Fic: To Close Round the Moment [1/2]
Dec. 11th, 2008 10:52 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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narniaexchangeTitle: To Close Round the Moment
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
venilia
Recipient:rachelbeann
Possible Spoilers/Warnings:Rated PG-13, spoilers for both movies and all seven books.
Summary: Peter observes a few things about the Pevensie siblings.
Original promp: Peter, Battle!fic (or mention of battle). Appearances by multiple Pevensie's appreciated.
Author’s Notes at the end of part two. Many thanks to my Red for beta-ing. Title from Around Us by Marvin Bell, which those interested can find here: >We need the some pines to assuage the darkness
^*^*^
I.
Susan had her first menstrual period on the day Lucy first visited Narnia. Peter went to talk to her about Lucy’s wild imagination and whether or not they should play along, and the door to the girls’ bedroom was open.
He didn’t mean to spy. Nosiness wasn’t in Peter’s nature. But Susan was huddled up as if ashamed and for a panicked moment Peter thought she was crying. Then he saw that she was standing over her suitcase which was laid out on her bed, and when she pulled something out at first he thought, “But there aren’t any babies to wear nappies,” and then a certain uncomfortable conversation with his father came back to him, and he could feel himself blushing.
Of course, Susan picked that moment to turn around with her things.
She let out a surprised, “Oh!” and Peter said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!
I didn’t mean to!” and she said, “No, that’s quite all right.”
Peter was sure she said it out of habit because it wasn’t all right, it was horribly, horribly uncomfortable. They stood there for a miserable moment.
He didn’t realize that he was blocking the doorway until she tried to duck around him and he tried to duck out of the way. They performed one of those going-around-each-other dances that are awkward at the best of times, before Susan finally frowned and pushed right past him. Peter’s back hit the door, and he saw his sister dash down the corridor with her woman things and disappear into the wash closet.
He knew it was her first time needing the woman things because he’d seen his mum whisper something to her at the station. Susan had blushed and said, “But Mum! I don’t need…” and their mother had patted her arm and said, “Just in case, dear. You’re getting to be so grown up!”
When Susan was out of sorts and snappish the next day, Peter wisely didn’t say anything.
Lucy, who was still awfully young, thought that it was school that had changed Edmund, but Peter knew it was the horrid Peers brothers. Frank and Curtis Peers thought themselves the kings of Hendon House because their uncle was a duke, and their father was Lord Henry, and they expected everyone to know it. Edmund had tried with furious embarrassment to counter that their father was a Major, at least, but in those days nearly everyone’s father was a soldier, and even Majors weren’t uncommon.
The truly unbearable thing about the Peers brother was that even though they made you feel stupid, they were so funny and clever that you still wanted them to be your friends. Even Peter’s friend, Neil
Clifford, who Peter had thought too shy to ever do much harm had called Peter a sissy and jeered when Mrs. Pevensie kissed Peter goodbye. Peter had known that Neil thought no such thing, but with Frank’s bright laughter and slaps on the shoulder egging him on Neil just kept at it until Peter couldn’t conscience being friends with him even outside school.
Peter had other friends and knew the vicious things Neil said weren’t true so it didn’t bother him too much, but Edmund was the sort who took his reputation a little too seriously, and it bothered him enormously. Every time Curtis Peers shouldered him out of his way, or tittered like a girl with his friends just as Edmund walked by, or made comments about how, really, who cared if one’s father was anything less than a General these days to one of his or Frank’s cronies, Edmund seethed with anger and hunched downward in shame, until the anger was almost like a jumper he pulled on every day. By the end of the term he’d learned to walk with his head tall by lording his father’s position over the boys whose fathers were things like dentists or engineers or Privates, and he unraveled his anger-jumper by taking spiteful little revenges on anyone who made him feel less than princely, which was mainly Peter who was disgusted at his brother’s behavior.
Peter wished his father was still home to give Edmund a good talking-to.
Peter wasn’t sure if the other two knew that Lucy hated to be alone.
She’d had almost a harder time than Edmund when Edmund had finally been old enough to leave for school as he and Susan had the years before. It wouldn’t have been quite so bad, Peter thought, if Mrs. Tibbs had still lived next door for Lucy to go and have tea and biscuits with, but Mrs. Tibbs’ son had convinced his mother to move in with his family, and with Father away and Mother so busy Lucy had had no one.
Part of it, Peter thought, was that Lucy was the kind of person who loved to share any nice experience, and it was unbearable for her to have no one to laugh with. He had a distinct memory of two year old
Lucy, thumb in her mouth, tugging Susan by the hand into the boys’ room Christmas morning so they could all go downstairs for presents.
She probably had never even thought of opening presents by herself.
But that was Lucy all over. If it had been Edmund or Susan who had first made a friend of a mythical creature in a magical wood in a wardrobe, they might have kept such a wonderful secret to themselves.
(That was almost exactly what Edmund had done, actually.)
Lucy was the bravest person Peter knew, but he thought that if it weren’t for the Macready chasing them into the spare room that day and his and Susan’s subsequent discovery of Narnia, Lucy would never have been brave enough to go on and meet Aslan on her own.
Peter saw Aslan outside of Narnia.
The first time Peter was seven, and he fell out of a tree while his family was on holiday in the country. He broke his arm in two places and hit his head hard, and was too stunned to cry or yell for help.
He lay there long enough for the deep shadows of the branches to pass over his face while the world made sickly revolutions, like a gyroscope at the end of its spin when it can’t decide which way to topple over.
Finally, he heard his father’s voice calling his name, and tried to answer but couldn’t seem to get his words out loudly enough. Mr. Pevensie’s voice drifted away, and then Peter cried, just a little.
Quite suddenly there was a bright light, which at first Peter took to be the sun falling in his eyes again. It resolved instead into a great lion, at least as tall as the pony Susan had fallen in love with in the stables, and Peter felt himself being lifted up like a kitten and carried to a clearing. His father found him slumped up against a tree, woozily trying to find his feet, and carried him back to the inn, where a doctor was called and much fuss was made over Peter’s bravery.
