Title: Under a Swift Sunrise
Disclaimer: I do not own the Chronicles of Narnia, book or movie, etc.
Note: So, this is it: the last fanfic. Thank you to everyone who has read, favorite, subscribed, and reviewed my fics over the last eleven (eleven!) years. It's been a wonderful ride, and you are part of the reason why; I wouldn't be close to a good writer without you. Thank you in particular to USMA2020, rosebudmelissa, and WriterFreak101 for betaing this for me.
And now, I hope you enjoy 'Under a Swift Sunrise', the sequel to 'Letting Go' and my fanfiction swan song.
Prologue
Merrick Olsen, photographer for the Washington World Reporter, had never been on a boat before in his life. Even traveling up to Canada, to cover the war preparations there, he had traveled over land the entire way. Which was why, having obtained passage on the British merchantman S.S. Pevensey Bay, he was unprepared to spend the first two days at sea confined to his bunk in utter desolation from seasickness. In his darkest moments, Merrick almost wished for one of those blasted U-Boats which patrolled the North Atlantic to just torpedo the ship and put him out of his misery.
His only refuge was in sleep; he was grateful he had been given a little closet-room of his own, and was unlikely to be disturbed by anything other than the torturous rocking of the ship. That is, he thought he would be undisturbed. It was rather disconcerting to be woken on his second day of agony by a slight tapping on his cheek. His eyes blinked open to reveal a concerned face. "Wha?" Merrick managed to make out before a dip turned his stomach and he closed his eyes tightly to try and quell his nausea.
"Here, drink this." Drink, was this fellow mad? "I promise, it will help. And you need liquids." Reason overcame revulsion for a brief moment, and so Merrick dutifully accepted the new man's help in taking a few unsteady sips from a cup filled with spicy liquid. There was a hint of ginger, and something else he could not identify, but it was not long before his stomach was feeling remarkably better.
Merrick blinked his eyes; the swinging lantern in the cramped quarters no longer contributed to vertigo, and he felt better than he had felt in what seemed like forever. "That…what is that?"
The man kneeling by his bedside laughed. "I wish I knew. My brother would have killed for it at certain times in our lives. But Mickey – that's our cook, Kostas Michaelides – refuses to let go of the recipe. Says it's been in his family for over five hundred years and if the Turks couldn't get it out of them, no one could." Merrick surprised himself by being able to let out a short laugh without wanting to die from nausea. The man patted Merrick on the shoulder and stood. "Give it a quarter hour and come down to the galley, we'll get you something your stomach can keep down. I have a few chores to do beforehand."
And with that, the man headed out the door. Merrick called out: "Thanks, pal!" The man turned halfway and Merrick's eyes widened and then narrowed. The photographer was the unfortunate possessor of five younger brothers and if that man was any older than fourteen he would eat his camera. What on earth was a child – a child the age of his fourth-youngest brother, Wilfred – doing on a ship, in the middle of a U-boat infested sea, during a war?
The boy – for he was certainly a boy and Merrick refused to believe otherwise – did not seem aware of the scrutiny he was under. Instead, he just smiled and gave him an easy-going, "You're welcome," before leaving Merrick to his thoughts.
Now, Merrick was a photographer, and a darn good one, if he said so himself. There was a reason his bosses had pushed the British to allow him on this supply convoy to England. But regardless of the fact that he was simply there to take photographs, Merrick worked round-the-clock surrounded by reporters. He had learned to smell a story, and he had the feeling that this kid would give him one hell of a story to tell. And, like his reporter friends, he was determined to get it.
.
At the appointed time, Merrick made his way through the dark bowels of the ship towards the galley. Well, he thought he was heading towards the galley, but he got turned around at least three times; finally, one of the Ordinary Seamen, a young twenty-something Brit named Jones, kindly guided him there. "Hey, Pedhin!" Jones cried out when they entered the kitchen, and Merrick was puzzled when the boy who had helped him earlier, now sitting at the table peeling potatoes, almost jumped out of his skin at Jones' voice.
The boy – Pedhin? Odd name, that – turned and scowled darkly at the seaman. "Don't do that, Taffy!"
Jones rolled his eyes and moved to ruffle the boy's hair, which caused the scowl to darken further. "Stop calling me Taffy and I may consider it."
Pedhin slapped away Jones' hand, but there was a good-natured quirk to his lips. "Mickey, tell him to stop!"
