"Before We Were Kings"
by Valiant Heart

Timeframe: Pre-LWW
Characters: Peter, Edmund, and Mrs. Pevensie
A/N: I've always been struck by the bond between Peter and Edmund. Though they must've grown extremely close during and after Narnia, having worked together and fought battles side by side, I believe they'd still have had a strong, brotherly bond before Narnia. So here's my go at it, and I appreciate any comments! :-)

X

X

Peter Pevensie heard the front door slam. He sighed, looking bleakly past his wooden pencil at the scattered papers before him. Mathematics, English, British History . . . oh, blast it all! There was no way he could concentrate on schoolwork while another fight erupted in the house.

Peter set his pencil down and organized the papers into a pile on the edge of his desk, smoothing out crinkles and bent corners. He spun around in his seat, looking out the bedroom door expectantly.

Footsteps pounded on the stairwell.

"Peter?" a feminine voice drifted through the corridor and Peter's mother appeared in the doorway, her face drawn in grim lines. Her dark eyes looked tired, and she seemed old beyond her years. Peter's chest clenched and he was out of his seat and beside his mother in an instant.

He put an arm around her and led her to his bed. She sank down into the cushiony mattresses, her eyes closed. Heavy breathing was the only sound permeating the room. Peter looked on her with concern, but waited patiently for his mother to explain the new problem.

"It's Edmund."

Of course. Peter looked down at his hands.

Mrs. Pevensie pulled herself upright and leaned against the wall, drawing her knees up to her chin. She locked gazes with her eldest son.

"I try to understand him, I really do. I know how hard it is for him to grow up with a father only in the pictures on the mantle. It's sure as the rain comes in the spring that he'll be a bit bitter, but—oh, Peter! I shouldn't say that, should I? You don't remember much of father either."

Peter tried to smile. "I remember his face. And how he let me ride on his shoulders, even when he said I got 'real heavy'." He looked at the floor for a moment, and then put his right hand over his heart. "Wherever father is, he's here," he whispered.

A pair of arms encircled him, and Peter embraced his mother.

"You remind me so much of him," she murmured, absently pushing stray locks back from his forehead.

"I'm sorry, mother."

She pulled back, her expression startled. "Whatever for?"

"I should've been there for Ed more, shouldn't I? He didn't have a father there to guide him, and . . . I'm his big brother. He needed me, but I wasn't really there. Maybe I was there physically, but I never thought he might need someone to talk to, someone—"

"Don't do this, Peter. Don't do this." Mrs. Pevensie's eyes were suddenly brighter as a veneer of tears covered her pupils.

"—someone who really cared for him."

"Peter Pevensie, you're ten years old, not twenty!" she cried. "I don't expect—I don't want—you to be a father to anyone. This isn't your responsibility."

"Mother—"

"And you do care for him. You care for him, I care for him, Susan cares for him, and little Lucy adores both her big brothers. Don't be so hard on yourself."

Peter couldn't meet her eyes. "Maybe I cared for him when he came home with a scrape on his knee, but what about all the other times? All the ordinary days when he just needed a friend, and I wasn't there."

His mother looked stricken, and Peter moved near her instinctively.

"When did you grow up so much?"

Peter looked surprised, his mouth opening to speak, and then closing as if he decided his words weren't appropriate.

"I don't feel grown up."

"You act twice your age, Peter." She looked heartbroken.

"I don't, mother, really." Peter caught her expression. "But even if I do, is that so bad?"

Mrs. Pevensie walked over to him and grasped his shoulders in both her hands. He blinked, surprised by the iron strength of her grip.

"You're still young. You're a kid, Peter, and you deserve it—everyone needs a time of bliss and innocence where they don't need to worry about adult matters." She looked straight into his eyes. "Don't grow up too fast, Peter. I don't want to fail both my sons."

Peter's eyes widened. "Don't say that." He tried to catch his mother's eye. "You know you haven't failed Ed or me, right? You haven't," he repeated. After a moment, he slipped out of her grasp and reached for his fur coat. "I'll go find Edmund," he said resolutely.

He looked back at his mother, expecting her to protest, but she remained in his room while he slipped out the door, giving him a small smile. She whispered, "I'm proud of you."

He smiled back.

X

X

Edmund Pevensie dashed down the sidewalk, blinded by his tears and the pouring rain. He felt liquid soak through his thin, cotton shirt immediately, and wished he'd had the sense to grab a coat before slamming out of the house.

He kept his head down to prevent the rain from stinging his eyes. He walked and walked, thinking hateful things of his mother. She had only asked him to clean his room this time, but he had been in a lousy mood, and that was enough to set him off. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became—it wasn't just this one incident. His mind dredged up all the wrongs she had ever committed against him.