Even Susan didn’t believe him about the lion, and until he met Aslan with his siblings and the Beavers at Aslan’s camp Peter himself thought it had been a dream, or a hallucination.
^*^*^
II.
After Mr. Beaver gave Lucy back her handkerchief, Peter caught her hand darting to her pocket several times to feel it, as if she worried she would lose it, as if keeping the handkerchief safe could somehow keep her poor, betrayer-turned-friend safe. He thought she was just about to settle down when Edmund was discovered to be missing, and her whole face just dropped. As Susan and the Beavers rushed about the lodge to pack, Lucy stole a brief moment to carefully wipe her few tears on her handkerchief, and then folded it up, measuring the corners to each other as well as she could, and replaced it in her pocket. Peter had his arms full of Mr. Beaver’s fishing gear which he was firmly told to drop the next instant in favor of blankets, so he couldn’t offer to hold onto it for her, or he would have.
The night in the Beavers’ hideout Lucy dropped right off after taking a sip from the flask, but Peter took a bit longer. Mr. Beaver was snoring loudly enough that Peter was worried they’d be discovered any minute, and Mrs. Beaver hadn’t twitched for minutes when Peter heard Susan huff a little sob.
He remembered his fear back in England that he would have to comfort her, but here in Narnia it was different. For one thing, she was already huddled against him for warmth (as was Lucy, and his left arm was dead from her weight) which meant that he didn’t really have to hug her, and for another thing he almost felt like crying himself. It was just so big, and so dangerous, and he was so very tired, and his feet hurt from walking and besides being worried about Susan and Lucy, he was worried about Edmund and felt guilty.
Awkwardly, he felt about in the dark until he had her hand and gave it a good squeeze. Susan froze for a moment, and then relaxed and squeezed back.
“I’m not really crying, you know,” she whispered. “It’s just that I’m tired.”
“Yeah,” he whispered back, “I know, Su. I know that,” and he believed her because Susan might not have been brave like Lucy, but she could soldier on with the best of them. She’d been fantastic when Father first left and Mother barely left her room for three days and it was up to Susan to cook them dinner and clean the kitchen after burning the chicken and after her initial farewell tears at the train station she hadn’t cried a bit.
It was companionably silent for a minute, and then Susan whispered,
“Peter? I think I’m getting a blister on my heel,” and it was so unexpected that Peter had to laugh (which was barely audible over Mr.
Beaver’s snores anyway). Susan slapped his shoulder and called him mean, but he could hear the smile in her voice, and she settled down and slept soon afterwards.
Eventually, Peter slept too.
After Edmund had his talk with Aslan and they’d all hugged and made up again, and after Aslan and the Witch had parlayed and come to their own agreement, Peter took Edmund aside and really apologized to him for not being a better brother. Edmund said that it was all right, and that he didn’t blame Peter, really, and that if Aslan could forgive Edmund betraying Narnia and his own siblings to the White Witch then Edmund felt he had no place holding Peter trying to be too grown-up against him, at which point Peter was obliged to punch him in the arm and say, “Oi! That’s Sir Peter Wolf’s-Bane to you, laddy!” which proved everything was right with Edmund again because he only laughed, pure childlike laughter with no anger in it at all.
Edmund never spoke much about his time with the Witch and he never said anything about his talk with Aslan, but that night, in their tent, Edmund whispered across to Peter. He loosely covered the enchanted Turkish Delight, and the statues in her courtyard, and finished by telling Peter about drawing a mustache on the lion’s face which he felt especially bad for now that he’d seen Aslan.
But Peter, who was nervous about the upcoming battle and half asleep, laughed until he was out of breath.
After the cherry tree Dryad found him Peter was worried sick about his sisters. Edmund seemed calmer and kept saying that Aslan must have known what he was doing, but he was pale and ate his breakfast slowly, as if unwilling to finish before the girls returned.
Peter didn’t know what to think. He hated the sense that finally, just when he had all his family together he’d lost track of them again. It felt like failure, and his morning coffee (which had felt like a treat and very grown up yesterday) was tasteless.
Oreius, as Captain of Aslan’s Guard, Thimsly, a youngish looking but solemn Dwarf in charge of weaponry and supplies, and an older Faun called Cellus who seemed to be in charge of keeping track of everybody and had a knack for foretelling the strengths and weaknesses of Peter’s army, were gathered to hear his orders and to advise. They watched Peter pace while Edmund leaned back against a rock and closed his eyes. Peter knew he should feel guilty for worrying about two girls missing when he had an entire army to prepare, but instead he felt almost angry, which just made him more upset for being such an obviously poor leader. He studiously ignored the news that Aslan was dead, unable to fix the idea of death to the huge, golden aliveness of the Lion. Peter balled up his fists at his sides and tried to hide his feelings.
Reports were already coming in about the Witch’s army gathering, and there were maps laid out on the little table they’d eaten at just yesterday, and the sounds of an army readying itself in the warm dawn light.
“If you send out the Griffins first, Prince Peter,” said Cellus (they’d been calling him Prince since he killed Maugrim) “they’ll almost all be taken out. Let the Witch’s archers waste their arrows on just a few hawks who can dodge them easily and still gather information. Then you can send in…” he trailed off as Sunfeather the Griffin, who at Edmund’s advice had been charged with managing the incoming reports, landed just at Peter’s elbow with a few great sweeps of his wings to steady his descent.
“My Princes,” he bowed first to Peter and then to Edmund, “Sallowpad has returned, and he says your sisters still sit with… they are still at the Stone Table, and there are no enemies about.”
Peter and Edmund both let out sighs of relief, but Sunfeather waited with more news.
“What is it, Sunfeather?” Peter asked.
The griffin swallowed. “Sire, the Witch herself has moved to join her troops. She rides a chariot pulled by two white bears which my Ravens tell me are but dumb beasts.” He paused and looked as if he forced the next words through his throat with sheer will and duty. “I posted Farsight the Eagle, sire, and he tells me she wears the mane of a Lion about her shoulders.”
There were gasps of horror, and Peter felt ill. Thimsly and Cellus buried their faces in their hands, and Edmund said, “No, no, no!”
