tears.
Finally the belt comes loose. The bright scabbard topples to the dark floor tiles with a poignant clatter. Edmund drags himself away from his brother and clutches at the weapon with shaking fingers - his vision is blurred by tears, but that doesn't halt him as he pulls the scabbarded blade up to the surface of the stone plinth. He unclasps Peter's hands from around each other and wraps them around the carved hilt.
"It's yours," he says to his dead brother, and his voice is steady. "Take it."
Peter doesn't move. Edmund was half-expecting him to - for his brother to jump up and laugh, telling him it had all been a joke. But the High King lies still, resplendent in death.
Edmund sobs, just once.
He leans over and tightly kisses Peter's forehead, and he leaves crystal tears glimmering on his dead brother's cheeks. "I miss you," he whispers. "More than you'll ever know."
Edmund presses his face into the royal blue of Peter's tunic, and knows that he will carry this moment-this fragmentary instant of connection with the dead-in his heart for the rest of his life.
He cries, but no one would expect anything else.
~*end*~
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia
Characters: Miraz, Glozelle, Caspian, Aslan, Edmund, Susan, Peter.
Prompt: #030: Death.
Word Count: 5982
Rating: 12
Summary: A death has far-reaching consequences, be they hate or grief or reconciliation, but those consequences are so much more poignant when they are effected in the depths of battle.
Notes: Written for fanfic100. A sequel to The Echo of Allegiance, because it was an idea that refused to leave me alone. This one explores that one more, but the core concept is the same. Very angstyful.
ETA: Went to Canada, took a printout, did some editing. Lots of editing. It makes me happy.
Swordplay
Miraz keeps away from the dead. The courtyard is strewn with their corpses, so he locks himself away in Cornelius' study and paws through the traitorous professor's belongings. He keeps the windows shut to keep out the stench that twists through the warm air. Death is a familiar face to the Telmarine, but he is disquieted by it. He stays away.
An ancient, dusty volume lies open in front of him. His attention and his fingertips linger on the same image - four child-monarchs of old, with shining crowns in their bright hair. Miraz's lips purse. He wonders about that image - and about those he saw last night.
Amongst the filthy Narnians, shoulder-to-shoulder with the usurper Caspian, there had been three children, fighting as if they had a lifetime of experience - experience they should not have. A paradox, and one that intrigues him, against his will.
With a snarl and a jerk, Miraz slams the book closed and sends it flying from the table. He slouches back in tight anger, just for a moment, and then pushes himself up and out of the chair.
His booted feet ring out in the cold stone corridors. He wonders; wonders on what he saw. A boy, by the gates - a trapped boy with fair hair and bloodied garb. Miraz had been watching, in the darkness, and now he wants-needs-to know who that fallen child is. He thinks he already does.
The stink of death floods his nostrils as he steps out into the sun. He doesn't flinch, even though some of the soldiers hold gauntletted hands to their faces against the reek. He rules these people. He cannot be seen to be weak in front of them. He is a Telmarine, and Telmarines are expected to be strong, no matter how they may feel inside.
He kicks at a Narnian's cloven hoof as he stands before the pile of bodies at the gate - bodies which have yet to be dragged away and disposed of. He sees-thinks he sees-a glimmer of fair hair, so he sets to work, tearing at the beasts, forcing them aside. He loses himself in his hate.
Miraz finally kneels among the broken corpses, his hands covered in dry blood, and seizes the boy-King's fair hair. There are arrows in his body and his dulled eyes stare sightlessly at the bright sky. "High King Peter," Miraz sneers. "The Magnificent."
"My lord?" A soldier stands quietly just behind him, expression fixedly blank.
Miraz drags the sword from Peter's hands and the scabbard from his hip. "Burn him," he orders, face impassive. "Burn the Narnian King."
Soldiers flock around their lord, dragging the fair-haired child away. A smear of crimson smudges itself across the courtyard, through the clearing debris. Miraz merely stands and studies the blade in his hands - carvings and ornamentation adorn the hilt, but the weapon is still light enough to be wielded with ease. He has never seen a sword like this.
