"The Magnificent High King gave me audience, and I was blessed further with the consideration of his Just Brother-Love and of his sisters, Gentle and Valiant in their turn. They were most benevolent—"
"Brother-Love?" I blurted. I was louder than I intended, probably because the room had been silent but for my interruption and Professor Slihenne's lecture. I colored, mortified.
He did not reprimand me. I think he anticipated the topic, as he glanced from the manuscript containing letters of ancient politicos that concerned the Golden Monarchs. He had been reading them aloud to us for the past week in our laborious study of the Golden Age. The Professor smiled kindly to belay any fears (generally, he guaranteed that his classrooms were not welcome to spontaneous interruptions).
"An unusual style, no? Much research has been conducted on its presence, pervasive throughout much of the contemporary correspondence and even between the letters of the sibs themselves. It is quite a mystery, as it is never applied to any but King Edmund and only then in conjunction with the High King in some manner."
This was interesting and not just to me. Our ears perked and swiveled the Professor's way instead of drifting in lazy circles and only twitching to the front when he happened to glance up from the text. The mallard at my right hand woke up with a brisk shake and feather-fluffing of his squat body.
The Professor continued: "It has been suggested that it was a common term in their original home of Spare Oom. Without a great amount of resources on that kingdom, we cannot be certain. Another idea is that it was once widespread in Narnia, but we have simply lost the other examples. Or, that he was so well-loved, he was considered a treasured brother to all. But that is contrary to some important facts. Which?"
Our gently sunlit classroom was still as we put our boredom on hiatus for a bout of deep concentration. I scrunched my brows together and frowned fiercely at the dust motes tossed hither and thither wherever I looked. No servant with a duster was allowed to poke about anywhere near the Professor's things. We racked our brains until an otter in the front row gave a jerk and nearly yelped before raising a paw. His webbed claws were barely spread before being granted leave to speak.
He spoke quickly, "Sir, Edmund was a traitor. He would be the last one they would love."
But the Professor shook his head slightly. "No, he was forgiven by his family and the Lion. And you must consider how completely Narnia followed the words of both. But essentially, that is not a bad idea." The dejected otter returned to cogitating.
Two more students queried before he gave up on us, saying, "Do you recall how they referred to all Narnians as 'cousins'? It would be a contradiction to be both brother and cousin simultaneously, and while that does not necessarily mean that we must completely dispose of the theory, it does make it that much more unlikely. So it is generally accepted that King Edmund was Brother-Love to High King Peter alone. Which leads us to the last theory. "
He shifted his weight from one talon to the other. He was perched on the edge of his desk, craning his glistening black neck and eyeing us intently. He was warming to the topic, hopping about as ravens are wont to do when exceptionally excited. He would continually land on manuscripts interred deep under layers of dust and send the entire front row into a fit of sneezing. I felt hardly sorry for the sycophants.
"Perhaps the two brothers, isolated from their home in a strange and at times frightening land, grew closer than normal. They went through battles— nearly dying — and the struggle of putting a devastated country back together. Most of the government was in the callow hands of two teenage boys; their sisters would be occupied with different problems. It would be only natural for them to cling to each other. "
While a raven always seems to peer at everyone, now it seemed especially true. We looked back at him, then at each other. We were in a stalemate of expectance. I decided to chance a guess at what could be the heart of the matter.
I raised my hand haltingly and said, "Sir, just how close were they, exactly?"
"Anywhere between very and extremely. They always exchanged endless quantities of letters when they were apart, which was rare. It was mentioned— if I can properly remember— that a princess had been sent to seduce the High King into marriage, but had no opportunity to work her wiles in the entire three months of her visit because she could never talk with him alone. He was constantly in his brother's presence. Certainly while in Narnia neither married, though both sisters took husbands at quite a young age. One would assume matrimony paled in comparison to their devotion."
From a corner of the room came a gasp and a tenuous question, "So were they ...in love?"
"It's likely. We cannot be sure how acceptable such a practice would be in Spare Oom, or if that would even make a difference, but in Narnia, where Animals will go to great lengths to breed explicitly within their own species, it would appear as a perfectly natural endeavor to remain true to breeding." The Professor stopped his jumping about and the dust began to slowly drift back home. It seemed he had received an epiphany.
