Revelation

Narnia was so very different to England. Not just in that the beasts talked, and the trees danced, and the rivers and streams were alive with silvery laughter. It was not even that there were creatures he had only read of walking among; centaurs, satyrs, fauns, gryphons, even the occasional unicorn if one went far enough south. And Aslan. Edmund felt sure that such a majestic being could never be found in the dull grey of England.

But it was none of these differences that stood out so enormously to Edmund. No, what presented itself so clearly to him was the way that the Narnians lived, and the way that they loved one another.

He had first borne witness to the Narnian love back before the defeat of the Witch when the Eternal Winter reigned, and all of Narnia held its breath in fearful anticipation of the Witch's wrath. His siblings and he had been alone and fearful, in the middle of an unfamiliar forest in a strange new land they had discovered in the back of the wardrobe. The Beavers has taken them in, and—however ungrateful for it Edmund might have been at the time—had fed them, and had provided a warm, safe—or it had been until he had sold them out to the Witch. How he wished that he might go back then, and the right the wrongs he had committed—place for them to stay. Following the betrayal of Edmund, they—at great risk to themselves—had guided his siblings to where Aslan awaited them at the Stone Table. The Beavers had done them a great service, and would forever hold the gratitude of the four monarchs.

Following the Beavers, there had been the unpleasant detainment of himself at Jadis' camp, and his subsequent rescue. Edmund would forever be in the debt of the noble creatures who had rescued him, a traitor to Narnia who had sold out his siblings for the promise of poser and Turkish Delight. As though their rescuing him had not been kindness enough, the Narnians, following the lead of Aslan, had forgiven his traitorous ways and put their faith in the change of his character. He felt a particular love for those who had been willing to fight for him when Jadis had come to the camp and announced that his life was hers for the taking.

His execution had never come to pass, and—despite Susan and Lucy, although her efforts were somewhat half-hearted compared to those of their elder sister, trying their hardest to keep the truth from him—had at last uncovered the reason why. Aslan had taken his place. It was like some ancient story, in which a traitor is sentenced to death, and a divine being dies in his place, only to rise again in beautiful splendour and smite down the evil that walked the land. He was half-convinced that he had heard the starry before, perhaps in England. But his memories of the other place were fading, and all that remained of the story was a faint sketch and a conjured image of bloody thorns.

The Narnians nights have forgiven his faults, but it was Aslan who loved him first. The Lion had loved him enough to die in his place, and Edmund would return that love to the fullest of his ability.

It was not just the love of he and his siblings that surprised Edmund. It was their love of each other. It was the way that the Felines and the Canines snapped and snarled at one another, but had fought united as one against an outside foe. It was the way that Centaurs were aloof, and sometimes haughty, but were the first to offer assistance to an injured Narnian. It was the way the Naiads were peaceful and placid, content to spend their days in the depths of the water, but if any man dared to touch one of their sister dryads, woe betide he if he found himself near the water's edge.

Edmund's memories of England may have been fading, but he felt certain that it had not been that way in England. There had been no offering comfort to a classmate who had turned an ankle—to do so would have been scorned, sneered at by the other boys. Whoever had dared do such a thing would have been regarded as unmanly, and whispers of girl, sissy, queer, would have followed them through the halls.

In England, women did not defend other women. That was the role of a man, a father, a sweetheart, a husband. But never a sister. For such a thing to happen would be a scandal, and the unfortunate woman would have found herself the object of much ridicule, for having Daren intrude on what was a man's world. In any case, even the men were rarely called upon to defend their womenfolk, for the women in question were rarely presented with the opportunity to share her unhappy tale without further fear for herself.

The way that the Narnians showed love so freely somewhat baffled Edmund, but at the same time, it filled him with a deep, aching envy, for he knew, deep in his heart, that he would never be able to love the same way they did, fully and unconditionally. There would always be some part of him that resisted, a tiny piece of his mind telling him no, this is not the way of things.