The tyrant in him whispers that he should wield this blade as his own; flaunt the death of their legendary High King to the Narnians. But he can't - not quite. Not yet. Something holds him back. Something forces him not
The hairs prickle on the back on his neck, and Miraz spins around. For a second, he thinks he sees a flash of gold, but then he looks away and he is alone with the stench of death.
Miraz slides Peter's blade into its scabbard. He won't wield it just yet, to drive the Narnians to despair and defeat, but that doesn't mean he never will.
§§§
Glozelle supervises the burning of the pagan king. There is something in him which twists and protests when he sees the ruler's strange youth, but his Telmarine reserve snaps back into place. Orders are orders, even if the blasephemous Narnian King seems to be little more than a boy.
His features are impassive as his soldiers load the fair-haired body onto the impromptu pyre. There are no mourners, and Glozelle half-thinks that there is something not-quite-right about that. He readjusts his stance, and hardens his heart. Boy or not, he is still the enemy.
The soldiers step back, and Glozelle's lieutenant nods to him.
Ready.
Glozelle steps forward and touches the flaming torch in his hand to the pitch-darkened wood. The flames leap up, eagerly voracious. Heat blasts into the Telmarine's face, but he doesn't move. He stands firm and watches the boy-king's face, through the fire; the fair hair and the crimson spatter aross the cheek.
But he's just a child.
Glozelle quashes the thought.
The soldiers behind him shift, just slightly, and he can sense their sudden discomfort. His forehead furrows, and he looks again at the boy, and he abruptly shares their trepidation.
The boy's body refuses to catch alight. The heat from the pyre causes a trickle of sweat down Glozelle's cheek, but the battered corpse remainds unaffected - clothes do not burn and flesh does not scorch.
Something protects him, Glozelle realises. Something does not wish him to burn.
In the flames, behind the flames, he sees the flicker of movement. Just for a second, but there. Golden movement: there and then gone.
The flames roar brighter, and Glozelle is forced to take a step backwards. Armour clinks at his back - his men are afraid of this nothingness, and he abruptly realises that he is too.
His hand flies to his sword.
The pyre blazes bright white, just for a blinding second, and then they are left in darkness. The flames have gone, and with them the boy's body.
"Narnian sorcery!" comes the superstitous whisper.
For the first time Glozelle thinks of the fair-haired child as not boy, but as a Narnian king, and his palms grow sweaty.
§§§
In the How, with his back to the Stone Table, Caspian dreams of fire and death. As he dreams, his subconscious knows that this is unremarkable-death is in the How's fiery air-but something deeper whispers that this is strange. This dream is different. It feels like a life, but a life not his own - something which those spinners of fable and fantasy might call 'a vision'.
In his dreams, through the exhausted haze, he sees Peter's bloody face, and that is enough to jerk him awake.
The How's air is warm against his skin, and he pushes himself more securely against his stony resting-place. He brushes tangled hair out of his face, and is surprised to feel tears on his cheeks. Caspian's fingertips linger on those shimmering tracks, and then he lets his hand fall to curl in his lap.
-Peter's face, through the fire; the fair hair and the crimson spatter across the cheek-
Caspian draws his knees up and lets his hands hang between his legs, like a child hiding in a corner. He wonders at his dreams - the vividity, the strangeness. Peter's face, enshrouded in fire, and so real that he feels sick.
He shivers, just a little.
"Son of Adam." The sonorous voice that booms in the cavern should surprise Caspian, but it doesn't. He suddenly feels lulled, drowsy. His reflexes are numbed. He doesn't want to move. He merely watches the air in front of him. "Do you know me?" the voice continues.
Caspian blinks laboriously. "Aslan," he offers, and he has to fight to keep his speech from slurring. What is this? he thinks distractedly, but he cannot focus long enough to find an answer.
