WARNING: These next several chapters will undoubtedly turn out to be messy. Just how messy, I'll let you decide. ::grins and winks:: Beware!
Disclaimer: I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C. S. Lewis and Walden Media.
Author's Note: Well ::rubs back of head sheepishly:: while it is probably not a particularly wise idea to start posting another multi-chapter fic when I have several others in-progress already, I've been aching to get this out for quite a while now. Honoring Him is coming along slowly, but it should be complete soon, and there is another Brother Lessons fic that I'm intending to post, as well (although that might not be 'til July). This particular fic is a standalone piece that jumpstarted when I had some left over material from Steadfast Heart. I'm not planning on making it much longer than three or four chapters (possibly five), so please enjoy!
Rating: T (possible upper end)
Summary: Peter comes to terms with how he has treated Edmund…(Moviebased) (Brotherfic) (NO Slash)
"Speech"
/Personal Thoughts/
Memories/Quotes (Italics)
Gratitude
By Sentimental Star
Chapter One: Past Healing
(Flashback)
"Bloody Wer-Wulf, with bloody claws, which are bloody sharp and bloody hurt," the groan echoed down one of the upper stone corridors in Aslan's How, reaching the small figure—short, even for his kind—where he was perched outside on one of the flatter rocks, smoking his pipe.
Curious—and rather concerned—he knocked his pipe against the boulder and hopped to his feet. Stooping to pick up the leather satchel that rested there, he entered Aslan's How and trundled steadily down the hall.
There was another groan. "And bloody guilt which mixed with bloody pride to make Peter bloody blind and bloody hard-headed."
Ah, so this was about the eldest Golden Monarch. As he was quite certain neither of the Queens would use…er, quite such colorful language, this must be King Edmund.
The young man's voice was closer now, quieter—nearly a whisper, "And bloody fear which made me too sodding slow to stop Her."
Her? With a capital "H"? Oh, dear. That meant the Witch.
There was a muffled thump. He turned a corner just in time to see King Edmund slide down to the floor with his back against one of the corridor's walls, burying his head in his hands.
His shoulders shook once, silently. Then twice.
His watcher swiftly grew even more concerned: "Lad…?" the one word question, drawn out as it was, echoed down the corridor.
King Edmund jerked his head up. Even from here, his companion could make out the tears sliding down his cheeks.
Cheeks which promptly lost all color when their owner's dark eyes landed on him: "Rorin?" he croaked. "But how…?"
The Dwarf—for Dwarf he was, no matter what his mountain cousins might claim—smiled enigmatically, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Aye, Rorin I am, but not your Rorin, I take it."
Edmund mutely shook his head, hastily concealing a wince. A couple more tears wended their way down his cheeks. "My Rorin, as you say, must have died years ago," he whispered. "You do look just like him, though."
Rorin, fifth of that name, chuckled, coming forward to close the distance between them. "It is not outside the realm of possibility, Your Majesty. It has been many generations since my ancestors served in your court."
The young king cracked a faint smile, dark eyes growing warm and distant as he remembered the past. "Your clan were some of our finest physicians. You saved my life and the lives of my siblings many times."
Rorin beamed with pride, ruddy cheeks growing even more rosy as his family and their craft were complimented thus by a King of Old.
Edmund's eyes snapped back to the present as he gave the Dwarf a wry smile. "I don't suppose you have some of those wonderful herbs in your pack, do you? The ones that ease pain and fight infection at the same time? I had been led to believe that Healing was an all but forgotten art to your people."
Rorin sighed unhappily, "Alas, Sire, 'tis indeed true." He grinned slyly, settling his pack on the floor. "Fortunately, 'tis not so forgotten that my family has dismissed its value."
Edmund grinned tiredly, straightening up from his slouched position and shrugging out of the leather armor and tunic he'd been wearing since the night raid on Miraz's castle. Not bothering to conceal his wince this time, the young king turned his back to face Rorin.
The Dwarf sucked in a sharp breath when he caught his first glimpse of the dozen or so shallow, bleeding cuts decorating his young monarch's back. "Lad, these are nasty. How'd you get 'em?" He fished into his bag and emerged with a water-skin and a cloth, immediately wetting the latter with water from the skin.