The only one of his siblings who understood the envy he felt was Susan. Unlike their golden brother and sister, who had opened their heart to the whole of Narnia without the slightest hesitation—especially Lucy, but she had always been one for loving—Susan felt the same resistance he did, the way that a fundamental part of them said no.

It was with Susan that he saw the first thing that had terrified him since the Witch. Really and truly terrified him, not like the nerves he'd felt as he was crowned, or the way that his hands had shaken before the battle. This had struck him to the core, had turned his insides to ice and sent his heart leaping to his throat.

They had been taking a walk in the garden, which had quickly become a favourite place of his elder sister. They had strolled aimlessly along the paths, talking of nothing, and savouring one of the few peaceful moments they had had since the coronation. Susan has been telling him of some new archery technique when they had rounded a corner and come across the sight which had terrified Edmund so.

Tangled together in an embrace and kissing one another fiercely were Ilad and Maris. A strangled choking sound had escaped his throat, and the satyrs had sprung apart, flushing furiously when they saw who had happened upon them. Edmund had thought why aren't they running? Why aren't they scared? For seeing that neither of their monarchs seemed likely to scold them, Ilad had broken into a bashful grin and Maris was studiously examining the hem of Susan's dress.

He had felt her hand latch on to his elbow and had heard a murmur that Ilad and Maris were dismissed. But his panicked brain refused to make his feet move on their own, so Susan had to guide him forward. He barely registered when they stopped, only that the sand beneath their feet had turned into firm turf.

"Edmund." Susan's voice was gentle, living up to her name, but it made him flinch away from her all the same, pulling his arm from her grasp. "Edmund."

He turned to look at her but didn't move any closer. He dropped his gaze to the ground again, where his fist was clenched around a clump of grass. "They didn't care," he muttered.

"What was that, Ed?" Her voice was still gentle and had taken on a soothing quality, as though he were a frightened animal who was likely to spook at too loud a noise. He swallowed, wishing he could take the words back. Instead, he repeated them.

"They didn't care. That we had seen them. They weren't...scared," he finished lamely, his voice trailing off. He wasn't looking at her, but he could feel the understanding radiating off his sister. She squeezed his hand, and he made no move to pull away.

"I don't think they mind, not here. I don't know about other places—Archenland, Calormen," she began, her voice surprisingly hesitant. His sister was always so sure of herself. "It's not—it's not like England." She paused, but Edmund made no move to say anything, and so she forged ahead. "The Narnians, it's all the same to them. Love. They don't mind if it's two men or," she swallowed, and her voice shook slightly with the following words, "two women."

Edmund looked at his sister, who was staring down at the lace of her cuff. Her face was pale, but a flush stained her neck. It had never really occurred to him, that it might happen to women. Back in England, there had sometimes been headlines in the paper, announcing the trial of a man charged with sodomy. On those occasions, he had made himself very small that the breakfast table, and had made sure he hit one of the boys at school. But there had never been any headlines about a woman, not that he knew of. He still felt a fool for not thinking of it, that a woman might love a woman the same way a man might live a man. And Susan—

"I don't think it's a bad thing." Her voice cracked a little, but he did the brotherly thing and pretended it didn't. "That it's different here. From England."

He took a deep breath, and let it out in a gusty sigh. "No. Neither do I." And they looked at one another and smiled, content to stay there, sitting on the grass in the sunlight.

Some things were different in Narnia—it was another country, after all. One couldn't expect it to be the same as England. And he would be forever glad that it wasn't the same.

Well, here it is. The first of a series of Golden Age stories. If anyone's read my Merlin series, this isn't going to be formatted in the same way. Instead of all my oneshots being in the same place, they'll be divided into several different stories. This is only the first, set in the first few years of the Pevensie's reign when they were still settling into their new life.

The next chapter of this work is likely to be centering around Peter or Lucy, but you guys should know by now that I'm unreliable.