Peter/Edmund, Susan – Archery (Stringless)
Rating: M
Peter, Edmund and Susan make a bet with each other over a game of archery.
Edmund's sitting, watching, waiting, wishing, listening. He watches Peter drop on a knee to pick up a short bow from their collection beside him.
"Now, now. No need to kneel in front of King Edmund, High King. This King already knows he's brilliant," Edmund jokes, avoids the jab that Peter makes for his shoulder with well-practised evasion.
"Lovely, Ed."
Edmund's smile is cattish. "I know."
Susan's laughing, and Peter's busy. He nocks an arrow against the string, holds it at a ready then lets it go.
"Wow," Edmund whistles, sees the arrow stabbed deep in the centre. Susan nods in approval. Obviously her invitation for them to go for archery practice was in good form.
Edmund gets up. It's his turn to strike.
Peter lets Edmund brush a thumb over his knuckle, lets the contact linger, when Edmund bends to pick up his bow and draws it. Edmund sends Peter a wink.
"I bet you your crown I can hit the eye," Edmund tells him with a grin. Peter's watching him, with a smirk so soft it's barely noticeable.
"A slack wager," Susan says, who's already released five arrows that's landed dead centre with ease when Edmund's yet to let even one fly. "Edmund might surprise you, Peter. I wouldn't take it," is her advisement.
"Oh?" is Peter's stray comment whilst he watches them, his bow settled at his side. Edmund and Susan are poised. Their strings tense, a blatant contradiction to their bodies that speak of relaxation, loose, but languid determination hiding sneakily underneath.
Edmund hushes his sister with an ill-concealed beam, trying hard to stifle the grin that quirks at the corners of his mouth.
"You're no fun, Susan."
Susan lets another arrow fly.
Her response is dry, all faux hurt and familial familiarly, an elegant brow lifted at Edmund's words, "Oh, Ed. It's why you love me."
"Too true," Peter adds. Edmund laughs.
Then Edmund shoots.
Edmund's arrow is an accompaniment to Susan's. Edmund's arrow is all whizz and speed, his arrow lodges deep into the straw target in the amount of time it takes for a heart to beat. If Susan draws her bow like a graceful swan, Edmund is equally as polished, no hesitance falters his form, and only the slightest shift in his stance marks him just a notch below excellence. His imperfection is a close rival to Susan's perfection.
"Impressive," is all the High King can say. His brother lets fly better than him.
Edmund shrugs in modesty. He knows he can't compare to Susan, but he tries. Peter gets back up, bow in hand, and they're practising again and again. Playing music with their bows, a symphony of whisks and whizzes, one after the other.
The siblings are all grace and power, their forms light but trained. They hold secret strength in their fingers, their eyes are all free and dark and light at the same time; mirroring the underlying years of experience they have – that outnumber the years they've actually come to live.
Ten or so shots later, when they've already felt the beat of the wind against their shots, familiarised themselves with the slender body of a bow, Susan proposes a little wager.
"A game?" Edmund repeats. Edmund's curious, drops his bow to his side with an off frown of uncertainty. Even Peter has to admit he's a little interested.
"If I get an arrow in before either of you, you both have to go to dance lessons with me and Lucy for a week," Susan says, folds her arms over her chest, checks her nails in bored fashion.
"That's not a very fun game." Edmund pales, looks rather sick, and Peter remembers how his brother absolutely abhors lessons, any sort of lessons, especially dance lessons. Edmund is the sort of person who's willing to do anything to get out of it.
"Or fair," Edmund decides to add, looking completely unsure now.
"And if we win?" Peter cuts in, his voice all smooth and butter. He's interested in what his sister has to offer. Not of the odds of the game.
"Well," Susan picks at some invisible dust on her shoulder like it bothers her, brushes it off with fingers calloused hard from archery. "I don't think it's necessary for either of you to be at the Summers Night ball, much, is it?"
The way Edmund's gripping Peter's tunic from behind in a delicious twist is Edmund's silent affirmation. Edmund wants out of the ball. Enough to take this risqué dare. And if Peter's with him, it makes the bet all the more tempting. They can find better ways to spend their time after all. Their odds are small against their sister, but there's two of them and only one of Susan. No matter how brilliant Susan is with her bow, they have the upper hand. The odds say otherwise to her skill.
"Alright," Peter says. He really doesn't mind either way. He always likes a good challenge. Going to the lessons or not really doesn't bother him, unlike the way it bothers Edmund.
Susan's smiling a smile that is all gentle like her title and devilish at the same time. It's all honey and more, and Peter admits that he's somewhat worried now. Edmund doesn't seem to notice as he digs for his lucky arrow, prays with all his heart and hope it helps.
Edmund's body is of nerve and focus. Edmund steadies his form, concentrates, murmuring an endless bout of ino ball, no ball, no ball–/i under his breath, hopes it's enough. The string feels stringless in-between Edmund's fingers.
"Ready," Susan calls.
They nock their bows at her words, their strings drawn, points at a ready. Edmund sends a little prayer to Aslan.
"iFly./i"
Susan's long released the string of her bow before either Peter or Edmund even catch sight of the arrow's red tail embedding itself deep into red straw.
Edmund is flabbergasted.
"I'll see you boys at lessons later." Susan's voice is all silk and cream, peaches and passionfruit.
It's only when Edmund and Peter watch Susan the Gentle disappear back to the castle that they realise they never stood a chance.