Only Oreius took the news calmly. He stood as still as any statue with his head bowed. Then he lifted it and said, “My Prince, surely Aslan foresaw this. Surely this is the reason he has placed you in charge and advised you on the battle. Aslan has placed his trust in you, Prince Peter, and I can hardly do less,” and he bowed low.
The others were quick to join him, each bowing in their own fashion. Edmund looked about at them, and then turned to Peter and dropped his own head as one Prince to another.
Peter turned away from his companions and put his hand over his face for a long moment, remembering Aslan’s own words. He was relieved, and ashamed, and embarrassed and even honored all at once.
When he thought he could face everyone (especially his little brother) again without crying, he took it away, took a deep breath, and made himself smile.
“Thank you, Oreius. Thank all of you,” he said.
There was a pause.
“So, all right yes, the hawks first, but what about the Phoenix?” Edmund said for which Peter was grateful because he’d entirely forgotten what Cellus had been saying.
^*^*^
III.
The first time he drew his sword as King was five days after his coronation, when some Beast tried to assassinate Edmund for treachery. Peter had been across the hall when Susan shouted Edmund’s name and by the time he reached his brother’s side Lucy had already come up from behind and neatly sliced open the Ferret’s throat with the dagger Father Christmas had given her. It was a magnificent move, but afterwards she clung to Edmund’s waist and cried. Edmund was too grateful and sympathetic to be awkward, though Susan later told Peter that she’d had to wait a full ten minutes (while guarding with a tensely strung arrow) before she could hug Edmund herself. Peter was too busy chasing after the three remaining conspirators (another Ferret, a Mountain Cat that narrowly missed slicing Peter’s own throat open, and a male Dryad) and shouting orders to his Griffins and great Cats and Centaurs to take part in any hugging. The Dryad got away, but the ferret and the cat were caught and imprisoned and Peter hated that one of his first rulings as King of Narnia was to sentence two of his subjects to death.
Peter was uninjured after killing the wolf, and received only superficial wounds in the Battle of Beruna. Certainly nothing compared to Edmund’s. Even the whole assassination affair only resulted in a tear in Peter’s tunic and Edmund’s knee being bruised from falling to it when the Ferret jumped on his back, which wasn’t worth using Lucy’s cordial.
Peter’s first serious wound wasn’t until his second battle. This was with Telmar, towards the end of the first year of his reign when they invaded Narnia’s western border. It was easy to tell Narnia’s borders – if it had been unseasonably covered in snow and ice until recently, it was part of Narnia. (Actually, Peter was pretty sure that despite it being snowy year round, the Narnia/Archenland border should be on the other side of Stormness Head, just over the peak, but for the sake of staying allies with Archenland, Narnia had decided not to contest the boundaries.)
Telmar’s army was easily half again as large as Narnia’s and more disciplined, but then the Telmarines were also less experienced and unused to fighting Unicorns or Giants or furious Badgers.
Peter found himself in the thick of it with a swift-footed, sweet tempered bay Talking Mare named Tress (or at least that was as close as Peter came to pronouncing it), who’d been thrilled to have the honor of carrying the High King. He plunged Rhindon into one man’s shoulder and turned to motion Oreius to strengthen their southern flank when Tress screamed sharply and Peter was thrown through the air. He landed on his shoulder, but fortunately the ground was soft and though he had a large bruise later, his arm was uninjured. He lay there for a stunned moment listening to the ringing of his helmet.
The next moment there was a scream to his right and an idiot Telmarine was bringing his sword down in an arc. Peter threw himself left in time for the sword to miss cutting into his head or arm, but the Telmarine had put in too much force to recover his blow, and Peter was too dazed to move quickly, and the sword cut through his right hand, severing three fingers and the tip of his thumb. The Telmarine had to tug his sword out of the ground and it was that second or two that saved Peter’s life as he blinked at his fingers lying in the grass like enormous flesh-colored grubs. When he lifted his head from the sight he saw Rhindon a foot or so beyond, and instinct combined with hours of training made him dive for it before the thought that he ought to do so had completed itself. He rolled onto his haunches and brought it up with his left hand just as the Telmarine let out another ridiculous battle cry and lunged at him again, and this time it went through the man’s neck.
Peter sort of wandered about for the next little while until one of the Centauresses saw him and threw him over her back without bothering to ask. She carried him back to their base camp where he found Lucy treating Tress for a shattered foreleg. Lucy’s face grew white when she saw Peter’s stumps, and she threw up at the base of a nearby tree. Then she seemed to get mad and Peter heard her mutter, “Stupid little baby! If he can stand it, then so can you,” at herself as she wiped her mouth with her sleeve. They both held their breaths as she carefully poured a drop onto each stump.
Peter nearly cried when they grew back in a few minutes, and Lucy nearly threw up again.
Peter broke the nose of the first man to kiss Susan. Susan was only a little mad – she hadn’t much cared for her suitor to begin with, and she was only fifteen at the time where he was twenty-six. Still, punching a foreign duke was never a good move, and she made sure to tell Peter so at length.
“And Peter, he’s rumored to have the Prince’s ear. Right, Ed?” she turned to Edmund, who was looking steadily at the floor. Edmund nodded.
Lucy, who was sitting on the floor with a book, frowned. “I don’t see why you had to hit him, Peter, but Su, Prince Hallagh is just one lord of a country smaller than ours. I’m sure Edmund could talk us out of a war if he gets too upset, right Edmund?” she said.
Edmund nodded.
“See?” said Peter. “And even if they cut off trade we wouldn’t be all that bad off.”
Lucy shrugged at this, but Edmund seemed to be getting the hang of the nodding business.
“I know we don’t really need their fruit,” Susan said, pacing, “but have you thought about whom we’re going to purchase coffee or wool from if he storms off? We could maybe increase our sheep industry on the Lone Islands,” she mused, “but we don’t have any other allies who can trade coffee, right, Ed?”
Edmund nodded.
By this time Susan been gently but persistently pointing out the many ways this could all go wrong for almost half an hour, and Peter was sick of it.
“Look,” he said, “If he’s got any decency he’ll understand, and if he doesn’t then we don’t want him at our court. And anyway, Su, you were going to reject his suit and it’s a little easier to mend a broken nose than wounded pride, right Ed?”