"Wer-Wulf," Edmund hissed as Rorin prodded at the wounds, cleaning them with the damp cloth. He clenched his teeth, fighting the pain that threatened to overwhelm him.
"Does your brother know?"
Edmund jerked, startled by the question. Heedless of the fact that his injuries were now screaming at him, the young man twisted to face the Dwarf. "Why do you ask?" he demanded.
Rorin gazed back evenly, unfazed by his monarch's sudden display of temper. "Lad, we're Healers, remember? What stories do you think have been passed down through the years by my clan?"
Edmund had the good grace to blush. "Oh," he murmured, voice small.
"'Oh,' would be correct," the tiny man remarked with a wide grin. "You and your brother were apparently terrors when one or the other of you was ill or injured."
Edmund just blushed harder and did not refute him. He also said nothing about his brother. Rorin sighed and brought out a jar of salve. It was only as he gently applied it that he spoke again, "Why don't you tell him, lad?"
Edmund looked away. "He has too much to worry about, Rorin. He doesn't need this, too."
Rorin, who was in the process of unrolling bandages, immediately stopped and glanced up in shock. "Lad, the thing he should be most worried about is you."
The youngest king shook his head. "I'm not that important, Rorin," he remarked softly.
Rorin's face grew red—and not from embarrassment. "Not that…!" sputtered. "Preposterous!"
Edmund smiled wanly. "It's all right, Rorin. It doesn't matter."
"Doesn't matter?" the Dwarf was fit to be tied. "Of course it matters! Of all the absurd…inane…ridiculous…!" He trailed off, starting to mutter invectives in the Dwarven tongue as he bandaged the teenager's shoulders, back, and neck.
Edmund carefully hid his wince as Rorin expressed his displeasure by rather tightly tying off the bandages.
At last, the Dwarven Healer finished, tying off the final bandage with a sigh. "That should do it, lad. Mind you treat them gently, now. I'd suggest finding Queen Lucy so she can check on 'em…" the next part was muttered as he started packing away his materials, "while I attend to some special business."
Edmund narrowed his eyes. "Rorin…" he began, tugging back on his tunic.
The Dwarf gave him a pointed look. "Your sister, Majesty."
Edmund rolled his eyes warmly, wearing a fond grin. "I'm going, I'm going," he grumbled good-naturedly, tying off his tunic and shrugging into his jerkin. He paused, just as Rorin straightened. "Rorin?" he murmured.
"Yes, lad?" the Dwarf asked softly, shouldering his pack.
Edmund blushed, keeping his eyes firmly locked on the wall in front of him. "Thanks," he whispered.
Rorin placed a sturdy hand on Edmund's shoulder and gently squeezed. "My pleasure, lad." Then, with a brief bow, he turned on heel and marched off, once again muttering invectives under his breath.
"Why am I suddenly worried for Peter's health?" the younger king murmured, clasping his jerkin shut.
IOIOIOIOIOI
Rorin was seething as he stormed through the lower corridors of Aslan's How, face thunderous. Anyone who happened to cross his path at that early hour quickly scrambled left and right to get out of it.
He paid them no mind. That is, until he came across Narnia's eldest Golden Monarchs in the middle of a shouting match in one of the side rooms branching off the chamber that housed the Stone Table.
"…If you had just listened to me…!" that was Queen Susan.
"…Then we would have been overrun and quite possibly slaughtered to death!" Well, that was King Peter.
"Oh, and a fine diversion a night raid makes!" Queen Susan's voice was a hiss.
"What do you want from me, Susan? I already told you it was a disaster!"
"No, Peter, the White Witch was a disaster. The night raid was an abject failure!"
There were a few long seconds of silence. Even Rorin, angry as he was, winced at the thinly veiled hurt that permeated the High King's voice when he spoke, "That's not fair, Susan."
"And neither is how you're treating Caspian!" she snapped.
Rorin snarled, marching into the chamber—just in time to see King Peter open his mouth to interject.
The Dwarf beat him to it: "That is enough, your Majesties!" he bellowed, voice ringing throughout the cavern.
Peter and Susan whirled around to face him, very much startled and even more embarrassed.
High King Peter, he saw, recognized him immediately (and little wonder there). He reacted in a way very similar to his brother—namely, his face lost every shred of color.