"I want to show you something."
The air in front of Caspian turns in on itself, shimmering and twisting. The Telmarine Prince watches, if only because it is the only act his sluggish body will let him perform. A figure coalesces, pale and transclucent. The figure's hands lie at its side, and stately blue robes clothe its stil form. It lies on its back, but not on the ground - above it, but only in shining outline.
Caspian cannot see the figure's face, but he doesn't need to. He knows. He always did.
"The High King lies in state," Aslan says, "suspended in time."
"Can you bring him back?" Caspian asks, the tears springing fresh to his eyes. "Can you make him live again?"
"His path is separate to yours. His choice has been made. It is done." The shining image of Peter Pevensie fades away, leaving only firelight to illuminate the cavern. "After the war is done, I shall fully return what is left of the High King." Maybe Caspian is imagining things, but he thinks he can hear regret in that powerful voice - regret for losses that should not have been lost and for opportunities that should have been taken. "Maybe then those left behind may find some consolation."
"Are you leaving?" Caspian asks, and he feels some life start to seep back to his limbs. He knows that he sounds as if he is a pleading child, but there is enough of the sluggish apathy left for him not to care.
"I must."
Peter is gone. Aslan will not stay. The armies are falling apart with no one to lead them. And Edmund says that I am to blame. I am lost. Caspian thinks all of these words and scattered phrases, but voices none of them. He doesn't need to. The lion knows.
"Be strong. They will need you as much as they needed their brother."
"I am not Peter."
"Then don't try to be," is the rumbling answer, and Caspian can hear the great lion's laugh. That laughter-that snatch of humour in the darkest of times-gives him hope, and the hope in turn returns strength to his limbs. He blinks the apathy away, and spins around, searching for the tawny creature Lucy loves so much. All he sees is a blur of gold at the edge of his vision.
"Aslan?" he asks into the silence.
§§§
Edmund paces across the grass, giant and centaur at his side, and feels sick. It's not the situation, because the situation is familiar - he has made this walk before: this walk across open ground to an enemy camp to bargain and placate and flatter. In fact, this happening would make him feel so at home, if only the difference between what was and what is was not so sickeningly marked.
Caspian, not Peter.
And it is that thought that makes him ill.
Edmund's throat closes, and his fist clenches in the red fabric of his tunic. White knuckles are stark against crimson. Bone on blood. The more-than-boy wants to vomit.
He misses his brother, more than he could possibly have imagined. Every second of every minute of every day.
Focus.
Miraz doesn't offer him a chair in his pavilion, but that was to be expected. Seated versus standing. Miraz holds the advantage, but Edmund doesn't mind. More accurately, he doesn't care.
The proclamation is read - the declaration. Caspian's name graces the scroll's end, signed with a curl and a flourish. It should be Peter's. Edmund can half-see his brother's mark now - the blocky writing, the curling initial. The High King's signature.
Edmund rolls up the scroll brusequely, and he can feel Miraz's calculated gaze lingering on him. The Telmarine has felt his conflict. "Prince Edmund-" he begins.
"King," Edmund corrects, not looking up.
He has caught Miraz off-guard. "Pardon me?" the usurper queries.
A tiny internal smirk flickers through Edmund. "King Edmund," he stresses. "Just 'King', though." Another phrase curls itself around his tongue-something involving High King and confusing and Peter-but he can't speak it. His memories still his voice. He is silent, and he is hurting.
Miraz inclines his head, and there is a flicker of cruelty in his gaze. "King Edmund," he begins again, duplicating the messenger's stress, "I must ask. Why is it that you allow Caspian to fight for the Narnian people? Surely, he is not one of you - he is a Telmarine, after all." He spreads his hands expansively. "Not to be trusted."
"He is one of us, now," Edmund answers firmly. "His birth doesn't matter - he leads us, and he believes in us."