“I’m sure,” said Edmund, nodding.
Susan rolled her eyes and she and Lucy did that odd female thing of knowing when to walk away together without any sort of agreement to do so first. Peter stared after them in bewilderment.
“Peter,” Edmund finally looked up, “how hard did you hit him?”
Peter paused. He hadn’t thought any of it through, just reacted.
Susan was a young woman, yes, but Peter could still see the occasional awkwardness in her limbs, the slight baby fat of her cheeks, still saw his sister blush when occasioned with any sort of intimate gesture, still thought of her as too young to be a full woman. Perhaps he was wrong about that, here in Narnia where she’d seen Aslan sacrificed on the Stone Table and fought in two battles.
But by the Lion, he was still her older brother and the duke had been far too forward with a woman more than ten years his junior.
Susan had looked uncomfortable.
He shrugged. “Hard enough.”
“Good,” said Edmund, and smiled as he left to go smooth over the little incident.
On the first Saturday of every month the four monarchs ascended the dais in the Great Hall and heard court. Any dispute or concern was heard, from the smallest concern (Mr. Beaver was getting on in years and worried about mending his dam. Could their majesties be so kind as to supply him workers for a day or two every year, just to patch the little things? Thankin’ you kindly.) to the large disputes (the Owls had a parliament near Ravenscaur during the Witch’s reign, but with spring and new chicks space was tight and tempers were high, and two Ravens had broken an Owl’s egg while scrapping over a nest. What were they all to do, your majesties?) and anything in between. Most things were in between.
On a miserable day late in autumn when the first cold snap had just broken, an especially dour and irritable Marsh-wiggle and a furious Dryad came before them. Peter took one look at their faces and groaned, inwardly. Susan groaned out loud, but quietly.
In between insults (the Naiad) and miserable predictions (the Marsh-wiggle) it came out that the River Shribble had flooded the previous spring, and a new branch dipped into the Marsh. There weren’t many Dryads that far north as they favored the protected waters of wells or well-formed rivers, but there was always the exception.
“And then the fishes will be poisoned. The eels too, I shouldn’t wonder. And then I’ll be forced to starve to death, or worse,” the Marsh-wiggle lowered his voice as if speaking of a great doom, “move in with my brother!” He made a sort of popping sound with his lips whenever he thought, like a nervous habit. Peter blinked and started to ask if he was finished when the Wiggle gathered himself and added, “And it smells wrong, too. Doesn’t have that proper marshy-ness to it, doesn’t have any scum on the water or dead grass. And there’s even,” he wiggled his fingers in front of him, “a current. My wigwam will be washed away. Pop. Pop. Probably happen while I’m sleeping, and I drown.”
Peter opened his mouth to point out that the stream was only a few feet deep, by the Naiad’s report, and anyway, he was a Marsh-wiggle, but the Wiggle continued, “And even if I should live I’m sure to get pneumonia and die anyway. And it’ll spread to anyone who takes care of me, of course, pop, and then, well then they’ll all die. And all because she couldn’t share a well with her sisters like a proper Naiad. Pop. Doom the whole Marsh, why don’t you?” he pointed an accusatory finger at his companion.
The Naiad was almost green with anger, and Lucy, who’d been lulled by the Wiggle’s account, started when she let out an inarticulate shout and stamped her foot, visibly controlling herself from lunging at the Marsh-wiggle.
“Well then, friends,” Peter hurried to say before violence broke out,
“Evening grows, and by liege of my fair consorts, I would have my dinner” he paused and received hearty nods from his brother and sisters. “Let us therefore adjourn until tomorrow, when we will give our judgment.”
Dinner was splendid, but Peter barely noticed what he ate as they all four argued. Lucy sided with the Wiggle and didn’t see why the Naiad couldn’t find some other stream, while Peter thought that a small stream could hardly make that much difference and the Wiggle could move his wigwam further away if it bothered him so much. Edmund, who was always a bit under the weather and silent for the first week or so of snow, played devil’s advocate for both sides in between staring at his plate, but didn’t have his heart in it, and Susan kept shooting him concerned glances while arguing in support of whichever side he attacked.
After an hour of not getting anywhere it was decided that further investigation would take place, and they would hear again from both sides tomorrow. Cellus was called for to arrange their schedule accordingly. Then the matter was put aside for more pleasant activities such as reading and chess.
The following morning found them again on their thrones, struggling not to squirm or yawn as first the Naiad and then the Marsh-wiggle went on and on again, saying much of what they’d said the day before.
Susan leapt to her feet in the middle of the Naiad recounting exactly which habits made her sister unable to be lived with, and threw up her hands. “Oh, this is perfectly ridiculous!” she said. “You’re both at fault here, arguing like little children. Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves? I’m sure if you’d both talked to each other instead of squabbling you’d have realized that a simple dam would change the stream’s course away from the marsh. It would have taken you less time and effort then coming here. And I really think it was more of a bother to come all the way to Cair Paravel at the beginning of winter and leave your wigwam and your stream unguarded and unattended than living next to each other!” She gathered herself, sharply. “That is my counsel, my brothers and sister,” she said, and sat down.
Lucy exclaimed, “Oh well said, Susan!” while Edmund smiled broadly for the first time in days and the Naiad and the Marsh-wiggle made embarrassed apologies and left quickly with their heads hung low.
Peter stared at her in admiration and for the umpteenth time since his coronation was deeply thankful that he did not have to rule Narnia on his own, that he had Lucy’s courage and hopefulness, Edmund’s quick wit and passion for justice, and Susan’s soft heart and steady sense to weigh out his own judgments.
“Really, sister, you are a marvel,” he told her, and she laughed at them all and declared that they should have a winter picnic in the courtyard before the true snow came.
Though it was really too cold, they had a lovely time and when they were finished hot chocolate was served by the great fireplace in Peter’s rooms.
Part Two
Author:
veniliaRecipient:
rachelbeannPossible Spoilers/Warnings:Rated PG-13, spoilers for both movies and all seven books.