He exclaimed, "I believe there is— yes, yes there is!— a portrait in the gallery that might help us. Come, come!" He took flight with yet another explosion of excess dust. We jumped out of our seats, needing no further encouragement to quit the dull room. It was a lovely day, and it quickened some inborn instinct in us all, making us eager for any distraction from our studies.
At my easy pace—translating to a trundle for some and a gallop for others— we tracked our flapping teacher by his wingtips. By the time we straggled into the Gallery of Paintings, he had already perched on a small stand set up specifically for the use of Birds like him. It was situated perfectly on the axis of the hallway, and periodically, others were erected down the length. On both sides of the Gallery, grand portraits hung on the dark paneled walls to gaze straight through us in the dim light afforded by the tiny, green-tinted windows situated high above us where the light would not fade their aged splendor. He had hustled us to one of the oldest and most famous of all the collection, a five hundred year-old monstrosity of a tapestry, famous to the point of cliché. It was called The Golden, and depicted the Kings' and Queens' of Old miraculous arrival and deliverance in worn and stained threads. In disappointment, we began to succumb to boredom once again.
The Professor regarded us cannily, advising, "Do not fall asleep after such a brisk jog; it's bad for the humors. I brought you to this old rug to start on the basics. Which monarch is which, now?"
We blinked. There was the lantern, the Lion, the battle, and the thrones, with a diverse selection of figures sprinkled strategically about. The same four did seem to show up in each scene now that we thought about it. But I surely didn't know Queen Lucy from Queen Susan.
A brave boar raised his trotter in the direction of a dark-haired figure in blue, seated on a throne. "Is that he? King Edmund?"
"That is the Valiant Queen Lucy— and no, that one there is a dryad."
He gave up on us, and I'm afraid to relate that we were all relieved. 'They look so small', I thought as we grouped about the wall-hanging at his urging. I jostled my way to the front of my class to squint at the faces the Professor had designated as theirs (I do not have the keenest eyesight, and had forgotten m eyeglasses). My, but wasn't High King Peter's hair the brightest gold! Even after so many centuries, the weavers' careful touches of golden thread remained. 'He must have been the sun', I decided, 'All Narnia revolved around him.' His brother looked as black as night next to him. Surely they must have been very different. I barely spared a glance for the sisters, who seemed bland with their fading auburn stitches for hair and dresses that blended into the background of the tapestry.
"Now that you can recognize them— after hearing their names all your lives— come see more of what I brought you here for." He took off with a flap of black feathers, and we set off in a startled sort of locomotion. Not hair's width of bare space was visible on the walls. Paintings, drawings, smaller tapestries, statues and busts from Narnia's past cluttered them from floor to ceiling. Thank Aslan, the Professor knew— or seemed to know (I've noticed blustering is often the norm with ravens) — the exact coordinates of the painting he was searching for, or else we might have wandered aimlessly about the Gallery until the monarchs returned and we could simply question them ourselves. But he brought us safely there and being without a perch, chose my shoulder instead, as I was of a handy height. He cawed loudly enough to make me flinch, "Did we all make it?"
He ignored our lackluster confirmation, as it was somewhat self-evident that we had in fact safely completed the journey. Two or three of my classier schoolmates nodded and murmured conspiratorially to each other as they recognized the portrait before them. Sycophants, I believe I called them.
"Some of you may already be familiar with this painting, createdby Huebin the Faun in the fourth year of their reign, during his stint as Court Painter" he said, throwing them the bone of confirmation they slavered for. And one particular hound did seem to be letting a little drool wet the creamy marble beneath him. "Notice the Gentle Queen's composure as she gazes out the window with a tiny smile. Almost as if she knows the future and has all her faith in it. See the Valiant Queen casually drape herself in her plush chair, open book in lap, lock of hair absently twirled around a finger. But now look in the corner of their private study (as documentation says this room functioned as) and there are the Just and Magnificent Kings with a golden game of chess between them. King Edmund is winning, by the way, and from their expressions, I'd say they know it equally. But you can tell from their locked eyes that they will keep on playing until the game is finished."
