Dedicated to Francie, for flying across the Atlantic to spend New Year with me!
"Atten-tion!"
My heels snap together with a crack, and it is as if I cannot stop them, though I hate myself for doing it. Peter is three rows ahead of me, his posture ramrod straight, but the back of his neck is red, and I can see, even from this far away, how much this pains him, taking orders from a man who hasn't seen active combat in twice my lifetime. Well... twice this lifetime, at least. This stupid school. Every day now, they march us up and down, up and down... making men of us, they say. Making cannon fodder is more like it. I know the truth. The war still goes on, and we are running out of people willing to die. I'm told it has only been four years, but to me, it started so very long ago that I barely remember how it began or what we are fighting for. Four years! Peter and I had cleaned the whole of Narnia free of scum in half that time, and with far less fuss. But then, Narnia was a little land. This war has engulfed the whole of the world, and it is baffling and terrifying in its scope. This is the kind of war I both feared and longed for as a boy... but now I am a boy again, and the great battle has come, and I do not know who my enemy is.
"Quick march!"
And so on we go. We keep plodding, on and on, our feet hammering on the unnaturally hard ground, and we none of us know where we are going. There is Peter, marching ahead of me, his step determined and perfectly in time, his shoulder in line with the next boy, and the next... seamless. Peter, the High King of Narnia, Commander of Armies, reduced to to a foot-solder. I fear for him. He is a battled hardened warrior, but of this new war, he is innocent as the boy next to him. If this war does not end soon, he will be forced to march out of this school yard and on, to his death. Two more years, and they will call for him, and I know he will go.
Of course, I do not voice these fears. Susan and Lucy would panic, and Peter would be hurt that I could possibly doubt him. But that's not it. I have no question about his bravery or his skill. I think about how hard he worked to perfect his swordsmanship, how our fear for his safety, even more than his own, drove him to rise before dawn, day after day, and practise, practise, practise... in the end, even Susan wasn't afraid for him, for we all knew none could best him. I never did, not even once. If it were the battlefield of my youth which was calling us to arms, then the thought of my brother taking up his weapon would inspire me with courage and awe; it would take more than this child's body to keep me from fighting alongside him. But again, this is different. Here, he need fear not goblins, but guns and grenades; not boggarts but bullets and bombs. Any unskilled fool with an itchy trigger finger could be the end of him.
They took us to an arms factory on an 'educational' visit. What a macabre lesson that was. I saw how the other boys' eyes began to shine, but Peter and I stood together, stiff and watchful. While the foreman delivered a dry lecture on the methods of manufacture and a rather more inspirational speech on the great contribution these 'wives and mothers' are making to the war effort, I watched Peter and he watched the women working. The majority of them ignored us, thinking us too young to be worthy of their attention, one or two of the younger, prettier ones looked right back at him - a bottle-blonde even winked at him as she lit up a cigarette. But he merely looked down and moved the sawdust around with his foot, his ears getting red.
Peter told me afterwards what ran through his mind... all those hard faced, coarse-handed women, sweating and swearing as they made bullets and shell casings. He is afraid that that is where Susan will end up in a few short years, her soft hands crafting weapons of war, her gentle mind turned over to men and murder. I fear that too. But it was not only that I saw, and it was not only for my sister that I feared, for even the most skilled of warriors cannot dodge the bite of a stray bullet. Each of those bullets has a name on it, they say, and if it has your name on it, there is nothing you can do. Sometimes I play with logic, telling myself that no slug they can produce could possibly know Peter's real name, who he really is... but as I stood there, watching them rattling past me, I knew this game to be wishful thinking. I could see the life-story of each bullet stretching out in front of it, its birth, its journey and its bitter, grisly end. Each one, fulfilling its purpose, each one tearing through skin and muscle and flesh, shattering bone... Perhaps, if the war goes on long enough, there might even be one waiting for me.
"Halt!"
You would think that I would prefer this modern warfare. It is clean, and precise and effective... but then, even I know that war should not be sterile. Taking life should not be an emotionless experience, even if I would have everything else so. If you forget to feel with a sword - or a gun - in your hand, then you become a cold-blooded thing, a murderer. In the rest of my life, I was calm, collected, rational, but many was the time, at the end of a hard fight, that I found my helmet not only full of blood and sweat, but tears too. After the victory, I would drag my weary self off and weep. He would cry with me, and nobody else knew but him. I needed him then. I need him now. Nobody would believe it if I told them.