Miraz nods, and he settles into a contemplative pose, curled fist resting against his chin. "But surely there should be another who leads you," he needles subtly. "A king of old, like yourself - a High King, not some upstart Telmarine princeling who believes he can command such a legend as yourself."
"Caspian is our leader," Edmund repeats stubbornly.
"But surely, your brother-"
"No."
The quiet in the tent is suddenly charged. The Telmarine lords shift and exchange nervous glances, and Wimbleweather shuffles his feet guiltily, as if the abrupt hostility is his fault. Glenstorm's hooves stamp and his nostrils flare. If the centaur had been permitted to bring a sword to this meeting, the gleam of steel would have shone in the tent. Only Miraz and Edmund are still, head to head, emotionless and angry. Duellists, but not with violence.
It is Miraz who finally makes a move, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table that sits between the two. "Peter," he says softly. "That was his name, correct? I have been reading the history books: those books of Narnian legend. High King Peter, the Magnificent. Defeater of the White Witch, bringer of peace to Narnia of old. The King who took victory in battle; Beruna, Archenland, the Lantern Waste." Miraz studies Edmund keenly. "Would he not be a better leader?"
"Doesn't matter," Edmund says flatly, face blank. "Caspian is our leader, not Peter."
"And what if Caspian fails you?"
"He won't."
Miraz leans back, and lets his cloak slip back from his shoulders. The action seems accidental, but Edmund knows that nothing the Telmarine says or does is wholly spontaneous. That simple movement has been planned and thought out, and it is devastatingly effective. Standing out against his dark mail, crimson stark against filthy grey, lies Peter's sword, strapped tight to Miraz's hip. Intimidation and oppression. Miraz wants him to falter.
Edmund feels the sickness roil over him once more.
"I believe your precious Caspian has already failed you, King Edmund," Miraz goads quietly. "Failed you, and cost your Magnificent High King his life."
Silently, head full of anger and doubt and grief, Edmund steps forward, feet making little sound on the grass as he moves towards the Telmarine leader. The proclamation in his hand feels illogically heavy - the weight of his responsibility, and his position. "I haven't come here to discuss politics or grudges or the past," he answers quietly, firmly. "I came with a proposition - a way to end this without everybody dying." He can hear Miraz's Telmarine lackeys shifting uncomfortably - even they do not want everyone to die; just their Narnian opposition, and the insinuation that the casualties might be wider-reaching than that troubles them. He knew it would. Miraz's eyes are hard, and focused on the young king before him with diamond-sharp intensity.
Inexplicably, there is a brief intoxicating thrill that twists its way through Edmund - this, negotiation and compromising, comes flooding back to him in memories of the years that his body no longer shows, and he loves that. He is King Edmund once more, and the King can overcome the griefs that would incapacitate the boy.
He steps forward again, and the edge of his bright tunic brushes against Miraz's table. The proclamation rests in his hand, all-important and yet insignificant. Edmund smiles - a dark, challenging smile that belongs to the Just, not the Pevensie. "So I ask you. Do you accept?"
Thoughtfulness blazes in Miraz's posture. He studies Edmund, and he seems to see something new. There is respect, and fear.
It's an expression that Edmund likes.
Slowly, Miraz inclines his head. "I accept."
And it is done.
Edmund nods curtly. He should feel excited-joyful and exuberant at his success-but the sckness still twists his stomach and his emotions. The King cannot quite suppress that. He turns, and walks away, Glenstorm and Wimbleweather flanking him.
"King Edmund?"
Edmund pauses at Miraz's call, and glances back over his shoulder.
Miraz gazes with apparent indifference back at him, but he is angry - Edmund can tell. "I will kill your leader with your brother's sword," he says flatly, simply. It is a statement of intent, but it feels like fact.
At that moment, at that goadingly-harsh cruelty, Edmund can almost understand why Caspian hated Miraz enough to swerve from their immaculate battle plan and cost Peter his life. But only almost. There are some things that can never be forgiven. "You can try," he answers, just as flatly, and keeps walking.