A middle-aged, muscular man came in from another room; judging by the apron tied around his waist, he was the cook. The long, black, knotted rope wrapped around his left wrist was a little perplexing, but a friendly smile lit up the room, drawing everyone's attention. "Young one, quit startling Pedhin. Pedhin, quit annoying Jones, you know he hates being called Taffy," Mickey said with a lilting Greek accent. The cook smiled at a rather confused Merrick. "Boys are boys, is that not the saying? Come, you must eat something. Pedhin tells me my little elixir did you well, but you need food in you." After a bewildering flurry of a moment, Merrick found himself sitting next to Pedhin with a bowl of soup, some bread, and more of the ginger drink before him; the cook gave him a look that reminded Merrick so much of his grandmother that he was eating before he could even think about whether he wanted to or not.
Jones left soon after, and the other two left Merrick to his food. After a few minutes, Merrick realized that they were both humming. Strangely, though they were clearly humming different songs – and neither of them anything Merrick recognized – they were not out of harmony with each other. Pedhin would hum a light tune, keeping the beat with his potato peeler, while Mickey would counter with something that sounded strangely religious as he bustled around the galley, making some meal or another. Both songs had an ancient air to them, incongruous with the catchy tunes Merrick had come to expect from his time photographing the Canadian war effort. The picture of the two of them singing together caught his interest and his fingers itched to get his camera out of the bag he had brought with him – he never let his camera out of his sight – but anytime he stopped eating, Mickey would whirl around and give him that look again, until Merrick sheepishly returned to his food like a good little boy. He made a mental note to come back and photograph a similar scene in the future.
Finally, Mickey left the room to fetch something, and Merrick put his spoon down with a groan. Beside him, Pedhin laughed. "Yes, he's something, isn't he? A good man, though. He keeps us fed, whether we like it or not."
"And apparently keeps the peace on board as well," Merrick said, commenting on Mickey's apparent role as diplomat for feuding sailors.
Pedhin nodded, his attention still on the potatoes. "Wouldn't need to if Taffy would stop talking – his voice is startlingly like my older brother's," the boy explained. Merrick could see how that could be strange, given his own experiences with brothers, and said so. "Yes, though if my brother were here he wouldn't be as chipper as Taffy – he reacts about as well to sea-faring as you," he said in a teasing tone.
Merrick laughed good-naturedly; the boy really did remind him of Owen. "I should thank you again for your help with that, er, Pedhin."
The boy grinned. "Well, it is my job to help out the crew and any passengers daft enough to want to come with us." Pedhin patted his arm in mock condescension. "Also, my name is Edmund. Edmund Pevensie. Yes, like the ship, though it's spelled differently from the Pevensey Bay," he added when Merrick raised an eyebrow. "The crew thought this was a bad omen or something, which is why Mickey's nickname for me seems to have stuck."
"Well," said Merrick, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Edmund Pevensie." Still, Merrick had a feeling the boy would always be 'Pedhin' in his mind from now on. He lifted his cup of ginger seasickness cure in salute. "And here's to an uneventful trip."
Pedhin, not having a drink, saluted back with a half-peeled potato. "As to that, word of advice: considering what we're carrying…" he trailed off and gave Merrick a wicked grin, "if you hear the signal for a U-boat, I'd head straight to the top deck and jump in a life raft, if I were you."
Merrick laughed with him, but a little of the seasickness returned.
0000000000
Braced with a continual supply of ginger drink, Merrick spent the next few days in a whirlwind of activity. He was not able to record all of the ship – for security reasons, obviously – but he found a new passion in photographing the crew of the Pevensey Bay as they went about their duties. So much of it was remarkably mundane: cleaning the deck, painting, standing on watch. And yet there was so much life involved. Men joked with each other, bragged about their girls, and really just acted like the boys and men they were: civilians living life in the most dangerous part of the world. That was what Merrick's camera captured:
*Snap*
Three seamen, arms linked, singing a bawdy pub song.
*Snap*
Jones sneaking up behind Pedhin, unaware that the boy was rolling his eyes for the camera in anticipation.
*Snap*
Mickey belting out some Greek version of the Hallelujah chorus as he boiled cabbage.
*Snap*
An impromptu snowball fight as they neared the northernmost part of their journey and were forced to knock ice off the ship.
*Snap*
The RNR ranks teaching some of the merchant seamen how to use the deck guns.
*Snap*
Four members of the crew showing off photos: Harvey, Jones, and Singh reminiscing about their wives and girlfriends, Pedhin proudly bragging about his sisters and brother.
