Damascus Road

Chapter One: Of Elements and An Angelic Sprite

"I am a little world made cunningly

Of elements and an angelic sprite…"

~ John Donne, Divine Meditations V

London, December 1939

The trouble with having three siblings and a small house was that one could rarely find privacy when it was wanted, especially when one shared a bedroom with an older brother who had more friends than any one person needed, all of whom fawned over him disgustingly. Most of the decent hiding places in the house were known to the others, and while it was usually possible for Edmund to hustle his younger sister out of a desired location, that only meant Peter or Susan would be along soon to lecture him. If Mum became involved, it was a thousand times worse. With Dad off reporting on the front, there had been a solemn agreement (of which Edmund was, admittedly, the most frequent violator) not to 'worry Mother,' and the older ones would be on his case without mercy.

This particular afternoon, the first back from school for the holidays, was one on which Edmund particularly needed privacy. Obtaining it would require quick action. He wished an airy "Happy Christmas" to Brimlow and Wilkes at the platform, caught sight of Peter in conversation with Herbert Stephens, and darted down an alley that would take him home by the back way. He wanted to be gone before his brother thought to collar him for the walk home. Peter seemed to think that Dad's absence entitled him to order his younger siblings about, and Edmund had no need for a keeper. It meant leaving Peter with both trunks, but if his older brother wanted to babble on about maths when it was almost Christmas, he was clearly mad and shouldn't find the extra work a burden.

His escape had not gone as unnoticed as Edmund hoped. Spencer Elliott was walking his way. Imagining the conversation that Elliott wanted to have, Edmund ducked his head and ran. He was in such haste to arrive home that he ploughed into the man out walking with a little girl. The girl tumbled to the ground with a squeak.

"Scuse me," he muttered to the street, and tried to push past.

"Excuse me?" repeated a deep voice. Amusement tinged the rebuke. "That's all?"

Edmund's mouth dropped open, and his eyes shot up. "Dad?"

Richard Pevensie smiled, but only briefly. He looked down at Lucy who really ought to have gotten up by now, but was still sitting in the dirty slush as if she didn't have any sense at all. Edmund hadn't knocked into her that hard. Trying to hide a roll of his eyes, Edmund shifted his school bag to one shoulder and reached down to pull his younger sister up. "Sorry," he muttered under their father's gaze.

Lucy beamed up at him. "It's all right, Ed, I forgive you."

Edmund scowled. "No need to make a fuss about it." As if there was so much to forgive, but Lucy would make a big deal over nothing, and Father was smiling approvingly at her like she was some kind of saint.

Lucy's smile dimmed, but only momentarily. "We were coming to surprise you," she said, taking their father's hand again. "Where's Peter?"

Father raised his an eyebrow, silently echoing the question. Edmund forced himself not to squirm. "Coming along. He has to talk to everyone first." It was mostly true. Peter should be coming soon, and he had been chatting away when Edmund last saw him. "Your skirt's all over mud," he added.

"Oh!" Lucy put the hand not holding Dad's to the back of her wet skirt. "No wonder I was cold."

Father glanced up at the gray sky. "It's getting colder. I'm sorry to cut our walk short, sweet pea, but we need to get you home and dry. Edmund," but he paused, frowning at whatever he had thought to say. After a moment, he shook his head with a sigh. "Come along," he finally said.

It was always that way, Edmund thought, falling into step behind them. Lucy would do something perfectly ordinary and childish, and Dad and Mum and the older ones would exclaim over it like she'd repainted the Sistine Chapel or some such. Meanwhile, Edmund was at best an afterthought and a nuisance, at worst a criminal, shushed and scolded just for having a thought of his own.

His point was only proven when they reached home, and Lucy was immediately bundled into a warm bath while Mum conscripted him into heating up water to make tea for his little sister. "I haven't been home since summer," he pointed out to no one in particular. "And I've been feeling ill." Aside from Susan (whose school had gotten out a week early due to the Headmistress's fears) telling him to, "Hush, Edmund," no one acknowledged his complaint. "Shows how much they missed me," he muttered to the tea kettle. "Some homecoming." He wasn't likely to get any time to himself tonight, either.

When Lucy appeared in the kitchen, beaming and pink-faced from being scrubbed dry by the heater, and took the teacup from his hands, she only rubbed it in. "Dad was taking me for a walk since he missed my birthday, and I thought we could come and meet you and Peter at the station." She looked sad for a moment. "Only that didn't work out. But still, here we are now! All except for Peter, that is."

Dad had missed Edmund's birthday, as well, but there hadn't been any offers of a special outing for him. "Well, you don't need to gloat about it," he said.

Lucy looked more injured at this accusation than when he'd bumped into her earlier. "I wasn't gloating!"

"Edmund, be nice," Mother said, sweeping through the kitchen to the dining room with a platter in her hands and a harried expression on her face. "And bring the bread to the table. Lucy, drink your tea and warm up, sweetheart. Susan, dear, the napkins. Where can Peter be? He knows we can't hold supper past sunset."

Technically, they could and had eaten supper later, with the blackout curtains drawn and secured (uselessly, Edmund thought, as they had yet to hear a single German plane over London), but Mother would not allow such a grim meal to welcome Father home.