I bet she's talking to Peter now, he thought jeeringly. Peter Pevensie, mother's favorite son. Peter doesn't throw temper tantrums, Peter doesn't go against his mother's wish, Peter is absolutely perfect.

Peter, who has no bad feelings.

Peter, who doesn't care that father's gone.

That last thought stung Edmund most. He'd seen the ways his brother gazed longingly at the pictures on the mantle. But after he stared at them, he walked away unchanged. It was just a face, and Peter didn't seem to feel anything after looking at it.

Edmund lifted his eyes; he had been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he had no idea where he was. Usually, when he left the house in anger, he stayed near the coffee shop a few streets down. But this time, it appeared he had gone in the completely opposite direction.

He was lost.

Shivering, Edmund rubbed his wet arms and looked around him through narrowed eyes. There were a few run-down clothing stores, and most the structures had a shady, sinister look to them. The streets were littered with chewed gum, tobacco, and rotting fruit. Edmund bit his lower lip, grimaced, and turned back in the direction he came from, hoping to retrace his steps.

Before he had taken two steps, there was a light tap on his shoulder. Stiffening, he looked back.

"Ye lost, boy?"

Edmund took in the middle-aged man's scrunched face, dirty hair and torn clothes that reeked of smoke. He swallowed.

"No." He tried to sound confident. "I'm going home."

The man gave a throaty chuckle. "Ye ain't one of 'hose street urchins, are ye?"

"Street ur-urchins, sir?" Edmund stammered.

The older fellow lowered his voice. "Street urchins, boy. For 'em, home is here," he gestured at the decaying neighborhood. "But, ye know, there's hope for 'em. I give the poor boys 'ere hope." His eyes glinted and he brought his face closer. "If ye come with me, I give ye some too."

Edmund backed up. "No," he said. "No, thank you," he amended, his mother's lectures on manners ringing in his ears.

The man narrowed his eyes. "No? Are ye one of them rich boys?" he hissed, his expression venomous.

"No, sir," Edmund gasped as the man stepped closer. Risking a glance backwards, he realized the sidewalk he had come from was no longer behind him. Instead, he was somehow backing into a brick wall. "No, sir," he repeated, "Please, don't hurt me. I'm not rich . . . my father's off in the war and everything's terrible!" he blurted, hoping that would throw the stranger off.

"Ah, the war. Well, lemme tell ye this, sonny. Ye father's still 'live. Mine died years ago. Ye know what happened? Killed by one of 'em rich boys, and the murderer got away. Got away! Boy, ye tell me—where's the justice? He got away 'cause his mommy and daddy were rich!" The man's eyes were wide and livid. Edmund shrank back until his back was pressed against the cold wall.

"So," he pushed a finger against Edmund's ribs, "Ye know why I hate 'em rich kids now, eh?"

"Yes-s-sir."

"Good, good. Now," he put a hand on the young boy's shoulder and pulled him away from the wall, "Come with me." His eyes twinkled, but Edmund could've sworn there was a hint of malice within them.

"I don't think I can, sir."

He raised an eyebrow. "And why not? I have a roof an' food to offer—hope for ye." He dragged Edmund down the sidewalk behind him.

The dark-haired boy panicked and felt tears prick the edge of his eyes. Oh, I wish I hadn't fought with mum and stormed out. Stupid, stupid . . .

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, but they flew open as a scream pierced the air.

Edmund's eyes widened as he saw the strange man lose his grip on the boy's arm and clutched his jaw with both hands, howling.

"You offer hope to kids, or tobacco?" a familiar voice spat.

Peter.

Edmund watched, stunned as his older brother shoved the man out of his way and ran up to him. Peter laid his hands on his brother's shoulder, a concerned looked coloring his eyes. "Ed, are you alright?"

Edmund nodded numbly.

There was a silence while the two brothers stared at each other, unsure of how to act, until Peter grabbed his younger sibling and hugged him fiercely. Edmund gasped as his chest was crushed and his arms hung limp for a moment. But not before long, he wrapped them around his elder brother and laid his head against Peter's chest.

After they pulled back, Peter shed his fur coat and wrapped it around Edmund. He glanced behind them, and pushed his brother forward. "We better get out of here," he whispered.

The two ran down the sidewalk and emerged in their familiar neighborhood within minutes. Panting while they stopped for a break, Ed laid a hand on Peter's arm.

"I don't want to go home yet."

Understanding flooded his brother's eyes, and he turned in a different direction. "Coffee shop, then?"

Inside the small shop, the heater hummed and its warmth spread over the drenched boys. Over a small table, they sat opposite of each other. Peter ran his fingers through wet hair while Edmund just stared across the table, waiting for his brother to be ready to talk.