Summary: Peter observes a few things about the Pevensie siblings.
Original promp: Peter, Battle!fic (or mention of battle). Appearances by multiple Pevensie's appreciated.
Author’s Notes at the end of part two. Many thanks to my Red for beta-ing. Title from Around Us by Marvin Bell, which those interested can find here: >We need the some pines to assuage the darkness
^*^*^
I.
Susan had her first menstrual period on the day Lucy first visited Narnia. Peter went to talk to her about Lucy’s wild imagination and whether or not they should play along, and the door to the girls’ bedroom was open.
He didn’t mean to spy. Nosiness wasn’t in Peter’s nature. But Susan was huddled up as if ashamed and for a panicked moment Peter thought she was crying. Then he saw that she was standing over her suitcase which was laid out on her bed, and when she pulled something out at first he thought, “But there aren’t any babies to wear nappies,” and then a certain uncomfortable conversation with his father came back to him, and he could feel himself blushing.
Of course, Susan picked that moment to turn around with her things.
She let out a surprised, “Oh!” and Peter said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!
I didn’t mean to!” and she said, “No, that’s quite all right.”
Peter was sure she said it out of habit because it wasn’t all right, it was horribly, horribly uncomfortable. They stood there for a miserable moment.
He didn’t realize that he was blocking the doorway until she tried to duck around him and he tried to duck out of the way. They performed one of those going-around-each-other dances that are awkward at the best of times, before Susan finally frowned and pushed right past him. Peter’s back hit the door, and he saw his sister dash down the corridor with her woman things and disappear into the wash closet.
He knew it was her first time needing the woman things because he’d seen his mum whisper something to her at the station. Susan had blushed and said, “But Mum! I don’t need…” and their mother had patted her arm and said, “Just in case, dear. You’re getting to be so grown up!”
When Susan was out of sorts and snappish the next day, Peter wisely didn’t say anything.
Lucy, who was still awfully young, thought that it was school that had changed Edmund, but Peter knew it was the horrid Peers brothers. Frank and Curtis Peers thought themselves the kings of Hendon House because their uncle was a duke, and their father was Lord Henry, and they expected everyone to know it. Edmund had tried with furious embarrassment to counter that their father was a Major, at least, but in those days nearly everyone’s father was a soldier, and even Majors weren’t uncommon.
The truly unbearable thing about the Peers brother was that even though they made you feel stupid, they were so funny and clever that you still wanted them to be your friends. Even Peter’s friend, Neil
Clifford, who Peter had thought too shy to ever do much harm had called Peter a sissy and jeered when Mrs. Pevensie kissed Peter goodbye. Peter had known that Neil thought no such thing, but with Frank’s bright laughter and slaps on the shoulder egging him on Neil just kept at it until Peter couldn’t conscience being friends with him even outside school.
Peter had other friends and knew the vicious things Neil said weren’t true so it didn’t bother him too much, but Edmund was the sort who took his reputation a little too seriously, and it bothered him enormously. Every time Curtis Peers shouldered him out of his way, or tittered like a girl with his friends just as Edmund walked by, or made comments about how, really, who cared if one’s father was anything less than a General these days to one of his or Frank’s cronies, Edmund seethed with anger and hunched downward in shame, until the anger was almost like a jumper he pulled on every day. By the end of the term he’d learned to walk with his head tall by lording his father’s position over the boys whose fathers were things like dentists or engineers or Privates, and he unraveled his anger-jumper by taking spiteful little revenges on anyone who made him feel less than princely, which was mainly Peter who was disgusted at his brother’s behavior.
Peter wished his father was still home to give Edmund a good talking-to.
Peter wasn’t sure if the other two knew that Lucy hated to be alone.
She’d had almost a harder time than Edmund when Edmund had finally been old enough to leave for school as he and Susan had the years before. It wouldn’t have been quite so bad, Peter thought, if Mrs. Tibbs had still lived next door for Lucy to go and have tea and biscuits with, but Mrs. Tibbs’ son had convinced his mother to move in with his family, and with Father away and Mother so busy Lucy had had no one.
Part of it, Peter thought, was that Lucy was the kind of person who loved to share any nice experience, and it was unbearable for her to have no one to laugh with. He had a distinct memory of two year old
Lucy, thumb in her mouth, tugging Susan by the hand into the boys’ room Christmas morning so they could all go downstairs for presents.
She probably had never even thought of opening presents by herself.
But that was Lucy all over. If it had been Edmund or Susan who had first made a friend of a mythical creature in a magical wood in a wardrobe, they might have kept such a wonderful secret to themselves.
(That was almost exactly what Edmund had done, actually.)
Lucy was the bravest person Peter knew, but he thought that if it weren’t for the Macready chasing them into the spare room that day and his and Susan’s subsequent discovery of Narnia, Lucy would never have been brave enough to go on and meet Aslan on her own.
Peter saw Aslan outside of Narnia.
The first time Peter was seven, and he fell out of a tree while his family was on holiday in the country. He broke his arm in two places and hit his head hard, and was too stunned to cry or yell for help.
He lay there long enough for the deep shadows of the branches to pass over his face while the world made sickly revolutions, like a gyroscope at the end of its spin when it can’t decide which way to topple over.
Finally, he heard his father’s voice calling his name, and tried to answer but couldn’t seem to get his words out loudly enough. Mr. Pevensie’s voice drifted away, and then Peter cried, just a little.
Quite suddenly there was a bright light, which at first Peter took to be the sun falling in his eyes again. It resolved instead into a great lion, at least as tall as the pony Susan had fallen in love with in the stables, and Peter felt himself being lifted up like a kitten and carried to a clearing. His father found him slumped up against a tree, woozily trying to find his feet, and carried him back to the inn, where a doctor was called and much fuss was made over Peter’s bravery.
Even Susan didn’t believe him about the lion, and until he met Aslan with his siblings and the Beavers at Aslan’s camp Peter himself thought it had been a dream, or a hallucination.
^*^*^
II.