When he returns to the How, after he tells the others that the duel with be met, he finds a quiet corner and empties his stomach in violent, wracking heaves.
§§§
Caspian and Edmund stand alone, waiting. The Telmarine is armed and armoured, ready for a fight that may well be the last he ever battles. The Pevensie's face is set as he tightens the straps on his companion's armour, and his mind is elsewhere. They make a strange pair. United, yet so far apart.
Miraz watches them from across the arena, but they don't seem to care. His forehead furrows.
"Edmund," Caspian says softly, "do you think I even stand a chance?"
For a moment, Edmund is stricken by the hopelessness of that question - but only for a moment. He pulls tight the last leather straps of Caspian's greaves, and straightens. "He's more experienced than you," he says evenly, "but you're younger than he is. Tire him out, and don't be afraid to fight dirty. This isn't a game anymore - if he defeats you, he will kill you." He lets his hand rest on his companion's shoulder, just for a second. "You stand for more of a chance than you think," he encourages, and hopes that it doesn't sound as hollow as it feels to say. Duels were always Peter's area of expertise-the dance and elegance of single combat with so much at stake-and Edmund knows that the Narnians would have much more hope if it was the High King arming for battle, not the inexperienced Caspian. He can't say that, though - he can't even consciously think it. What might have been, and what is. They can never meet.
Caspian's chin tilts up, and Edmund knows that his insincere words have brought hope to the new ruler. He feels old. He moves away and retrieves Caspian's sword, and it's strange in his hands. His nose wrinkles discontentedly - the Telmarine weapon is heavy, and Edmund cannot ever imagine fighting with it.
He puts it down again, and draws his own sword.
"Edmund?"
Edmund smiles, just a little. He holds out his own light, perfectly-balanced length of Narnian steel, and offers it to Caspian. "Fight with this." He's not giving Caspian an option of refusing, he knows that, but he doesn't really mind.
"I cannot," Caspan protests.
"Yes, you can." Edmund suddenly feels different - almost crueller. He doesn't want to coddle Caspian anymore. "You're about to fight as a Narnian leader, so you will be armed as such. Take it."
Automatically, with the air of one used to obeying orders, Caspian reaches out and closes his hand around the hilt, and Edmund has released it before the Telmarine can consciously react. He steps back, arms crossed across the lion on the front of his scarlet tunic. Caspian looks up at him, but there is something in the not-boy's eyes that just dares him to argue, to bicker, to complain. Something which needs the confrontation, which craves it.
Caspian keeps silent.
Edmund nods, almost to himself. "If you lose, I will take this weapon from your dead hands and keep fighting, for my people and my brother," he says softly, and there is something dangerous in his voice. "But if you win, you will keep my blade, and I will take Peter's sword from Miraz and we will destroy your people's army together. Is that clear?"
Caspian doesn't listen to Edmund. He listens to King Edmund, and shivers trickle down his spine. "It is," he says.
There is nothing left to be said, and so they stand side-by-side in silence.
§§§
Miraz can see the two, across the field that is about to be full of battle. He cannot hear their words, but he doesn't need to. They move and interact, and that is enough.
He sees the Narnian boy hand his own blade to the Telmarine upstart, and the first traces of what might be apprehension rent their way into him. He shifts in his hard-backed chair. His own blade-the one he took from Caspian's father-feels heavy against his hip, even though he remains seated. He remembers the lightness of the High King's sword, and feels strangely nervous.
This is a battle that he cannot afford to lose, and if the hubristic Caspian fights with a Narnian sword, then Miraz will take up the same blasephemous arms in mirror image of his nephew.
"Glozelle," he says, "fetch me the Narnian's weapon."
The soldier snaps out a nod, and runs away, the pad of his booted feet swallowed up by the green grass.