Queen Susan did not. Struggling to keep her voice pleasant (and the irony of that did not escape Rorin), she remarked, "I'm sorry, but this does not really concern you-"
Rorin finally lost his temper: "If you would pardon my saying so, Lady," and his voice was tight, "it very much concerns me. Especially when two of my monarchs have completely ignored what is going on with their younger siblings!"
Peter's face went a step further upon hearing that, from ashen gray to snowy white; Susan's control merely began fraying. Rorin privately noted that the scowl she wore really did not suit her.
"Look," she spoke up tersely, "I'm not really sure you know-"
"Shut up, Susan!" Peter hissed, with such ferocity that even his sister was momentarily taken aback. "Shut up and take a good look at just who you're talking to!"
Baffled, irritated, and furious, Susan did so…and went all the way from indignant red to a pasty, sickly white. "Rorin," she quavered.
"Yes, and—forgive me, your Majesty—it's high time you realized it, too!" he snarled. The Dwarf was too angry…too furious to realize he was being blatantly disrespectful towards his monarchs. But, as Susan and Peter privately admitted later, he had every right to be. The health (and happiness) of his Kings and Queens had always been his highest priority, and he took that duty very seriously: too often had he seen King Edmund close to death; too frequently had he comforted a Queen Lucy in tears because, even with her cordial, there was no guarantee that he (or one of her other siblings) would make it.
To have the two oldest monarchs so blatantly disregard their younger siblings' welfare infuriated Rorin beyond almost all reason.
"If you hadn't been wrapped up in your own silly squabbles you might 'ave noticed that your brother isn't here, and neither is your sister!"
An abruptly frantic Susan did, indeed, notice that as she spun around, looking wildly about the room. "They aren't here! Oh, Peter, they've gone! But where-"
"Rorin, are they all right?" Peter demanded, anything but the Dwarf's presence and the Dwarf's words long forgotten.
"All right?" Rorin demanded incredulously. "No, they're not 'all right'! Your brother came to me with at least eight swipes from a Wer-Wulf's claws, your Majesty! And your sister is nearly beside herself with worry because both of you refuse to listen to anything she has to say!"
Peter looked horrified. "Ed's wounded?"
"Yes! Or did you not hear what I just said? Your brother is wounded. He could have died. And if you hadn't been so intent on your little power struggle with Prince Caspian you might 'ave noticed! Your brother believes himself to be completely unessential because of the way he has been treated by you!"
Peter couldn't handle anymore. With a final, wild look at Susan, he tore off down the hall in search of their younger brother.
Rorin, of course, wasn't finished. He whirled on Susan as soon as Peter was gone: "And you, my Lady! Yes, your older brother made several poor decisions, mistakes that have cost us—and him—dearly, an' he knows it! But he is the High King! Moreover, he is your brother! You should not be focused on this prince when it is your brother who needs your support the most! You are entitled to your emotions, as all young ladies are, but Lion's Mane, your Highness…! You are a Queen. You are a woman. He is no more than a mere boy! Prince, yes, but still a boy!"
Susan's face was white, but she remained composed. "And Lucy?" it was a whisper.
"Your sister? Your sister is absolutely devastated, your Majesty! Neither you, nor your older brother have believed a word she's said since coming here! She is frantic with worry that somehow you or High King Peter will do something foolish and get yourselves killed!"
Rorin was huffing and panting and puffing and red-faced by the end of his tirade, and he wasn't even finished: "Now you tell me, your Highness, how anything is more important than the well-being of your family?"
Susan could only mutely shake her head, white-faced and very aware of the tears trying to trickle down her cheeks.
Rorin huffed, embarrassed (well, that took a long time coming) and agitated; he knew his control wasn't what it should be, but, for all of that, he refused to take back his harshly spoken words. Someone had to knock some sort of sense into their heads…
Growling softly at himself, he exited the room, just as Glenstorm entered. The Centaur glanced in confusion between the retreating back of the Dwarf he'd only barely caught a glimpse of and the pale countenance of his highly shaken Queen.
"Is everything all right, my Lady?" he asked softly.
Susan wordlessly shook her head, gazing out the door and praying with everything in her that Peter would find Edmund. /Oh, Aslan, please help us sort this mess out…/
(End Flashback)
To Be Continued