After Mr. Beaver gave Lucy back her handkerchief, Peter caught her hand darting to her pocket several times to feel it, as if she worried she would lose it, as if keeping the handkerchief safe could somehow keep her poor, betrayer-turned-friend safe. He thought she was just about to settle down when Edmund was discovered to be missing, and her whole face just dropped. As Susan and the Beavers rushed about the lodge to pack, Lucy stole a brief moment to carefully wipe her few tears on her handkerchief, and then folded it up, measuring the corners to each other as well as she could, and replaced it in her pocket. Peter had his arms full of Mr. Beaver’s fishing gear which he was firmly told to drop the next instant in favor of blankets, so he couldn’t offer to hold onto it for her, or he would have.
The night in the Beavers’ hideout Lucy dropped right off after taking a sip from the flask, but Peter took a bit longer. Mr. Beaver was snoring loudly enough that Peter was worried they’d be discovered any minute, and Mrs. Beaver hadn’t twitched for minutes when Peter heard Susan huff a little sob.
He remembered his fear back in England that he would have to comfort her, but here in Narnia it was different. For one thing, she was already huddled against him for warmth (as was Lucy, and his left arm was dead from her weight) which meant that he didn’t really have to hug her, and for another thing he almost felt like crying himself. It was just so big, and so dangerous, and he was so very tired, and his feet hurt from walking and besides being worried about Susan and Lucy, he was worried about Edmund and felt guilty.
Awkwardly, he felt about in the dark until he had her hand and gave it a good squeeze. Susan froze for a moment, and then relaxed and squeezed back.
“I’m not really crying, you know,” she whispered. “It’s just that I’m tired.”
“Yeah,” he whispered back, “I know, Su. I know that,” and he believed her because Susan might not have been brave like Lucy, but she could soldier on with the best of them. She’d been fantastic when Father first left and Mother barely left her room for three days and it was up to Susan to cook them dinner and clean the kitchen after burning the chicken and after her initial farewell tears at the train station she hadn’t cried a bit.
It was companionably silent for a minute, and then Susan whispered,
“Peter? I think I’m getting a blister on my heel,” and it was so unexpected that Peter had to laugh (which was barely audible over Mr.
Beaver’s snores anyway). Susan slapped his shoulder and called him mean, but he could hear the smile in her voice, and she settled down and slept soon afterwards.
Eventually, Peter slept too.
After Edmund had his talk with Aslan and they’d all hugged and made up again, and after Aslan and the Witch had parlayed and come to their own agreement, Peter took Edmund aside and really apologized to him for not being a better brother. Edmund said that it was all right, and that he didn’t blame Peter, really, and that if Aslan could forgive Edmund betraying Narnia and his own siblings to the White Witch then Edmund felt he had no place holding Peter trying to be too grown-up against him, at which point Peter was obliged to punch him in the arm and say, “Oi! That’s Sir Peter Wolf’s-Bane to you, laddy!” which proved everything was right with Edmund again because he only laughed, pure childlike laughter with no anger in it at all.
Edmund never spoke much about his time with the Witch and he never said anything about his talk with Aslan, but that night, in their tent, Edmund whispered across to Peter. He loosely covered the enchanted Turkish Delight, and the statues in her courtyard, and finished by telling Peter about drawing a mustache on the lion’s face which he felt especially bad for now that he’d seen Aslan.
But Peter, who was nervous about the upcoming battle and half asleep, laughed until he was out of breath.
After the cherry tree Dryad found him Peter was worried sick about his sisters. Edmund seemed calmer and kept saying that Aslan must have known what he was doing, but he was pale and ate his breakfast slowly, as if unwilling to finish before the girls returned.
Peter didn’t know what to think. He hated the sense that finally, just when he had all his family together he’d lost track of them again. It felt like failure, and his morning coffee (which had felt like a treat and very grown up yesterday) was tasteless.
Oreius, as Captain of Aslan’s Guard, Thimsly, a youngish looking but solemn Dwarf in charge of weaponry and supplies, and an older Faun called Cellus who seemed to be in charge of keeping track of everybody and had a knack for foretelling the strengths and weaknesses of Peter’s army, were gathered to hear his orders and to advise. They watched Peter pace while Edmund leaned back against a rock and closed his eyes. Peter knew he should feel guilty for worrying about two girls missing when he had an entire army to prepare, but instead he felt almost angry, which just made him more upset for being such an obviously poor leader. He studiously ignored the news that Aslan was dead, unable to fix the idea of death to the huge, golden aliveness of the Lion. Peter balled up his fists at his sides and tried to hide his feelings.
Reports were already coming in about the Witch’s army gathering, and there were maps laid out on the little table they’d eaten at just yesterday, and the sounds of an army readying itself in the warm dawn light.
“If you send out the Griffins first, Prince Peter,” said Cellus (they’d been calling him Prince since he killed Maugrim) “they’ll almost all be taken out. Let the Witch’s archers waste their arrows on just a few hawks who can dodge them easily and still gather information. Then you can send in…” he trailed off as Sunfeather the Griffin, who at Edmund’s advice had been charged with managing the incoming reports, landed just at Peter’s elbow with a few great sweeps of his wings to steady his descent.
“My Princes,” he bowed first to Peter and then to Edmund, “Sallowpad has returned, and he says your sisters still sit with… they are still at the Stone Table, and there are no enemies about.”
Peter and Edmund both let out sighs of relief, but Sunfeather waited with more news.
“What is it, Sunfeather?” Peter asked.
The griffin swallowed. “Sire, the Witch herself has moved to join her troops. She rides a chariot pulled by two white bears which my Ravens tell me are but dumb beasts.” He paused and looked as if he forced the next words through his throat with sheer will and duty. “I posted Farsight the Eagle, sire, and he tells me she wears the mane of a Lion about her shoulders.”
There were gasps of horror, and Peter felt ill. Thimsly and Cellus buried their faces in their hands, and Edmund said, “No, no, no!”
Only Oreius took the news calmly. He stood as still as any statue with his head bowed. Then he lifted it and said, “My Prince, surely Aslan foresaw this. Surely this is the reason he has placed you in charge and advised you on the battle. Aslan has placed his trust in you, Prince Peter, and I can hardly do less,” and he bowed low.