Miraz unstraps his unwanted weapon and lets it slip to the stone underfoot. His eyes never leave his opponent, but he isn't looking at Caspian. Edmund, the Narnian King of old, is the one who he studies - the one who is still grieving, who still wears a black strip of fabric around his right bicep. Respect, and memory. Miraz knows that it's Edmund who is goading the Narnians into rash battle, when they are so outnumbered, andthat it's due to the boy that Caspian has challenged a much better swordsman to a duel. He wonders at that, but it doesn't really matter. Not anymore.
Caspian walks out into the centre of the arena, and his dark eyes are sharp on Miraz. He doesn't speak to reiterate his challenge, as is tradition in the Telmarine ritual of the duel, but that oversight doesn't disguise the younger man's intent. There is fire in his eyes and aggression in the lines of his body. Miraz remains seated, waiting.
"My lord." Sharp steel lies hidden in its crimson sheath in Glozelle's battle-worn hands. The bright colours are stark against the dark uniform of the Telmar Guard; almost startingly so.
Miraz seizes the hilt and drags it from the scabbard.
§§§
Edmund watches as the two combatants face each other, and he wonders if he should be allowing a Telmarine-an invader-to fight for the future of every Narnian at his back. Despite everything he said to Miraz as bluster and bravado, he wishes it was his brother that he was standing in support of.
Peter, he thinks, and the name rings in his mind as an echo of the first clash of Narnian weapons out on the battlefield. He misses his brother more than he ever thought he could. Miraz and Caspian are busy doing battle, and he sould be watching and worrying, but he can't stop thinking that if he'd been there at his brother's side then all this would be different. Maybe if he'd been there to protect his sibling, he would still be alive.
Caspian cries out in pain, and a single tear gathers itself at the corner of Edmund's eye. He wipes it away.
The girls are safe, he tells himself. They're looking for Aslan, and he won't let any harm come to them. They're safe. That's something, at least.
Miraz grunts, out on the field, and Edmund closes his eyes. He can't do this - the emotionless ruling and the complexity of politics. He just wants to be a schoolboy on a train, with a torch in his satchel and his silings arguing around him.
Never again, he thinks, and his fingers flex.
He opens his eyes again, just in time to see Caspian fall. Something deep inside him, buried so far beneath the anger and grief that he never quite realised its presence, cries out in shock and horror at the Telmarine's fall. Caspian groans with pain, and Edmund's sword falls from the duelist's hand. Everything falls apart in that instant.
The gleam of Peter's sword flashes down, and Caspian has time for one last scream. The Telmarine army shouts its delight, but the Narnians are silent. Horrified. They wait.
Edmund forces the grief away. Later.
Miraz kicks at his fallen opponent's weapon-Edmund's weapon-and stalks towards the one remaining Narnian king. He hasn't even broken a sweat. "I warned you that you were foolish to place your trust in such an unproven leader," he jeers. "He has failed you, but he is not the one who must suffer for it." A cruel sneer curls his lips. "Hand over your power to me, as we agreed. Sell your people into slavery and abdicate from your ancient throne, King Edmund. It is the only choice you have left."
Boy-king faces down invader-king, but only one of them is truly regal. Edmund thinks of his battered people, and his broken family, and his blackened armband, and he raises his chin in defiance. Fire blazes anew. "Never," he answers. He knows he is unarmed and alone and so vulnerable, but he remembers who he once was-a negotiator for their kingdom, but a warrior in his heart-and he is not afraid. "We are Narnians, Miraz. And we will never surrender."
Miraz smiles, and it is the smile of a snake. "Then I am afraid that you will not see the sun set this night." Peter's sword comes up, and it is Miraz's hand at the hilt. The edge of the blade rests against Edmund's neck, and he feels it nick his skin. The faintest tang of blood suffuses through the air. "I feel it fitting that you should die by your brother's blade," Miraz comments softly. The tip of the sword flicks dark hair away from Edmund's neck. "Or maybe ironic would be a better word."
Edmund isn't panicked. There may be a blade at his throat, but he knows that his fate doesn't matter. Lucy and Susan are alive, and they are on their way to Aslan. Narnia will triumph; there is no doubt about that. In the end, his fate doesn't matter.
