The Heart of a Lion
It's the year's first really fine day of spring in London, yet the air of the northernmost courtyard of a certain all-boys school is thick with the mingled scents of sweat and blood.
"This'll teach you to get in our way again, Pevensie." Hamilton's words are interspersed with heavy grunts and punctuated by the flurry of his clenched fists.
The jeers of his friends have died down already, and the brutal sounds of flesh pounding repeatedly against bloody flesh makes more than a few of the watching circle wince before the sky swallows the obscene, wet noises.
Yet nobody dares to get in the way of Cedric Hamilton, favourite nephew of the Headmaster.
The larger boy steps back suddenly, shakes out his hands, breath heavy. His own knuckles are bloody beneath his rolled shirtsleeves, but his face is twisted by a satisfied sneer as he surveys his handiwork.
Hamilton's second-in-command releases Edmund's arms at a nod from his captain.
Edmund stumbles forward a few steps before falling to his knees, barely able to throw his hands out to soften the impact on the stones.
"Why do you care if we mess with some first year anyway, eh Pevensie?" Hamilton demands, looking down at his classmate. "Do you love him or something?"
He laughs at his own clever words, and the crowd that surrounds the two boys breaks out into sycophantic laughter as if on cue.
Edmund remains silent as he reaches a hand up to touch his split lip. His fingers come away smeared with blood, and the taste of it is like metal in his mouth as he spits a mouthful of it out. He knows that he will have two glorious black eyes come morning, and even more bruises purpling his body. But his gaze sweeps the courtyard covertly from where he is kneeling, and he knows that the first year has escaped this pack with nothing more than ears full of the taunts of bullies, and he is satisfied.
"Look at him, he won't even deny it," Hamilton says, his disgust palpable.
Edmund sees the fist coming clearly, knows he has – has had – more than enough time to block the assaults coming from the boy who was once his friend. Yet he does nothing more than close his eyes, bracing himself for the blows. His head whips to the side with the force of the impact, but still he doesn't cry out, not even when he falls over painfully onto his back.
He enjoys the sight of the clear blue sky arching above him for a few moments before his view is obstructed by the shadow of Hamilton standing over him.
Hamilton shifts his left foot slightly, and even King Edmund the Just, who has been trained to remain unflinching in the face of war, cannot help but curl his body slightly inwards, anticipating the kick to his ribs.
But Hamilton pauses, face impassive as he stares down at the other boy.
"Let's go, he's not worth it," Hamilton snarls at his cronies, before leading them out over the prone form of Edmund and back into the Theology building.
It takes Edmund a moment to get up. He breathes deeply, inhaling the fresh spring air as he slowly uncurls his hands, which have been clenched into fists the entire time.
-
Peter doesn't say a word later at dinner when he slides onto the bench beside his younger brother. But Edmund sees him shake his head slightly out of the corner of his eye.
When Edmund grins, his cuts and bruises prominent, Peter rolls his eyes.
"You'd think," he mutters underneath his breath, pausing to take a sip of water, "that as a King of Narnia, you'd have enough courage to stand up to a common bully."
Edmund chokes on his stew, drawing curious glances from their dinner mates. Peter slaps him heartily on his back with an easy laugh.
"Only joking of course, Ed," Peter says, ignoring the pointed glare that the younger boy shoots at him. "I'm sure Aslan would be proud."
-
Yes, Edmund thinks drowsily to himself, later that night as he stares up at the ceiling of his room from where he reclines on his bed.
Aslan would have done the same.
-
The next morning, when Edmund passes the first year whose name he doesn't know in the hall on his way to his first class, the younger boy beams gratefully up at his saviour.
And when Edmund passes Cedric Hamilton on his way to dinner, he nods at his former friend, never breaking his stride.
Hamilton quickly averts his gaze, secretly afraid of Edmund Pevensie, who looks and acts more like a man – like a king, really - than a mere schoolboy.
For Aslan, Edmund thinks fiercely.
Fin.