The others were quick to join him, each bowing in their own fashion. Edmund looked about at them, and then turned to Peter and dropped his own head as one Prince to another.
Peter turned away from his companions and put his hand over his face for a long moment, remembering Aslan’s own words. He was relieved, and ashamed, and embarrassed and even honored all at once.
When he thought he could face everyone (especially his little brother) again without crying, he took it away, took a deep breath, and made himself smile.
“Thank you, Oreius. Thank all of you,” he said.
There was a pause.
“So, all right yes, the hawks first, but what about the Phoenix?” Edmund said for which Peter was grateful because he’d entirely forgotten what Cellus had been saying.
^*^*^
III.
The first time he drew his sword as King was five days after his coronation, when some Beast tried to assassinate Edmund for treachery. Peter had been across the hall when Susan shouted Edmund’s name and by the time he reached his brother’s side Lucy had already come up from behind and neatly sliced open the Ferret’s throat with the dagger Father Christmas had given her. It was a magnificent move, but afterwards she clung to Edmund’s waist and cried. Edmund was too grateful and sympathetic to be awkward, though Susan later told Peter that she’d had to wait a full ten minutes (while guarding with a tensely strung arrow) before she could hug Edmund herself. Peter was too busy chasing after the three remaining conspirators (another Ferret, a Mountain Cat that narrowly missed slicing Peter’s own throat open, and a male Dryad) and shouting orders to his Griffins and great Cats and Centaurs to take part in any hugging. The Dryad got away, but the ferret and the cat were caught and imprisoned and Peter hated that one of his first rulings as King of Narnia was to sentence two of his subjects to death.
Peter was uninjured after killing the wolf, and received only superficial wounds in the Battle of Beruna. Certainly nothing compared to Edmund’s. Even the whole assassination affair only resulted in a tear in Peter’s tunic and Edmund’s knee being bruised from falling to it when the Ferret jumped on his back, which wasn’t worth using Lucy’s cordial.
Peter’s first serious wound wasn’t until his second battle. This was with Telmar, towards the end of the first year of his reign when they invaded Narnia’s western border. It was easy to tell Narnia’s borders – if it had been unseasonably covered in snow and ice until recently, it was part of Narnia. (Actually, Peter was pretty sure that despite it being snowy year round, the Narnia/Archenland border should be on the other side of Stormness Head, just over the peak, but for the sake of staying allies with Archenland, Narnia had decided not to contest the boundaries.)
Telmar’s army was easily half again as large as Narnia’s and more disciplined, but then the Telmarines were also less experienced and unused to fighting Unicorns or Giants or furious Badgers.
Peter found himself in the thick of it with a swift-footed, sweet tempered bay Talking Mare named Tress (or at least that was as close as Peter came to pronouncing it), who’d been thrilled to have the honor of carrying the High King. He plunged Rhindon into one man’s shoulder and turned to motion Oreius to strengthen their southern flank when Tress screamed sharply and Peter was thrown through the air. He landed on his shoulder, but fortunately the ground was soft and though he had a large bruise later, his arm was uninjured. He lay there for a stunned moment listening to the ringing of his helmet.
The next moment there was a scream to his right and an idiot Telmarine was bringing his sword down in an arc. Peter threw himself left in time for the sword to miss cutting into his head or arm, but the Telmarine had put in too much force to recover his blow, and Peter was too dazed to move quickly, and the sword cut through his right hand, severing three fingers and the tip of his thumb. The Telmarine had to tug his sword out of the ground and it was that second or two that saved Peter’s life as he blinked at his fingers lying in the grass like enormous flesh-colored grubs. When he lifted his head from the sight he saw Rhindon a foot or so beyond, and instinct combined with hours of training made him dive for it before the thought that he ought to do so had completed itself. He rolled onto his haunches and brought it up with his left hand just as the Telmarine let out another ridiculous battle cry and lunged at him again, and this time it went through the man’s neck.
Peter sort of wandered about for the next little while until one of the Centauresses saw him and threw him over her back without bothering to ask. She carried him back to their base camp where he found Lucy treating Tress for a shattered foreleg. Lucy’s face grew white when she saw Peter’s stumps, and she threw up at the base of a nearby tree. Then she seemed to get mad and Peter heard her mutter, “Stupid little baby! If he can stand it, then so can you,” at herself as she wiped her mouth with her sleeve. They both held their breaths as she carefully poured a drop onto each stump.
Peter nearly cried when they grew back in a few minutes, and Lucy nearly threw up again.
Peter broke the nose of the first man to kiss Susan. Susan was only a little mad – she hadn’t much cared for her suitor to begin with, and she was only fifteen at the time where he was twenty-six. Still, punching a foreign duke was never a good move, and she made sure to tell Peter so at length.
“And Peter, he’s rumored to have the Prince’s ear. Right, Ed?” she turned to Edmund, who was looking steadily at the floor. Edmund nodded.
Lucy, who was sitting on the floor with a book, frowned. “I don’t see why you had to hit him, Peter, but Su, Prince Hallagh is just one lord of a country smaller than ours. I’m sure Edmund could talk us out of a war if he gets too upset, right Edmund?” she said.
Edmund nodded.
“See?” said Peter. “And even if they cut off trade we wouldn’t be all that bad off.”
Lucy shrugged at this, but Edmund seemed to be getting the hang of the nodding business.
“I know we don’t really need their fruit,” Susan said, pacing, “but have you thought about whom we’re going to purchase coffee or wool from if he storms off? We could maybe increase our sheep industry on the Lone Islands,” she mused, “but we don’t have any other allies who can trade coffee, right, Ed?”
Edmund nodded.
By this time Susan been gently but persistently pointing out the many ways this could all go wrong for almost half an hour, and Peter was sick of it.
“Look,” he said, “If he’s got any decency he’ll understand, and if he doesn’t then we don’t want him at our court. And anyway, Su, you were going to reject his suit and it’s a little easier to mend a broken nose than wounded pride, right Ed?”
“I’m sure,” said Edmund, nodding.
Susan rolled her eyes and she and Lucy did that odd female thing of knowing when to walk away together without any sort of agreement to do so first. Peter stared after them in bewilderment.