He closes his eyes. Peter, he thinks, and he wonders if he actually does feel that whisper of reply in the darkness, or if it's just his imagination.
The sword leaves his neck: he can picture its arc back in his head. He's seen this end to a duel before - an execution, ignomious and emotionless. Peter carried out this end before, when he was forced to. His opponent had been a Telmarine then, too, and the competition for Lucy's life. Now, the Telmarine is winning, and the stakes are so much higher.
Edmund hears the crack of a blade through the air, and then the softest of chuckles.
His eyes fly open.
Caspian stands before him, Edmund's sword in his hand and a bloody stain on his dark tunic. Miraz lies at their feet, and his head is separate from his body.
Edmund blinks, and absorbs the information. He nods half-approvingly, and smiles, and studies Caspian. "You saved my life by pretending to be dead," he states blankly, just for clarification.
Caspian nods, and presses a hand to the wound in his shoulder, pulling the armour away. "Don't look so shocked," he remonstrates. "You did say I could do it." He smiles slightly. "And that I should 'fight dirty'."
Edmund's smile falters. "Not something Peter would have done," he says softly. "He was always for too noble for things like that."
"I'm not him," Caspian replies, and there is solemn acceptance in his voice. "I can never be him, and I would never try to be."
There are other things at that moment which should occupy his attention-the cheering of his people, the Telmarines rallying under Glozelle, the dark murmur of his splintered heart-but Edmund can only focus on Caspian, and everything that has transpired. He hurts, but not because of the Telmarine - not anymore. Edmund smiles, just a little. "Good."
Shouts rise from the Telmarines. They are on their way - full of war and hate. The Kings must prepare. "You should return to the How," Edmund urges, and a bittersweet smile abruptly curves his lips. "And you should follow the plan, this time."
Caspian hears the blame and the accusation, but he doesn't resent it. He nods, and Edmund turns to face the oncoming hoards. The dismissal is felt, but the Telmarine doesn't move. Not yet. There are other things that still need to be said and done.
Caspian kneels, and picks up Peter's sword. He steps up beside Edmund and joins him in his watch of the Telmarines. Neither looks at the other. "You need a sword to fight with," Caspian says, and he extends the blade to his companion. "Your brother's would seem to be fitting."
Edmund takes the blade, and his fingers wrap reverently around the hilt. He is silent, reflective. Just for a moment. "I only ever wielded this once before," he says quietly, "and that was to save Peter's life." He smiles, just a little. "Ironic, really."
"So use it once more," Caspian says, "to save the lives of your sister, and every Narnian who stands with you today. Miraz is dead, and so they are weakened. We can do this, even if Peter's path has split from ours."
Silence, but just for a moment.
"We can do this for him," Edmund answers slowly. "For the High King."
Caspian nods, and smiles, and returns to the How.
§§§
The battle is met, and with every stroke of his brother's blade Edmund scythes deeper into the enemy's ranks.
"For the High King!" the Narnians cry, full of passion and warlike joy.
When no one is listening, and it doesn't really matter, Edmund screams his brother's name with so much pain that all who hear him, Narnian and Telmarine alike, feel his heartbreak as if it were their own.
§§§
The Telmarine castle is no Cair Paravel, but it is quiet, and for that Edmund is glad.
Aslan has been among the people since their victory at Beruna, but now he speaks to Susan alone. They are secluded in the banqueting hall, now, the Lion and the Queen, and Edmund can hear Susan's soft weeping through the oaken door. Aslan is speaking of Peter; he must be - there is nothing else that would recall such despair to his so-strong sister.
Edmund doesn't move. He stands in seclusion, hidden in the shadows. He doesn't hurt, anymore-he screamed out his agony on the battlefield, so there is nothing left to be painful-but that isn't a good thing. He is numb; he can't care.