.
Merrick shoved his camera back in his bag and collapsed heavily on his bed. That last picture had really gotten to him. The kid wasn't even old enough to have a girl waiting for him back home; what the hell was he doing here? These past few days, Merrick had started to really get a sense of the dangers faced by these merchantmen. He heard the whispers about the danger of their cargo; he heard the worried talk about how many convoys had been hit, how many ships had been sunk, how many lives had been lost. Harvey had told him how he had already lost his father and two brothers in three different convoys, over the span of the last two years. Each morning, Mickey prayed in front of a picture of Christ that hung in the galley, weaving the length of black, knotted rope through his fingers, murmuring a prayer for each knot as his forehead creased with concentration.
Halfway into the journey, Merrick saw how shaken the crew was after they ran into a terrible, northern storm. They had lost a man overboard in the waves and ice. The ship had fallen slightly behind the convoy and was struggling to regain it, and its protective escort, before they were picked off by a Wolfpack. And yet, through it all, even before they found the escorts again, the crew's spirits remained high, thanks in large part to the efforts of the ship's cook and cabin boy.
Mickey and Pedhin were a force to be reckoned with. The cook mothered the crew. Always smiling, his singing often rang through the halls. Few understood what he was saying – for the songs were all in Greek – but the music was enough to lift spirits or calm anger or catch the hearts of all who heard him. Mickey was incredibly skilled at stretching the small amount of poor quality food as far as possible, and was intent on making sure that it was doled out fairly. All on the ship knew that they would find a hot cup of tea and a ready ear waiting for them in the galley. More than once Merrick found himself in the galley, pulling every crumb of information he could from the sometimes evasive cook regarding the one frustrating conundrum that the photographer could not figure out despite his best efforts: Pedhin.
Pedhin was a child, and Merrick could not stop thinking of him as such, but there was a maturity in his manner at odds with his age. Was this what the war was doing to the children in England? Forcing them to be men, to be soldiers? For most hours on watch, Merrick could find Pedhin cheerfully doing his best to clean the ship, or running messages from the bridge, or helping Mickey with the cooking. Yet at times he could be found deep in intense discussions of war strategies with the RNR ratings by the deck guns. Often he was a ready and consoling confidant for some of the older crewmen, who were still haunted by their experiences in the trenches of the last war; experiences lived decades before Pedhin was even born, and yet he seemed to listen to them with understanding. Once Merrick even witnessed the ship's master – they were not called captains, apparently – talking with Pedhin about the naval battles of the Great War, and the photographer's expert eye could tell that the boy's insight impressed the grizzled former naval officer. There was just something intangible about Pedhin that everyone seemed to sense and that no one understood, not even Jones, Pedhin's closest friend after Mickey. It was hopelessly irritating.
However, even Mickey was not much help to Merrick in unraveling the mystery, despite the fact that the cook seemed to understand the boy better than anyone else on the ship. One discussion stood out in Merrick's mind. He had been asking Mickey what was happening in England that could mature a child to the point that he was able to pass as a young man years older. Mickey smiled – he always seemed to be smiling – and did not admit to the fact that he knew that Pedhin was underage. But the smile turned serious when Merrick, annoyed at the dissembling, accused him of allowing a child to endanger his life needlessly. Mickey put down the can he was opening and leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped together under his chin. There was a moment of silence and then the cook spoke, his voice low and serious:
"I lay aside the fact that no child is safe anywhere in Europe at these times. That is not what you speak of, I think." Merrick shook his head, and Mickey continued. "Pedhin…he is not a child." When Merrick went to protest, Mickey cut him off. "I do not mean his age. I mean his heart, his mind. But I give you this: he is a paradox. He is a cabin boy who can read the sea better than some seamen. He is a happy child who sings songs of suffering and death and redemption with eyes of understanding. He is confused when I speak of Christ and the saints, but has told us stories where Death is conquered by a Great Lion, with faithful kings and queens who pray to a God who is both matter and spirit. He is a boy who knows his sins, deep sins that might break a man." A strange glow came to Mickey's eyes as he spoke with deep conviction: "We Greeks know of heroes, but my ancestors learned many centuries ago that heroes are not those with the mightiest weapon; heroes are, I do not know how to say… dedicated souls?" There was mystery, sadness in the smile that crossed Mickey's face. "Do not underestimate Edmund Pevensie, Mr. Olsen, for he has the soul of a true hero."