"Don't worry, Helen," Father said emerging from his and mother's bedroom. "Edmund and I will go meet him."

"I've been feeling ill-" Edmund protested.

"It will give us a chance to talk and catch up," Father continued over Edmund's objections.

'Talk.' No one ever wanted to 'just talk' with Edmund for any good reason. He set the bread platter on the table, scowling. "I'm tired."

Susan passed him, carrying a basket of napkins and a pile of silverware. "It will be good for you, Ed," she said soothingly. "I know I can't bear being around food when my stomach's upset."

Edmund made a face at his older sister. There was nothing overtly sarcastic in her tone, but he was certain it was there, all the same. "Mind your own-"

He was interrupted or, by the look on Dad's face, saved by a knock at the door. The entire family turned to look at it. The pinched expression on Mother's face deepened. "Richard…"

Peter wouldn't have knocked. Not, Edmund thought firmly, that anything could have happened to him. Nothing ever happened to Peter Pevensie. Adults adored him. Bullies walked the other way when he approached. Even the most sarcastic masters couldn't find a critical thing to say about him. If Peter tripped and fell into a hole, he'd probably discover a lost treasure at the bottom. Edmund would discover an old latrine and come up covered in muck.

Father opened the door to reveal Carlisle Stephens, standing in the doorway with a hand raised to knock a second time and two familiar school trunks crowding the stoop beside him. Edmund edged slowly away from the hall. "Richard, I didn't know you were home," he said in surprise. "Good evening, Helen. I met your eldest trying to pull these two trunks along by himself. I had my truck so I offered to drop them by for him."

Mother's anxiety melted into a relieved version of what Father called her 'smile to launch a thousand ships.' "Thank you, Carlisle, that was very kind of you," she said, as Father and their neighbor carried the two trunks inside between them.

"Peter isn't with you, then?" Father asked with a slight grunt.

"No," said Mr. Stephens. "He sent word that he'll be home soon with-" His eyes lighted on Edmund, who was halfway through the kitchen door, and his brows lowered a bit. "That is, Peter said to tell you he'd be along shortly and not to worry about holding supper. I'll check in on him on my way."

"Are you certain you can't stay?" Mother asked. "Are Herbert and Mary with you? We have plenty of chicken, and I know Edmund would be pleased to have him."

Edmund bit back a protest, but Mr Stephens shook his head regretfully. "That's very kind of you, Helen. I can see where Peter gets it. That's a fine boy you're raising, both of you. But no, Herbert and I have to get home."

He tipped his hat, glanced at Edmund one last time, and was out the door.

###

Edmund blamed that parting frown for his lack of appetite at supper. What had the man meant by it? Had Peter said something? Herbert wouldn't have, Edmund was sure. Fairly sure. He poked at his chicken with his fork, and then flipped it over to the other side.

"Is something wrong, Ed?" Father asked.

Edmund scowled at his plate. "Did we have to have baked chicken again?"

"You should be glad of that," said Father. "The things children not far from here are eating would make you cry. Not to mention that if the war goes on, we'll all have to tighten our belts."

"Is it very terrible, Dad?" Lucy asked.

Susan said, "Is there something we could do for them?"

"I don't see why that means I should have to eat dry chicken every night," Edmund said.

"It's very good," said Susan. "You just haven't put any gravy on it."

"No one asked you," snapped Edmund.

"If you can't show any gratitude for what you have," Father said calmly, "you can go to bed."

Edmund stood up. "I wasn't hungry anyway."

It was all he'd wanted since before he got home, so naturally he wouldn't actually get it. Father followed him to his room only a few minutes later.

"Edmund."

Edmund faced the wall and pretended to sleep.

His father did not seem to be fooled. "This wasn't how I wanted to spend my time home." Edmund shrank further under his blankets. Of course, that would be his fault. "I don't want to…" He heard a sigh and felt a hand on his shoulder, and then Father left.

He couldn't have told Father to just go away, but when Lucy turned up determined to read him her favorite storybook "because it always makes me feel better when I'm ill," Edmund could and did shoo her off.

He was fairly certain he heard Mum in the doorway, but feigning sleep worked for once. Either that, or she had the sense not to say anything to him. He may have genuinely fallen asleep because the next thing he knew the room was dark and his brother's voice was rising in the hall outside their room.

"The little prat! He couldn't have just told me he was heading home! After all the time I spent looking for him-"

"Peter," Mother's voice held quiet censure, and Edmund heard an immediate change in his brother's in response.

"I'm sorry, Mum. I should have checked in. I thought I'd find him. I didn't want to worry you."

"I was very worried until Mr. Stephens brought the trunks. Then I was slightly less worried." Mother sighed, but there was more fondness than exasperation in the sound. "You're a dedicated big brother, Peter, but remember you don't have to do everything."

"Yes, Mum." Edmund had to remind himself not to snort at his brother's dutiful response. Peter Pevensie always tried to do everything, except when he was too busy being fawned over to bother.

Father's voice joined the other two. "I'll have a talk with Edmund in the morning."