Peter's sword rests against his hip. The weight is a constant reminder of everything and of nothing.
The door creaks open. Susan slips out: there are tear-tracks down her cheeks, but her eyes are dry. Edmund steps forward, and they watch each other, just for a second. Their pain shares itself, and Susan seems to relax. She steps forward and tugs Edmund to her, crushing her arms around his shoulders. Neither speaks. Neither needs to.
"He wants to see you," Susan says quietly in her brother's ear, and then lets him go. Her skirts brush softly against the stone floor as she pads down the hall, repetitive and hypnotic.
Edmund listens to her progress, and then follows her previous path into the banqueting hall. The smack of his boots against stone echoes in the cavernous space as he paces towards Aslan, who stands resplendent at the end of the hall. The lion doesn't look around, but Edmund doesn't presume to believe that his presence has gone unnoticed. He comes to a halt a litte way back from the solemn creature and clasps his hands at his waist. He waits.
"Edmund," Aslan says heavily.
Automatically Edmund dips his head respectfully. "My lord," he answers, and his voice is flat. The numbness refuses to leave him.
Aslan lets out what might be a sigh, and he glances back at the not-young King. "Come here."
Edmund obeys, and for some strange reason his steps falter the closer he gets. It is as if there is something his body knows which his mind does not: instinct over intellect. His echoing paces bring him to Aslan's side, and then they stop with such abrupt suddenness that he almost stumbles.
Peter.
"I am sorry," Aslan says, and there is such sincerity in that deep voice.
Edmund moves forward as if in a trance, and all respect for the lion or ingrained courtly manners are forgotten. His brother's body lies before him, raised on a stone platform, skin unbroken and clothes fresh and clean. Peter's eyes are closed and his hands folded across his chest. He looks at peace.
"I could not save him," the lion answers in response to the unasked question. "There are some things that, once they have been put in motion, cannot be undone."
His knees bend, seemingly of their own accord, and he kneels beside his brother. His fingers skip out, dancing through Peter's fair hair and across his forehead. His lips work soundlessly, and a lone tear traces its way down his cheek.
Edmund has not yet let himself cry. He has shouted and fought and vomited, but every time his eyes have filled with tears he has dashed them away. Now, he doesn't care. Silently, he lets himself weep, and weep properly. He bends his head to press against Peter's shoulder, and his whole body shakes.
Aslan touches the boy-king's arm. "Grieve," he commands. "Let him go."
The paw slips from Edmund's skin, and the lion pads away.
There is silence, just for a moment, and the only movement is the uncontrollable tremble of the suddenly so-young boy. For once, the King gives way, and just allows who he once was to fall apart.
Edmund's fingers flex in Peter's hair, and his fist tangles in his shirt.
After a while-a long while, it seems-his hand slips from his brother's clothing and drops to his side, fumbling at the clasp that binds the bright scabbard to his hip. His fingers act as if they are drunk - they fumble and miss and slip on the buckle. He perseveres, through the tears.
Finally the belt comes loose. The bright scabbard topples to the dark floor tiles with a poignant clatter. Edmund drags himself away from his brother and clutches at the weapon with shaking fingers - his vision is blurred by tears, but that doesn't halt him as he pulls the scabbarded blade up to the surface of the stone plinth. He unclasps Peter's hands from around each other and wraps them around the carved hilt.
"It's yours," he says to his dead brother, and his voice is steady. "Take it."
Peter doesn't move. Edmund was half-expecting him to - for his brother to jump up and laugh, telling him it had all been a joke. But the High King lies still, resplendent in death.
Edmund sobs, just once.
He leans over and tightly kisses Peter's forehead, and he leaves crystal tears glimmering on his dead brother's cheeks. "I miss you," he whispers. "More than you'll ever know."
Edmund presses his face into the royal blue of Peter's tunic, and knows that he will carry this moment-this fragmentary instant of connection with the dead-in his heart for the rest of his life.
He cries, but no one would expect anything else.
~*end*~