I should love guns. Their clean, impersonal method of dispatch should appeal to me. I could close myself off and be free of guilt with a gun in my hand. I would not have to see the agony or watch the man die. I could walk away and pretend it never happened. Yes, you would think that I would love guns. But then, I have never done what was expected of me. Give me a sword and the cut and thrust of battle. Give me the smell of sweat and the whites of their eyes. I do not want to kill and not remember. I would honour every one of my fallen foes. Give me the sword, the dirty, hacking instrument. Do not give me the cold, clean gun.
"Eyes right!"
I turn my head unwillingly, and my neck cracks with rebellion. The boy next to me has warm, creamy skin and hair that is almost like his... though of course, it is shorter, and parted at the side. There are little, golden hairs on the back of his neck, and I cannot help but follow their point and wonder where they lead... then he shifts and wriggles, a tiny, forbidden movement, and the spell is broken - for the man I was pretending him to be was, amongst so many other things, an impeccable soldier. My head strains on my stiff neck, and inside I rail with frustration at this posture, this prison, this farcical, time-wasting occupation.
Behind me, though of course I cannot turn, I can sense the girls as they begin to gather behind the railings. Every day, they come to watch us in our torment. It is almost over, thank the Lion, and the bell will ring soon. Until then, we suffer, screamed at from one side and scrutinised from the other. I hear them giggle and hiss, all of them waiting for brothers, scoping for others', and I fear for my sisters there among them, for I know how hard it is to spend all day with fools and not find yourself slowly becoming one of them. Ridiculous creatures. "There, that one... no, not that one, the one next to him... that one, with the dark hair..." I think how I used to court these little verbal caresses, collect them, pin them down in my journal, even once I was with him, him with the green eyes. What a fool I was. I never did love him as well as I should have, and now he is gone and I don't think I will ever love another.
Truly.
I think what little love I ever had in my heart is used up, and now, I can get up no interest in anyone at all. Not the pretty girls to my right, nor the beautiful boys on my left. I only ever loved him, as best as I could, and I can love no other but him. I feel no pull in either direction. Which way would I go, if I had to choose? I don't know. I'd rather stand here alone and grow cold. There are no happy choices to be had. I should take interest in the girls beyond the railings, but I can't. I should love guns, but I don't.
"Fall out!"
At last. At last, the bell rings and we are free to go, home to our mothers and the Anderson shelter. My shoulders slump as the others drift away and I let my gaze drop to the floor. After a moment, I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, and it is Peter, of course.
"Ed? Are you alright? Come on, it's time to go. The girls are waiting." He tugs on my sleeve and draws me away. There are Susan and Lucy, standing by the gates, waiting for us, Susan's arm around Lucy's shoulders. I still cannot comprehend how small and vulnerable Lucy is, and it hurts even more to remember that the same is true of me. Susan has Peter's coat slung over her arm, and Lucy holds my bag out for me to take. They are almost clinging together. Peter gives them a weak smile, and takes Susan's arm, brushing a hand over Lucy's hair. Lucy grins, a little sunbeam, and takes my hand, pulling me on. I don't mind. In fact, I clutch at it. We go home, and on the way, it starts to rain.
Just for your information, this fic is based on the Narnia-based world that Francienyc and I have created together. Over the past year, we've written a rather epic storyline for the Pevensies, giving them lovers, enemies, spouses and even children. It's thanks to this world, and to our own obsession with it, that she and I have been really rather slack in the fanfiction department! We'd really like to begin to share some of this stuff with you lovely people through oneshots, and with that in mind, we're planning on posting some summaries of our versions of the characters and story-arcs of Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy in the very near future so you can understand when and if you choose to dip into our world. For this story, all you really need to know is that as far as Francie and I are concerned, the love of Edmund's life is Lord Peridan, of The Horse and His Boy's fame. Read Francie's fic - "The Artist's Tale" - to learn about our Peridan and why Edmund loves him so much - it's exquisite!