It was that conversation that followed Merrick for days afterward, and followed him even now as he went to bed. His boots on and his lifejacket at arm's reach, as usual, Merrick fell asleep to the rocking of the sea and the echo of a Greek voice chanting a haunting melody with words unknown and yet compelling.
000000000
Merrick woke quickly, and at first he was not sure why. There had been a sound, an odd sound, registering even among the tremor of engines that usually overcame all other noises. Mind muddled and eyes blurry, Merrick scrambled out of bed, struggled into his lifejacket, and grabbed his camera as he heard shouting through the bulkhead. He had only just opened the door when his shirt was grabbed and he was hauled out of the room by a surprisingly strong Pedhin. The boy's face, usually pale, was ghost-white in the dimly lit passageway, and his lips were pursed in a tense line. Pedhin's voice was low, but could be heard over the commotion. "A ship to our port…I think it was the Carousel…it was just hit. We need to get you to the lifeboats."
In shock at the news, Merrick allowed himself to be pulled along the passageway. Men ran past them, going this way and that, shouting almost incomprehensibly, but the situation was clear: the Pevensey Bay was pushing full steam, but it would not be enough. Pedhin had, one evening, explained things simply to Merrick. The Pevensey Bay, laden with immense tonnage as she was, could not go faster than eight knots, and the old ship would be breaking apart even at that. They could not outrun a U-boat. They could only sail on, and pray that the escorts would come and depth-charge the enemy, pray that they would not be the next target. Pedhin had also explained that the ship's master had assigned him to take charge of Merrick and make sure the photographer stayed out of the way during an attack, and get him into a lifeboat should the worst happen.
Which was why Pedhin now had an iron grip on Merrick's arm as the two raced through the passageways. One deck up, they almost literally ran into Mickey, his usual smile small and forced. Not a word was spoken as the three continued upward, passing the engine room where the engineers continued their work, despite the fact that it was the most dangerous place on the entire ship at that moment: the most likely the be targeted, the most likely to be the doom of all inside should a torpedo hit. Mickey paused only a moment there, waving his right hand from head to chest, and shoulder to shoulder before he continued with Pedhin and Merrick up the ladder to the next deck. Merrick vaguely wondered what the motion meant, but had no time to ponder it.
There was no time to ponder because, almost as soon as they entered the passageways on that deck, a torpedo hit the Pevensey Bay, the bulkhead next to them exploded, and Merrick's mind fell to darkness.
0000000000
He must have been out for only a few seconds because the ding of shrapnel still ehoed in the passageways as Merrick shook his head, ears ringing. The photographer pushed himself up from the floor, then sank back with a screech as searing pain ran up his leg. Curling up on his side, Merrick grit his teeth until the pain receded to barely manageable levels. Having been an active boy, he knew what that pain meant: his lower leg was badly injured, possibly broken. And it was the same leg he had broken when he had not been much younger than…
Opening eyes he had not realized were closed, Merrick frantically tried to look for a sign of his two companions. A second later, Merrick recoiled and wished he had kept his eyelids tightly shut. Staring back at him were the dead, sightless eyes of Kostas Michaelides. The cook might have looked peaceful were it not for the fact that the top of his head had been sheared partway off by a large piece of metal shrapnel. Merrick tried not to gag as he realized that Mickey's head should not have been so twisted on his neck.
For what seemed like a long while, but could not have been too long, Merrick could only stare at the body of a man who had only just been muttering prayers next to him as they made their way through the ship. Then a figure knelt between the two, blocking Merrick's view of the corpse. It leaned over Mickey's body, its arm shaking slightly as it reached out. Merrick blinked and realized that the figure was Pedhin, who had been slightly behind the two older men. "Pedhin?" he rasped out, though why he spoke he could not comprehend, himself.
The boy stiffened, then turned towards Merrick, face pale and blank of all emotion. Dark eyes took in the photographer's situation, and Merrick's right arm was soon draped over his shoulder. "Come on," Pedhin said roughly.
Merrick's leg was in agony as the boy helped him stand, but he protested when Pedhin started moving them forward. "We can't leave him!" It just was not right to leave the man sprawled on the floor to be run over by any who came that way.
The photographer felt Pedhin stiffen and draw in a deep breath. "I can't carry two people," he answered softly, and Merrick fell silent at the pain in the boy's voice. And they remained silent as they limped all-too-slowly towards the main deck and the life it offered, leaving behind the dead in darkness.
.