“Peter,” Edmund finally looked up, “how hard did you hit him?”
Peter paused. He hadn’t thought any of it through, just reacted.
Susan was a young woman, yes, but Peter could still see the occasional awkwardness in her limbs, the slight baby fat of her cheeks, still saw his sister blush when occasioned with any sort of intimate gesture, still thought of her as too young to be a full woman. Perhaps he was wrong about that, here in Narnia where she’d seen Aslan sacrificed on the Stone Table and fought in two battles.
But by the Lion, he was still her older brother and the duke had been far too forward with a woman more than ten years his junior.
Susan had looked uncomfortable.
He shrugged. “Hard enough.”
“Good,” said Edmund, and smiled as he left to go smooth over the little incident.
On the first Saturday of every month the four monarchs ascended the dais in the Great Hall and heard court. Any dispute or concern was heard, from the smallest concern (Mr. Beaver was getting on in years and worried about mending his dam. Could their majesties be so kind as to supply him workers for a day or two every year, just to patch the little things? Thankin’ you kindly.) to the large disputes (the Owls had a parliament near Ravenscaur during the Witch’s reign, but with spring and new chicks space was tight and tempers were high, and two Ravens had broken an Owl’s egg while scrapping over a nest. What were they all to do, your majesties?) and anything in between. Most things were in between.
On a miserable day late in autumn when the first cold snap had just broken, an especially dour and irritable Marsh-wiggle and a furious Dryad came before them. Peter took one look at their faces and groaned, inwardly. Susan groaned out loud, but quietly.
In between insults (the Naiad) and miserable predictions (the Marsh-wiggle) it came out that the River Shribble had flooded the previous spring, and a new branch dipped into the Marsh. There weren’t many Dryads that far north as they favored the protected waters of wells or well-formed rivers, but there was always the exception.
“And then the fishes will be poisoned. The eels too, I shouldn’t wonder. And then I’ll be forced to starve to death, or worse,” the Marsh-wiggle lowered his voice as if speaking of a great doom, “move in with my brother!” He made a sort of popping sound with his lips whenever he thought, like a nervous habit. Peter blinked and started to ask if he was finished when the Wiggle gathered himself and added, “And it smells wrong, too. Doesn’t have that proper marshy-ness to it, doesn’t have any scum on the water or dead grass. And there’s even,” he wiggled his fingers in front of him, “a current. My wigwam will be washed away. Pop. Pop. Probably happen while I’m sleeping, and I drown.”
Peter opened his mouth to point out that the stream was only a few feet deep, by the Naiad’s report, and anyway, he was a Marsh-wiggle, but the Wiggle continued, “And even if I should live I’m sure to get pneumonia and die anyway. And it’ll spread to anyone who takes care of me, of course, pop, and then, well then they’ll all die. And all because she couldn’t share a well with her sisters like a proper Naiad. Pop. Doom the whole Marsh, why don’t you?” he pointed an accusatory finger at his companion.
The Naiad was almost green with anger, and Lucy, who’d been lulled by the Wiggle’s account, started when she let out an inarticulate shout and stamped her foot, visibly controlling herself from lunging at the Marsh-wiggle.
“Well then, friends,” Peter hurried to say before violence broke out,
“Evening grows, and by liege of my fair consorts, I would have my dinner” he paused and received hearty nods from his brother and sisters. “Let us therefore adjourn until tomorrow, when we will give our judgment.”
Dinner was splendid, but Peter barely noticed what he ate as they all four argued. Lucy sided with the Wiggle and didn’t see why the Naiad couldn’t find some other stream, while Peter thought that a small stream could hardly make that much difference and the Wiggle could move his wigwam further away if it bothered him so much. Edmund, who was always a bit under the weather and silent for the first week or so of snow, played devil’s advocate for both sides in between staring at his plate, but didn’t have his heart in it, and Susan kept shooting him concerned glances while arguing in support of whichever side he attacked.
After an hour of not getting anywhere it was decided that further investigation would take place, and they would hear again from both sides tomorrow. Cellus was called for to arrange their schedule accordingly. Then the matter was put aside for more pleasant activities such as reading and chess.
The following morning found them again on their thrones, struggling not to squirm or yawn as first the Naiad and then the Marsh-wiggle went on and on again, saying much of what they’d said the day before.
Susan leapt to her feet in the middle of the Naiad recounting exactly which habits made her sister unable to be lived with, and threw up her hands. “Oh, this is perfectly ridiculous!” she said. “You’re both at fault here, arguing like little children. Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves? I’m sure if you’d both talked to each other instead of squabbling you’d have realized that a simple dam would change the stream’s course away from the marsh. It would have taken you less time and effort then coming here. And I really think it was more of a bother to come all the way to Cair Paravel at the beginning of winter and leave your wigwam and your stream unguarded and unattended than living next to each other!” She gathered herself, sharply. “That is my counsel, my brothers and sister,” she said, and sat down.
Lucy exclaimed, “Oh well said, Susan!” while Edmund smiled broadly for the first time in days and the Naiad and the Marsh-wiggle made embarrassed apologies and left quickly with their heads hung low.
Peter stared at her in admiration and for the umpteenth time since his coronation was deeply thankful that he did not have to rule Narnia on his own, that he had Lucy’s courage and hopefulness, Edmund’s quick wit and passion for justice, and Susan’s soft heart and steady sense to weigh out his own judgments.
“Really, sister, you are a marvel,” he told her, and she laughed at them all and declared that they should have a winter picnic in the courtyard before the true snow came.
Though it was really too cold, they had a lovely time and when they were finished hot chocolate was served by the great fireplace in Peter’s rooms.
Part Two
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Date: 2009-09-30 12:53 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-03-25 02:35 am (UTC)Lucy's courage knows no bounds, but she is, at this point, still a little girl. Plus, this is not long after the first Battle of Beruna, and seeing Edmund come thisclose to death for a second time would have been alarming.
I secretly love the bit about coming to Susan's aid because she looked uncomfortable. It's such a boyish response.
Peter meeting Aslan outside of Narnia was sort of the impetus for this whole long fic, and I'm glad you liked it. :)