The faun had gone to great lengths to illumine the kings' corner of the canvas as much as his palette would realistically allow. He seemed to agree with my theory of the High King as a stellar object, because the monarch appeared to be shedding light on his brother. Even the underside of the table was shadow-less and offered a clear view of their legs, allowing me to notice that their knees were touching. So were their hands, adorned with signet rings of the same design.
My musing was interrupted by the professor's lesson, received almost directly to the eardrum: "Now, while the painter lived in Cair Paravel, he also completed a number of sketches, which may or may not have been painted and later lost. There's only one I want to acquaint you with— not for the others' lack of quality, but only because two thirds of them are of Queen Lucy, who befriended him quickly. She had a particular weakness for his kind."
An unknown voice whipped our heads around to the back of our orderly mob, where it had originated from. "Are you speaking of Huebin's sketches, my friend?"
The professor abandoned my shoulder for the scholar's. And a scholar he must have been, for who else would be in dingy gallery on a day like today but a scholar? The two, clearly as close as two peas in a pod through a mutual love of esoteric nonsense, launched into an incomprehensible discussion that none of us dared try to follow. We didn't mind; we were glad to have some time to talk amongst ourselves. The scholar began to drift away from my class-with our professor, still nattering obliviously away on his shoulder. More importantly, he was the only one able to return us to the Cair Parevel we called home. Some of us began to perk up and wonder if we should sit and stay like good little pets, or trail behind. The decision was made for us when the raven swiveled his head to us and beckoned with a flick of a wingtip.
We stirred ourselves. The scholar knew exactly where the sketches in question were located. He probably never stuck his nose outside for fear his manuscripts would spontaneously combust. The professor restarted his lesson as the scholar shuffled through a stack of flimsy, yellowing parchments. I caught glimpses of a few lifelike charcoal sketches of a young, laughing woman. Or perhaps she wasn't really laughing in every single one of them, but something about her eyes made her seem that way to me.
"Lucy, I wish you wouldn't giggle so," admonished a beleaguered Peter.
"But Peter, you two just look so silly," Lucy squeaked, while gamely essaying to stifle the laughter flowing from her lips.
Huebin sternly joined in, merely a voice from a source hidden behind his canvas. "If I might, I would agree with His Majesty, dear Queen. Your face is flooding with a shade of pink I do not have readily available."
Lucy apologized and attempted to recall her blush for her friend Huebin's sake. But it was hard. It wasn't in her to let her brothers get away with looking so posed.
Her mirth was catching. Edmund was the next to succumb. He broke from his brother's gaze to collapse in hysterics upon the chessboard, upsetting the pieces. He didn't pay them any mind.
"Oh, Ed," sighed Peter, with the hint of a grin yet to come, "not you too." Susan just glanced away from her view to slowly shake her head at her sibs. The shine of her smile sparkled with light stolen from the garden. She was getting quite warm sitting in the spring sun.
Edmund's forehead still rested in the chessboard's center, his back shaking from laughter. The room overflowed with a symphony of his steady chuckles punctuated with Lucy's high-pitched shrieks. She was still just a young girl, after all.
Finally, Peter broke, impetuously leaning over the chessboard to grab Edmund's head and plant a noisy kiss in his black hair. Edmund lifted his face to Peter's, but before he could say or do anything, a cough from Huebin interrupted the family.
"I am loath to interrupt Your Majesties, but this is the last opportunity to complete your portrait before the Anniversary Ball. And you yourselves have asserted to me how necessary it is for it to be then presented."
Bashfully, the royals composed themselves. Covertly, Edmund rolled his eyes at Peter, whose tiny smile answered him.
Huebin caught sight. "And we'll have none of that then, or this painting will never get done. Your Majesties."
It's been several years since I wrote this piece. My style has evolved, and this story with it. It's gotta be good if I love it enough to keep tinkering with it. I also can't vouch for its accuracy, canon-wise. I haven't read all the books, so my knowledge of Narnian history is limited.