Emerging onto the main deck brought little relief. The sounds of the injured they had been forced to pass as they escaped echoed behind them, and the chaos on deck was nearly overwhelming. It was in the hours before dawn, with only the first hint of light on the horizon, light quenched by black smoke billowing from the side of the Pevensey Bay. Somehow Pedhin and Merrick pushed their way past strewn debris and panicked men to get to one of the portside lifeboats.
Again Merrick felt Pedhin stiffen, but this time in relieved recognition as a familiar voice called to them. The listing deck played havoc on Merrick's leg, but they made it to Jones' side and the seaman helped relieve Pedhin of his burden, taking Merrick's left arm. It was agony as the two crewmen assisted the photographer into the lifeboat, and Merrick felt a wave of relief as he sat on one of the benches of the nearly-filled boat. That relief turned to icy shock when Jones' voice cried out, almost angrily, "What do you think you're doing?"
The seaman had grabbed the arm of Pedhin, who had turned away from the lifeboat. The boy looked back at his friend, his face stern. "There are wounded still below." Merrick's eyes widened. Pedhin intended to go back, even as the ship listed further into the waves? It seemed like he did, since the boy had already pulled his arm away and darted off, calling back to a shocked Jones: "Remember, make sure the civilians get to safety!"
"You are a civilian!" Jones shouted back, irate, but the seaman did not go after his friend. As far as Merrick knew, he was the only non-crewman aboard ship besides the ratings, and he also knew that the crew took seriously their given duties. Pedhin's duty had been to see to Merrick's safety and, even in the course of disregarding his own safety, he had passed on his duty to Jones. And Jones knew and respected his friend enough to go against his personal wishes to fulfill that duty.
But Merrick wanted none of that. As the lifeboat filled and Jones and the others began lowering it, Merrick tried to stop them. "He's not back…you can't leavehim!" The crewmen seemed to ignore him, so he grabbed at Jones' arm. "He's your friend, he's just a kid, you can't just leave him, we have to…"
Jones whirled on the photographer, eyes blazing. "I know!" he shouted. "I know he's just a boy and I know he's my friend, and I hate this, but we have to leave now so just shut up!" Merrick reared back as much from the grief in the seaman's voice as the forcefulness of his words. Another crewman – a dark-skinned man named Ahmed – gently pulled Merrick away from Jones, letting the others continue their work in lowering the lifeboat. Merrick looked at Ahmed, looked at the others in the boat. Everyone looked pale in the light of the flickering fire that seemed to be spreading on deck. Everyone's faces held the same grief he had seen in Jones' face. And Merrick knew, somehow knew, that Pedhin would want every one of those men to get off the dying ship, even at his own expense. So Merrick bit back the beginnings of a sob and tried not to feel like he was condemning a child to death as the lifeboat hit water.
.
The crew on the lifeboat rowed hard and quick, but the waves were rough on the tiny craft. Their progress was slow, and the heat from the fire that now blazed on the ship could still be felt. Icy water sprayed the men, but they hardly felt it in their frantic desire to escape the drowning ship, get away from the fire that surely presaged a greater danger should it reach the cargo hold.
Merrick felt helpless. Others had taken the oars, leaving him with nothing to do but watch the ship slowly founder as its exposed propellers still worked in vain to move it forward, watch the figures of men still on board frantically trying to escape. And though perhaps it would seem incongruous, even heartless, Merrick turned to the one thing that he thought might keep him sane: the camera he still clutched in his hands.
*Snap*
Jones pulling on his oar, his expression grim and distraught.
*Snap*
The stern of the ship lifting from the sea, fire glinting off the massive, swirling, steel propeller.
*Snap*
The barely distinct figure of Pedhin struggling to help an injured man into one of the last lifeboats, against a background of flames.
*Snap*
The lifeboat lowering slowly, so slowly.
*Sn-*
Merrick nearly dropped his camera, and several of the men in his lifeboat cried out at what they were witnessing. Though still rowing steadily, many of the crew had continued to follow the progress of their fellows as the final lifeboat lowered. Now they could only watch helplessly as something went horribly wrong with the ropes and the entire boat, halfway to the sea, flipped over. Screaming men, many of them flung first against the hard steel of the hull, fell into the waves beneath. Waves that were all-too near a growing blanket of blazing oil that seeped from the drowning ship, all-too near the whirling, exposed propeller.
And Merrick could only stare in horror, helpless as he watched the men – men and one young boy – slip into the pounding, icy waters of the Atlantic.