"You had to walk out in your t-shirt didn't you, Ed?" Peter muttered.

The younger boy looked down, flushing. "Yes."

Peter grinned, but his complexion turned somber afterwards. "What happened, Ed?"

Edmund took a deep breath. "Mum wouldn't stop telling me to clean my room. I got tired of it and snapped at her, and she started yelling about ungratefulness and how she had it hard because she was being the mom and dad of the family." He looked up at Peter. "Same as last time."

Peter weighed his words carefully. "Why didn't you just clean your room?"

Ed shrugged. "I didn't want to. I don't want lots of things, Pete. I don't want mom to be the mom and dad—I want dad to be home." His hand slapped the table. "Why can't he be home? And why don't you care?" he yelled. He stopped, realizing what he'd said.

Peter looked stung. He gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles were white. Leaning forward, he directed his burning gaze at Edmund.

"You think I don't care?"

"You don't act like you care," Edmund shot back, trying to sound defiant, but his anger was crumbling as he saw the hurt on Peter's face.

He watched Peter slump in his seat, his eyes closed and a defeated expression on his face. After a few seconds had passed, he opened his eyes and put his elbows on the table, looking at Edmund.

"I'm sorry, Ed. You're wrong in saying I don't care about father—I miss him like a heart would miss blood—but I know I haven't been a very good brother." A look of regret flashed in his eyes. "I suppose I can't really blame you for accusing me of not caring, can I? Why would a careless brother be a caring son?"

Edmund felt his chest tighten at Peter's words, but not for the expected reasons. He felt tears filling his eyes again. "Pete—" his voice cracked. "It's not true."

His older brother's eyes were hard when they met Edmund's. The latter looked away, unable to meet Peter's gaze.

"You don't need to make excuses for me now," Peter bit out. After a moment, he softened his tone and said, "What I mean is, I know I've been wrong. Since father's gone, I've felt a burden to look after mother, you, and the girls. I tried terribly hard, Ed, but kids aren't cut out to be fathers. Not yet, anyway." Here, Edmund choked out a laugh. Peter continued, "Maybe I succeeded some, keeping us all out of trouble and caring for injuries, but I wasn't really there to talk to. I tried being a father and stopped being a friend, and in the end, I failed at both."

"No!"

They both looked startled but Edmund's sudden outburst.

The younger boy shrugged. "Look—Pete, I had a fight with mum. What does that have to do with you at all?"

"You didn't just have a fight with mother, Ed. You keep fighting with her. You're bitter because father's not here and you can't talk to me either because I've tried to be all high and mighty. And it's not dad's fault he isn't here, but I have no excuse."

Edmund shook his head, guilt coursing over him like endless waves. "It's not your fault," he choked. "I shouldn't keep fighting with mum; I know she tries hard for everyone. I can't help it—Pete, I'm just not a very good person."

Peter slid out of his chair and rounded the table to sit next to Edmund. He put an arm over his younger brother's shoulder and squeezed.

"No," he whispered fiercely, "You're not a bad person. Don't ever tell yourself that. You're a good brother and . . . and I wouldn't trade you for anyone else in the world."

Edmund didn't reply, and Peter peered at him from the side. "Promise me, Ed. Promise you're not going to look down on yourself."

"Only if you promise to stop making everything your fault." Ed offered a small smile.

"Deal."

Peter stood up from his seat and offered his hand to Edmund, pulling him up too.

"Ready to go home?"

Edmund nodded, and then a thought occurred to him. "Yes, but only if . . ." He watched as his brother raised an eyebrow. "Only if you take your coat back."

"You'll freeze to death!" Peter protested.

"But you won't freeze, Pete?" Ed shot back. "You're back to being high and mighty again." Edmund scowled a bit and said, "You aren't a King, you know, you're just my brother."

"Yes, well, only brothers offer coats to each other. Kings don't."

"I suppose—with a King it's probably more like, 'give me that coat, or off with your head, boy!'" Edmund imitated. Peter smirked and clapped his brother on the back.

Edmund shed his coat and handed it to a reluctant Peter as they headed for the door. As the elder brother donned it, he added, "That's only if you're a cruel and cold King. A true King is kind to his subjects and compassionate to his people."

"You think about this a lot, Pete?" Edmund raised an eyebrow. Peter was formulating a response when he caught the glint of mischief in his brother's eyes. He punched Edmund lightly in the arm.

"Mother says it's good to have dreams."

"Yes, but King, Peter?" His tone was incredulous.

Peter threw an arm around Edmund. "You know, if ever I became King, you'd be one too."

Edmund grinned. "I know."

--the end (or, the beginning? ;)--