"D-" Peter cut himself off, as if he'd thought better of what he was about to say. "I don't suppose there's any supper left?" he asked hopefully.

There was a silence as if Mum was considering. Edmund imagined the restrained purse to her lips that she wore when she was trying not to smile. By the sound of her next words, she'd given up the effort. "I'll see what I can find while you get ready for bed."

Of course, Peter got supper.

"You're an angel, Mum!" Under cover of the blankets, Edmund rolled his eyes at the wall.

Father was just as bad. "That is what I keep telling her."

His parents seemed to be leaving finally, but before Edmund began to breathe slightly more easily, Peter spoke again, his voice suddenly serious and hesitant. "Dad?"

The heavier set of footsteps stilled. "Yes, Peter?"

"When you talk to Ed tomorrow, what are you going to say?"

Attention caught, Edmund listened closely. "I don't think that's any business of yours, young man," Father said sternly.

Edmund smirked at the wall. Even if it was only once in a blue moon, Father was the only one who ever put Peter in his place.

"I didn't mean - He can be a little - trying-" Somehow, Edmund suspected that was not the word Peter had been going to use at first. "And he should have said something before running off on me, but it hasn't been the easiest week."

Edmund's stomach clenched, the smirk disappearing. Shut up, Peter, he thought fiercely.

"How so?" Edmund heard the groan of bedsprings as his father and brother sat.

"I don't know if Mr. Stephens said anything, or if Herbert even told him, but it got out at school somehow, about him going before the Conscientious Objectors Tribunal."

Shut up, Peter!

"And?" Father's frown was almost audible. Edmund pictured the two lines that appeared between his eyes when he was unhappy about something.

"Herbert's had an awful time of it. I tried to stop what I could, but I don't see the younger boys that much. He won't say who did it, but someone - a group probably - cornered him the other day and beat him. They broke his nose and chipped a couple of his teeth." Peter's voice grew heated again. "And the masters claim there's nothing they can do! It was right under the headmaster's window, but he didn't hear a thing, he says. Cowards, going after a kid like that, and everyone lets them get away with it!"

Shut up, shut up, shut up, Peter, you self-righteous prig!

There was a moment of labored breathing, and then Peter's voice continued more calmly. "You know he and Ed are friends, and-"

"And Herbert isn't the only boy at school whose father hasn't enlisted." Father's words were almost too low to hear.

Peter sounded shocked. "That wasn't what I meant."

There was a soft huff, like laughter, but not like it. "I know it wasn't, son," Father said gently, while Edmund squirmed inwardly. "It's true, there are some people who mistake pride and hatred for courage. Even some adults do it, unfortunately. I'm proud to know my eldest isn't one of them, one who would lash out at the defenseless because he doesn't agree with them or blame a child for his parent's actions."

Edmund couldn't tell Father to shut up, even in his head, but he wished he could. It was Peter's fault. His brother had to know, and it wasn't fair to go at him sideways like that, especially through Dad. It wasn't a crime, anyway. It was their patriotic duty, like Brimlow said. Brimlow's older brother was a sailor on the HMS Exeter. What if he were killed? if Father were endangered, were captured and tortured like some reporters had been, because of traitors like Mr. Stephens?

Traitors deserved to be punished.

Besides, Edmund hadn't done anything but hold the other boys' bags and watch for approaching masters, anyway. If his empty stomach continued to roil, it was only because he hadn't eaten supper.

Peter was mumbling something no doubt meant to sound modest and self-effacing. For a few seconds, Edmund hated him. "But can't we do anything about it, Dad?"

"I'll see about sending a letter to the school," Father said. "Unfortunately, there are too many who share that way of thinking. I may not agree with Mr. Stephens's stance on justifiable violence, but I respect him. He is a kind, generous man, and he sticks to his principles. That takes the greatest kind of courage. I hope you'll always do the same." He sighed. The bedsprings creaked again, and the next words came from above as if he'd just stood up. "As I hope to do myself."

At his tone, Edmund's uneasy stomach flipped even more. Peter's voice echoed his own concern. "Dad? Is something wrong?"

"Not precisely," Father replied. "Now you need to eat and go to bed. We'll talk more in the morning." His footsteps moved toward the door, and then paused. "Peter, I'm pleased with how you've been looking after the family while I've been away. I'm going to need you to keep up that courage for a while yet."

"Whatever you need me to do, Dad."

Edmund was too worried to be more than fleetingly sarcastic about Peter's earnestness. He worried the entire time Peter was out of the room, and even more when his brother returned from his belated supper. Instead of going straight to sleep as Edmund expected, Peter stood for a long time in the space between the two beds. Edmund considered asking what he thought of their father's last words, but continued to feign sleep until he heard Peter lay down. It was a long time before Edmund slept again himself.

He wished Peter had said something. He wished Dad had stayed. He wished Mr. Stephens wasn't a coward or that Herbert had just kept his head low. He wished he'd eaten supper so that he didn't feel so ill.

Everything was wrong.

A/N: I uploaded this again after editing slightly for spelling and historical accuracy. Coming is Chapter Two: Knock, Breathe, Shine.